The sky above the Hart was like nothing Mallory had ever seen, yet he knew it. He had seen such a sky with his mind’s-eye, a lowering dome abrim with explosive filth, awash with obliterating dust — a sky that was the very harbinger of Catastrophe. By the twilight blur of the fully risen sun he reckoned it near eight o’clock. Dawn had come, yet brought no day. The Land Leviathans had seen this very sky, he knew, after the earth-shaking shock of the Great Comet. For the scaly herds, ceaselessly progressing through the teeming jungles, driven always by a mighty hunger in their great fermenting bellies, this had been the sky of Armageddon. Storms of Cataclysm lashed the Cretaceous earth, vast fires raged, and cometary grit sifted through the roiling atmosphere, to blight and kill the wilting foliage, till the mighty Dinosauria, adapted to a world now shattered, fell in massed extinction, and the leaping machineries of Evolution were loosed in chaos, to re-populate the stricken Earth with strange new orders of being. He scuffed down Flower-and-Dean Street, awestruck, coughing. He could see little more than thirty feet ahead, for the alley roiled with a low-lying yellow fog that blurred his eyes with its clinging acid tang. More by luck than design, he emerged on Commercial Street, ordinarily a thriving Whitechapel avenue. Deserted now, its smooth tarmac was spread with fountained shards of shop-front glass. He walked a block, then another. There was scarcely a window intact. Cobbles, grubbed up from side-streets, had been flung right and left like a shower of meteors. A seeming whirlwind had descended on a nearby grocery, leaving the street ankle-deep in dirty snow-drifts of flour and sugar. Mallory picked his way through battered cabbages, squashed greengages, crushed jars of syrupped peaches, and the booted footballs of whole smoked hams. Scatterings of damp flour showed a stampede of men’s brogues, the small bare feet of street-urchins, the dainty trace of women’s shoes, and the sweep of their skirt-hems. Four mist-shrouded figures, three men and a woman, all dressed respectably, all carefully masked in thick cloth, came shuffling into view. Noticing him, they pointedly crossed the street. They moved slowly, unhurriedly, talking together in low tones. Mallory moved on, splintered glass crunching under his shoe-heels. Meyer’s Gent’s Furnishings, Peterson’s Haberdashery, LaGrange’s Parisian Pneumatique Launderette, all presented disintegrated store-fronts and doors torn off their hinges. Their fronts had been thoroughly pelted with stones, with bricks, with raw eggs. Now a more cohesive group appeared. Men and young boys, some rolling heaped barrows, though they were clearly not costers. In their masks, they seemed tired, bemused, somber, as though attending a funeral. In their aimless progress they slowed before a sacked cobbler’s, picking over the scattered shoes with the limp enthusiasm of scavengers. Mallory realized that he had been a fool. While he had wallowed in mindless dissipation, London had become a locus of anarchy. He should be home in peaceful Sussex now, with the family. He should be readying for little Madeline’s wedding, in clean country air, with his brothers and sisters at hand, with decent home-cooked food and decent homely drink. A sudden agony of homesickness struck him, and he wondered what chaotic amalgam of lust and ambition and circumstance had marooned him in this dreadful, vicious place. He wondered what the family were doing at that very moment. What was the time, exactly? With a jolt, Mallory remembered Madeline’s clock. His sister’s wedding-gift was sitting in its brass-hasped carry-case in the safety-box of the Palace of Paleontology. The lovely fancy clock for dear Madeline, now grotesquely out of his reach. The Palace was seven miles from Whitechapel. Seven miles of roiling chaos. There must be some way back, some way to cross that distance, surely. Mallory wondered if any of the city’s trains were running, or the omnibuses. Perhaps a hansom? Horses would choke in this foul mist. He was down to shank’s mare. Likely any effort to cross London was foolish, and likely it would be wisest to cower in some quiet cellar like a rat, hoping for Catastrophe to pass him over. And yet Mallory found his shoulders squaring, his legs tramping forward of their own accord. Even the throbbing in his parched head began to pass as his wits focused on a goal. Back to the Palace. Back to his life. “Hullo! Say there! Sir!” The voice echoed over Mallory’s head like the cry of a bad conscience. He glanced up, startled. From a third-floor window of Jackson Bros., Furriers & Hatters, protruded the black barrel of a rifle. Behind it, Mallory made out the balding head of a spectacled shopping-clerk, leaning from his open window now to reveal a striped shirt and scarlet braces. “May I be of service?” Mallory called, the phrase emerging out of reflex. “Thank you, sir!” the clerk cried, his voice cracking. “Sir, could you, please, have a look at our door there — just to the side, below the steps? I believe — there may be someone hurt!” Mallory waved one hand in reply, walked to the shop’s entrance. Its double-doors were intact but badly battered, dripping splattered eggs. A young man in a sailor’s striped blouse and bell-bottomed trousers lay sprawled there, facedown, a pry-bar of forged iron near his hand. Mallory seized the shoulder of the sailor’s coarse blouse and turned him over. A bullet had taken him through the throat. He was quite dead, and his nose had been mashed to one side by the pavement, giving his bloodless young face a bizarre cast, so that he seemed to have come from some nameless country of sea-going albinos. Mallory straightened. “You’ve shot him dead!” he shouted upward. The clerk, seeming rattled, began coughing loudly, and made no reply. Mallory spied the wooden butt of a pistol tucked in the dead sailor’s intricately knotted sash; he tugged it out. A revolver of unfamiliar make, its massive cylinder curiously slotted and grooved. The long octagonal barrel, under-hung with a sort of piston, stank of black-powder. He glanced at the furrier’s battered door. Clearly an entire mob had been at it, an armed mob, bent on the worst kind of mischief. The wretches must have scattered when the sailor had been shot. He stepped into the street, waving the pistol. “The rascal was armed!” he shouted. “You did well to –” A bullet from the clerk’s rifle screamed off a cement stair-step, bleaching it white with impact and narrowly missing Mallory on the ricochet. “God blame ye, ye cack-handed fool!” Mallory bellowed. “Stop that this instant!” There was a moment’s silence. “Sorry, sir!” the clerk cried. “What in hell do you think you’re doing?” “I said I was sorry! You best throw away that gun, though, sir!” “The hell I will!” Mallory roared, slipping the pistol into the waistband of his trousers. He meant to demand that the clerk come down and decently cover the dead man, but he thought better of it as other windows rattled up on their casters, four more rifle barrels appearing in defense of Jackson Bros. Mallory backed up, showing empty hands and attempting to smile. When the fog had thickened around him, he turned and ran. Now he moved more cautiously, keeping to the center of the street. He discovered a trampled cambric shirt and cut its baggy sleeve loose with the small saw-tooth blade of his Sheffield knife. It made a serviceable mask. He examined the sailor’s revolver, and plucked a blackened cartridge-case from the cylinder. It still held five shots. It was a clumsy thing, foreign, unevenly blued, though the mechanism looked to have been executed with a decent degree of accuracy. He made out BALLESTER-MOLINA, stamped faintly on the side of the octagonal barrel, but there were no other markings. Mallory emerged on Aldgate High Street, recalling it from his walk with Hetty from the London Bridge pier, though it looked, if anything, more eerie and horrid than it had in the middle of the night. The mob did not seem to have touched it as yet, in the inherent vagary of Chaos. A rhythmic clanging of alarm sounded from the fog behind him. He stepped aside to watch a fire-gurney steam past, its red-painted sides battered and dented. Some London mob had brutally attacked the firemen, attacked the trained men and machines that stood between the city and mass conflagration. This struck Mallory as the acme of perverse stupidity, yet somehow it failed to surprise him. Exhausted firemen clung to the gurney’s running-boards, wearing bizarre rubber masks with gleaming eye-pieces and accordioned breathing-tubes. Mallory dearly wished for such a mask himself, for his eyes were misting so painfully now that he squinted like a pantomime pirate, but he tramped on. Aldgate became Fenchurch, then Lombard, then Poultry Street, and still he was miles from his goal, if the Palace of Paleontology could be said to be one. His head pounded and swam with the sullen lees of bad whiskey and worse air, and he seemed to be nearer the Thames now, for a damp and viscous taint arose that sickened him. On Cheapside, a city omnibus had been toppled on its side and set afire with its own boiler-coals. Every window in it had been shattered, and it had burnt to a blackened husk. Mallory hoped no one had died inside it. The smoking wreckage stank too fiercely for him to want to look more closely. There were people in the churchyard of St. Paul’s. The air seemed somewhat clearer there, for the dome was visible, and a large crowd of men and boys had collected among the churchyard trees. Unaccountably, they seemed in the highest spirits. Mallory perceived to his astonishment that they were brazenly tossing dice on the very steps of Wren’s masterpiece. A little farther on, and Cheapside itself was blocked by scattered crowds of eager and determined gamblers. Fairy-rings of rascals had sprouted left and right from the very pavement, men kneeling to guard their mounting stakes of coins and paper-money. Eager leaders in mischief, tough, squint-eyed cockneys who seemed to have leapt whole from the coagulated Stink of London, cried aloud, hoarsely, like patterers, as Mallory passed. “A shilling to open! Who’ll shoot? Who will shoot, my lads?” From the scattered rings came cries of triumph at winning, angry groans muffled by masks. For each man boldly gambling, there were three who timidly watched. A carnival attraction, it seemed, a stinking and criminal carnival, but a London lark nonetheless. There were no police in sight, no authority, no decency. Mallory edged warily through the thin, excited crowd, a cautious hand on the butt of the sailor’s pistol. In an alley, two masked men booted a third, then relieved him of his watch and wallet. A crowd of at least a dozen watched the sight with only mild interest. These Londoners were like a gas, thought Mallory, like a cloud of minute atomies. The bonds of society broken, they had simply flown apart, like the perfectly elastic gassy spheres in Boyle’s Laws of Physics. Most of them looked respectable enough by their dress; they were merely reckless now, stripped by Chaos to a moral vacuity. Most of them, Mallory thought, had never seen any event remotely like this one. They had no proper standards left for judgment or comparison. They had become puppets of base impulse. Like the Cheyenne tribesmen of Wyoming, dancing in the devil’s grip of drink, the goodmen of civilized London had surrendered themselves to primitive madness. And by the patent look of surprised bliss on their shining faces, Mallory perceived that they enjoyed it. They enjoyed it very greatly indeed. It was exaltation to them, a wicked freedom more perfect and desirable than any they had ever known. Along the edge of the crowd a line of gaudy handbills had been newly slapped-up across a formerly sacrosanct brick wall of Paternoster Row. They were adverts of the cheapest and most ubiquitous kind, the sort that pursued the eye all over London: PROFESSOR RENBOURNE’S MAGNETIC HEADACHE PILLS, BEARDSLEY’S SHREDDED CODFISH, MCKESSON & ROBBINS’ TARTARLITHINE, ARNICA TOOTH SOAP . . . And some theatrical prints: MADAME SCAPIGLIONI at the Saville House in Leicester Square, a VAUXHALL PANMELODIUM SYMPHONY . . . Events, Mallory thought, that would surely never come off, and indeed the sheets had been posted with a careless haste that had badly wrinkled the paper. Fresh glue dripped from beneath the bills in rivulets of white ooze, a sight that perturbed Mallory in a way he could not define. But slapped amid these mundane bills, as if it belonged there by right, was a great three-sheet broadside, a thing the size of a horse-blanket. Engine-printed, rumpled in the hasty plastering. Indeed, its very ink seemed still damp. A mad thing. Mallory stopped dead before it, stricken by its crude bizarrity. It had been done in three colors — scarlet, black, and an ugly greyish-pink that seemed a muddle of the two. A scarlet blindfolded woman — a Goddess of Justice? — in a blurry scarlet toga brandished a scarlet sword labeled LUDD over the pinkish-grey heads of two very crudely rendered figures, a man and a woman depicted in busts — a king and queen? Lord and Lady Byron perhaps? The scarlet goddess trampled the midsection of a large two-headed snake, or scaly dragon, its writhing body labeled MERIT-LORDSHIP. Behind the scarlet woman, the skyline of London was vigorously aflame in scarlet tongues of fire, while the sky all about the various demented figures was full of stylized scrolls of thick black cloud. Three men, clergymen or savants apparently, dangled from a gallows in the upper-right-hand corner, and in the upper-left a confused mass of ill-formed gesticulating figures waved flags and Jacobin pikes, advancing toward some unknown goal under the bearded star of a comet. And this was not the half of it. Mallory rubbed at his aching eyes. The vast rectangular sheet seethed with smaller images like a billiard-table littered with random pool-balls. Here a dwarfish wind-god blew out a cloud labeled PESTILENCE. There a cannon-shell, or bomb, exploded in stylized spiky fragments, small black misshapen imps being flung aside by the blast. A coffin heaped with flowers held a noose atop it. A nude woman crouched at the feet of a monster, a well-dressed man with the head of a reptile. A tiny praying man in epaulets stood on a gallows, while the hangman, a little fellow with a hood and his sleeves rolled up, gestured brusquely at the noose . . . More of the smudgy smoke-clouds, flung onto the image like mud, connected the whole business like the dough of a fruit-cake. And there was text, too, near the bottom. A title, in large smudgy Engine-type: “THE SEVEN CURSES OF THE WHORE OF BABYLONDON”!” Babylondon. Baby what? What “curses,” and why “seven”? The sheet seemed flung together out of random chunks of Engine-imagery. Mallory knew that modern printers had special printers’ punch-cards, clacked-up to print specific blocky pictures, much like the cheap woodcut-blocks on old murder-ballads. In the Engine-work of the catchpenny prints you might see the same hackneyed picture a hundred times. But here the colors were hideous, the images jammed hither and thither in apparent madness, and worst of all the broadsheet seemed to be attempting to express something, in however halting and convulsive a way, that was simply and truly unspeakable. “Be ye talkin’ a’ me?” demanded a man next to Mallory. Mallory jumped a bit, startled. “Nothing,” he muttered. The man loomed nearer at Mallory’s shoulder, a very tall, gaunt cockney, with lank, filthy yellow hair under a towering stovepipe hat. He was drunk, for his eyes were maddened and bright. His face was masked securely in polka-dot fabric. His dirty clothes were near-rags — save the shoes, which were stolen and spanking-new. The cockney reeked with days of unwashed sweat, the stink of dereliction, madness. He squinted hard at the broadsheet, then at Mallory again. “Friends of yours, squire?” “No,” Mallory said. “Tell me what it means!” the cockney insisted. “I heard you a-talking over it. You do know, don’t you?” The man’s sharp voice trembled, and when he looked from the poster to Mallory again the bright accusing eyes above the mask seemed kindled with animal hate. “Get away from me!” Mallory shouted. “Blasphemin’ Christ the Savior!” the tall man screeched, his voice rising, his gnarled hands kneading the air. “Christ’s holy blood, what washed us free o’ sin –” He reached for Mallory. Mallory knocked the grasping hand away. “Kill ‘im!” an anonymous voice suggested eagerly. The gloating words charged the sullen air like a Leyden-jar. Suddenly, Mallory and his opponent were in the midst of a crowd — no longer random particles, but the focus of real trouble. The tall cockney, half-shoved perhaps, stumbled into Mallory. Mallory doubled him up with a punch to the breadbasket. Someone screamed then, a high hilarious bloodcurdling sound. A flung wad of mud missed Mallory’s head and splattered against the picture. As if this were a signal, there was a sudden blinding melee of shrieks, thudding bodies, flung punches. Mallory, shoving, swearing, dancing on his trampled feet, yanked the revolver from his waistband, pointed it in the air, and squeezed the trigger. Nothing. An elbow caught him hard in the ribs. He cocked the hammer with his thumb, squeezed again. The report was shocking, deafening. In a split-second the melee was melting away from Mallory, men falling, billowing, scrambling away headlong on hands and knees in their utter beast-like eagerness to flee. Men were trampled before his eyes. Mallory stood for an instant, his jaw dropping in astonishment within his cambric mask, the gun still poised overhead. Then a bolt of good sense struck him. He retreated. He tried to jam the pistol back into his waistband as he ran, but saw with shocked alarm that the hammer was cocked again, the gun ready to fire at any touch of the trigger. He dangled the treacherous thing at arm’s-length as he fled. At length he stopped, coughing bitterly. From behind him, wrapped in the roiling obscurity of fog, came scattered pistol-shots and bestial cries of rage, derision, glee. “Dear Christ,” Mallory muttered, and peered at the mechanism. The devilish thing had cocked itself automatically, channeling part of the powder-blast into the piston beneath the barrel, which shunted the grooved cylinder back against a stationary ratchet, spinning the next round into place and kicking the hammer back. Mallory hooked both thumbs over the hammer and worked at the trigger with care, until he could close the mechanism. He slid the pistol back into his waistband. He had not outrun the line of pasted handbills. They still ranged before him, apparently inexhaustible in number, slapped-up one after another in a ragged line. He followed them, through a street now seemingly empty. From somewhere came a distant crash of glass and whoops of boyish laughter. SECRET KEYS made CHEAPLY, said a plastered bill. Handsome WATER-PROOFS for INDIA and the COLONIES. Apprentice CHYMISTS and DRUGGISTS Wanted. Ahead he heard the quiet clop of slow hooves, the squeak of an axle. Emerging from the mist, then, the bill-sticker’s van, a tall, black wagon, its towering sides mounted with great shouting billboards. A masked fellow in a loose grey raincoat was shoving a plastered bill against a wall. The wall was protected by a tall iron fence some five feet distant from the brick, but this bothered the sticker-man not at all, for he had a specialized roller-device on a kind of long broom-handle. Mallory stepped nearer to watch. The bill-sticker did not look up, having reached a crucial moment of his work. The bill itself, which was tightly wrapped about a black rubber roller, was pressed and rolled, bottom-upward, against the wall; the sticker, at the same moment, deftly squeezing a hand-piston on the shaft of his device, which squirted out a gruelly mess of paste from twin spigots bracketed to the roller’s ends. Another swipe downward to complete the pasting, and it was done. The van moved on. Mallory stepped closer and examined the bill, which extolled, and depicted in an Engine-cut, the beautifying effects of Colgate’s Clear Complexion Soap. The sticker-man and his van moved on. Mallory followed it. The sticker-man noticed Mallory’s attention, and it seemed to rattle him a bit, for he muttered something at the driver, and the van moved on a good ways. Mallory followed discreetly. The van stopped now at a corner of Fleet Street, where the hoardings bore, by old tradition, the great shouting bills of the city’s newspapers. But a bill was boldly slapped across the face of the Morning Clarion, and then another, and another. More theatrical prints this time. DR. BENET of PARIS was to lecture on the “Therapeutic Value of Aquatic Sleep”; THE CHAUTAUQUA SOCIETY OF THE SUSQUEHANNA PHALANSTERY would present a symposium on “The Social Philosophy of the Late Dr. Coleridge”, and a Scientific Lecture with Kinotropy would be presented by DR. EDWARD MALLORY . . . Mallory halted, grinning behind his mask. EDWARD MALLORY! He had to admit that the name looked very well in eighty-point Engine-Gothic. It was a great pity that the speech could not come off, but clearly Huxley, or likely one of his staff-men, had placed the order for bills with promptness, and there had been no cancellation. A shame, Mallory thought, gazing at the departing bill-van with a new proprietorial fondness. EDWARD MALLORY. He would have liked to keep the bill as a souvenir; and thought, indeed, of peeling it loose, but the gobbets of paste dissuaded him. He looked more closely, hoping to commit the text to memory. At a second glance the printing-job was not all it might have been, for the black lettering had, here and there, smudgy rims of scarlet, as if the printing-pins had been soaked in red ink and not properly cleaned. “The Museum of Practical Geology, Jermyn Street, has the honor to present to the London Public, for two shows only, DR. EDWARD MALLORY. Dr. Mallory, F.R.S., F.R.G.S., will present the thrilling history of his discovery of the famous LAND LEVIATHAN in savage Wyoming; his theories of its milieu, habits, and sustenance; his encounters with the savage Cheyenne INDIANS; detailing with this the MELANCHOLY and HIDEOUS MURDER of his closest rival the late PROFESSOR RUDWICH; Secrets of Professional Gambling, specifically that of RATTING-DENS, to be imparted to those eager to know the TECHNIQUE OF ODDS-MAKING, to be followed by a most luscious DANCE OF THE 7 VEILS to be performed by the several Misses Mallory, giving a Frank Account of their Several Introductions to the ART of LOVE; only Gentlemen will be admitted; Price 2/6. Show to be accompanied by the advanced kinotropy of MR. KEETS.” Mallory gritted his teeth and broke into a sprint. He ran ahead of the van, which was moving on at foot-pace, and seized the bridle of the mule, two-handed. The animal stopped with a snort and a stumble. Its filthy head was swaddled in a canvas mask adapted from a feed-bag. The coachman emitted a yelp from behind a smut-stained muffler. He leapt down from his wooden seat to land with a stagger, waving a hickory cudgel. “Hullo! Leave off!” he cried. “Bar that nonsense, Davey, and hook it sharp . . .” His voice trailed off as he took Mallory’s measure, slapping the cudgel against his callused palm with an attempt at menace. The second bill-sticker rushed up from behind the van to join his friend, brandishing his long-handled rig like a pitchfork. “Hedge off, mister,” the coachman suggested. “We ain’t doin’ you no harm.” “You most certainly are!” Mallory bellowed. “Where did you rascals obtain those bills? Tell me at once!” The taller man defiantly shook the paste-smeared roller of his rig at Mallory’s face. “London’s wide-open today! You want to make a fight of where we dab our paper, then just you try us!” One of the large advert-boards on the side of the van swung open suddenly, on squealing brass hinges. A carriage-door, it seemed, for a small stout balding man hopped through it, from within the van. He wore a neat red shooting-coat, and checkered trousers tucked into patent-leather walking-boots. He was bare-headed, his round, red-cheeked face was not masked, and to Mallory’s astonishment, he was smoking a large, vilely fuming pipe. “What’s all this then?” he inquired mildly. “A ruffian, sir!” the coachman declared. “Some villain bully-rock sent by Turkey-Legs!” “What, all by hisself?” the stout man said, with a quizzical arch of his brows. “That don’t seem right.” He looked Mallory up and down. “You know who I am, son?” “No,” Mallory said. “Who are you?” “I’m the gent they call the King of the Bill-Stickers, my boy! If you don’t know that fact, you must be mighty green at this business!” “I’m not in your business. I, sir, am Dr. Edward Mallory!” The stout man folded his arms, and rocked a bit on his boot-heels. “So?” “You just pasted-up a bill that grossly libeled me!” “Oh,” said the King. “So that’s your bellyache, is it?” He grinned in evident relief. “Well, that’s nothing to do with me, Dr. Edward Mallory. I just paste ’em; I don’t print ’em. I ain’t liable.” “Well, you’re not putting up any more of those damnable libel-sheets!” Mallory said. “I want all the rest of them, and I demand to know where you obtained them!” The King quieted his two bristling henchmen with a regal move of his hand. “I’m a very busy man, Dr. Mallory. If you’d care to step up in my van, and talk to me like a reasonable gentleman, then perhaps I’ll listen, but I’ve no time for any bluster or threats.” He fixed Mallory with a sharp squint of his little blue eyes. “Well,” Mallory blurted, taken aback. Though he knew he was in the right, the King’s quiet retort had taken the steam out of his indignation; he felt rather foolish of a sudden, and rather out of his element, somehow. “Surely,” he muttered. “Very well.” “Fair enough. Tom, Jemmy, let’s back to work.” The King clambered deftly into his van. Mallory, after a moment’s hesitation, followed him, heaving himself up into the body of the oddly made carnage. There were no seats inside; the flooring from wall to wall was dimpled and buttoned with thick maroon cushioning, like a Turkish ottoman. Slanted pigeon-holes of varnished wood lined the walls, stuffed with tightly rolled bills. A large trapdoor in the ceiling had been flung open, admitting a gloomy light. It stank direly of paste and cheap, black, shag tobacco. The King sprawled at his ease, propping himself on a fat tufted pillow. The mule brayed under the driver’s whip-crack, and the van lurched into sluggish squeaking motion. “Gin and water?” the King offered, opening a cabinet. “Plain water, if you please,” Mallory said. “Straight water it is.” The King poured from a pottery canteen into a tin mug. Mallory tugged his frayed mask down below his chin, and drank with an aching thirst. The King gave Mallory a second round, and then a third. “Perhaps a tasty squeeze o’ lemon with that?” The King winked. “I do hope you know your limit.” Mallory cleared his slimy throat. “Very decent of you.” His face felt oddly naked without the mask, and this show of civility within the King’s van, together with its chemical stink of glue, almost worse than the Thames, had quite dizzied him. “I regret it if I, er, seemed a bit sharp earlier.” “Well, it’s the lads, you know,” said the King, with generous tact. “A cove must stand ready to handle his fists in the bill-sticking business. Just yesterday, my boys had to lay it on pretty brisk with old Turkey-Legs and his lads, over a matter of sticking-space within Trafalgar Square.” The King sniffed in disdain. “I’ve had certain sharp troubles of my own during this emergency,” Mallory said hoarsely. “But basically. I’m a reasonable man, sir. Very rational — not the sort who looks for trouble; you mustn’t think that.” The King nodded sagely. “I’ve never yet known Turkey-Legs to hire any scholar as a bully-rock. By your dress and manner I take you to be a savant, sir.” “You have a sharp eye.” “I like to think so,” the King allowed. “So now that we have that matter clear, perhaps you’ll informate me concerning this grievance you seem to hold.” “Those bills you’ve pasted are forgeries,” Mallory said. “And libelous. They’re certainly not legal.” “As I explained before, that’s none of my affair,” the King said. “Let me tell you a few facts of commerce, straight-out. For dabbing-up a hundred double-crown sheets, I expect to make one pound one shilling; which is to say tuppence and six-tenths of a penny per sheet; say three pence, rounded out. Now if you should care to purchase certain of my bills at that rate, I might be ready to talk business.” “Where are they?” Mallory said. “If you’d care to have a look among the cubbyholes for the items in question I will oblige you.” When the crew had stopped to paste more bills, Mallory began to sort through the stock. The bills were tightly wrapped in neat thick perforated scrolls, as dense and hefty as bludgeons. The King passed a scroll through the trap-door to the driver. Then he peaceably tapped out the dottle of his meerschaum, refilled it from a twist of coarse paper, and lit it with a German tinder-box. He blew a cloud of foulness with every appearance of satisfaction. “Here they are,” Mallory said. He peeled the outermost sheet from the roll and flapped it out within the van. “Have a look at this abomination, will you? It looks quite splendid at first, but the text is obscenely outrageous!” “Standard roll o’ forty; that’ll be six shillings even.” “Read here,” Mallory said, “where it as much as accuses me of murder!” The King, politely, turned his eyes upon the sheet. His lips moved as he puzzled painfully over the title. “Ma Lorry,” he said at length. “One of your lorry-shows, is it?” “Mallory — that’s my name!” “It’s a demi-sheet theatrical, no illos,” the King said. “Bit smudgy . . . oh yes, I remember these.” He sighed smoke. “I might ‘a known no good would come of taking this consignment. Mind you, the rascal paid in advance though.” “Who? Whom?” “Down in Limehouse, in the West India Docks,” the King said. “A deal of commotion in that locale, Dr. Mallory. Rascals slapping brand-new bills up all over every wall and hoarding in sight, since yesterday. My boys were inclined to make a bit of trouble over that encroachment, till Captain Swing — that’s what he calls hisself — saw fit to engage our services.” Mallory’s armpits prickled with sweat. “Captain Swing, is it?” “Sporting-fellow of some kind, to judge by his dress,” the King said cheerfully. “Short, red-headed, squinty — had a bump on his head, just here. Crazy as a bedbug, I should say. He was polite enough though, not proposing to make any trouble for the bill-sticking trade once customary matters was explained to him. And he had him a sight of ready money.” “I know that man!” Mallory said, his voice trembling. “He’s a violent Luddite conspirator. He may be the most dangerous man in England!” “You don’t say,” the King grunted. “He’s a dire threat to public safety!” “Fellow didn’t look like much,” the King said. “Funny little duck, wore spectacles and talked to hisself.” “The man is an enemy of the realm — a dark-lanternist of the most sinister description!” “I don’t much hold with politics, meself,” said the King, leaning back quite at his ease. “The Bill-Sticking Regulatory Act — now that’s politics for you, a doltish business! That blasted Act is mighty stiff, regarding where bills may be posted. Let me tell you, Dr. Mallory, I personally know the Member that got that Act passed in Parliament, for I was hired for his election campaign. He didn’t mind where his bills went. It was all quite right-enough, so long as they was his bills!” “My God!” Mallory broke in. “The thought of that evil man, loose in London — with money, from God only knows what source — fomenting riot and rebellion during a public emergency — and in control of an Engine-driven press! It’s nightmarish! Horrible!” “Pray don’t fash yourself. Dr. Mallory,” the King chided gently. “My dear old father, rest his soul, used to tell me: ‘When all about you are losing their heads, son, just remember: there are still twenty shillings in a pound.’ ” “That’s as may be,” Mallory said, “but –” “My dear dad stuck bills in the Time of Troubles! Back in the thirties, when the cavalry charged on the working-people, and old Hooky-Nose Wellington got hisself blown to flinders. Hard times indeed, sir, much harder than soft modern days with this trifling Stink! Call this an emergency? Why, I call it opportunity, and have done with it.” “You don’t seem to grasp the urgency of the crisis,” Mallory said. “The Time of Troubles — now that was when they printed the first four-sheet double-crowns! The Tory Government used to pay my old dad — my dad was Beadle and Bill-Sticker to the parish of St. Andrews, Holborn — to black-wash Radical bills. He had to hire women to do it, there was so much call for the job. He’d black-wash Rad bills by day, and stick up new ones by night! There’s a deal of fine opportunity in your times of revolution.” Mallory sighed. “My dad invented the device we call the Patent Extendable Dabbing-Joint — to which I myself have made a number of mechanical improvements. It serves to stick bills to the under-sides of bridges, for the water-trade. We are an entrepreneurial line in my family, sir. Not easily put out of countenance.” “A lot of good all that will do you when London’s reduced to ashes,” Mallory said. “Why, you’re helping the scoundrel in his anarchistic plottings!” “I should say you have that straight-backwards. Dr. Mallory,” the King said, with an odd little chuckle. “Last I saw, the fellow was paying his money into my pockets, and not vice-versa. Now that I think on it, he’s consigned a number of bills to my safe-keeping — right along the top row, here.” The King stood, yanked the documents down, cast them onto his padded floor. “You see, sir, it don’t really matter a hang what nonsense is blithered and babbled on these bills! The secret truth is, that bills is endless by their very nature, regular as the tides in the Thames, or the smoke of London. London’s true sons call London ‘The Smoke,’ you know. She’s an eternal city, like your Jerusalem, or Rome, or, some would say, Satan’s Pandemonium! You don’t see the King of the Bill-Stickers worrying for smoky London, do you? Not a bit of it!” “But the people have fled!” “A passing foolishness. They’ll all be back,” said the King, with sublime confidence. “Why, they have no place else to go. This is the center of the world, sir.” Mallory fell silent. “So, sir,” proclaimed the King, “if you was to take my advice, you’d spend six shillings on that roll of bills you’re clutching. Why, for one pound even, I’ll toss in these other misprinted bills of our friend Captain Swing’s. Twenty simple shillings, sir, and you may leave these streets, and rest at home in peace and quiet.” “Some of these bills have already been posted,” Mallory said. “I could have the lads black-wash ’em — or paste ’em over, anyhow,” the King mused. “If you was willing to make it worth their while, of course.” “Would that put an end to the matter?” said Mallory, reaching for his pocket-book. “I doubt it.” “A better end than any you can make with that pistol I see peeping from your trouser-band,” said the King. “That is an item which cannot do a gentleman and scholar any credit.” Mallory said nothing. “Heed my counsel, Dr. Mallory, and put that gun away before you do yourself a mischief. I do believe you might have hurt one of my lads, if I hadn’t spied that gun through my peep-hole, and stepped out to set things right. Go home, sir, and cool your head.” “Why aren’t you at home, if you truly mean that advice?” Mallory said. “Why, this is my home, sir,” said the King. He tucked Mallory’s money into his shooting-jacket. “On pleasant days my old woman and I take our tea in here, and talk about old times . . . and walls, and embankments, and hoardings . . . ” “I have no home in London; and in any case business calls me to Kensington,” Mallory said. “That’s a distance. Dr. Mallory.” “Yes, it is,” Mallory said, with a tug at his beard. “But it strikes me that there are any number of museums and savants’ palaces in Kensington, which have never been touched by advert-paper.” “Really,” mused the King. “Do tell.”