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alive—but what of the man inside? How did he breathe or see or hear or eat? How much of his humanity did he retain?
    The king’s agent—along with Swinburne, Trounce, and two or three others—was aware that some of the engineer’s recent activities were not only ethically dubious but had, perhaps, gone beyond the boundaries of the law. However, as Sir Richard Mayne, chief commissioner of police at Scotland Yard, said: “It would be unwise to arrest a national hero—a man who has done, and secretly continues to do, great good for the Empire—unless we have absolute and irrefutable proof of his crimes.”
    So far, that proof had not been forthcoming.
    Burton gave a whistle of amazement. He’d just realised what Brunel and his assistants were doing. They were unpacking and unfolding ornithopters.
    “Message for Detective Inspector Trounce,” he said. “Message begins. They have ornithopters. I don’t know how fast these swans are but they’re about to be tested. Message ends. Go.”
    Pox plunged out of the kite.
    Along with gas-filled airships and electrical engines, ornithopters were generally considered to be one of the Technologists’ “dead-end” inventions—good in theory but not in practice. The winged machines possessed great speed and could cover enormous distances without refuelling, but they were also impossible for a person to control; human reactions simply weren’t fast enough to compensate for their innate instability. It had been suggested that a babbage could fly them but, of course, babbages were rare and prohibitively expensive. Except, Burton thought, there were three of them down there right now, with Brunel, each housed in a clockwork body, each mounting an ornithopter’s saddle.
    The engineer’s own flying machine was massive—the biggest of the type the explorer had ever seen—which it needed to be in order to carry Brunel’s great weight.
    The four swans swooped overhead as the ornithopters started to roll forward.
    The parakeet returned to Burton’s shoulder.
    “Message from skunk-scented Detective Inspector Trounce!” it screeched. “Message begins. Use your gun. Shoot the blasted ornithopters, you sludge-brained nincompoop, but don’t fire at bilious Brunel. Message ends.”
    Burton passed the right rein to his left hand and pulled a Smith and Wesson revolver from his coat pocket. It was difficult to steer the swan one-handed and the kite was swinging about wildly. What with that and the rain and the wind, making an accurate shot seemed impossible. His hand, too, was trembling with his oncoming fever. Hopelessly, he pointed the gun in the general direction of the ornithopters and pulled the trigger. Immediately, one of the machines disappeared in a ball of steam and a loud detonation echoed across the park. A brass head went spinning into the air, narrowly missing Herbert Spencer’s swan.
    “Lucky shot!” Burton mumbled. “Must have hit the pressure boiler!”
    The three remaining ornithopters accelerated over the grass, belching vapour from their funnels, their wings flapping. A ratcheting noise reached Burton’s ears as the machines angled into the air and picked up speed.
    Gunshots sounded from Trounce and Bhatti’s kites, and one of the flying contraptions suddenly slid sideways, turned over, and thumped back down to earth, crushing the clockwork driver beneath it. Burton caught a glimpse of a mangled and twitching figure as he flew past.
    He fired another shot, pocketed his revolver, grabbed at the reins with both hands, and gave them a hefty flick, urging his swan to greater speed.
    The ornithopters, with wings beating so fast they became nothing but a blur, leaned to the right and turned, heading northward. They increased altitude and disappeared into the clouds. The swans followed.
    Burton was wretchedly wet. His teeth chattered and he shook uncontrollably.
    He wiped his face in the crook of his elbow and when he looked up he found that he’d unexpectedly