The captain shook his head. “This is not good enough, Mr. Blezzard. What you are asking — it’s too much. I — Good God, man, I need more authority than some words shouted through a tin tube!”

“I think you will find me all the authority you need, Captain. Do I have your permission to come aboard?”

The captain knew that voice.

It was the voice of God, or the next best thing. But although he recognized the voice, he hardly recognized the speaker standing at the foot of the gangplank. That was because he was wearing a sort of birdcage. At least, that’s what it looked like at first sight. Closer to, he could see that it was a fine metal framework with a thin gauze around it. The person inside walked in a shimmering cloud of disinfectant.

“Sir Geoffrey?” said the captain, just to be sure, as the man began to walk slowly up the glistening gangplank.

“Indeed, Captain. I’m sorry about this outfit. It’s called a salvation suit, for obvious reasons. It is necessary for your protection. The Russian influenza has been worse than you can possibly imagine! We believe the worst is over, but it has taken a terrible toll at every level of society. Every level, Captain. Believe me.”

There was something in the way the chairman said every that made the captain hesitate.

“I take it that His Majesty is… isn’t — ” He stopped, unable to force the rest of the question out of his mouth.

“Not only His Majesty, Captain. I said ‘worse than you can possibly imagine,’” said Sir Geoffrey, while red disinfectant dripped off the bottom of the salvation suit and puddled on the deck like blood. “Listen to me. The only reason the country is not in total chaos at this moment is that most people are too scared to venture out. As chairman of the line, I order you — and as an old friend, I beg you — for the sake of the Empire, sail with the devil’s speed to Port Mercia and find the governor. Then you will — Ah, here come your passengers. This way, gentlemen.”