"Really?" Ulysses was incredulous. He knew that the n.a.z.is were still an underground power in Europe, with their hooks in other parts of the world too, but he hadn't had anything to do with them himself within the British Isles.

"You must believe me!" Oddfellow pressed, his plea loud again. "Because if I'm right, now that I am free of the sphere, it won't be long before they make their move."

"Who is this agent?"

"I don't know - that's the trouble. They could be here, right now, in this house!" He sounded desperate now, close to panicking. "But they cannot be allowed to get their hands on my machine. I got as far as destroying all of my notes a.s.sociated with the project and was preparing to destroy the machine itself when that so-called 'accident' occurred."

Ulysses fixed Oddfellow with a penetrating stare, the pieces of the puzzle finally beginning to make sense. "What do you want me to do?" he asked, with cold purpose.

"You must destroy the sphere, so that no-one can ever use it as a weapon or to further any evil plan for dominion."

Ulysses didn't need to be told twice. He trusted the old man, and if he had decided that the machine was a danger to the safety of the realm, and needed to be destroyed, that was the course of action that had to be taken.

Outside the room he met Emilia pacing the corridor. "Stay with him, he told her, "and keep the door locked."

Ignoring her protestations and questions, Ulysses raced downstairs to find everyone else gathered in the library.

Something close to precognition sent an icy chill down his spine and turned his skin to gooseflesh even before he saw Sigmund Faustus, sitting in the same leather-upholstered armchair from earlier that evening. Fingers steepled in front of his face, he announced solemnly, "Mr Quicksilver, it would appear that you have walked into - how do you say? - something of a situation."

IX - VANISHING POINT.

"Oddfellow truly made a deal with the Devil when he fell in with you, didn't he Faustus?" Ulysses riled, his body tensing, ready to deal with whatever the alleged German philanthropist might have in store for him.

"Oh, but you are mistaken," the bloated Faustus railed in response, his double chins wobbling in indignation.

A bark of cruel laughter from the corner of the library caused Ulysses to snap his head round in surprise.

"Not as quick as you thought, are you, Quicksilver?" Dashwood sneered as he emerged from the shadows, the gun in his hand trained on Ulysses.

Ulysses considered his own pistol, feeling the weight of it in the holster under his arm, but he kept his hands down by his sides. Now was not the time to go for his own weapon; Dashwood would shoot first and ask questions later, he was sure of it.

He hurriedly scanned the room. From left to right around the library, either seated or standing in anxious antic.i.p.ation were the parapsychologist Wentworth, Sigmund Faustus, his aide, Ulysses' own manservant Nimrod, the quaking, all-but-forgotten Renfield, Smythe, Caruthers and then the pistol-wielding Daniel Dashwood.

"But Herr Faustus really hit the nail on the head there. This is what you might call something of a situation."

With a barely perceptible nod to Ulysses Nimrod suddenly leapt at Dashwood, more agilely than his slicked back grey hair and apparent age might suggest. But before he could reach the traitorous gentleman, and before Ulysses could make the most of Nimrod's diversion, Smythe, standing between Nimrod and Dashwood, sprung into life himself and floored the manservant with a vicious punch to the face.

In his shadowy life before finding a position as Ulysses' father's butler and manservant, Nimrod had, for a time, held something of a reputation as a bare-knuckle prize-fighter, but Smythe's attack had been entirely unexpected.

Dashwood's aim didn't waiver for a second. His eyes still fixed upon Ulysses, he gave another bark of harsh laughter and tensed his finger on the trigger.

"I believe you've met my colleagues - partners-in-crime, as it were - Mr Smythe and Mr Wentworth."

Ulysses said nothing but merely continued to watch Dashwood, hardly daring to blink in case he missed the one moment of opportunity he needed.

"Very useful they are too," the gloating Dashwood went on. "Particularly when it comes to cobbling together a containment field focusing device from what little I was able to salvage from my rather ingenious uncle's notes. They're also dab hands at setting up little 'accidents', shall we say.

"Although, of course, they might not have been so hasty to arrange one in particular if they had realised that uncle had already made moves to stop anyone following in his footsteps. But now we have both the inventor and his invention intact, thanks in part to you, Quicksilver, so what need have we now of cremated blueprints?"

Obviously already considering himself victorious, the arrogantly boastful Dashwood saw no reason to keep any element of his schemes secret any longer. He had revealed to Ulysses the how and the why, certain that there was nothing that the dandy could do to stop him. And, unfortunately with Nimrod out of action, he appeared to be right.

"All that remains is for me to tie up a few loose ends."

Dashwood's finger tightened still further on the trigger, easing the mechanism back, the barrel of the gun aimed directly at Ulysses' chest.

With a wailing cry, the flabby Faustus launched himself out of his chair with surprising speed. Startled, Dashwood turned, amazement writ large across his face, as the fat German barrelled into him.

The discharge of the gun was loud in the close confines of the library. Faustus gave a grunt, as if winded, and tumbled forwards onto Dashwood. It was the opportunity Ulysses had been hoping for. He went for Wentworth and sent him smashing to the floor with a well-aimed blow to the stomach, which he followed up with a double-handed blow to the back of the neck.

There was an audible crunch and Ulysses look round as Smythe cried out. Nimrod had had his revenge. Smythe lay howling, curled in a ball on the floor as blood poured from his broken nose.

Dashwood lay motionless, beneath the bulk of Oddfellow's sponsor.

"Nimrod, with me!" Ulysses shouted. "We haven't a moment to lose!"

Ulysses leading the way, the two of them raced back down the cellar steps and into the abandoned laboratory once more.

The sphere squatted there on its claw-footed stand, the machinery glowing faintly with what little power remained in its storm-charged reserve batteries, a malevolent presence in the candle-pierced gloom of the cellar.

The last time it had been activated, to effect the release of the imprisoned Oddfellow from its containment field, had drained the potential energy released by the lightning strike but no-one had thought to actually turn it off afterwards.

"We have to destroy this thing," Ulysses said, finding himself suddenly in awe of the machine.

"I do not mean to sound impertinent, sir," Nimrod said, "but how do you suggest we do that?"

Ulysses scanned the control panels of the device and the stilled rings. "There must be a way to overload it. Sabotage its controls or something."

"But overload it with what?"

"Ahh..." Ulysses was suddenly caught out. The generator was still down. "Don't worry, I'll think of something."

Ulysses hastened over to the control panel, frantic eyes searching for a solution. Then preternatural awareness flared inside his skull and he flung himself down behind the logic engine.

The retort of the pistol was dulled by the damp stone acoustics of the cellar. There was a second crack as the bullet spanged off the control console, shattering a gla.s.s dial. A second shot rang out and Ulysses heard it smack into the gyroscope itself.

He dared a glance around the edge of his st.u.r.dy shelter. The three scoundrels stood at the bottom of the steps. Smythe had a b.l.o.o.d.y handkerchief clamped to his nose while both Wentworth and Dashwood were gasping for breath, having been badly winded. But Ulysses couldn't see Nimrod. He had doubtless taken cover when he heard the felons dashing down the steps into the cellar.

However, Ulysses couldn't let their presence halt his mission. It was all the more important now that he destroyed the sphere and stopped the traitorous Dashwood and his lackeys getting their hands on it.

Grasping the thick trunking that connected the control panel to the machine he gave a sharp tug. He heard a tearing metal sound and felt something give at the other end of the cable. Teeth gritted he heaved again and was rewarded by a spray of sparks as a bundle of wires came away from the back of the gyroscopic frame. But other cables still connected the sphere to the logic engine, in some unnatural imitation of the umbilical cord connecting an unborn infant to its mother's womb.

As Ulysses reached for another bundle of wires, another flash of prescience sent him scrabbling away, shuffling backwards on his backside, heels kicking against the floor of the cellar.

Dashwood saw Ulysses as he emerged from behind the sheltering cover of the control console and drew his aim on the dandy once more. Distant thunder rumbled over Hardewick Hall.

"Now I've got you," Dashwood snarled.

Scintillating electric blue light exploded throughout the laboratory as the broken rings of the sphere began to spin again. Dashwood threw a hand up over his eyes against the retina-searing glare.

"Lightning never strikes twice, my a.r.s.e!" Ulysses exclaimed delightedly to himself as he ran for cover.

Eyes narrowed to slits against the brilliant light pouring from the spinning sphere, Dashwood dropped his shielding hand and searched for his target beyond the edges of the coruscating glare, where the shadows appeared even darker now in contrast to the blinding whiteness. But there was no sign of Ulysses.

"G.o.d's teeth!" he swore. Smythe and Wentworth looked at him in confusion. "Turn that thing off!" he commanded, waggling his gun at the machine.

Not wanting to risk the wrath of their employer any further, his lackeys moved cautiously towards the now sparking control console of the matter transmitter.

The machine wasn't running as it had been before. Whether it was as a result of something Ulysses had done to sabotage the sphere, or thanks to one of Dashwood's poorly-aimed shots in the dark, something was most definitely wrong with Oddfellow's invention.

There was something feral and untamed about the arcs of lightning zigzagging between the crazily orbiting rings.

"Hurry up!" Dashwood bellowed, hastening Smythe and Wentworth over to the console with another wave of his pistol.

And that was when Nimrod struck. He caught Dashwood firmly between the shoulder blades with the wine bottle, smashing it across his back and sending him reeling. As the villain stumbled forwards, Ulysses made his move. He flung himself out of the shadows and, catching both Smythe and Wentworth around the side of the head, brought their skulls together sharply.

Smythe reeled sideways, a silent expression of pain on his face. Wentworth slumped onto the control panel, stunned. As he slid down the front of the console, he fumbled for purchase with a flailing hand and caught hold of a large, gleaming bra.s.s switch, and pulled.

Ulysses leapt from the control platform, sprinting past the bewildered Dashwood, covering the cellar with long strides, as the sphere activated one last time. There was a sound like a thunderclap, deafening within the cellar. Blinding white light flooded the lab, burning Ulysses' eyes even though they were closed. It was as if they had been caught at the very heart of a violent electrical storm, where the turbulent skies birthed their lightning progeny.

His ears hurt, his eyes hurt, his skin felt like it was on fire.

And then the light was gone, leaving glaring after-images on his abused eyeb.a.l.l.s, and the acrid stink of obliterated ozone in its wake.

Ulysses fought to open his eyes despite the pain. He could see nothing. The exposed skin of his hands and face stung.

He cast his gaze around the cellar, blinking all the time, and then he saw Nimrod through the gloom. His faithful retainer's eyes were watering and his exposed skin looked like he was suffering from a bad case of sunburn.

And then Ulysses realised something; he could see Nimrod, he could see the workbenches of the lab behind him, he could see the cloud of smoke left by the lightning explosion. He looked around the cellar s.p.a.ce again, hardly able to believe the what he was seeing, or rather, what he wasn't seeing. The reason he had seen nothing when he first opened his eyes, beyond the shadows sliding over his tortured corneas was because there had been nothing to see.

Caught within the matter transmitter's zone of influence, Dashwood, Smythe and Wentworth were gone. And so was the sphere. All of them had disappeared - villains, sphere, logic engine, all - teleported to G.o.d alone knew where.

Considering how Oddfellow's machine had failed before, Ulysses wondered darkly whether their final destination had been anywhere within the physical realm at all.

"Won't you stay, just for a little while?" Emilia beseeched him, practically on the verge of begging. "We have so much to catch up on." She found herself absent-mindedly stroking the material of his waistcoat.

Ulysses noticed that she was wearing her hair down, loose about her shoulders. He put a hand to her chin and raised her head, gazing into her darkly-lidded eyes. The day had dawned bright and clear, the storm having blown itself out in the night. The cold crystal blue sky of the first day of November was now reflected in those dark eyes of hers.

He could have lost himself in those limpid pools at that moment, he thought, but he had to be strong. The way fate and personal preference had dictated how he live his life was no life for a delicate flower like Emilia Oddfellow.

"I'm afraid there are matters awaiting my attention back in London," he said in all honesty, without actually giving away any pertinent details.

"I mourned you once," she said, "when The Times reported you lost over the Himalayas. Just as I mourned my father. But now I have you both back. I do not want to mourn you again."

"Which is why I must go," Ulysses stated flatly. "Go to your father now. Be with him. He needs you."

"Don't you need me, Ulysses?" she asked. He looked away to where a sunburnt Nimrod was loading his luggage back into the boot of the Silver Phantom.

Ulysses turned back to her and, a forced smile on his face, said: "It's been a pleasure, as always."

"Oh, I see. It's like that." Now it was Emilia's turn to look away. "So are we to live parallel lives now," she challenged, "never to meet again?"

Ulysses said nothing, but gazed out at the mist rising from the croquet lawn.

"Well, thank you for all you've done," Emilia said, suddenly prim. "Good day to you, Mr Quicksilver. I hope you have a safe journey back to London."

"Good day, Miss Oddfellow."

Feeling lonelier at that moment than he had in a long time, turning his back on Emilia and Hardewick Hall, Ulysses Quicksilver descended the steps to the gravel drive.

Two other vehicles were waiting in the cold crisp morning. A team of horses and adapted carriage sent by the local constabulary were taking Madam Garside's body to the morgue and the broken Renfield for further questioning. The second vehicle was a private ambulance. A pair of medical orderlies was lifting a stretcher-bound Sigmund Faustus into the back, his young aide looking on anxiously. The German still looked pale, unsurprisingly, but at least he was still alive.

"I meant to thank you, and apologise," Ulysses said holding up a hand to the stretcher-bearers to wait as he humbly approached the p.r.o.ne philanthropist. "I was wrong to accuse you. What you did was incredibly brave."

The German smiled weakly. "I was foolish and incredibly lucky, Herr Quicksilver. You, on the other hand, saved the day."

"I couldn't have done it without you," Ulysses admitted.

"Very well then, if you insist, I will - how do you say it? - take my share of the blame." He held Ulysses' gaze for a moment, suddenly serious. "Your father, Hercules, would have been proud of you."

An unsettling chill began to gnaw away within his gut at Faustus' mention of his father, as the injured man was loaded into the ambulance. Ulysses had not realised that Oddfellow's mysterious benefactor had known his father. What else didn't he know, he wondered.

There was a tug on his arm and before he really knew what was going on, Emilia was there in front of him her scent heady in his nostrils, her lips crushed against his. And at that moment their parallel lives seemed to converge and all his doubts and conflicting emotions vanished.

THE END.

Ulysees Quicksilver returns in Human Nature (Abaddon Books).