Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon

vernalis-grown to gigantic size, their shells cleaned out and fitted with steam machinery, controls, chairs, and storage cabinets. They walked forward rather than sideways, as they had done when alive, and their claws had been fitted with razor-sharp blades, designed to slice and rip through jungle.

Wordsworth Pryce reached up to the underbelly of one of them and opened a hatch, which hinged down, steps unfolding on its inside surface. One by one, Captain Lawless, Charles Henderson, and Frederick Butler were borne up on stretchers by Doctor Quaint and Cyril Goodenough.

“I'm not at all happy about this, Captain,” Pryce said to Burton. “Could you not wait it out here? Myself and one of my men could drive back to you and ferry you south.”

“That would mean us tarrying for two days,” Burton replied, “and in that time, we could be well on our way. The Al Atif oasis is about five hours' walk from here. The chances are good that we'll be able to join a caravan to Al Basah from there. And you must bear in mind that, in travelling westward, you'll soon find yourself on firmer terrain, easy for the crabs to traverse. Southward lies only sand. It would quickly infiltrate the machinery and the vehicles would be rendered inoperable in short order. No, Mr. Pryce, this is the best way.”

Pryce shook the explorer's hand. “Very well, Captain Burton. I wish you luck, and rest assured that the Beetle's privacy will be protected and he'll be escorted all the way back to his chimney in Limehouse.”

With that, Pryce boarded the vehicle and pulled up the hatch.

Burton paced across to the second crab, into which Bolling and Bloodmann had just carried the Beetle's section of pipe. The stoker, Thomas Beadle, joined them.

Willy Cornish and Oscar Wilde lingered a moment to say goodbye.

“Quips, I'm sorry I dragged you into this,” Burton said. “I thought I was doing you a favour.”

Wilde smiled. “Don't you be worrying yourself, Captain. Experience is one thing you can't get for nothing, and if this is the price, I'm happy to pay it, for I'm having the experience of a lifetime, so I am!”

The boys entered the crab.

Burton turned to Isabella Mayson.

“Are you sure you want to remain behind and join our expedition, Miss Mayson? I warn you that we have many months of severe hardship ahead of us.”

“There is barely room for another aboard the vehicles, Sir Richard,” she replied. “And your group will need to be fed-a responsibility I'm happy to make my own. Besides, it will be better for Sadhvi to have another woman present. We must, at very least, tip our heads at propriety, do you not think?”

Burton pushed up the hatch and clicked it shut, then stood back as the two crabs shuddered into life with coughs and growls. Steam plumed from their funnels, and Wilde and Cornish and Doctor Barnaby Quaint waved from the windows as the two outlandish machines stalked away.

The sun sank.

Beside the Orpheus, eight people remained, standing in the gathering twilight watching their friends recede into the distance.

Pox the parakeet sang, “Crapulous knobble-thwacker!” and Burton muttered: “I couldn't have put it better myself.”

One foot in front of the other.

Step. Step. Step. Step.

Eyes on the ground.

Ignore the cold.

“How far?” Krishnamurthy mumbled.

“Soon. By sunrise,” Burton replied.

They were dragging a travois over the sand. It was loaded with food and water, cooking pots and lanterns, rifles and ammunition, tents, clothing, instruments, and other equipment. Krishnamurthy was certain it was getting heavier.

The Milky Way was splattered overhead, dazzling, deep, and endless. The full moon had risen and was riding low in the sky. The dunes swelled in the silvery light.

Step. Step. Step. Step.

A second travois was pulled by Trounce and Honesty.

The two women trudged along beside it.

Herbert Spencer, in his protective suit, limped a little way behind.

“Tired,” Honesty said. “Four hours walking.”

Trounce gave a guttural response.

Ahead, Algernon Swinburne reached the peak of the next dune and stood with his rifle resting over his shoulder. He looked back at his companions, waited for them to catch up a little, then disappeared over the sandy peak. Before the others had reached the base of the upward slope, the eastern sky suddenly brightened.

To Burton, the quickness of dawn in this part of the world came as no surprise; to the others, it was breathtaking. One minute they were enveloped by the frigid luminescence of the night, and the next the sky paled, the stars faded, and brilliant rays of sunshine transformed the landscape. The desert metamorphosed from cold naked bone to hot dry flesh.

They slogged across it.

Step. Step. Step. Step.

“Cover your eyes,” Burton called.

On his recommendation, they were each wearing a keffiyeh-a square headscarf of brightly striped material, secured on the crown with a circlet, or agal-which they now pulled down across their faces. The light glared through the material but didn't blind them, and, as they came to the top of the dune, they could clearly see through the weave that the redheaded poet had reached its base and was starting up the next one.

“I can feel heat!” Krishnamurthy exclaimed. “Already!”

“It will become unbearable within the next two hours,” Burton predicted. “But by that time we'll be encamped at Al Atif.”

A few yards away, Honesty glanced toward the huge molten globe of the sun and whispered, “Gladiolus gandavensis.”

“What?” Trounce asked.

“A plant. Not a hardy one. Dislikes winter. Roots best kept in sand until mid-March. Then potted individually. You have to nurture them, William. Start them off in a greenhouse.”

It was the first time, in all the years they'd worked together, that Thomas Honesty had used Detective Inspector Trounce's first name.

“I say, Honesty-are you all right, old fellow?”

The small, dapper man smiled. “Thinking about my garden. What I'll do when we get back. Do you like gardening?”

“My wife takes care of it. We only have a small patch, and it's given over to cabbages and potatoes.”

“Ah. Practical.”

Step. Step. Step. Step.

“William.”

“Yes?”

“I was wrong.”

“Wrong?”

“About Spring Heeled Jack. Didn't believe you.”

“Nor did anybody else.”

“But you were right. He was at Victoria's assassination.”

“Yes, he was.”

“Will you forgive me? Misjudged you.”

“Already done, old fellow. Some considerable time ago.”

“When we get back, there's something I'd like.”

“What?”

“You and Mrs. Trounce. Come over. Have tea with Vera and me. In the garden.”