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

here with this damp air seeping into my joints.”
    “Orpheus,” Burton mumbled. It was the name of the airship—captained by Nathaniel Lawless—that had flown him into central Africa last year, enabling his discovery of the source of the River Nile.
    The contraption said, “Are you going to climb aboard or stand there with your jaw dangling?”
    Hesitantly, Burton moved to the horse’s side and mounted it.
    “Where do you want to go?” it asked.
    “Um. Home.”
    “Walk, trot, or gallop?”
    “Can you trot in this fog?”
    “Of course. I can’t guarantee I won’t collide with anything, though.”
    “That’s not very encouraging. Proceed at the safest pace.”
    Orpheus set off, heading for Nine Elms Lane. The vehicle’s eyes projected twin beams of light into the darkness. It picked up speed and traversed the thoroughfare to Vauxhall Bridge. Burton paid the toll. They crossed the river then travelled on up to Victoria, past Green Park and Hyde Park, and along Baker Street. For the duration, Burton’s mind was practically frozen with bewilderment.
    The city was quieter than he’d ever heard it. There were no steam horse–drawn cabs, no pantechnicons, no steam spheres, no velocipedes, and no rotorchairs—just a few riders on mechanical horses. Disconcertingly, the steeds greeted one another as they passed:
    “Evening, Orpheus.”
    “How’re you doing, Flash?”
    “Hallo, Orpheus.”
    “What ho, Blackie.”
    “All right, Orpheus?”
    “Fine, thank you, Heracles.”
    “Will you please stop that,” Burton complained.
    “Can’t,” his horse replied. “You know full well the exchanges are necessary.”
    “Necessary for what?”
    “For passing route and traffic information.”
    “All I’m hearing are variations of hello .”
    “That’s because those pathetic biological ears of yours have limited sensitivity. You’re not hearing the coded tones beneath the words.”
    Burton ground his teeth. He was frustrated that the dense pall blocked his view of the city. His explorer’s instinct was stimulated by what was—as his mind cleared he was becoming convinced of it—a variant London. He had no idea how he’d got here and wasn’t entirely certain where he’d come from, but he desperately wanted to observe the metropolis. Unfortunate, then, that all he could see were vague smudges of light!
    How was it possible that the weather was different? It had been snowing where he came from, he was sure. Wasn’t history a matter of human affairs, rather than natural? Then he noticed soot and ash suspended in the fog, and he realised that this capital must be even more industrialised than his own, and the snow was perhaps held in abeyance by the blanket of fumes. The work of man affecting the climate! What an extraordinary thought!
    At the corner of Gloucester Place and Montagu Place, a familiar voice hailed him through the gloom.
    “What ho, Cap’n!”
    “Is that you, Mr. Grub?” Burton called, for the greeting had come from the corner where Grub the street vendor always had his brazier or barrow.
    “Aye, an’ no one else,” came the answer. “Fair solid, ain’t it?”
    “The fog? It is. I can’t see you. How did you know it was me?”
    “Recognised yer nag’s footsteps.”
    “They are distinctive,” Orpheus murmured.
    “One o’ the back feet drags a little. Needs—what’s the word?”
    “Recalibrating?” Burton offered automatically.
    How did I know that?
    “Rather an impertinent suggestion,” Orpheus complained.
    “Aye! Recalcifyin’!”
    “What on earth are you doing out in this weather?” Burton asked.
    “Toastin’ corn on the cob fer ’em what wants it.”
    “Well, you’re a braver man than I. I’d rather be toasting my toes by the fire.”
    “Aye, there ain’t nuffink like the comforts of ’ome.”
    “Do you actually have one, Mr. Grub? I don’t think I’ve ever passed this corner without seeing you on it.”
    Not that you can see him now. And be careful. What