Mr. Oliphant, unexpectedly long of limb, and most neatly but sumptuously dressed, reclined against the front desk, his back to the clerk. With elbows resting against the marble counter-top, and feet crossed at the ankles, the journalist’s ramshackle pose conveyed the gentleman sportsman’s easy indolence. Mallory, having met more than his share of gin-and-water reporters, hacks pursuing wide-eyed articles on the great Leviathan, registered a faint twinge of anxiety; this fellow evinced the smooth self-possession of the extremely well-advantaged. Mallory introduced himself, discovering a sinewy strength in the journalist’s long-fingered hand. “I’m on the business of the Geographical Society,” Oliphant announced, loudly enough to be overheard by a nearby group of loitering savants. “Exploration Committee, you see. Wondered if I mightn’t consult you on a certain matter. Dr. Mallory.” “Of course,” Mallory said. The Royal Geographical Society was lavishly funded; its powerful Exploration Committee decided upon the recipients of the Geographical’s grants. “May I suggest we speak in private, sir?” “Surely,” Mallory agreed, and followed the journalist into the Palace’s saloon, where Oliphant found a quiet corner half-shadowed by a lacquered Chinese screen. Mallory threw back his coat-tails and took a chair. Oliphant perched at the far end of a red silk couch, his back to the wall. He gazed limpidly down the length of the saloon, and Mallory saw that he was checking for eavesdroppers. “You seem to know the Palace well,” Mallory ventured. “Are you often here, on your Committee’s work?” “Not frequently, no, though I once met a colleague of yours here, a Professor Francis Rudwick.” “Ah, Rudwick, yes; poor chap.” Mallory was nettled a bit, but not surprised, to meet a professional connection of Rudwick’s. Rudwick had rarely missed a chance to scruffle grant-money, from whatever source. Oliphant nodded soberly. “I’m no savant, Dr. Mallory. I’m a writer of travel-books, actually. Trifles, really, though some have met with a degree of public favor.” “I see,” Mallory said, convinced he’d the fellow’s number now: wealthy idler, dilettante. Very likely he’d family connections. Most such eager dabblers were quite worthless to Science. “Within the Geographical, Dr. Mallory,” Oliphant began, “there presently exists intense debate as to our proper subject-matter. You are, perhaps, aware of the controversy?” “I’ve been overseas,” Mallory said, “and have missed a deal of news.” “No doubt you’ve been fully occupied with your own scientific controversy.” Oliphant’s smile was disarming. “Catastrophe versus Uniformity. Rudwick spoke of the matter often. Quite fiercely, I must say.” “A difficult business,” Mallory muttered, “rather abstruse . . . ” “I personally found Rudwick’s argument weak,” Oliphant said offhandedly, to Mallory’s pleasant surprise. The journalist leaned forward, with flattering attention. “Permit me to further explain the purpose of my visit, Dr. Mallory. Within the Geographical, some consider that the Society might be better advised, rather than plunging into Africa to discover the sources of the Nile, to investigate the sources of our own society. Why confine exploration to physical geography, when there are so many problems of political, and indeed moral, geography, problems as yet unsolved?” “Interesting,” Mallory said, quite at a loss as to what his visitor might be getting at. “As a prominent explorer,” Oliphant said, “what might you say to a proposition of the following sort?” The man’s gaze, curiously, seemed fixed now on the middle distance. “Suppose, sir, that one were to explore not the vastness of Wyoming but a specific corner of our own London . . . ” Mallory nodded meaninglessly, and briefly entertained the possibility that Oliphant was mad. “Mightn’t we then, sir,” the man continued, with a slight shiver, as of suppressed enthusiasm, “make utterly objective, entirely statistical investigations? Mightn’t we examine society, sir, with a wholly novel precision and intensity? Divining, thereby, new principles — from the myriad clusterings of population over time, sir; from the most obscure travels of currency from hand to hand; from the turbulent flows of traffic . . . Topics we now vaguely call police matters, health matters, public services — but perceived, sir, as by an all-searching, an all-pervasive, a scientific eye!” There was far too much of the enthusiast’s gleam in Oliphant’s gaze, a sudden fierce kindling that showed his air of languor as a sham. “In theory,” Mallory hedged, “the prospect seems promising. As a practical matter, I doubt that the scientific societies could provide the Engine-resources necessary to such a broad and ambitious project. I myself have had to struggle to arrange a simple stress-analysis of the bones I’ve discovered. Engine-work is in constant demand. In any case, why should the Geographical Society tackle this matter? Why take funding from necessary foreign exploration-work? I should think perhaps a direct Parliamentary inquiry . . . ” “But Government lack the vision necessary, the sense of intellectual adventure, the objectivity. Suppose it were the Engines of the police, though, instead of those of, say, the Cambridge Institute. What would you say then?” “The Engines of the police?” Mallory said. The idea was quite extraordinary. “How should the police agree to a loan of their Engines?” “The Engines are frequently idle at night,” Oliphant said. “Are they, really?” Mallory said. “My word, that is interesting . . . But if those Engines were put to the use of Science, Mr. Oliphant, I imagine other, more urgent projects would quickly consume the idle spinning-time. A proposal like yours would need powerful backing to make its way to the front of the queue.” “But, in theory, you do agree?” Oliphant persisted. “If the resources were available, you’d find the basic tenet worthy?” “I would have to see a detailed proposal before I could actively support such a project, and I frankly doubt my voice would carry much weight in your Geographical Society. I’m not a Fellow there, you know.” “You underestimate your growing fame,” Oliphant protested. “The nomination of Edward Mallory — discoverer of the Land Leviathan — would carry the Geographical with great ease.” Mallory was speechless. “Rudwick became a Fellow,” Oliphant said smoothly. “After the pterodactyl business.” Mallory cleared his throat. “I’m sure it’s a worthy –” “I shall consider it an honor if you will let me see to the matter personally,” Oliphant said. “There will be no difficulty, I can promise you.” Oliphant’s air of assurance brooked no doubt. Mallory recognized the fait accompli. He had been neatly maneuvered. There was no graceful way to refuse the favor, and a Fellowship in the wealthy and powerful Geographical was certainly not to be scorned. It would be a professional boon. He could see the Fellowship in his mind’s eye, tacked to his name: Mallory, F.R.S., F.R.G.S. “The honor is all mine, sir,” Mallory said, “though I fear you too much trouble yourself on my account.” “I take a profound interest in paleontology, sir.” “I’m surprised that a writer of travel-books would take such an interest.” Oliphant steepled his elegant fingers and brought them to his long, bare upper-lip. “I have found. Dr. Mallory, that ‘journalist’ is a usefully vague term, allowing one to make any number of odd inquiries. By nature, I am a man of broad but woefully shallow curiosity.” Oliphant spread his hands. “I do what I can to be useful to true scholars, though I doubt I fully deserve my present unsought role in the inner circle of the august Geographical. Overnight fame has peculiar repercussions, you see.” “I must confess I’m not familiar with your books,” Mallory said. “I’ve been overseas, and far behind in my reading. I take it you hit the public mark, then, and had a great success?” “Not the books,” Oliphant said, with surprised amusement. “I was involved in the Tokyo Legation affair. In Japan. Late last year.” “An outrage against our embassy in Japan, am I correct? A diplomat was injured? I was in America . . .” Oliphant hesitated, then bent his left arm, tugging back coat-sleeve and immaculate cuff to reveal a puckered red scar at the outer joint of his left wrist. A knife-slash. No, worse than that: a saber-blow, into the tendons. Mallory noticed for the first time that two of the fingers on Oliphant’s left hand were permanently bent. “You, then! Laurence Oliphant, the hero of the Tokyo Legation! Now I remember the name.” Mallory stroked his beard. “You should have put that upon your card, sir, and I would have recalled you instantly.” Oliphant worked his sleeve back, looking mildly embarrassed. “A Japanese sword-wound makes so odd a carte d’identite . . . ” “Your interests are varied indeed, sir.” “Sometimes one can’t avoid certain entanglements, Dr. Mallory. In the interests of the nation, as it were. I think you yourself know that situation very well.” “I’m afraid I don’t follow you . . . ” “Professor Rudwick, the late Professor Rudwick, certainly knew of such entanglements.” Mallory now grasped the nature of Oliphant’s allusion. He spoke up roughly. “Your card, sir, declares you a journalist. These are not matters one discusses with a journalist.” “Your secret, I fear, is far from hermetic,” said Oliphant, with polite disdain. “Every member of your Wyoming expedition knows the truth. Fifteen men, some less discreet than one might hope. Rudwick’s men knew of his covert activities as well. Those who arranged the business, who asked you to carry out their scheme, know as well.” “And how, sir, do you know?” “I’ve investigated Rudwick’s murder.” “You think Rudwick’s death was linked to his . . . American activities?” “I know that to be the case.” “Before we go any further, I must be sure where we stand, Mr. Oliphant. When you say ‘activities,’ what exactly do you mean? Speak plain, sir. Define your terms.” “Very well.” Oliphant looked pained. “I refer to the official body that persuaded you to smuggle repeating rifles to the American savages.” “And the name of this body?” “The Royal Society’s Commission on Free Trade,” Oliphant said patiently. “They exist — officially — to study international trade-relations. Tariffs, investments, and so forth. Their ambition, I fear, over-reaches that authority.” “The Commission on Free Trade is a legitimate branch of Government.” “In the realm of diplomacy. Dr. Mallory, your actions might be construed as clandestinely arming the enemies of nations with whom Britain is not officially at war.” “And shall I conclude,” Mallory began angrily, “that you take a very dim view of –” “Gun-running. Though it has its place in the world, make no mistake.” Oliphant was watching for eavesdroppers again. “But it must never be undertaken by self-appointed zealots with an overweening notion of their role in foreign policy.” “You don’t care for amateurs in the game, then?” Oliphant met Mallory’s eye, but said nothing. “You want professionals, then, Mr. Oliphant? Men like yourself?” Oliphant leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “A professional agency,” he said precisely, “would not abandon its men to be eviscerated by foreign agents in the very heart of London, Dr. Mallory. And that, sir, I must inform you, is very near the position you find yourself in today. The Commission on Free Trade will help you no longer, however thoroughly you’ve done their work. They have not even informed you of the threat to your life. Am I wrong, sir?” “Francis Rudwick died in a brawl in a ratting-den. And that was months ago.” “It was last January — five months only. Rudwick had returned from Texas, where he had been secretly arming the Comanche tribe with rifles supplied by your Commission. On the night of Rudwick’s murder, someone attempted to take the life of the former President of Texas. President Houston very narrowly escaped. His secretary, a British citizen, was brutally knifed to death. The murderer is still very much at large.” “You think a Texian killed Rudwick, then?” “I think it almost certain. Rudwick’s activities may be poorly known here in London, but they’re quite obvious to the unhappy Texians, who regularly extract British bullets from the corpses of their fellows.” “I dislike the way you paint the business,” Mallory said, with a slow prickle of anger. “If we hadn’t given them guns, they wouldn’t have helped us. We might have dug for years, if it weren’t for Cheyenne help . . . ” “I doubt one could make that case to a Texas Ranger,” Oliphant said. “For that matter, I doubt one could make it to the popular press . . . ” “I’ve no intention of speaking to the press. I regret having spoken with you. Clearly you’re no friend of the Commission.” “I already know far more about the Commission than I should have cared to discover. I came here to convey a warning, Dr. Mallory, not to request information. It is I who have spoken too openly — have been forced to do so, since the Commission’s blundering has very obviously endangered your life, sir.” There was force in the argument. “A point well taken,” Mallory admitted. “You have warned me, sir, and I thank you for that.” He thought for a moment. “But what of the Geographical Society, Mr. Oliphant? What is their place in this?” “An alert and observant traveler may serve his nation’s interests with no prejudice to Science,” Oliphant said. “The Geographical has long been a vital source of intelligence. Map-making, naval routes . . .” Mallory pounced. “You don’t call them ‘amateurs’, then, Mr. Oliphant? Though they too muck about with dark-lanterns, where they oughtn’t?” A silence stretched. “They’re our amateurs,” Oliphant said dryly. “But what, precisely, is the difference?” “The precise difference. Dr. Mallory, is that the Commission’s amateurs are being murdered.” Mallory grunted. He leaned back in the chair. Perhaps there was real substance to Oliphant’s dark theory. The sudden death of Rudwick, his rival, his most formidable enemy, had always seemed too convenient a stroke of fortune. “What does he look like, then, this Texian assassin of yours?” “He is described as tall, dark-haired, and powerfully built. He wears a broad-brimmed hat and a long pale greatcoat.” “He wouldn’t be a ratty little race-track swell with a protruding forehead” — Mallory touched his temple — “and a stiletto in his pocket?” Oliphant’s eyes widened. “Dear heaven,” he said softly. Suddenly Mallory found he was enjoying himself. Discomfiting the suave spy had touched some deep vein of satisfaction. “Had a nick at me, this feller,” Mallory said, in his broadest Sussex drawl. “Derby Day, at the races. Uncommon nasty little rascal . . . ” “What happened?” “I knocked the scoundrel down,” Mallory said. Oliphant stared at him, then burst into laughter. “You’re a man of unexpected resources. Dr. Mallory.” “I might say the same of you, sir.” Mallory paused. “I have to tell you, though, I don’t believe the man was after me. He’d a girl with him, a track-dolly, the two of them bullying a lady –” “Do go on,” Oliphant urged, “this is uncommonly interesting.” “I’m afraid I can’t,” Mallory said. “The lady in question was a personage. ” “Your discretion, sir,” Oliphant said evenly, “does you credit as a gentleman. A knife-attack, however, is a serious crime. Have you not informed the police?” “No,” Mallory said, savoring Oliphant’s contained agitation, “the lady again, you see. I feared to compromise her.” “Perhaps,” Oliphant suggested, “it was all a charade, calculated to involve you in a supposed gambling-brawl. Something similar was worked on Rudwick — who died, you well recall, in a ratting-den.” “Sir,” Mallory said, “the lady was none other than Ada Byron.” Oliphant stiffened. “The Prime Minister’s daughter?” “There is no other.” “Indubitably,” Oliphant said, a sudden brittle lightness in his tone. “It does strike me, though, that there are any number of women who resemble Lady Ada, our Queen of Engines being a queen of fashion as well. Thousands of women follow her mode.” “I’ve never been introduced, Mr. Oliphant, but I’ve seen her in Royal Society sessions. I’ve heard her lecture on Engine mathematics. I am not mistaken.” Oliphant took a leather notebook from his jacket, propped it against one knee, and uncapped a reservoir-pen. “Tell me, please, about this incident.” “In strictest confidence?” “You have my word.” Mallory presented a discreet version of the facts. He described Ada’s tormentors, and the circumstances, to the best of his ability, but he made no mention of the wooden case with its French Engine-cards of camphorated cellulose. Mallory considered this a private matter between the Lady and himself; she had burdened him with the guardianship of this strange object of hers, and he regarded this as a sacred obligation. The wooden case of cards, carefully wrapped in white specimen-linen, lay hidden among the plastered fossils in one of Mallory’s private lockers at the Museum of Practical Geology, awaiting his further attention. Oliphant closed his notebook, put away his pen, and signaled the waiter for drinks. The waiter, recognizing Mallory, brought him a huckle-buff. Oliphant had a pink gin. “I would like you to meet some friends of mine,” Oliphant said. “The Central Statistics Bureau maintain extensive files on the criminal classes — anthropometric measurements, Engine-portraits, and so forth. I should like you to try to identify your assailant and his female accomplice.” “Very well,” Mallory said. “You shall be assigned police protection, as well.” “Protection?” “Not a common policeman, of course. Someone from the Special Bureau. They are very discreet.” “I can’t have some copper tagging always at my heels,” Mallory said. “What would people say?” “I worry rather more what they’ll say if you were to be found gutted in some passage. Two prominent dinosaur-savants, the both of them mysteriously murdered? The press would run quite wild.” “I need no guard. I’m not frightened of the little pimp.” “He may well be unimportant. We shall at least know that, if you are able to identify him.” Oliphant sighed delicately. “No doubt it’s all a very trumpery affair, according to the standards of Empire. But I should reckon it as including the command of money; the services, when needed, of that shady sort of Englishman, who lives in the byways of foreign life in London; and lastly, the secret sympathy of American refugees, fled here from the wars that convulse that continent.” “And you imagine that Lady Ada has fallen somehow into this dire business?” “No, sir, none of it. You may rest assured that that cannot possibly be the case. The woman you saw cannot have been Ada Byron.” “Then I regard the matter as settled,” Mallory said. “If you were to tell me Lady Ada’s interests were at hazard, I might agree to almost any measure. As things stand, I shall take my own chances.” “The decision is entirely yours, of course,” Oliphant said coolly. “And perhaps it is still early in the game to take such stem measures. You have my card? Let me know how matters develop.” “I will.” Oliphant stood. “And remember, should anyone ask, that today we have discussed nothing more than the affairs of the Geographical Society.” “You’ve yet to tell me the name of your own employers, Mr. Oliphant. Your true employers.” Oliphant somberly shook his long head. “Such knowledge never profits, sir; there is nothing but grief in such questions. If you’re wise, Dr. Mallory, you’ll have nothing more to do with dark-lanterns. With luck, the whole affair will simply come to nothing, in the end, and will fade away, without trace, as a nightmare does. I shall certainly put your name forward for the Geographical, as I have promised, and I do hope that you will seriously consider my proposal regarding possible uses of the Bow Street Engines.” Mallory watched as this extraordinary personage rose, turned, and strode away, across the Palace’s rich carpet, his long legs flashing like scissors.