Fraser led the way, far down Cromwell Lane, past the great pile of pale brick that was the Diseased Chest Hospital: a nightmarishly dire place this evening. Mallory could not help but think. A vague notion of medical grimness continued to prey on Mallory’s mind, so much so that they stopped at the next public-house, where Mallory had four or possibly five shots of a surprisingly decent whiskey. The pub was crowded with New Brompton locals, who seemed quite cheery in a cozy, besieged sort of way, though they kept slipping tuppenny bits into a pianola that tinkled “Come to the Bower,” a song Mallory loathed. “There was no rest for him here. In any case, it was not Cremorne Gardens. They came across the first sign of real trouble a few blocks down New Brompton Road, by Bennett & Harper’s Patent Floor-Covering Manufactory. An unruly crowd of uniformed men milled at the gates of the sprawling factory. Industrial trouble of some sort. It took Fraser and Mallory some time to discover that the crowd actually consisted almost entirely of policemen. Bennett & Harper’s produced a gaily patterned water-proof stuff made of burlap, ground cork, and coal derivatives, suitable for trimming and gluing-down in the kitchens and baths of the middle-class. They also produced great volumes of effluent from half-a-dozen stacks, which clearly the city would temporarily be better off without. The first officials on the scene — or at least they claimed that distinction — had been a group of inspectors from the Royal Patent Office, pressed into emergency industrial duty by a Government contingency plan. But Messrs. Bennett and Harper, anxious not to lose the day’s production, had challenged the patent-men’s legal authority to shut down their works. They were soon confronted by two more inspectors from a Royal Society industrial committee, who claimed precedent. The local constable had been attracted by the uproar, followed by a flying-squad of Bow Street metropolitans arriving in a commandeered steam-bus. Most ‘buses had now been seized by Government, along with the city’s cab-fleet, in accordance with contingency measures intended to deal with rail strikes. The police had immediately shut down the stacks, fine work and a credit to the Government’s good intentions, but the manufactory’s workers were still on the premises, idle and very restive, for no one had mentioned a holiday with pay, though the workers clearly felt they deserved one under the circumstances. It also remained to be seen who was responsible for guarding the property of Messrs. Bennett and Harper, and who would be responsible for giving the official word to start the boilers again. Worst of all, there seemed to be dire problems with the police telegraph-service — routed, presumably, through the Westminster pyramid of the Central Statistics Bureau. There must be trouble there from the Stink, Mallory surmised. “You’re Special Branch, Mr. Fraser,” Mallory said. “Why don’t you straighten these dullards out?” “Very witty,” Fraser said. “I wondered why we hadn’t seen officers patrolling the streets. They must be snarled up in the premises of factories all over London!” “You seem awfully pleased about the matter,” Fraser said. “Bureaucrats!” Mallory scoffed cheerily. “They might have known this would happen, if they’d properly studied Catastrophist theory. It is a concatenation of synergistic interactions; the whole system is on the period-doubling route to Chaos!” “What does that mean, pray?” “Essentially,” Mallory said, smiling behind his kerchief, “in layman’s terms, it means that everything gets twice as bad, twice as fast, until everything falls completely apart!” “That’s savantry talk. You don’t presume that has anything to do with real matters here in London, do you?” “Very interesting question!” Mallory nodded. “Deep metaphysical roots! If I model a phenomenon accurately, does that mean I understand it? Or might it be simple coincidence, or an artifact of the technique? Of course, as an ardent simulationist, I myself put much faith in Engine-modeling. But the doctrine can be questioned, no doubt of it. Deep waters, Fraser! The sort of thing that old Hume and Bishop Berkeley used to thrive on!” “You’re not drunk, are you, sir?” “Just a bit elevated,” Mallory said. “Squiffy, you might say.” They tramped on, wisely leaving the police to their squabbling. Mallory suddenly felt the loss of his good old Wyoming toggle-coat. He missed his canteen, his spyglass, the snug stiffness of a rifle over his back. The look of a cold, clean, wild horizon where life was fully lived and death was swift and honest. He wished he were out of London, on expedition again. He could cancel all his engagements. He could apply for funding to the Royal Society, or better yet, the Geographical. He would leave England! “You needn’t do that, sir,” Fraser said. “Might make matters worse, actually.” “Was I talking aloud?” “A bit, sir. Yes.” “Where could a man get a first-class game-rifle here in town, Fraser?” They were behind Chelsea Park now, in a place called Camera Square, where the shops offered fancy optical goods: talbotypes, magic-lanterns, phenakistoscopes, telescopes for the amateur star-gazer. There were toy microscopes for the boy-savant of the house, boys often taking a strong interest in the wriggling animalcules in pond-water. The minute creatures were of no practical interest, but their study might lead young minds to the doctrines of genuine Science. Stung by sentiment, Mallory paused before a window displaying such microscopes. They reminded him of kindly old Lord Mantell, who had given him his first job tidying-up about the Lewes Museum. From there he’d moved to cataloguing bones and birds’-eggs, and at last to a real Cambridge scholarship. The old Lord had been a bit eager with the birch-switch, he now recalled, but likely no more than Mallory had deserved. There came an odd whizzing sound from up the pavement. Mallory glanced in that direction and saw a queer half-crouching ghostly figure emerge from the fog, clothing flapping about it with speed, a pair of walking-canes doubled up under its arms. Mallory jumped back at the last possible instant as the boy shot past him with a yowling whoop. A London boy, thirteen or so, on rubber-wheeled boots. The boy turned swiftly, skidded to an expert stop, and began to pole himself back up the pavement with the walking-sticks. Presently, an entire pack of boys had surrounded Mallory and Fraser, leaping and yelping in devilish glee. None of the others had wheeled shoes, but nearly all wore the little square cloth masks that Bureau clerks donned to tend their Engines. “Say, you lads!” Fraser barked, “where did you get those masks?” They ignored him. “That was dead flash!” one of them shouted. “Do it again. Bill!” Another boy cocked his leg three times with an odd ritual motion, then jumped high in the air and crowed “Sugar!” Those around him laughed and cheered. “Calm down, you,” Fraser ordered. “Vinegar phiz!” a wicked boy fleered at him. “Shocking bad hat!” The whole pack of them burst into raucous hilarity. “Where are your parents?” Fraser demanded. “You shouldn’t be running about in this weather.” “Nuts and knuckles!” sneered the boy in wheeled shoes. “Forward all, my hearty crew! Panther Bill commands!” He jabbed his walking-sticks down and off. The others followed, yelling and whooping. “Far too well-dressed to be street-arabs,” Mallory remarked. The boys had run off a short distance and were setting up for a game of crack-the-whip. Swiftly, each boy grabbed the next by the arm, forming a chain. The boy on wheels took the tail-end. “Don’t like the look of that,” Mallory muttered. The chain of boys swung out across Camera Square, each link gathering impetus, and suddenly the wheel-footed boy shot loose from the end like a stone from a catapult. He skidded off with a scream of devilish glee, hit some small discontinuity in the pavement, and tripped headlong into a sheet of plate-glass. Shards of glass burst from the store-front, toppling like guillotine blades. Young Panther Bill lay upon the pavement, seemingly stunned or dead. There was an awful moment of shocked silence. “Treasure!” shrilled one of the boys. With maddened shrieks, the pack scrambled for the broken store-front and began grabbing every display-item in sight: telescopes, tripods, chemical glassware — “Halt!” Fraser shouted. “Police!” He reached inside his coat, yanked his kerchief down, and sounded three sharp blasts on a nickel-plate police-whistle. The boys fled instantly. A few dropped their snatched booty, but the rest clutched their prizes fiercely and ran like Barbary apes. Fraser hoofed it after them, Mallory at his heels, reaching the store-front where Panther Bill still lay sprawled. As they approached, the boy levered himself up on his elbow and shook his bleeding head. “You’re hurt, son,” Mallory said. “I’m right and fly!” said Panther Bill sluggishly. His scalp was slashed to the bone and blood was pouring over both his ears. “Hands off me, you masked bandits!” Belatedly, Mallory pulled his own kerchief down and tried to smile at the boy. “You’re injured, son. You need help.” Together with Fraser, he bent over the boy. “Help!” the boy screeched. “Help me, my crew!” Mallory turned to look. Perhaps one of the other boys could be sent for aid. A glittering triangular shard of flung glass spun from the fog, catching Fraser square in the back. The policeman jerked upright with a look of wide-eyed animal shock. Panther Bill scrambled off on his hands and knees and jumped to his skidding feet. There was a loud smash from another store-front nearby, the musical clatter of glass, and delighted screams. The glass-shard protruded in shocking fashion from Fraser’s back. It was imbedded in him. “They’re going to kill us!” Mallory cried, hauling Fraser along by the arm. Behind them glass was bursting like bombs, some of it flung blindly to shatter against the walls, some cascading from its shop-front mullions. “Bloody hell . . .,” Fraser muttered. Panther Bill’s cry rang through the fog. “Treasure, my hearties! Treasure!” “Clench your teeth,” Mallory said. Folding his kerchief to protect his hand, he plucked the shard from Fraser’s back. To his great relief, it came out of a piece. Fraser shuddered. Mallory helped him gently out of his coat. Gore had streaked Fraser’s shirt to the waistline, though it seemed not as bad as it might have been. The glass-shard had stabbed the chamois-leather strap of Fraser’s shoulder-holster, which held a stout little pepperbox. “Your holster stopped most of it,” Mallory said. “You’re cut, but it’s not deep, not through the ribs. We need to staunch that bleeding . . . ” “Police station,” Fraser nodded, “Kings Road West.” He had gone very pale. A fresh cascade of smashing glass echoed distantly behind them. They walked on swiftly, Fraser wincing with each step. “You’d better stay with me,” he said. “Spend the night at the police station. This has become very bad.” “Surely,” Mallory said. “Don’t trouble yourself.” “I mean it. Mallory.” “To be sure.” Two hours later Mallory was in Cremorne Gardens.