Chapter 3: Beyond the Dome

I am not a religious man but the view that confronted me was still, I felt, disturbing. Three hundred and sixty feet above me, a vast, red dirigible nuzzled against the docking connector that had been added to the dome of St Paul's Cathedral. The airship appeared to be suckling on the cathedral's tit. It was a coarse thought but a justified one, I felt, and while it gave me some momentary amusement, I still considered the effect inappropriate.

Adding the airship mooring facilities to the City's grandest building had provoked outrage when first proposed. In the end, though, the promise of improved communications for those that run our trade and commerce won out over the voices of those that felt such a proposal was offensive to worshippers and distasteful to those that hold Sir Christopher Wren to have been the greatest of our architects. (For myself, I hold Augustus Pugin in that regard but recognise that I am, I fear, in a minority.)

The dirigible hung motionless, pointing into the light westerly breeze, swung in that direction like a vast weather cock. I threaded my way between the mooring lines that hung from the craft's frame to the steam winches that had been installed in St Paul's Churchyard. I was not looking forward to the next few hours.

Some cheer was provided by the gardens, recently installed to the south of the Cathedral as part of a scheme intended to placate the Church elders who had so vehemently objected to the plans for the airship mooring. I walked beside the lawn, beneath mature plane, ginkgo, maple, lime, ash, mulberry and eucalyptus trees alongside neatly clipped box hedges, enjoying this patch of green in the centre of London's hectic business district. A small poster pinned to the trunk of a tree took my eye. "Protest!" It read. "Keep the City for Trade. Trees Out, Traders In!" Some people, I felt, were never happy. Surely there was room for both in a city as large as London? I was content to enjoy the shrubs and the flowering herbaceous borders as I continued on my way.

The day was sunny but beneath the shadow of the airship it was cold. Groups of carters and hauliers were assembling towering heaps of crates and cases that were no doubt destined for the craft's hold. I made my way to the Cathedral door. The Dean appeared. He was deep in conversation with two individuals who, from their animated conversation and scowling countenances, I took to represent indignant opponents of his support for the airship docking schemes.

"Can you not see, Dean," one of them was saying as they passed me, "that this throng of people detract from the true purpose of the Cathedral as a place of worship."

"And," added the other, "the additions to the structure have ruined the beauty of Wren's design even when this monstrosity has flown."

I could only agree with this. Over the Quire the airship line had built a series of steel gantries to allow staff, crew and passengers to reach the craft and it was to these unlovely and disturbingly frail-looking passageways that I was headed.

Inside the Cathedral, I climbed the 257 steps to the Whispering Gallery. At least the interior of the building has lost none of its magnificence. Through the door cut in the side of the colossal stone drum that carries the dome, I emerged into daylight once more and made my way onto the gantries.

Barely had I made it to the first level when I was greeted by the florid, bearded countenance of my host. "Glad you could come. Good of you to join us."

Our second Victorian era has thrown up a few entrepreneurs who could hold their heads high alongside their illustrious predecessors of the first. Richard Brainstorm is one such man. He had made his fortune in recording and distributing music for the portable, personal players that we see everywhere today. Then he had turned his hand to aviation and become a pioneer of commercial ballooning at a time when no one had thought that travel by air could be anything other than a hazardous enterprise engaged in by intrepid balloon masters whose main triumph was to be able to walk away from a flight still uninjured.

The result of his efforts was as far as could be imagined from those pioneering flights. Dirigibles had become the preferred method of travel for all those in society with money or influence. Indeed, the popularity of these vessels amongst the moneyed classes was such that it had become necessary to equip the craft with defensive weaponry to counter the threat of air piracy. Only weeks before, a smaller vessel had been intercepted over the Alps and the passengers robbed at gunpoint by Swiss brigands. As a result the boarding way offered the curious contradiction of a plush carpeted walkway with red velvet-padded hand rails penetrating the side of the ship's hull between two turrets that each carried a small battery of repeating rifles mounted on gimbals.

Brainstorm took a personal interest in his enterprise, ensuring that he was on hand to greet his passengers before each journey. The steam-flight line was very much his own invention. He had husbanded the technology and built into the crews the ethos of superlative customer service. It was said that the chiefs of the White Star Shipping Line envied him his skills. He was simply happy if the customers came back for more.

"Welcome on board. Doctor Castwich was most anxious that we take the greatest care of you. I am sure that you will have a pleasant flight. Your cabin steward will see to your luggage. I suggest that you join your fellow passengers in the Gondola Bar. It is the ideal spot from which to enjoy our departure."

Little had prepared me for the splendid views of the capital as the dirigible took to the sky. Seated in the Gondola Bar at the moment of launch my only view was of the rounded swelling of St Paul's dome only a few feet away from us. Then the link that held us in place was cut and the craft began to edge upwards on lengthening mooring lines. As the dome receded we could see more and more of the City spread out below us.

The lines were cast away and the airship began a slow turn towards the east. Soon the Tower of London was below us and on the far bank the queues of visitors waiting to marvel at the Telectroscope[1] installation were as ants below us. The river with its mass of shipping, the scene so recently of my pursuit of Theophilus Chang, seemed to lead the way for us. To the north the supporting pylons of the Over Rail strode over the houses of London's East End. By the time we reached Greenwich, I estimated that we were already at a height of over one thousand feet. We passed the Thames Flood Defence at Tilbury, where not long before I had helped to snatch the Tusker sisters from a life of Eastern slavery. As we neared the mouth of the Medway four single-seater military craft of the Royal Balloon Corps sped swiftly towards us, providing an escort as we edged towards the mouth of the Thames.