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Who was he?

Where was he?

Why was he here?

What must he do?

There was a name: Edward Oxford-the Original.

And a place: the Hat and Feathers.

And an enemy: Burton.

And a voice: "Are you sick, Mister? Shall I fetch help?"

He pulled the cloak aside and looked up. A young girl was standing looking at him; a child, also female, just behind her.

He had to rape her, or someone like her.

Rape?

What was he thinking? He'd never done anything like that in his life; he wasn't capable of such brutality! Why was he contemplating such a foul act? Why was his head filled with all this violence? Rape and ripping girls' dresses and assassination and fighting and-

He screamed at the horror of all he'd done and all he'd considered doing.

A jagged line of energy lashed out from his helmet and struck the girl in the face.

She was thrown onto the muddy cobbles. She started to convulse.

The younger girl scrambled over to her, shouting, "What have you done? Help! Help!"

Spring Heeled Jack pushed himself to its feet and yelled, "This is your fault, Burton!"

As he paced away along the alley-less a man than a disjointed bundle of possibilities-he was jolted again and again by shocks.

An emergency program in the damaged control unit suddenly activated. A voice in Spring Heeled Jack's head ordered him to jump into the air. Reflexively, he did so. With its very last resource, the suit flipped him back to where he'd come from, moving him a little to the west to prevent him from colliding with himself.

Thirty seconds after he'd leaped away from Burton, he dropped onto the Alsop field straight into the hands of the retreating Technologists.

"The Technologists have Oxford!" shouted Detective Inspector Trounce as Burton approached. "They're making away with him."

Burton peered through the gloom at the battle raging at the top of the field. Policemen, led by Detective Inspector Honesty, together with what remained of the Letty Green villagers, were engaged in hand-to-hand combat with a line of Rakes who were holding them at bay while, farther up the field, the Technologists swarmed up the ropes to the rotorship, whose prow was slowly passing over the western line of trees.

Swinburne and his chimney sweeps, swooping around the vast platform, were unable to do further damage to it, having run out of things to throw.

Even as he watched, Burton saw Spring Heeled Jack, who appeared to be unconscious, being hauled up into the massive flying machine.

"If you're fighting them buggers, we're with you!" came a voice. He turned and saw an elderly man leading a group of villagers. They were all squinting, their eyes watering as particles of soot drifted into them.

"Old Carter the Lamp-lighter at your service, sir!" declared the man. "We're from Old Ford, and we're sick to the back teeth of Spring Heeled Jack!"

"Good man!" said Trounce. He pointed to the struggling men. "Do what you can!"

"Aye, sir! Come on, lads, let's have at 'em!"

He led the villagers away.

Burton pulled his shirt from his trousers, ripped a strip from its hem, and, with Trounce's help, bound his bleeding arm.

He glanced toward the rotorship. He knew what he had to do. There was no question. No doubt. No doppelganger haunting him with alternatives.

"I need a rotorchair," he told the Yard man. "I'm going to see if I can wave one of them down."

"Use this," said Trounce, handing over his police whistle.

Burton ran back to the bottom of the field, where the soot was less dense, and began signalling to the flying machines as they passed overhead, waving his arms and blowing short blasts on the whistle. The fourth to fly by turned and descended.

"Nearly missed you!" announced Constable Krishnamurthy as he climbed out of the seat. "Bad visibility. The lamp caught you, though. You look like the devil!"

"I need your machine!" barked Burton, throwing himself into the leather chair. He pulled his panther-headed swordstick from his belt and pushed it under the seat. "How much fuel?"

"Enough, unless