The Return of the Discontinued Man (A Burton & Swinburne Adventure) by Mark Hodder Page A

snapped. “Pay attention! This is important! As I was saying, the headpiece has never responded to my queries with anything other than garbled nonsense. I’ve had to sort through all manner of irrelevancies to locate the merest crumbs of pertinent information. It has not been sufficient. I’ve gained little understanding of how the machinery of the suit functions, and now the power held in the helmet is almost drained.” He leaned over the workbench and tapped a finger on the device attached to the suit’s chest. “However, all is not lost. This is called a Nimtz generator. It holds a reserve of energy. Considerably more, in fact, than was ever in the headpiece. I’ve learned how to connect them together. It is done. I’m ready to issue the command that will cause the helmet to be reenergised. I believe it will then be able to repair itself.” Babbage wriggled his fingers, said—“Hmm!”—and pulled a chronometer from his waistcoat pocket. “So, let us record that the procedure commences at nine o’clock on the evening of Wednesday the fifteenth of February, 1860. You understand the significance of the time?”
    “I do,” Burton murmured.
    Nine o’clock! How can it be nine o’clock again?
    The scientist reached down and traced a shape on the side of the Nimtz generator. The disk began to glow. It crackled. Suddenly, a shower of sparks erupted from it. Babbage flinched and cried out in alarm.
    “What happened?” Gooch asked.
    “I’m not sure. Perhaps the power has been routed to the wrong—”
    The scientist stopped as a transparent bubble materialised around the helmet, suit, and boots. It rapidly expanded. The men quickly backed away from it, but Brunel didn’t roll fast enough; the edge of the bubble touched him just before, with a deafening bang, it popped. The suit, the workbench, and a small section of the famous engineer vanished into thin air.
    Gooch placed a hand on the sphere. “Are you all right, Isambard?”
    The silver globe didn’t respond. It was silent and still.
    “What’s wrong with him?” Burton asked. He looked down at the floor and saw a familiar smooth round indentation where the floor had been scooped out by the edge of the chronostatic energy field.
    “It’s hard to say,” Gooch replied. “Maybe his probability calculator has been damaged.”
    “Pah!” Babbage put in. “A trifling matter. The suit has gone. Gone!”
    “Into time, Sir Charles?” Gooch asked.
    “Obviously! Hell and damnation! What have we lost? The knowledge! The knowledge!” The scientist lowered his face into his hands and moaned. “Go away, all of you. I have to think. You’re distracting me. Leave me alone.”
    Burton cocked an eyebrow at the eccentric old man, glanced at Gooch, then looked down and was surprised to see that his hands, apparently of their own volition, were buttoning his coat over Army reds. Puzzled by the uniform, he retrieved its cap from a table, took up his silver-handled swordstick, and heard himself say, “I’ll leave you to it. There are matters I need to attend to.”
    “Is the Nietzsche affair not done with?” Gooch asked.
    “It’s over,” Burton answered, not really knowing what the Nietzsche affair was. He bid Gooch farewell, eyed Babbage and Brunel for a moment, then turned and left the station. As he stepped into the courtyard, he expected to see snow falling. It wasn’t. There was just a solid wall of bitterly cold fog.
    Crossing to the main gates, he exited through them and was greeted by a whirring voice. “That was quick.”
    Startled, Burton took a pace backward. A large horse-shaped contraption of brass loomed in the murk, regarding him with big, round, glowing eyes.
    “What—what are you?” the king’s agent stammered.
    What is wrong with me? Have I amnesia?
    “Orpheus, your trusty steed, of course. Have you come to test my knowledge of things you already know or are we going somewhere? I need to get moving. I haven’t much enjoyed standing