A Study In Alizarin Crimson
Being a Reprint from the Reminiscences of John H. Watson, M.D.,
Late of the Army Medical Department
Edited By Dan L. Hollifield
A Tale of the Mare Inebrium
"One likes to think that there is some fantastic limbo for the
children of imagination, some strange, impossible place..."
Arthur Conan Doyle
Some notes on the editing of Dr. Watson's manuscript...
By Dan L. Hollifield --Senior Editor, Aphelion Webzine--
This document was recovered in the year 2000 AD, from a tin
dispatch case left for many decades in a safety deposit box at
Claridge's in London, upon Earth. It was opened in accordance with
written instructions left by one William Anstruther, identified as the
sole living heir to the contents of the box. It is to be noted that Mr.
Anstruther was the last known descendant of the famous Dr. John Watson,
and that all manuscripts within the dispatch case were, at Dr. Watson's
behest, to remain sealed until the year 2000, or until such time as
fifty years shall have passed from the date of his, Dr. Watson's, death.
In the course of the recovery of this manuscript I have been
forced by circumstance to reconstruct the meaning of many of the
passages in approximation of the original wording. The good Doctor's
manuscript suffered badly by its storage, some pages crumbling to
fragments, some sticking together, yet still others easily accessible,
so as to provide a true puzzle to assemble. No doubt this is partly due
to the cheap nature of the paper in the handbook available to the good
Doctor to record this singular occurance. This being the case, I beg
your pardon for any gross inaccuracies for the period contained within
the text. Such are the fault of myself and my fellow antiquarians as
editors, rather than the fault of Doctor Watson. I cannot promise
complete accuracy in the reconstruction, but I will state that it is
the best version that can be made of the documentation at hand.
The inclusions of many "americanisms" in the text have raised
doubts upon the authenticity of this document in the minds of several
scholars. I can only state in reply that Dr. Watson was known to have
lived for several years in the American city of San Francisco, and that
it is not impossible for some of the local idiom to have ingrained
itself into his vocabulary. As there are no reliable dates to indicate
exactly what year this manuscript was written other than "after 1926",
I can only assume that this was indeed the year of the document's
origin.
As for the fantastical content of the text itself, I can only
conclude that the good Doctor was indeed engaging in an effort of
speculative fiction, as he himself hints at the end of this narrative.
To assume otherwise, we would be forced to accept the existence of such
nonsense as life on other worlds, travel through time, voyages to
distant stars, and a host of other things unknown, and indeed
unknowable, in this first year of the twenty first century AD.
Iain Muir, Jeff Williams, and Mark Cotterill have been
invaluable in bringing this work to the light of day. Please join me in
thanking them.
A Study In Alizarin Crimson
"Watson, I believe that several times now in our long
association you have remarked upon my lack of knowledge of
the science of astronomy."
I was visiting Holmes in our old Baker Street digs- on
the occasion of my wife having left me to my own devices,
whilst she traveled to visit relatives herself. After making
my rounds as required by my small practice and spending the
rest of the day at my club, I had stopped by my old
apartments hoping that my friend Sherlock Holmes would be
in. Mrs. Hudson was pleased to see me and I spent a few
pleasant moments catching up with her before ascending the
stairs to my old rooms. The comfortable sitting room looked
unchanged from my last visit, save for the pile of
newspapers in the corner which had become noticeably higher.
The smell and apparatus of some chemical experiment still
lingered over most of the deal-topped table, the patriotic
V.R. in bullet pocks in the wainscoting of one wall was
unchanged, Holmes' unanswered letters still transfixed to
the mantle by a jackknife. I looked at Holmes as he sat in
his familiar mouse-coloured dressing gown, stuffing shag
into the bowl of his long-stemmed briar pipe. Confound it!
The man still kept his tobacco in the toe of a Persian
slipper! After all these years he was still the most untidy
person ever to drive a fellow lodger to distraction. We had
spent several hours in pleasant conversation, looking out
the windows at the encroaching yellow fog, when Holmes began
this particular digression.
"Yes Holmes, you indicated that astronomy was not
usually a factor in crime and therefore you felt it best not
to burden your memory with un-necessary data. You said that
it made no difference to you if the sun moved about the
earth or the earth about the sun."
"Indeed. Yes, that was the gist of my statement. You may
be interested to note, therefore, that I have undertaken a
study of the subject at the British Museum. As a side-effect
of my investigations so far, I have reached several
interesting conclusions- and am considering the writing of
a trifling monograph on the anomalous surface temperature of
the planet Venus. If, that is, I can find no information
that invalidates my theory in future researches."
"My word! That's capital, Holmes. But it does lead me to
wonder at the reason for your abrupt about-face on the
subject. After all these years, I feel that I know you well.
You would not have begun such a course of action if it were
not related to a case that you have undertaken. Knowledge
for knowledge's sake is just not your method. Yet you have
immersed yourself so deeply into what you have- 'til now-
considered to be a useless field of knowledge- so deeply
that you have become an expert in some abstruse nuance of
the art. Have you succumbed to boredom or are you working
upon a case? If its ennui you've conquered, then may I say
that I find this pursuit of knowledge to be infinitely
preferable to your previous filthy habits to stave off
boredom." It would not be the first time that my married
life would keep me from being aware of the beginnings of one
of Holmes' cases. Over the years that had passed since we
had last shared rooms I had become used to his calls at odd
hours and his entrance to my home or practice in disguise in
order to enlist my help in one problem or another. But these
occasions were few and far between in these later years. I
was even more happy to be in harness once again, as it were.
"Dear Watson- Yes, I shall forever owe you a debt of
gratitude for helping me defeat my addictions,
despite my reticence in speaking of the matter. But yes, it
is a case, one that I have not until today been at liberty
to speak of- not even to you, old friend. It is quite a
curious matter which has yet to call for direct action-
forever your forte, Watson -for as yet there has been no
crime with which the suspect can be charged... Save for a few
minor offenses- nothing of consequence. But yet I cannot
help but feel that there is something more sinister in the
offing. I have a few threads, Watson, but I need more facts
before I can draw my net closed upon my suspect."
"By Jove! Now, more than ever, I'm glad to have this
time to assist you once again. Mary's health has not been
the best, of late, and my practice has increased also, so
the demands upon my time are quite full. But with my wife
away visiting and my neighbor a doctor always willing to
fill in for a few days, perhaps I can yet be of some use to
you. I take it that now you are able to discuss the matter
with me?
"Exactly, Watson. My client requested utter secrecy and
until today I was obliged to honour his requests. Though I'd
had my suspicions from the very beginning, I could uncover
no wrongdoing on my client's part. Today, however... Today I fully
began to distrust my client- as well as his motives. I felt
in dire need of an ally- who better than my faithful
Watson?"
"Thank you, Holmes. I am honoured. Tell me more about
this untrustworthy client, please."
"Indeed, the case has its interesting points. My client,
one Cyrus Jones, telegraphed to me on August the twenty second to
state that he was convinced that someone was about to steal
several valuable artworks from the Museum. He described
witnessing an individual making precise measurements of
several of the exhibits- as if to be able to duplicate them.
This person then escaped the view of the esteemed Cyrus
Jones by going into a small reading room and vanishing into
thin air. Mr. Jones entered the room- after half an hour of
watching the only door -only to find the room to be empty.
The suspect was seen to enter an enclosed room with one
door, no windows, only a small table, a lamp, and a single
chair for furnishings. -And left the room unseen. Unless the
Museum has hitherto undetected secret passages then the
escape is quite impossible."
"Either he never entered the room at all or he got out
by an unknown means, is that what you're saying Holmes?"
"Exactly Watson, you've put your finger on the nub of it
quickly enough. The problem admits of no other solutions. I,
however, looked into the matter myself and observed the same
phenomenon. After meeting with Mr. Jones at the museum on
the twenty third, I was able to put the suspect under
discrete surveillance which lasted for several weeks.
Frequently, I have observed this person to enter secluded
parts of the museum and vanish silently away. Only today, I
myself observed the suspect go into that self-same reading
room and vanish as if into the woodwork. I am prepared to
state that there is no secret passageway out of that room. I
am equally prepared to state that the suspect entered said
room under my observation and left it by a means that I can
not yet understand. After watching the only doorway into the
room from the time the suspect entered it until the time I
myself entered, I find the room to be empty. Incredible! I
love the challenge."
"My client began to arouse my suspicions when he
began asking technical questions about the artworks.
Questions that only a novice forger would need to ask, mind
you. He was particularly pressing on the matter of one
particular colour in one portrait of a landscape. An odd
purplish-red that only seems to occur in clouds at sunset.
He cast about for some time as to the name of the pigment
and where it could be obtained. I, of course, recognized it
at once as an oil colour called Alizarin Crimson from some
previous studies of paints and pigments, but I said nothing
of this to my client. Then too, not only have I not been
able to trace his movements before his appearance in Croydon
eight months ago, but I have also observed him looking slyly
at the security arrangements of the Museum. His perfidy is
quite transparent, Watson. Cyrus Jones is not what he seems.
If he is not a forger or art thief I shall be obliged to
give up my consulting and at last retire to Sussex and my
bee-keeping. So, you can see that I found my client to be
less than satisfactory. Indeed, the suspect behaved much
more innocently! But! Then Watson, then we come to today.
Today, I also observed my client perform the exact reverse
of my suspect's behavior- or rather, to appear out of an
area of the Museum that I had already ascertained was empty.
There was no way for Cyrus Jones to enter it without my
observing him, yet he did. Ergo, both the suspect and my
client are not what they appear."
"But what are they? Holmes, you speak as if they aren't
human." I must admit that here in the old familiar Baker
Street rooms that Holmes' revelations seemed tales of utter
lunacy. If it were any other man who said such things I
would be forced to conclude that he was raving.
"That, Watson, is what I wish to find out. I have been
observing the suspect for some fifteen weeks- doing
extensive reading as part of my disguise. And so it is that
from within the pursuit of my quarry that I gradually
drifted into the study of astronomy. I found much that has
helped me in this investigation in my reading on the
subject. That reading brought me to consider several puzzles
that I used to while away the time on watch. One result of
this study is that I have deduced that the planet Venus is
not as the popular view would have it; a world of swamps and
huge oceans, but a world of scorched deserts, hot as an
oven. The matter has to do with that planet's closeness to
the sun and the extent of the cloud cover. My theory is that
the clouds are too thick to allow the sun's heat to
dissipate, therefore Venus should be arid and lifeless. I
have checked my conclusions with my brother Mycroft and he
is in full agreement with me. Another result is that whilst
reading I have observed the suspect performing what I
believe to be delicate measurements of several rare books
and artworks. He appears to be preparing to forge copies to
leave behind when he attempts to steal the originals. In
contrast, it is my client who is seeking information useful
to a forger. Are they competitors, or are they partners?
Each seems to work alone, but are they working toward the
same end? In any case, I bided my time, maintained my
disguise as a researcher and read as I watched both client
and suspect. As a further sidelight of my studies of things
cosmological and astronomical, I have found reason to
believe that the escapades of my client and the prospective
thief can be explained by one bold theory."
"Which is?"
"That they both are not of this world. Aliens, strange
visitors from another planet with powers and abilities far
beyond those of mortal men. Or at least, possessors of a
superior science."
"Ineffable twaddle, Holmes. Life on other worlds? That
sounds like the purview of myself and my fellow writers!"
"Not at all, Watson. The available evidence is against
you, it seems. I was able to come to the question
objectively, since I was ignorant of astronomy and cosmology
until I began my reading as part of my disguise. I was
surprised to learn that with the enormous size of the
observable universe then life is not only possible upon
other worlds, under other suns, it is highly probable!
Mycroft thinks that it could be possible to express this as
a mathematical equation, but he has neither the time nor the
interest to work out the formulae himself. Do not be
deceived, the probability of other men living on other
worlds is quite real and of a factor approaching the
definitive. Given the amount of time that has passed since
the dawn of creation and the sheer size of all we survey,
then other worlds demand to be populated. The logic is
faultless, up to the point of our never having detected such
life. Quite a fascinating problem, one worthy of more study.
Between cases, it would be blessed relief from the boredom.
I posit that we are as yet ignorant of some means of
communication- perhaps akin to wireless -that would allow
said detection. But if Mohamed cannot come to the mountain,
perhaps all is not yet lost. It could be possible for
visitors to come to us. This then falls into several
possibilities, to wit; If other worlds are inhabited, then
these civilizations are either on a par with our own, more
primitive than our own, or more advanced. Logic admits no
other possibilities. Civilizations at or below our own level
would not be capable of contacting or visiting our world.
Only those more advanced than we would be able to do so. A
more advanced civilization would have technologies
indistinguishable from magic to our backward eyes.
Impossible things would become commonplace with such
visitors. And what do I observe from my client and my
suspect? Both of them have done the impossible, before my
very eyes! But, if both come from another world, with all
the superior knowledge that would entail- then their odd
comings and goings are the result of nothing more than...
Perhaps an alien underground railway, so to speak. An elite
transportation system. But why are they in London? What are
their real motives?"
"Holmes, I am all at sea here. Creatures from another
world? Men from other planets come to Earth to rob a museum?
It seems an enormous waste of time and effort for such a
small return. What could be the payment for a stolen artwork
from an alien world? What could be the worth of our human
art to an alien being? Would they not prize their own above
any effort of ours? The matter is beyond belief! Next you'll
be quoting from that despicable Wells chap, the writer."
"No Watson, Wells made his Martians look like cases of
extreme evolution. Hands and a brain- all else stripped away
by the forces of time. A good metaphor for myself, perhaps,
but not applicable to our foes. Our foe men are men, just as
you and I. No matter what their motives be, if they seek to
steal from the museum, it is our duty to thwart them."
"So what is our next step, Holmes?"
"By one lucky incident, I was able to trace the suspect
throughout the streets to an hotel and discover by what name
he is registered there. The Irregulars followed him to his
rooms and secured the number and name. I am assured that he
is within his chambers now. I propose to pay him a visit and
put him to the question, Watson. So far, he appears to be
more deserving of our trust than Cyrus Jones."
"And what name does this suspect travel under? Smith, I
suppose? That would make sense if the other alien goes by
Jones."
"No Watson, my suspect rejoices under the sobriquet
Guiles Thornby. He is of medium height, dark colouring, and
possessing sharp, foxy features- not unlike our friend
Lestrade looked in his younger days. Thornby appears to be
in his late twenties to early thirties, but carries himself
with the mannerisms of a much older man. Other than the
obvious facts that he has seen military service, does secret
work for a foreign power, either plays piano or uses a
typewriter very frequently, carries at least three concealed
weapons upon his person at all times, is conversant with a
version of the Japanese wrestling method called baritzu with which
I am also familiar- but more advanced -has access to a
form of transportation that I do not yet understand, and
wears a most peculiar chronometer upon the inside of his
left wrist, I have little to go on in forming an opinion of
the man."
"I'm sure that you have seen evidence to account for
this wealth of information in the minutiae of his appearance
Holmes, but I'm dashed if I can understand it without at
least sighting him. What precisely told you all these things
about the man? I'm looking forward to meeting this Guiles
Thornby, but in the meantime I would like a fuller view."
"Then let us take up our overcoats and hats, and proceed
downstairs to hire a hansom. Do you by chance have your
service revolver about your person?"
"Why yes Holmes. As a matter of fact, I do have my
revolver with me today. I suppose that I tucked it away in
my bag in hopes of your having an interesting matter in
hand."
"Capital, Watson! Capital! Come, the game is afoot! Let
us go and see just what kind of man this Guiles Thornby from
outer space turns out to be. From all I've seen, he's a
better man than Cyrus Jones from Croydon."
**********
In our cab, I asked Holmes again about his deductions of
Guiles Thornby's character. I knew that Holmes would have
observations that would back up each statement. His power of
observation never failed to thrill me with it's scope. I
flatter myself to say that by adopting as much of Holmes'
methods as I am able, to the best of my poor ability, I have
become a better doctor. In that sense, much of the increase
of my practice is due, in some small part, to my association
with Holmes. The rapidity and direction of his thoughts,
though at times unguessable to me, served as a guide for me
to attempt to observe as well as see the things that fell
into my own sphere. My friendship with Holmes was rewarding
on many levels.
"I say, old fellow," I began. "What evidence did you see
to bring you to those deductions about this Thornby fellow?
I take it that you think the man not to be a proper villain
and scoundrel? How can you tell that he has seen military
service, for instance?"
"When I see a man who walks like a retired soldier, I
feel it safe to assume that he has been a soldier at one
time. An officer, from his manner, used to command and
respect."
"And plays piano or uses a typewriter, you said?"
"Watson, how many times have I remarked to you upon the
hands and fingers of one individual or another? The
spatulate fingers of Guiles Thornby indicate constant usage
at some delicate and intricate task. The highest
probabilities are music or typing. Other skills would leave
differing indications upon his hands."
"But you also said that he is in the habit of going
heavily armed at all times. You saw him with three different weapons?"
"When I observe a bulge in a man's armpit, under his
frock coat, I assume that the man is carrying a pistol of
some sort. Another odd bulge at his ankle, and it is no
great stretch of the imagination to conclude that there is
what is commonly known in the Americas as a 'hold-out' weapon concealed
there. Whether it is a smaller pistol or a knife, I have
been unable to determine. And finally, when one walks with a
sword-cane, one is advised not to allow it to rattle
perceptibly. Mr. Thornby's cane rattles, to my ears at
least, as if the blade within was not seated properly. These
three weapons are all that I have observed him carry. Was
there more that you desired clarification upon?"
"Yes, the Japanese wrestling? You could tell that from
watching his movements?"
"Exactly. The exercise imparts certain habits of
posture, which I have observed in Mr. Thornby. There is no
doubt that he has been taught a similar system- his balance
and movements have revealed as much."
"Well, you have already explained why you believe him to
be able to use some advanced transportation system, but how
can you tell just by watching him that he works for a
foreign power? And of what importance is a chronometer upon
his wrist?"
"Think, Watson! Think! The man acts like an agent rather
than appearing to be acting upon his own. He spies out the
pieces that he wishes to spirit away, measures them, but as
yet he has done nothing else. I can only assume that he
communicates these measurements to some higher authority and
then awaits further instructions. If he is from another
world as I suspect, then that higher authority will be a
very foreign power indeed. From all that I have been able to
observe of him, he is making no forgeries himself and has
made no provisions to hide any stolen artwork. Therefore, he
is not working alone- If, indeed, he is planning to steal
the paintings at all. And the chronometer? Upon his wrist?
Watson, the pocket watch is the very height of fashion for
our modern gentlemen... But a watch upon one's wrist? And
such a complex timepiece? It is far from being a common
clock, my dear Watson. If my suspicions are correct, the
timepiece is quite critical. Quite, critical indeed."
"In any case, we will arrive at his rooms shortly.
Holmes? I just had a thought..."
"Be gentle with it, Watson. It is visiting unfamiliar
geography," Holmes said with a smile.
"Very funny, I'm sure. Seriously, what shall we do if he
has ridden this fantastic 'underground' of yours to some
remote hideaway? It occurs to me that if he can exit the
Museum in such a fashion, why can he not leave his hotel
rooms in the same manner?" I looked out at the impenetrable
fog of the evening and thought that even if he were an
ordinary mortal, he would have little trouble eluding us on
a night like tonight. Just as the clopping of the horses'
hooves were muffled by the thick fog- and visibility reduced
to a bare minimum- the suspect could easily make his getaway
even using conventional means.
"In that case, why take a room at all? No Watson, he
must have a use for the room or he would have never engaged
it. He will not leave it by any means other than the
conventional. Young Wiggins and the rest of the current
corps of the Irregulars are still upon the scene, Watson. I
am told that Guiles Thornby's room has a window that our
young street Arabs can espy him through from a concealed
location. As an aside Watson, my cadre of street Arabs is
now into its second generation. Young Wiggins is the eldest
son of the dirty-faced ragamuffin that led the Irregulars
years ago, back in the early days of our own association. He
tells me that his father still talks of working with the two
of us with pride."
"Makes one feel his age eh, Holmes? It seems like only
yesterday that I would see him purloining the odd apple or
cabbage from a greengrocer's cart. Well, what does the grown
Wiggins do for a living?"
"He is a greengrocer, Watson. The irony is not lost,
least of all upon him."
"With this fog, will the boys still be able to peer into
the window?"
"I'm told that one of the smaller lads is up in a tree,
quite close to the window. The fog will have to get much
thicker before his view is obstructed."
"The cab is slowing, Holmes. We must be at the hotel."
"Capital, Watson! Come, let us interview the elusive Mr.
Guiles Thornby."
**********
As we descended from the hansom a small figure ran up to
us from out of the fog. In the glow of the nearby street
lamp I was able to recognize young Wiggins by his
resemblance to his father at that age. For a brief moment, I pondered
what would become of my own children, and their's in turn- for indeed, I was thrice a
grandfather at this time. Both of my daughters had babes in
arms, and my son... After recovering from wounds received in
the World War he married an American nurse and they now have
a three year old son -but then Wiggins reached us and began his report to
Holmes.
"He's still there, sir. Writing like, he is. Hawkins
just reported as your cab came rattlin' up."
"Hawkins is the lad up in the tree?"
"Yes sir."
"Good. Take these coins and spread them out amongst the
troops- And, mind you, Hawkins gets a double share, as hazard pay
for tree-climbing above and beyond the call. Cover all the exits in case Thornby should flee his
rooms. I want at least two boys attached to his coat tails
if he should so much as step out of the door without Watson
and myself. If the three of us leave together, you may
disperse for the evening. Are my instructions clear,
Wiggins?"
"Clear sir. Hang about in case he bolts, then stick to
him like a burr on a dog's tail and send word on where he
rabbits to. If you all leave together, we're all done for
the night and report in the morning at Baker Street."
"Capital, Wiggins. Carry out your duties. Come Watson!"
Wiggins dashed back into the fog and we entered the
hotel. Holmes had already had Guiles Thornby's room number,
so we proceeded up the stairs to knock upon his door. I
cannot recall the name of the place, but it looked to be
respectable, if a bit run-down. Although everything had a
worn appearance, it was nonetheless clean. As Holmes
knocked, I could hear movement inside, as if the tenant were
pacing back and forth.
"Yes? What is it?" Thornby called through the door in
answer to our knock.
"Mr. Thornby, it is important that we speak with you
upon a matter of some urgency."
As the door opened, I saw that Holmes' description of
the man as looking like our old friend Lestrade was correct,
in the main. Thornby was of medium height and indeed
possessed similar sharp features to Lestrade in his younger
days.
"What's this all about?" he asked.
"It concerns your recent activity at the Museum, Mr.
Guiles Thornby. My name is Sherlock Holmes and you- You are
not from this world. I wish to ask you where are you from
and why have you been taking measurements of various art
treasures for the last four months?"
At the mention of my friends name, Mr. Thornby took on a
stunned expression. His shoulders slumped and he stepped
back to wave us into the room.
"If he's Holmes, then you must be Watson," he said.
"Well, I can't say that its not a pleasure to meet the two
of you, but it is an unexpected pleasure, at least. Sherlock
Holmes- I should have known... From your words in the
hallway I can assume that you've been watching me for quite
some time. You probably think that I'm scouting the place
for a robbery, but you couldn't be more wrong. There is
going to be a robbery, but I'm not part of it. I was sent
here to insure that the stolen works were not lost forever."
"You speak in riddles, sir," said Holmes. "Kindly tell
your tale the right way forward, rather than starting in the
middle as I have so often accused poor Watson here. Perhaps
it would save time if I were to sum up what I have been able
to discover about you and you may then tell me upon what
points I err, if any. I have deduced that you sir, are not
of this Earth, that you are the agent of a foreign power
based upon a world circling some far distant sun, that you
were sent here to take very precise measurements of a long
list of priceless artwork and rare books on behalf of this
power, that you have access to a truly remarkable means of
transportation... What evidence can you offer that you are
not engaged in some grand theft? I'm sorely afraid that you
must convince me that you mean no harm, or we will surely be
forced to throw in our lot against you. I put it to you
again sir- What is your connection with Cyrus Jones and what
are your intentions toward the exhibits that you have been
studying for the last few months?"
Guiles Thornby looked like a man defeated. His posture
betrayed hopeless resignation as he began to speak.
"My mother warned me there'd be days like this. This job
has been jinxed from the start- Equipment failures, timing errors, people dogging my
footsteps, things missing... I don't know how you managed
it, Holmes, but almost everything that you've said is true.
My only option now looks like making a clean breast of
things. I assure you that I am not here to steal, but to
prevent the loss of these artworks to history."
"You claim that you are here to prevent a robbery?" I
asked. "Are you indeed then from another world?"
"No, Doctor. I can not interfere with the robbery- It
has to take place. But yes, I am from another planet, I have
been taking readings of all these paintings and books, and I
do work for someone else. But I assure you that my employer
has nothing but honourable intent. He wishes only to
preserve these treasures, not to possess them. As for my
connection with Cyrus Jones? I'm afraid that he is the thief
that I have been slaving to forestall."
"Then we must stop Mr. Jones from achieving his goals,"
I said. "We can inform the Yard when he is about to strike
and they can take him in arms and lock him away."
"I'm afraid that it won't be that simple, Watson," said
Holmes. "You are no doubt forgetting that Jones also has
access to alien transportation."
"Oh? Yes, indeed I did," I said.
"What?" Thornby gasped in surprise. "He's not a local?
This is bad! Very bad... Everything has gone wrong on this
job from the start- and now it just got worse."
"Holmes," I said. "What makes you think that Jones isn't
simply in the employ of some hidden alien? Surely it is
possible that he is just as earthly as we are, but works for
some counterpart of Mr. Thornby, here."
"Yes, Mr. Holmes," said Thornby. "I have instruments that
would tell me if another alien life form were nearby. None
of them have ever reacted to Jones."
"That would still not explain how Jones has no history,
no record of existence even, more than eight months old,"
replied Holmes. "I have been very thorough in my
investigations and neither yourself nor Jones have any such
history. It is as if you had both stepped out of thin air."
"The boss will have to be told that the thief is an off-worlder," Thornby mused. "This changes everything. I'll have
to go and report in... Mr. Holmes, I'm sure that you don't
trust me out of your sight, but I absolutely have to report
this matter to my employer. If you'd care to accompany me,
I'm sure that your evidence would be crucial to him."
"Holmes, do we dare trust this, this... being?" I
blurted out.
"His story hangs together, Watson. Surely you can hear
the ring of truth in his words? Mr. Thornby, we shall be
most pleased to present your employer with the evidence that
we have collected. I'm sure that it will be a most memorable
excursion."
"But where on Earth are we going, Holmes? Mr. Thornby?"
"Not on Earth at all, my dear Watson," said Holmes. "If,
that is, my suspicions are correct. I believe that we are
about to visit another celestial sphere. Another world,
circling some far distant sun."
"Quite correct," said Thornby as he adjusted a stem upon
his wrist watch. "A world so far away that it takes sixty
five years for a ray of sunlight to travel from there to
here. By way of contrast, it takes eight minutes for a ray of
light to move from your own sun to the Earth- a distance of
ninety three millions of miles. I must say that you are both taking the situation very
well."
"But the alien air! Will we be able to breathe it?
Surely there are some hazards that we should know about
first," I gasped. I have to report that I was still a bit in
shock over learning that Holmes' deductions had borne fruit.
"Mr. Thornby is quite able to get by in our own Earthly
atmosphere," said Holmes. "I think that we need suffer no
fears of suffocation, Watson. Surely we all enjoy the same
bodily requirements. I think that we shall be quite all
right."
"If you gentlemen are ready?" Thornby asked. "Please
stay close to me when the passage opens. Step through
quickly and watch where you put your feet. You may feel as
if the floor is moving under your feet, at first." As he
spoke, Thornby finished the adjustments to the watch on his
wrist and gestured towards the room's far wall. As I gaped
with astonishment- which bordered upon stupification,
a hallway appeared to fade into being in
the wall- A doorway that had not been visible before. One
that led into a long, dimly-lit corridor. Odd flickering
seemed to mask the further end of the hall, like lightning
at a distance. It was difficult to estimate the length of
the hall, also, such that I began to wonder if it had been a
good idea to go and visit Holmes that day after all. Bah!
Truth to tell, my nerves were singing as they had not since
the old days when the case was afoot. I felt more alive than
I had in years. I could tell that Holmes was affected
likewise.
"You see, Watson? I told you that the timepiece was
critical. Jones carries nothing similar that I have
observed, but he does have an unusual cigarette case that he
takes pains to conceal."
"Where are we going?" I asked Guiles Thornby.
"We, will emerge into a private room in an hotel in a
large, modern- for me -city on my world. We'll take public
transport from there to reach a place where we can relax and
wait for my boss to show up," Thornby replied. "Think of it
as a gentleman's club for foreigners and you won't be far
off. I can send him a message from there and arrange a
meeting with him. After our trip in the meantime, I'd like
to hear everything that Holmes has gathered about Cyrus
Jones. I have to make my report as full as possible."
"Does this place have a name?" I asked.
"Yes," Thornby replied. "The planet is called Bethdish,
the city is named City of Lights, and it is a huge
metropolis and port of call for visitors from other worlds.
Our destination? Its a bar called the Mare Inebrium. I hope
you don't mind, but I feel the need of a very stiff drink."
"Excellent idea, Mr. Thornby. I'm sure that Watson and I
could use a little something to take off the chill. Watson,
would you care for a drink?"
"Tenderly, Holmes," I heard myself reply, as if from
afar. "I would care for it tenderly."
**********
On the matter of our traversing that corridor, I have
little to say. It felt like walking upon the deck of a ship
at sea- the floor did indeed seem to move under our feet.
The walk was about that of three city blocks and ended in a
odd, but comfortable, hotel room with no windows. Our host
again manipulated the strange watch he wore and I saw the
hallway we had just exited waver like a mirage, then vanish
entire. Fascinating, and a bit frightening. My old friend's
eyes shone with that familiar fire as he examined the room's
furnishings. He made a circuit of Thornby's quarters, much
as he had in the hotel room in London. Thornby went straight
to a device that greatly resembled a small typewriter. I
watched amazed as the inside of the lid of the machine lit
up to show images like small pictographs. Another of Holmes'
deductions confirmed. I beat down a rush of shock as I stood
and tried to come to grips with the idea of being on another
world. Thornby typed furiously for several minutes, then
hesitated, finally he pressed the carriage return key and
turned to face us.
"Message sent," he said. "All we have to do now is wait
for him to meet us at the Mare. I've called a taxi, if you
gentlemen are ready to go downstairs?"
"Then we can discuss the matter of Cyrus Jones," said
Holmes, "and why he must also be alien to our Earth." On
that note, we exited the rooms and walked to the lift. The
lift had, instead of an operator, an array of nearly one
hundred softly-glowing buttons. Thornby pressed one near the
bottom and the doors closed. I took a breath to inquire as
to how long the descent would take, and the doors opened
again to show an ordinary hotel lobby.
"Fascinating," said Holmes.
"We were only on the fifty seventh floor," replied
Guiles Thornby. "Our cab should be outside."
**********
Our taxi was an automobile, of strange shape to be sure,
but acceptable enough. I looked around at the tall buildings
as would any yokel, but my excuse was that I had never seen
traffic in the air or buildings that tall. In fact, I felt
every bit the yokel. Our Cabby, an individual that Thornby
familiarly addressed as "Bert" seemed to know that Holmes
and I were visitors without being told. He kindly warned us
that the ride would be different from any we'd had before
and pointed out straps, as in an underground railway carriage,
for safety grips. I was still amazed when the cab rose from the ground
and merged with the middle layer of areal traffic. We flew
at the height of tenth floor windows in the buildings that
we passed. I could see more flying vehicles at what I took
to be the fifth and fifteenth floor levels. Possibly there
were more at even higher levels, since the buildings seemed
to average one hundred or more floors, but if so I was
unable to perceive them. Holmes said not a word as he
watched both the scenery passing by and the cabby's
operation of the vehicle. Thornby sat back in the wide seats
watching Holmes and I with a slight smile upon his face. The
ride took mere minutes, so high was our velocity. We rose,
passed swiftly down the "street", turned several corners in
a zig-zag fashion, then descended to the pavement once
again. Guiles paid the Cabby as I turned to survey the
crowds upon the sidewalk. I goggled at the differing shapes
of what had to be people of far worlds right up to the
moment that we entered one of the tall buildings. I remember
striding across an ornate empty lobby towards a set of stained-
glass doors. As I saw Holmes' ears prick up, I too heard the
subdued rumble of the patrons- a familiar sound to any pub-goer.
"Gentlemen," said Guiles, then he sighed and spoke
again. "Welcome to the Mare Inebrium. Come, we have much to
discuss."
"Indeed we do," said Holmes.
**********
Once inside those innocent doors, it would have taken a
Dante' or Bosch to depict the variety of creatures that I
saw. I had thought that the taxi ride and the strange sights
upon the sidewalk had prepared me for any mere pub. But I
had been wrong. The room I now found myself in was both
large and crowded. I could see recognizable tables and booths
at which sat frightening marvels. Here, one patron looked
like some form of jellyfish, while his neighbour appeared to
be a huge orange tiger. There, a man-sized insect held
converse with three small, short-furred bears.
At another booth, a man made of gold drank with two
normal-looking men- save that one was dressed as Robin Hood
and the other was in jewel-like red and gold armor. I looked away
to the walls in an effort to assimilate what I had seen.
They were elegantly wainscoted from the floor to mid-wall,
then paneling gave way to a wallpaper that shimmered like
Mother-of-Pearl. Mirrors and paintings alternated on every
wall and doors presumably opened into other chambers within
the establishment.
"Steady, Watson," said Holmes as he gripped my elbow.
Perhaps I swayed a bit, I don't know. "Despite their shape,
these patrons are nevertheless people. There is no law of
nature restricting our creator to the human form. Think of
them as being from some unfamiliar country- China, Japan..."
"Thank you, Holmes. It is all a bit sudden..."
"My apologies, Doctor," said Guiles Thornby. "Perhaps we
should take a seat in one of the inner rooms. It'll be less
crowded and more quiet."
Indeed, the sound of several hundred drinkers was the
most familiar property of this Mare Inebrium. About this
time I remember noticing a subtle perfume. A faint odor of
cinnamon overlaid with a trace of lemon. I remarked upon it
to Holmes, his opinion was that it was either the effluvia
of drink or the commingled odors of the varied patrons.
Thornby led the way toward one of the doors to our right,
stopping once to speak briefly with a strikingly beautiful
woman carrying a tray of drinks. From that I felt it safe to
presume that she was a waitress, but further thoughts were
halted by her shockingly short skirts. Holmes has jested of
me as being some sort of Casanova over the years, but
nothing I had seen in the dance halls of San Francisco or
Paris could prepare me for sighting such a shapely expanse of female limb. When in Rome, I thought- or some such. Out of the corner of my eye I saw
Holmes glance at me and give one of his quirky, swift
smiles- at my expense, no doubt. The woman glanced at Holmes
and I and gave us a warm smile. We tipped our hats
wordlessly and she curtsied, then walked away.
"That's Trixie," said Thornby. "She'll tell Max that
you're here. He'll want to meet you- he's a big fan. Through
here, Gentlemen. We'll pick out a table and wait for my
boss."
The smaller room that we were ushered into could have
passed for any club in London. Dark paneling, flocked
wallpaper, massive bookshelves, still more paintings and
mirrors. Along the wall to our left was a perfectly
recognizable bar, while various booths and tables were
scattered about in between free-standing bookshelves. In
this way, each seating area was given privacy. Thornby spoke
to the bartender, then showed us to a table. A man with
bright blue skin and six fingers on each hand brought our
drinks. He served us politely, then left- as perfect a
butler as I have ever seen. The whiskey was excellent. The
first sip burned going down, but other than that I never
noticed it. I diagnosed myself as suffering from shock and
prescribed more of this internal antiseptic. I was not
surprised to note that our tray had held nine glasses. I
glanced at our host and then to Holmes. His eyes were fixed
upon our host and I knew that his concentration was fixed
there as well. I sipped my second glass, this time noticing
the quality, and waited for Holmes to speak.
In the quiet atmosphere of the comfortable room, Holmes
spoke in normal tones, yet his voice didn't carry beyond our
table. I theorized some type of excellent soundproofing in
the walls, noting that the bustle of the outer room did not
penetrate the wall.
"Your speech carries a definite American accent, Mr.
Thornby," said Holmes. "Yet you claim to be a native of this
world. Indeed, I find that here you are at least moderately
well known. From my observations of the level of advancement
of this civilization I conclude that we have not only
traveled in space, but have traveled forward in time some
three hundred years. I am sorry to subject you to yet
another shock, Watson-"
"Yes, I had wondered about that myself, Holmes. In the
lift, I could read the numbers on the buttons! And in the
taxi, some of the street signs were in English! With
everything else I had not made much of it until now."
"Capital, Watson! I have yet to reach your limits, old
man. You continue to amaze me."
"Elementary, my dear Holmes," I said with a chuckle.
"Also, consider that here we sit imbibing what has to be a
genuine single-malt. London of the nineteen hundreds has no
trade that I am aware of with outer space."
"Yes," said Thornby. "This planet is my adopted home, but I have visited America
quite often. And yes, English is just one of the languages
on this world, at this time. We are roughly four hundred and twenty
years away from the London that you know. And your
conclusions from that, Mr. Holmes? I must say that it is
wonderful seeing you at work like this. I scarcely have to
inform you of anything. You act as if you already know..."
I could see the effect that Thornby's flattery had upon
Sherlock Holmes. As I have ofttimes observed in the past,
Holmes seemed to be proud of this recognition of his
talents. Therefore, it didn't surprise me to note that
Holmes' voice was much warmer than before, when he next
spoke.
"My conclusions are that your employer is far more
powerful than you have implied. That you are an agent,
questing throughout time and space, working for a collector
of antiquities. That somehow, you seek to preserve artifacts
that, for some reason, your employer deems to be important
to history." At each of Holmes' pronouncements, the smile on
Thornby's face got wider. He was clearly enjoying the
rapidity of my friend's thoughts.
"Ten out of ten, Mr. Holmes. What we do is make
recordings of things. Then we place facsimiles of these
objects in my employer's own museum. No originals- excepting
a few individuals like myself who volunteer, joining the
ranks of my fellow employees -only copies are kept in the
museum. But they are perfect copies, interchangeable with
the originals in every way. Thus my employer has to take
considerable precautions with his security."
"Perfect copies? How is it possible to make a
recording of an object?" My questions seemed to be perfectly
reasonable to me.
"Doctor..." began Thornby, then he sighed. "You are
familiar with x-ray photography? The recording device I use
looks deep inside an object and measures precisely every
aspect of it's structure. The device uses a highly-focused
beam of light to etch digitized patterns inside a half-inch
cube of pure carbon crystal. This diamond then represents
the photograph made by the x-ray camera. Another, more
complicated device reads the information on the cubes, then
builds a copy based on that information. It uses raw
material- a shovel-full of gravel for a teacup, a bushel
basket of sand for a Ming vase -broken down to it's smallest
components. The machine then takes these individual atoms
and places a carbon here, an oxygen there, an iron just
so... All according to the record of the object preserved in
the cube."
"Yes, it was in the process of these recordings that I
have frequently observed you," said Holmes.
"In disguise, I take it?" Thornby asked. "You were the
Reverend?"
"Yes," Holmes replied. "And the bearded student- And, I
might add, the little old lady-"
"No! I actually handed you the umbrella that you
dropped! I put it in your hand and never recognized you!
This is marvelous! Classical, absolutely classical!" Thornby
clapped his hands in glee.
"Mr. Thornby," Holmes said in a more somber tone.
"Enough reminiscing. The time has come for us to discuss
Cyrus Jones and the museum that, you have said, must be
robbed."
**********
"Public records of the period," said Thornby. "Show that the British
Museum was robbed of several prize exhibits on a date that
would be, to you, eleven days from now. For me, it was
robbed four hundred and eighteen years, plus some odd months ago.
I have a list of all the items that the investigation of the
time marked as never recovered- Those are my target items.
Unless I finish my survey soon they'll be lost to history."
"And the records of the investigation reveal what?
Please elaborate, Mr. Thornby." My friend had eased back in
his chair and his eyes were closed in what I knew to be
furious concentration. His long fingers were steepled before
him, like some monk at prayer.
"They show that although a suspect was arrested- due to
an un-named informant -and some of the property was
recovered, the more choice items simply vanished. The
assumption was that the trade in underground artwork- stolen
artwork -had absorbed them for all time. No trial was ever
held, and no record of the suspect or his release remains."
Holmes' eyes snapped open and he looked at me. "Its a
pretty puzzle, eh Watson? We know when a crime is to be
committed. We know what is to be stolen. We know the results
of a particularly unimaginative investigation in advance. We
know that no one but Mr. Thornby and Cyrus Jones have been
at all suspicious in their behavour in the museum. It is no
great stretch of the imagination to conclude that Cyrus
Jones is the suspect of whom no public record remains. Can
we not find a way for justice to be served in this matter?
Mr. Thornby, it strikes me that after so much time has
passed, the matter of examining the public records would
have evolved quite some distance. Is it possible for us to
examine these records that you speak of, with our advanced
knowledge of Cyrus Jones?"
"My employer's access to the records is quite complete,"
said Thornby. "Its no harder than typing in the right code
to examine them." Suiting action to words, Thornby pressed
down hard upon one of the ornate inlays upon the tabletop
before him. As if by magic, a rectangle opened from the
tabletop and another of those small typewriters with a
glowing window appeared. He typed for several minutes,
muttered encouragement to the machine several times, then
looked at Holmes with a expression of triumph. "We're in,"
he said. "I have access to my employer's database- the
records in question. Now, I have to know exactly what to
tell the machine to look for. What did you have in mind, Mr.
Holmes?"
"Look for records of Cyrus Jones, of course. As far back
as you can, and as far forward as- say nineteen hundred and fifty,"
Holmes replied. "We can safely assume that Jones is the
villain upon the fact that no others have been observed. Let
us see if Jones is of Earthly or un-Earthly origin."
"Search string... Public Records- Croydon comma eighteen
fifty to nineteen fifty- subject- semicolon- Cyrus Jones..."
Thornby muttered as he typed. "New search... Public Records-
London comma eighteen fifty to nineteen fifty- subject-
semicolon- Cyrus Jones... Cross reference police files-
comma- same- same- same..." He looked up again and smiled.
"It should take a few minutes for the results."
In the pause that followed I could have sworn that I had
heard the sound of a hearty English voice that was addressed
by the bartender as "Brigadier". Moments later I saw a
scorpion- as large as an elephant! -walk by the nook where
our table was located. Moments after this apparition had
passed I distinctly heard our waiter's voice saying "This
way, Sir."
"One of my best friends," said Thornby, waiving a hand
to indicate the creature that had just passed. "An old
soldier who now serves his people in the diplomatic corps. A
good ally in a rough-and-tumble, too. I met him about eighty
seven years ago. He's about three hundred years old now-
local time. Late-middle-age for his people. Ah, the search
results are in..." Thornby stared at the words on the
glowing window and spoke absently. "There are no records,
anywhere, of our Cyrus Jones- none."
"Like yourself," Holmes replied. "Jones leaves no trace
upon the waters of history. My inquiries into the references he gave me have turned up
no trace at all of the elusive Jones. My conclusion is that he is no
more of our time and place than you, yourself. Further,
since the informant that leads to the quoted arrest is not
recorded, it is quite possible that it is none other than
Watson and myself. And that Jones is to be held for a time,
then escape in such a manner to some day embarrass the
police if made a matter of record. Whereupon they do away
with the existing records. Remember the Ripper, Watson. When
the murders suddenly stopped, the police simply closed up
shop. I theorize that Cyrus Jones makes his getaway from the
lockup my means of the same sort of transport system that
brought us here. The lack of record of his birth is not
unusual, as records of the time are notorious for their
lack. His lack of tax registry, post address, employment, passport,
driving license, military service- all point to his having
made a sudden arrival in England. He may have traveled from
another world or from another time. We have no way of
knowing at this point. I have here the list of items that
you were to record, taken from your rooms in London, Mr.
Thornby. I take it that this closely matches the list of
unrecovered items from the museum? Good- I think what we need
at this point is a method of detecting Jones in mid-burgle, so to speak."
"It is a shame," I said, "that we have only eleven days
in which to act."
"We have all the time that we need, Watson," Thornby
replied. "My employer can send us back to the moment after
we left. Or even to the night of the crime, if that's what
we decide on." On that note, I prescribed another drink.
Although I was not used to imbibing in such quantities, the
alcohol was helping me cope with the shock. Traveling in
time could make one's head spin. I idly wondered at the
machinery necessary to do such a thing, but only for a
moment.
"How much longer do you expect that we will have to wait
for your employer?" I asked of Thornby.
"He should arrive soon," he replied.
Within a very few minutes, the waiter brought a small
silver tray bearing a single card. Upon it, Holmes read
aloud; "Professor Eustas Grey, Xeno-Archeology department,
Emperor Norton University- San Francisco, California, NAC."
"That's him," said Thornby with relief.
**********
The man that our waiter next led to our table was of
medium height, having short gray hair and gray eyes, wearing
a oddly cut dark gray suit. It was odd in that the coat had
no collar of its own and allowed the collar of the
Professor's shirt, or cravat, to show. He appeared to be of
middle-age, and in good health. He was tanned and quite fit-
I took him to be a very active man. He looked quite like the
archaeologist his card proclaimed him to be, as well as the
studious archiver of some fantastic museum of antiquities.
In no way, however, could I reconcile his appearance with my
knowledge that he was some mysteriously powerful force in
the preservation of history. A traveler in time, an archiver of
the lost treasures of the past. He sat, and the waiter
brought another tray of drinks- of a more normal number this
time, I was glad to see. The Professor toasted to our health
and passed a few pleasantries off to us before he got down
to the business at hand.
"Gentlemen," he said. "A crime against history, against
posterity as we know it, is about to be committed. I have
kept abreast of Thornby's researches since I received his
message that you had arrived. Normally, I would be dead set
against involving contemporary assistance, but in the case
of Holmes and Watson- Why, I'd be a fool to turn away such
help. Already you have uncovered evidence that the crime is
not based in the normal scheme of things. Two things I see
that we will need for our investigation, knowledge of from
where Cyrus Jones is operating, and from when. Mr. Holmes,
if you could inform me of your progress? I would find it
most useful."
Holmes gladly re-capped his findings so far and outlined
his needs to the Professor. When he concluded, the Professor
assumed a grave aspect. "It will be a delicate undertaking,"
the Professor stated solemnly. "The lack of records acts in
our favor, but to trap Jones and track down his own master
is quite another question. The most delicate point is that
there is no indication in any record that Jones is indeed
the culprit. While the evidence is overwhelming in favor of
that conclusion- I remind you that there is no historical
proof. Nor is there proof in modern records that a thief is
ever punished for this crime. Your study in Alizarin Crimson
seem pre-destined to be barren of fruit."
"I cannot help but wish that we could bring this Jones
before a judge," I said. "But what could we say to a
prosecutor that would give him evidence for a conviction?
Somehow, 'Sir, here is a man from outer space that we have
caught in the act of burglary' ...is likely to result in our
being detained ourselves."
"Yes, our own position is weak in respect to the
authorities," replied the Professor. "But it should yet be
possible to engineer Jones' arrest by the London police. But
we know that he will not remain in custody. The escape that
Holmes postulates could well turn out to be Jones' rescue by
his own employer. A simple pick-up... I, myself, could
retrieve Thornby from out of any prison- or from solid rock,
for that matter -if he should so bungle a job and manage to
wind up there. Holmes, do you feel safe in assuming that
Jones is indeed the counterpart of my man Thornby rather
than the prime mover in this crime?"
"The evidence certainly leads to that conclusion, but as
yet I feel it to be unproven," Holmes replied. "Jones has
hired rooms in London- I have followed him to them. His
cover since he engaged my services has been maintained
almost faultlessly. Our major clues seem to indicate that
the crime will be burglary and that replacement forgeries
will be substituted for at least some of the stolen goods.
Gentlemen? Why?"
"Why leave only some few forgeries?" I asked. "To gain time
to sell those items at leisure, I suppose. The others must
already be promised to buyers."
"Watson, you are scintillating today!" Holmes exclaimed.
"yet, there seems more to the matter than your theory
covers."
"Yes," said Thornby. "If he can pop in and out like I
do, then escape off-world to make his sales... Why bother
with any forgeries at all? As a cover for the theft being by
an off-worlder? The copies would have to be done by local forgers do
accomplish that. And what if he can travel in time? Grey here
could clean out that whole museum in the blink of an eye, were he a thief. I
don't doubt that Jones' boss could do something similar if
he wanted. My question is whether Jones is a time traveler
or merely a space traveler."
"I recall it being a dictum of Holmes to avoid
theorizing without evidence," sighed the Professor. "So far
our evidence is Jones' appearances and vanishings and his
questionable activities as Holmes' client. I can study the
areas of the British Museum that Holmes has indicated as where that
Jones performed his re-appearing act with my machinery. That
could possibly tell us if Jones is a time traveler. But the
measurements will have to be very precise." The Professor
then withdrew a small, flat leather case from an inside
pocket of his suit coat. He opened the case and unfolded it
to reveal an even smaller typewriter than I had yet seen. A
screen the size of a playing card was set into the lid of
the case, whilst the keys were set into the lower half.
Professor Grey typed for a few moments, asked of Holmes the
precise time that Jones had appeared from the empty area of
the museum, then typed for a few minutes more. None of us
spoke, otherwise, until he was finished.
"There," he said. "I have the search underway. Three
searches, in fact- the museum, Jones' rooms, and for
comparison- Thornby's own rooms. It will take some time to
run, would you gentlemen care for another drink? Holmes, if
you have your pipe about you, please feel free to indulge."
As Professor Grey spoke, Thornby signaled the waiter and I saw Holmes had retrieved his pipe and
begin to tamp shag into the bowl. "Cigar, Watson? New Havana
leaf, grown on a world named Hispan-yola... from seeds taken
from your own world's Cuba," added the Professor. I accepted out of curiosity and
found the cigar to be of the highest quality. As the
Professor and I lit our cigars, two small depressions formed
in the tabletop- one in front of each of us. I took these to
be ash trays, which the Professor confirmed. The waiter
silently brought fresh drinks.
"Jones' employer..." murmured Holmes, "I must admit,
takes up entirely too much of my thoughts. I dislike the
unknown quantity. What are his limits? What is it possible
for him to do and what is, for him, impossible? What are his
motivations? Profit? Ownership? What are Jones'
instructions? This hidden figure, he has immediate use for
some of the stolen exhibits, yet must cover part of the
theft with forgeries. To buy time, as Watson suggests? Or
rather as cover, as Thornby has pointed out? Gentlemen,
without fresh evidence, I feel that we are wasting time."
"Mr. Holmes," said the Professor. "The search my
machinery is making is more delicate and thorough than any
you, yourself could possibly make. No grain of sand or
fingerprint will remain unseen. We have formed our theories,
we have gathered our evidence, now we merely await the
results of tests from my laboratories to refute or confirm
our deductions. Relax, Holmes. Time, for once, is on your
side."
"Yes it is," said Thornby in a affected, sing-song
voice, then he chuckled. Professor Grey looked at him as if
Thornby had just perpetrated a pun. Thornby, for his part,
looked momentarily abashed. Then he took on an intent look
and spoke. "Grey, if Jones is an off-worlder, isn't there a
chance that there is some sort of police on his own world we
could turn him over to? Grand theft, smuggling, burglary...
There ought to be someone in the time period with some kind
of authority over that."
"Galactic Patrol? Space Rangers?" the Professor
chuckled. "Our best bet would be whatever passes for the
Customs Authority on his world. We will have to find out
just which world it is, however, before we can notify its
police. If my equipment can trace Jones' movements back far
enough- Well, we will then have a chance."
"And if Jones is a traveler in time?" I asked. "What
then?"
"Then, the task of punishing Jones becomes much harder.
And stopping him may turn out to be out of the question..."
"Professor," said Holmes, still puffing upon his pipe.
"Do any of the stolen items ever turn up again? No matter
when or where, but do they ever re-appear?"
"Not on Earth," replied the Professor. "Not in all of
Earth's history."
"Upon other worlds, then?"
"The search would take decades, Holmes. Even with my
equipment. There are so many worlds to search- it would be
like trying to find a particular grain of sand out of all
the beaches upon Earth."
"Could we put a tracer on something we know he'll steal
and track him back to his base? True, we'd have to let him
commit the crime and escape," Thornby mused, "but then we'd
have him!"
"Vanilla extract," I chuckled at the memory. "For Toby
to sniff..."
Holmes smiled. "Or creosote, Watson? I'm afraid this job
would be beyond poor Toby's ability. He could not follow a
scent from world to world."
"No doubt the noble beast has long since passed on, in
any case, Holmes," I said. "I do hope that he was allowed to
sire a few litters, a trait like that nose should be kept
vital in a bloodline." The memory of Toby brought me to the memory of one of my own dogs. I nattered on a bit about my old
bulldog that I'd had when Holmes and I first met, then
noticed the Professor's air of abstract concentration. It
was similar, I noticed, to Holmes' own attitude of thought,
but different. Where Holmes ofttimes seemed to be asleep as
he listened to a client's statement, Professor Grey had
adopted an almost catatonic stillness, only his eyes moving-
focused beyond us at the wall. Only a bookshelf was there,
so I doubted he was contemplating that with such intensity.
Thornby watched his employer and hardly seemed to breathe.
Holmes too, seemed to sense that something was afoot. He
leaned forward in his chair, laying aside his pipe. I was
unsurprised to note that a holder sprouted from that
versatile tabletop to support the pipe. The moment passed,
the Professor seem to come to himself. Frankly, I had
wondered if I should offer medical assistance to him, but he
recovered and spoke before I could move.
"Thornby, remind me to give you a raise in pay," Grey
said.
"You don't pay me in money, now," replied Thornby. "I
have access to whatever amount that I need from the working
fund you've set up."
"Double it," Grey said. "I've been thinking about what
you suggested- placing tracers on the thieves' targets."
"Can it be done?" Holmes asked.
"Not directly, no. Not as the problem is stated.
However, I perceive a way to do it indirectly... There is no
way to put any type of useful tracer on any of the original
items in the museum. Any space traveler would be able to detect it right away."
"On the originals, you say? But that does not exhaust
the possibilities, does it?"
"That's right, Holmes. You see it already, don't you?"
"If the originals cannot possibly be made traceable,"
Holmes said, "then perhaps your own perfect copies could be
modified in such a way for them to be traceable?"
"Exactly, we place edited copies- with built-in tracers
-in the British Museum for Jones to steal. Then we follow
the trace from Jones, through to his fence, to the eventual
buyer. By then we should know what sort of Authorities to
call in to take them all in hand."
"Capital!" I exclaimed. "But how are we to place these
copies in the museum?"
"Elementary, my dear Watson," Holmes replied calmly. "We
have to rob the museum, ourselves, before Jones can be
allowed to do so."
**********
"I missed breakfast," Thornby announced. "Could we take
a break for lunch?"
"Certainly," the Professor replied, signaling the
waiter. "The food here is excellent, by the way gentlemen.
Order anything that you would like. I'm sure the kitchen is
up to your challenge."
"Henry," said Thornby to our blue-skinned waiter. "We
need to eat something to soak up all of this alcohol. I'll
have a deluxe omelette, biscuits, gravy, and strong, black
coffee. Doctor?"
"Roast beef, please. With carrots, potatoes, and onions.
I hope that proves to be no trouble."
"None at all, sir. An appropriate wine?"
"Whatever you say, I am at your mercy there."
"Mr. Holmes?"
"Breakfast does have its appeal at the moment, I must
say. Bacon, eggs, toast, marmalade... Coffee!, Yes, coffee!"
"Very good sir. And you, sir?"
"Hot and sour soup, House Special fried rice with
Zalloo-koosh shrimp, and Henry?"
"Yes sir?"
"If you feel up to the performance, Moo Shoo Pork,
please. I shall drink tea."
"Very good, sir. Ten minutes, please."
After he left, I inquired about our waiter. "Henry?" I
asked. "His name is Henry?"
"Actually, he wears a translating device that changes
our words into his own language. Whenever we say the word
Henry, he hears his own name. When he speaks to us in
return, the translator gives us his words in whatever
language that it has heard us speaking. The language has to
be already known to the device, naturally."
"But how can such a thing operate? And," I asked, "what
of its size? I did not see Henry carrying so much as a
cigarette case."
"His hearing-aid, Watson," replied Holmes. "I further
surmise that the speaker for the device is that which is
strapped to his left wrist."
"Almost perfect, Holmes," said Thornby. "The ear-piece
is his end of the translator, and the wrist-talker is our
end. The two are parts of one machine, and communicate to
each other by a type of wireless. Most species use something
similar."
"Old technology," said the Professor. "The trick is to
keep updating the devices with new languages. Each machine's
memory for that sort of thing is quite finite, however. New
ways of storing information are then constantly being
invented to keep up with the pressures of more and more
information needing to be stored for quick access. Necessity
keeps being met by ingenuity, and thus progress is made. All
in all, a good analogy for all types of progress and
invention."
The waiter then brought our meal. Everything was cooked
to perfection and we all dug in with relish. I shall never
forget seeing Henry prepare the Professor's main course. The
meats and vegetables were laid within a soft, flat bread-
similar to a tortilla. Plum sauce was basted on the filling,
and the whole was wrapped by means of chopsticks, and placed
decoratively upon the plate. It was indeed a performance to
behold. The scent was quite pleasing, as was that of all the
foods. We ate quietly, doing justice as trenchermen to our
fine meals before we spoke again.
A quiet beeping tone from the Professor's typewriter
device sounded just as we were all pushing out respective
plates away, so to speak. The Professor studied the words
written upon the window of his device, then sighed with what
I hoped was relief. "There are no signs that Cyrus Jones is
a time traveler. Such travel leaves traces, certain sub-atomic
particles and radiations... None of these are to be
found near Jones."
"Good," exclaimed Thornby. "That's one problem down.
We're dealing with alien worlds contemporary to your own.
Now there's no need to search all of time and space. Much
narrower list of possibles for Jones to be from."
"Exactly," said Grey. "But wait, there is more-"
"'How much would you pay?'"
"Thornby?"
"Yes, boss?"
"Your sense of humor is quite likely to be the death of
you... Quite possibly at my own hands, this very afternoon.
Please restrain yourself."
"Yes, sir."
"Jones has been traced to a warehouse in a remote area
of London. There he interacted with a small number of people
who were at work preparing forged paintings and books. His
base in London, gentlemen. And furthermore! He was traced on
two occasions when he had to leave the planet and visit his
ship in orbit about Earth's moon. It would have been too
easy to find the ship if it had circled the Earth, itself.
Those two trips revealed that Jones does seem to have access
to some type of matter transmitter, but it is no time
machine. I shall, of course, attempt to trace Jones' ship to
its homeworld. Our task has just become lighter, gentlemen."
"Yeah," replied Thornby sarcastically. "Now all we have
to do is run off a copy of an entire museum, let it be
robbed, and follow the thief to the buyers. No problem...
But what'll we do for an encore?"
"It does sound like an awful amount of work to be done
in such a short time," I said.
"Already in progress," the Professor said whilst typing.
"That is correct, Watson," said Holmes. "Time has ceased
to be an enemy- Indeed, it is now our greatest ally!"
"What do you mean, Holmes?"
"Why Watson, you realize of course that the Professor is
a past master in the manipulation of time? He has, no doubt,
just set in motion the necessary recording of the entire
British Museum. The building and all of the contents will
soon be recorded upon a crystal of purest diamond. This
recording will be made into copies which will have an
inherent flaw, to wit; our tracer, as part of the very
structure of the artwork, and completely undetectable to
Jones."
"Indeed Doctor," said Grey. "Imagine yourself to be upon
the stage in some grand, darkened theater... Suddenly, in a
far balcony, someone strikes a match- the only light in a
dark and cavernous room. This is what the tracers will look
like to my equipment. They will stand out like beacons in
the darkness, for my machines will only look for the type of
light, their signal, that they will give off- They alone of
all creation. We will be able to track Jones' every step, or
at least the movements of the stolen goods. And the true
beauty of the situation? That since Jones cannot move about
in time and yet we can, then he has only eleven days to
prepare- and is stuck upon Earth of the nineteen hundreds,
while we have unlimited time available to us! We can travel
back to any point, after having passed as long as we've
needed to have used in making our preparations. We can spend
years for every day that Jones has to use and still arrive
on time to catch him."
"The irony is delicious," replied Holmes in a droll
voice. "From our seats here, in a comfortable club, we are
able to effect changes in what occurred four hundred
and eighteen years ago. Whatever problem we face, the solution
occurs at the time we need it to. Each move of our foe is
checked. All because of his pride! If it were not for the
hubris of Jones, hiring me as not only some sort of cover,
but to remove Guiles Thornby from Jones' own path, we
would not now be able to put paid to the villain himself,
nor yet discover his master. If Moriarty were not resting in
Hell at this moment, I would not be a bit surprised to find
out that the ultimate villain is he."
"No," said the Professor. "Our ultimate foe is someone
quite beyond the late, un-lamented James Moriarty, in scope
and in power. I suspect that what we are looking at here is
nothing less than a contract theft. An underground art
collector has commissioned this crime. He will be rich
beyond measure, bored beyond belief, and willing to
undertake any risk for these art treasures. He prefers to
work through underlings, like Jones, rather than risk his
own skin. His most pressing trait will no doubt turn out to be the desire
to add to his collection. He will risk anything to add
another painting or book to his shelves. No, I understand
him all too well. I've walked in his shoes... I know how he
thinks. If it were not an accident of birth, I could have been him-
whoever he turns out to be. I was simply lucky enough to
have been born upon a world of time travelers, and so the
galaxy is an open book to me."
"It runs deeper than that," asked Holmes, "does it not,
Professor? I would say that the difference between yourself
and our foe is more one of character. You are not, at heart,
a thief. Our unknown foe, however, indeed is."
"Mr. Holmes, by the laws of my own people my hands are
not entirely clean, I must admit. On my own world, I am
branded somewhat of a renegade. Not a wanted man, but rather
the reverse- an un-official exile. For over ten million
years before my birth, my people have been able to travel in
time. In our early records, there is listed every possible
abuse of this technology. But, there is also listed every
possible humane usage- The matters balance out, yet the
guilt remains. In time, my people learned from their
mistakes and vowed never again to interfere in the destiny
of other worlds. It was a harsh lesson, one that cost many
lives on other worlds, but one that we learned well. The
urge to play 'god' to younger worlds was all but erased from
our character as a species. Despite our intent, a
civilization destroyed itself because of our meddling with
their natural development. Our civilization was in shock and
remorse for a generation. The lesson was learned; observe,
record, remember... but never interfere. Only the odd throw-back
shows any evidence of an urge to meddle. I fled my home
to escape what I perceived to be a tyranny of stifling
rules. Non-conformity was subtly punished, individual
expression was looked down upon as anti-social. It was a
gradual erosion of what had been a great civilization. Many
centuries passed thus before the time of which I speak.
Finally the laws against interfering with other worlds,
against everything but observing them, began to leave
younger worlds than ours open to invasions or decay. I was
neither the first nor the last to flee. In every generation,
a few were born that could not live with the boredom, the
restrictions, who had to act- to flee. Some have meddled,
some have muddled the waters of history, and I have sought
to study and learn. A rare few of my fellows have turned out
to be just the sort of ruthless danger that the others fear.
There is no warrant for my extradition for any crimes, but
if I draw attention to myself- if I embarrass them -my
homeworld's government will be forced to take official
notice of me."
"Thank you for that confidence, Professor. You have
confirmed several of my theories and given me much food for
thought."
For the first time, I wondered at the true motives of the
Professor and Guiles Thornby. If the museum robbery was now
going to be of a totally false museum- Where did the pieces
that were, originally, never recovered go to? And what of
the false museum itself? As if in a bad play, this prop will
never be needed again- What will become of it? What about...
"What about the guards? Or Curators who are working late?
Will they be copied also?"
"No, Doctor. The equipment is set to ignore living things. I
would not endanger anyone needlessly." The Professor sounded
reassuring, but could he be believed? Could he really be
Jones' hidden employer after all? I wished that I could get
Holmes alone for a few moments and sound him out on the
matter. Aside from the bewildering array of machinery and
concepts that we had been exposed to, Holmes and I were
forced to take these two at their word. I knew that Holmes
had been able to see further into these strangers than I. If
there were just some way that we could converse unheard.
"Gentlemen, I think the time has come for a visit to the
facilities- If I may be so rude. All this coffee... Watson,
do you feel up to exploring a sanitary closet of four
hundred years in our future? Thank you. If you will excuse
us, gentlemen?"
"Holmes," I said as we proceeded toward the chamber that the
bartender had pointed out to us. "Some times its as if you
read my very mind... You knew that I wanted to ask your
conclusions about the Professor and whether he could be
trusted."
"Yes, I could see your rising distress as our host
unburdened himself to me. I closely observed you whilst he
was speaking and saw the train of thought that had been
engaged. After a point, you began to wonder at the true
motives of our host and what I might make of him. You then
fidgeted, attempting to hide your distress, until I saw that
you had reached the point of suggesting the most obvious
gambit of a trip to the jakes. I thereupon made the
statement myself so as to disassociate the event from your
own movements. Quite elementary."
"Quite, I'm sure. Holmes! Tell me! Can the man be trusted?"
We thereupon entered the rest room and I have to admit that
there was not another word passed between us for some
minutes. The place was quite astounding, more like the
locker rooms of a club than a simple WC. After finding the
facilities we sought, we again convened in what could pass
for a lobby, just inside the door back to the bar.
"Your question answers itself, Watson. Can the man be
trusted? The man. You know that he is actually no closer to
being a 'man' than we are to being oak trees, or oysters.
Yet you see him as a man. He acts like a man, looks like a
man, speaks as a man- so he is easier to accept than, for
example, our waiter- who's differences are openly visible.
You accept the Professor for what he appears to be, Watson.
Yet you ask for my conclusions? The man exudes an aura of
trustworthiness. I have detected no signals being passed
between Thornby and the Professor, as would be present if
they were trying to dupe us in some way. To be brief- I
believe them, Watson. I think that just as Lestrade and
Gregson were to be trusted as allies, so can Thornby and the
Professor. There are yet a few pieces to the puzzle to be
uncovered and we will be ready to take Jones in hand."
"And deliver him where?"
"To whomever has jurisdiction over his peculiar crime.
We will find that out shortly. Come Watson, the game is
still afoot!"
**********
Guiles and the Professor were jubilant when we rejoined
them.
"The copy is done and the overlay to the museum is in
place, ready for the night of the robbery," said the
Professor as Holmes and I seated ourselves. "This also
explains Thornby's difficulties, Holmes. At the time that
you were watching him, he did not know that he was trying to
make copies of copies. Naturally, the equipment that he had
didn't work correctly. Also, he thought that several people
were dogging his footsteps-besides Jones, of course -they
all turned out to be you, in various disguises."
"What is an 'overlay'? I have not heard the term
before," I said.
"Excellent question, Watson. Obviously it is the
entrance to our trap, but I must confess that I am
unfamiliar with the usage of the word, myself. I would
surmise that it is a false entrance to the British Museum
that leads into the false copy, rather than into the real
museum. Thus we do not have to actually carry away the
entire museum and replace it with our false one. We simply
insure that no matter where Jones chooses to make his entry,
it is into our trap and not the real museum that he gains
entry."
"Exactly so, Holmes," said the Professor. "We couldn't
very well steal the whole museum away and replace it with
our copy. No, the real museum is still there and safe. But
no matter which door or window Jones and his men use, our
trap is waiting behind. In a way, you could say that our
overlay is between the real world and the real museum, like
the skin of an onion or the shell of a nut."
"Yes," added Thornby. "Now all we do is wait for Jones
to take the bait and the trap is sprung! We even have a lead
on his ship's registry, so we can begin the search for the
proper authorities to turn him over to."
"Excellent news," exclaimed Holmes. "I take it that we
can proceed against Jones whenever the search for the proper
police agency is successful?"
"Exactly, Holmes," said Thornby. "That's all that we
lack to bring the man in."
"A bit more waiting, I'm afraid," added the Professor.
After a glance towards his typewriter, he expanded his
statement. "I never thought that I'd see the like of this-
Where the search for a policeman takes up more time than
finding a thief. But there, in a nutshell, is all that we
need for the case to conclude. We can collect Jones at will,
once the results of this last search are in."
"Doughnut shop..." blurted out Guiles, trying to stifle
giggles. The Professor ignored his outburst with massive
dignity.
"I wonder if I need a Siberian wooly mammoth for my
collection," mused the Professor mysteriously, while staring
at Thornby. "Not a dead one frozen in ice, but a live one-
up and about?"
"I'll be good," announced Thornby, under the glare of
his employer's eye.
The evening wore on, though we had all had a good time,
we were all relieved when the Professor's typewriter beeped
again in signal that the correct other-worldly police agency
had been found to deal with Jones. Now we could proceed
against him. Our trap was set, the bait placed, now we had
but to go and collect our prize.
"Gentlemen," said Holmes when the signal had come in and
its import understood. "The game, is well and truly afoot.
As soon as Jones takes the bait, the locations of the
missing artwork should appear unto the Professor's
equipment. We can then move against him with the aid of his
own world's police. I propose a final toast before we repair
to the British Museum. To Cyrus Jones, may he find that
prison suits him well."
"Hear, hear!" we all echoed.
**********
Yet, it was not fated to be the moment that we laid
Jones by the heels. As our final preparations were enacted,
we hung upon the Professor's every word as he quoted from
his typewriter. We listened as Jones and his hirelings
entered the Museum by stealth, as they then entered what the
Professor termed an "overlay" that was our false museum-
hall, to trigger the trap and make good the their theft of
the first load of works smuggled away from the museum. As
they began the second truck load, The police of Jones' own
world as, well as our own agents that we had alerted struck,
the hirelings were arrested, Jones detained... And then
disaster struck. It was Holmes who had the first inkling of
trouble.
"Something is not right," Holmes muttered. "It has been
too easy. Our ultimate foe should not have given up his
agent so quickly. Jones should have been more hesitant..."
"Holmes," said Thornby. "Against this set-up, he hasn't
the ghost of a chance." Famous last words... The Professor's
typewriter gave of a warning sound of a quite different tone
and we all whipped 'round to give him our attention.
"Ghost is right, by thunder! This isn't physically
possible! I had his every avenue of escape covered! He
vanished! He escaped his own world's detective agents,"
shouted the Professor. "While they separated him from his
local help that the Yard was taking in tow, he somehow
managed to give them the slip! He's gone from my instruments
entirely! Holmes- How did you know?"
"Results without causes are much more impressive. I am
afraid that my explanation may disillusion you, but it has
always been my habit to hide none of my methods, either from
my friend Watson of from anyone who might take an
intelligent interest in them. Very well, to put the matter
concisely; I have had the advantage of observing Jones for
some weeks... As of tonight, I have now had the honour of
observing Mr. Thornby- out of his disguise, so to speak. I
have noticed several similarities in their behaviour and
mannerisms. Without taking the time to list them, I can say
that the indications are that Jones is also in disguise,
from a time or place of very high technology, and also is as
familiar with several of the amenities of your present day
as is Mr. Thornby. Therefore, it is clear to me that despite
the evidence of your equipment, Jones is no stranger to
these modern times of yours. One drawback of an active mind
is that one can always conceive alternate explanations which
would make our scent a false one. Thus we fell into the trap
of the attractive, but false, scent of Jones' employer being
contemporary to the crime. We ignored the possibility that
Jones' employer may be able to deceive our instruments- to
make them give false results. He was underestimated. We must
redouble our efforts with this new information and avoid the
false premise that our enemy is bound to one era of time. I
suggest that we extend our search for the stolen artwork
into the future, if your equipment is able to do so. Our foe
may be from some point in the future rather than
contemporary with the crime itself. All is not yet lost...
Consider- He has escaped, but with our traceable copies
rather than the originals. Therefore, we will trace him- but
how long will it take?"
"It will take as much as thirty minutes for the last of
the changes in time made by the tracers to be detectable to
my instruments," sighed the Professor. "Once we eliminate
the past as a hunting ground, Mr. Holmes, I will then take
your suggestion to heart. The future is a much harder thing
to search... I hope that we can at least confine the search
to the present day era. We shall see."
"These are much deeper waters than I had thought," said
Holmes. "When once your point of view is changed, the very
thing which was so damning becomes a clue to the truth. I am
as much guilty of underestimating our foe as anyone. It
positively galls me that Jones got away so easily. He felt
so clever and so sure of himself that he imagined no one
could touch him. He could say to any suspicious contemporary
neighbor, 'Look at the steps I have taken. I have consulted
not only the police, but even Sherlock Holmes.' Thus he
prepared an alibi for the men of the Yard. All the cards are
at present against us. In our own time, that is. Here, we
may yet have some ability to act."
"Thornby," said the Professor quietly. "Go back to the
Museum- my Museum, Castle of the Winds -and contact Maxwell. He is the one agent
that could possibly keep up with Jones as he makes his
escape. Pull Maxwell back from whatever he is doing and re-
assign him to the period that yourself, Jones, and Holmes
were doing your dance in the British Museum. I want him
ready to follow Jones when he makes his escape from those
Tourlanatti Customs agents. Follow Jones- No matter where,
no matter when, tell him. You understand."
"Boss? Aren't you-"
"Then message every last scout and bring them in on the
matter. Have them look for the tagged items, watch Jones'
ship orbiting the moon, and keep an ear on Maxwell's
reports. When Jones escapes, Maxwell can follow him...
Perhaps better than anyone. I want this Jones, and his
employer, in jail... No back talk, Thornby. There will be a
door to Castle of the Winds behind the bar by now. I
summoned one while we were speaking. Go to it, Guiles. Get
everyone moving- We're not going to let ourselves get caught
lagging a second time."
"Yes sir," said Thornby. Then he got up and walked to
the bar, only to disappear behind it a moment later. I could
swear that the door that he went through had not been there
earlier.
"Holmes," said the Professor. "It appears to me that I
have not paid sufficient attention to your deductions. To my
chagrin, I find myself empty-handed when I was sure that I
would have my thief in custody by now. I promise that I will
not make that mistake again. Tell me, what are your views of
our enemy? Not just Jones, but his employer. I need to make
plans against him, and I want to make the correct plans this
time."
"Holmes," I said. "Have you seen enough of Jones to
extrapolate what his employer must be like?"
"Indeed, I can say that I have come to a few tentative
conclusions about our elusive enemy. He is not unlike a
director of a play, or perhaps better yet- a chess player.
Yes, that is it! A chess player! He has his board set, his
pieces in place. He sees the moves of all the pieces on the
board and is able to deduce our possible moves from our
position on the board so far. If I may term it so, then this
agent of yours, Maxwell, is to represent our knight-
striking from odd angles and around corners. Thornby and I
are bishops- angling about Jones and seeking to immobilize
him. Watson here is a sturdy pawn, awaiting the moment to
throw his strength into the play. And you sir, are our king-
whose subtle moves need to be protected from our opponent."
"Rather, Maxwell is our queen- able to travel any
distance, in any direction, and strike our foe deep in the
heart of his own territory," the Professor corrected Holmes
gently. "Otherwise, your analogy is perfect. My scouts
therefore become our knights, rooks, and the rest of our
pawns."
"Thank you for the clarification," said Holmes. "Now for
our opponent; He is at or near your own level of technology
and ability. He may turn out to be the only possessor of our
stolen goods, rather than a fence for them. In fact, I am
sure that he will not wish to sell the items to another
after going to such extremes to possess them himself. He
will be vastly wealthy, for such a hobby cannot be cheaply
maintained. He will be used to circumventing the law, thus
this is not his first crime, but rather his latest. He will
have a substantial organization to command- We may need to
be on our guard against assassins -and will be quite
ruthless in his discipline of his organization's members. I
would suggest a search for the names of the most wealthy art
collectors who have demonstrated a casual disregard for the
law in the past. He may tend to specialize his collection to
items from either Earth particularly, or from emerging
worlds such as Earth. He will not be outwardly ostentatious
in his dress, manner, or residence, but he will often
disappear from these familiar things to command his secret
army from some hidden fast-hold. He may or may not be
insane, as I understand the definition, for he may be so
alien as to think that his actions are not wrong, but if
theft is wrong for his people then he stands a better chance
of being considered insane. Professor Grey? It comes to me
that if the stolen items were all from our copy of the
museum and that the real museum has not been robbed, why was
there a report listing the stolen items?"
"Well Holmes, the Yard had to say something about the
raid that netted the local gang. None of them got away,
unlike Jones. As for the missing items, I had a crew remove
them to various of the museum's own storage facilities, but
I did not alter the museum's own inventory sheets- so they
still have the items, but do not yet know that they have
them. The things are simply lost in the system. Once the
originals were safe, I anchored the overlay on the copies
that were on my list as having never been recovered. The
museum looked normal to the naked eye, but the overlay was
there all the same. Each copy hung or lay where it's
original had, each tagged for our detection. I feel sure
that the tags will yet become visible to us."
"But what precisely is the overlay, Professor? I feel
rather stupid here," I said grumpily. It is true, in this
alien, future world I felt like a backward savage. I had
gawked at buildings, I had goggled at the colours of the
skins of the human-looking aliens, I panicked at the sight
of the non-human creatures. It was only here in this very
normal-seeming environment that I was able to escape the
sensations of being madly ripped from the familiar. In fear,
let it be known, I sought information, the better to cope
with the truth of my present location.
"Doctor, the overlay is what I call the area of over-lap
of the copy of the museum that we recorded and edited, and
the real museum. The real museum is unharmed, unchanged,
safe from Jones and his gang. The copy... The copy is partly
inside of the real museum, partly outside the real museum-
like a second skin -and partly- mostly -in another dimension
that is very close to your own, but separate from it by the
smallest margin. If the overlay were of a street corner
somewhere in London, people on the sidewalks could walk in
and back out of it without noticing any change. They would
travel from one dimension to another without noticing. As
far as our trap goes, in effect, Jones could walk into the
front door of the museum, and- in the space of the thickness
of the doorway -walk into our copy of the museum instead of
the real thing. We would intercept him in the course of
traversing the doorway, so to speak."
"Professor, have any of the tagged items yet shown up
upon your search engines?"
"No Holmes, and they should have. There has now been
plenty of objective time to pass for the tags on the
artworks to effect their changes in the past. No matter
where or when they are now, my machines should have found
them. For someone to shield the tracers from my instruments
is highly unlikely. In fact, it would be more probable that
the villain is from farther in the future than we are right
now, than it is for my instruments to be blinded to the
tracer tags being anywhen between now and the dawn of
creation. The past is fairly fixed- and thus easier to scan,
the future is harder for the same reason that it would be
harder to track one speck of dust in a desert sandstorm...
Too many possible changes make the future more fluid than
the past. Plus, each dimension has it's own past and future.
Time is as infinite sideways as it is forward and back..."
the Professor trailed off as if in sudden inspiration. "The
energy necessary to cross time or dimensions would be
traceable to my instruments if they knew what sorts of
energy to look for... Perhaps we could come at them
sideways, so to speak, by locating sources of energy
affecting the British Museum on the night in question.
Another thing to add to Maxwell's programming when he
reports."
"Holmes? What you were saying earlier," I asked. "Didn't
you imply that the enemy would have a stronghold somewhere?"
"Why yes Watson, so I did. You have a thought upon the
matter? Out with it, old man. Professor, Watson is known for
making intuitive leaps that ofttimes outstrip my own
deductions. He is capable of the imagination so lacking in
Lestrade and Gregson. Come Watson, what was your thought?"
"Well, I don't know about all that guff, Holmes, but
thank you. But my thoughts on the enemy were that if he did
indeed have a fortress somewhere, and if indeed he was able
to travel in time..."
"Stout fellow!" exclaimed Holmes. "Go on, I think I see
it, but make it clear for me."
"Well, would not this base require a lot of the very
energies the Professor's machinery also uses? Could we not
look for these energies in use and compare them with the
list of wealthy art collectors who have been found to be
possessed of criminal connections? A name upon both lists
would be further evidence of guilt, to my mind."
"Watson, you continue to amaze me," said Holmes.
"Professor, Watson has raised a valid point that may ease
our search. Can you trace someone who has abilities and
tools like your own?"
"Absolutely, Holmes! In fact, I usually have just such a
program running in the background on my museum's computers. It is somewhat of a security program, you see. I use it to
track potential hazards of my own. My fellows from my home
world, various warlords, invasions, revolutions, and other
occurrences that may affect one of my archaeological digs..."
"Splendid! Instruct this marvelous 'program' with our
observations so far and let us see what we may see."
"Holmes, Watson, this investigation shall take much more
subjective time than I originally envisioned. I know that my
people will perform as instructed... Shall we repair to the
outer room to await results? I know that there are a lot of
people out there who would like to meet the both of you. In
fact, I just received a message from Trixie, the waitress
that Thornby said you met on your way in... A message that
threatens my very life if she is not permitted to make your
acquaintance," the Professor laughed heartily. "Please, to
avoid the ire of a beautiful woman, would you mind
terribly?"
"Oh very well," sighed Holmes. But I could tell from his
manner that his ego had been peaked by the thought of others
that valued his work. Or perhaps it was just the memory of
the short skirt and long legs of Trixie. Holmes may have
avoided female entanglements all his life, but the man who
could ignore a summons from that young lady had yet to be
born, I surmised. That woman could inspire a statue to
embarrassment, I believe. To my delight, Holmes accepted the
Professor's request and I once more found myself in that
formidable crowd of patrons in the large room outside our
comfy nook. Again I could examine the variety of life forms
from distant worlds. Here, a winged snake conversed with a
woman made of flame, there two blubbery individuals not
unlike walruses hooted and bellowed to one another. In
another place, a woman who appeared to be made of liquid
silver sat, nude, conversing with a green-skinned man in
purple robes. In yet another place, a school of small fish
swam in the very air over one table, while their companion
appeared to be a sphinx who was drinking some glowing, ale-
like beverage. I saw many more patrons who appeared to be
human in every way, as well as several who's bodies looked
human in shape but possessed wildly varying colours of skin
and hair.
As if sensing my distress, Holmes began asking questions
of the Professor- "Professor Grey, these strange
creatures..."
"Are all to be considered people, Holmes, Doctor. They
are but a few of the strange shapes that life has moulded
into intelligence. On a busy day, the Mare Inebrium will
serve several hundred different life-forms... They could
range in size from sprites who could stand in the palm of
your hand, to beings larger than whales. The Mare even has
other rooms for beings who need special atmospheres... As
you have seen, this main room has various smaller, more
intimate rooms with differing themes. We were just in the
Club, Piper's its beginning to be called- Not sure why.
Across the room near the center of the wall is an entrance
to rooms that have a 'raw frontier' set of themes. More
saloons than anything like the Club. One of them, the Red
Dog Saloon, can get a bit rough, at times."
"Professor? Why are there such a predominance of Earth-like
people here? Is the human form to dominate above others
in all the worlds? From my studies, I had rather thought
that the chance of any person from another world appearing
to pass for the next-door neighbor were rather slim. Once I
accepted that Watson and I were traveling to another world,
I expected the un-Earthly shapes of some of our fellow
beings. Why then are there so many human-like aliens?"
Holmes' question, once asked, aroused my curiosity as well.
I waited eagerly for the reply.
"Why no, Holmes. There are many more non-human types of
life than there are humanoids. There is nothing special
about the shape that houses an intelligence. Indeed,
humanoids- Earth humans in particular -are widespread, but
they are far outnumbered by the other variety of intelligent
beings. The sample that you see here is decidedly weighted
in the favor of humanoids simply because this world is
extremely well suited for them. This world has become an
important shipping port and this city itself is a tourist
attraction, in a small way. There are important diplomatic
Embassies here, from dozens of worlds. A lot of the
Diplomats come here, simply because we can accommodate so
many differing life forms. There's one now, matter of fact.
Let's go meet him."
I look to where the Professor was indicating and froze.
I was shocked for a moment, then I recovered. I took a sip
of the drink that I'd thoughtfully retained from our table
at the Club. The being that we were now walking toward to
meet was none other than the giant scorpion that I had
glimpsed earlier in the Club. I had not forgotten the waiter
addressing him as "Sir", nor had I forgotten the bartender's
voice calling the creature "Brigadier". As we approached the
creature, I re-thought my estimate of his size. Rather than
being in any way elephantine, the creature's body was more
the size of a Clydesdale, or a Percheron horse. Its body was
about shoulder height from the floor, supported by eight
graceful legs- though the claws on his two arms were each as
long as my shoulders are wide. He appeared to have two
bright-blue eyes, on stalks above his mouth. I noticed that
he had a small black and chrome box on his right arm, near
the shoulder. The box was labeled in English, for I could
read the word "Fender" emblazoned like a trademark upon the
box. I took this to be the being's translator device. He
wore a wide blue sash from his left front shoulder to his
hind-most right hip- If a scorpion could be said to have a
hip. I could see small ribbons and medals pinned to this
sash. That would make sense if indeed this creature was a
soldier of high rank. But the Professor had indicated that
this being was a diplomat of some sort. And I recalled
Thornby saying that this creature was several centuries old,
yet middle-aged.
"Kazsh-ak Teir, old D'rrish, I'd like you to meet
someone," said the Professor, once we had walked close to
the giant scorpion. "Kazsh-ak Teir, Ambassador of the
D'rrish colony upon Bethdish- May I present Mr. Sherlock
Holmes and Dr. John Watson, of London, upon Earth."
The creature turned and quirked up an eyestalk in what I
took to be surprise at the names of Holmes and myself. His
movements were quite graceful- for a creature that size. Yet
I could not forget his stinger as it arched eight feet in
the air behind him. "It is indeed a great honour," came a
deep voice from out of the Fender-box. "I have read all of
the good Doctor's publishings of your cases, Mr. Holmes. It
is a pleasure to meet you. Dr. Watson, I thank you for many
hours of pleasurable reading. What, may I ask, brings you
forward to our fair city? Grey, have you been meddling
again?"
"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Ambassador.
Watson and I are visiting this world upon a case. The
Professor was kind enough to assist us in the attempt to
apprehend an art thief. Although we have yet to be
successful... At the moment, we are awaiting results of a
search- and thus taking a break from our labours. You do not
seem surprised by the fact of our traveling in time, Sir.
May I ask why?"
"Please, call me Kazsh-ak. I prefer to shed the carapace of
diplomacy when I am here. This is the place I come to relax,
away from the worries of the Embassy. As to your question,
sir- When I see Grey in the company of someone not of this
time, I feel no surprise. I have known his man Thornby for
nearly a century now. The two of us have shared many
adventures together. I have also assisted Grey on several
other matters myself, over the years. Nothing that involves
Professor Grey surprises me any longer. Pleases me, amazes
me, amuses me, but no more surprises."
"I see," said Holmes.
"I overheard the barman in the Club call you
'Brigadier'..." I said. "You left the military for the
diplomatic corps?"
"A bit of a family obligation, I'm afraid," replied
Kazsh-ak. "My family is one of the more obscure lineages of our
people's royal family. As a minor son of a minor house, I
inherited the mantle of the diplomatic corps upon my
retirement from the City Guard. It fell to our line to become
diplomats, you see. Runs in the family, don't you know.
Although- my fourteenth daughter has been
selected the twelfth Princess of the present Royal family.
Something less than twenty steps from the throne in the line
of succession, but highly unlikely to ever have to assume
the responsibility. I am in partial retirement from the
diplomatic corps at the moment, myself, and she has assumed
most of my duties at the Embassy. She will eventually hand
over the post to my youngest son when he comes of age and
finishes his training. Of course, that will not be for sixty
years or so. Gentlemen, I fear that I must repair to the bar
to obtain another beverage. I would be honoured if you would
accompany me."
"A pleasure, Sir," I replied. I had recovered from my fear
of this odd person, and was beginning to enjoy his company.
"Yes," added Holmes. "I fear that we have unfinished
business with a young barmaid who is threatening mayhem if
she is ignored for much longer."
"Yes," I said innocently. "That would be Miss Trixie."
"Steady Watson!" Holmes quipped, smiling. "The fairer
sex has always been your main weakness."
"I am used to such outpourings," I replied with mock
dignity. "And so I simply consider the source and dismiss
the remark as being from one... inexperienced, shall we say,
in such matters." I grinned at Holmes to show that my
reposte' was meant in humour. To the best of my knowledge,
Holmes has only ever felt the tenderer emotions towards two
women in his life. Of course, the most intense of these was
The Woman, Miss Adler, of my Bohemian Scandal story. Holmes
never forgot her as having bested him at his own game- As
well as acquitting herself honourably in the situation. At
least, she did so in my esteem. Holmes and I were young yet,
then. I'm sure now that the Irene Adler of that time would
not stand a chance against the present Holmes. Yet still, at
any mention of her, for the rest of his life, he toyed with
the sovereign that she tipped him whilst he was in disguise
and drafted as a witness to her hurried marriage to Godfrey
Norton. He had carried that coin as a fob upon his watch
chain from that day unto this.
The other? Holmes has yet to see fit to inform me
officially, so I fear that I must keep my own deductions on
the matter to myself. As a gentleman, it is not my place to
gossip, nor to drop hints for some later pseudo-scholar to
dissect. Suffice it to say that Holmes was not really as
celibate as my stories in the magazines might lead one to
believe. The Other Woman- if I may coin a term -who had
engaged Holmes' affections over the years is someone who's
privacy Holmes protects with commendable chivalry. We never
speak of the matter at all, he and I. I know of her, he is
aware that I know, and that is all that needs be said upon
the matter. Unless Holmes himself deigns to speak out, my
lips are sealed. Yet we joke to each other, such is our
friendship.
"Yes, well..." Holmes said.
"The human male who can say no to Trixie has yet to be
born," observed Kazsh-ak. "The maiden hath charms to soothe
the savage... ah, beast." The Ambassador laughed, or at
least, a laugh issued from the Fender-box that he wore. For
some reason, the accent spoken by his translator device left
me feeling slightly home-sick. He sounded so very much like
any bluff and hearty gentleman from some ministry of the
government in London. I liked his kindly tone of voice, for
all the fact that the voice came out of a box.
"In fact," observed Grey. "Here is the lady herself.
Trixie, you're looking lovely this evening."
"Thank you, Professor. Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson," she said as we approached the
main bar. "It is such a pleasure to meet you both. I've
admired your work for so long."
"Not too long, I'm sure," said Holmes. "For you cannot
yet be much over twenty five years of age at the most. I
take it that you have read the Doctor's romanticized
accounts of some of my cases?"
"Oh, yes! I've read everything that Dr. Watson ever
wrote. And I looked up a few of your own monographs in the
library as well, Mr. Holmes. I'm a great fan! My boyfriend
Max is a fan too. Aren't you Max?"
The gentleman in question was a handsome fellow behind
the bar. He laughed and introduced himself to Holmes and I.
"Yes," he answered Trixie. "I've always like mysteries.
Dr. Watson's accounts always let Mr. Holmes' methods shine
with their true worth. I always enjoyed trying to pick out
the clues as Holmes did, each time I re-read one of Watson's
stories. The two of you have led me to countless hours of
thought. Thank you."
"My pleasure, I'm sure," I said.
"Quite," added Holmes. "It is gratifying to note that
Watson and myself are apparently held in such high esteem
some three hundred-odd years after our eventual demise."
"Most people never get to know what the future thinks of
them," said Max. "Call yourselves lucky that you were such a
positive force in history. Almost everyone, anywhere has
seen or read one of the Doctor's accounts of one of Holmes'
cases. 'Hound of the Baskerville's' is the most common."
"I'm not unduly proud of that one," I mused. "It is one
of my finer efforts, I think. I managed to capture the
atmosphere of the moor and the hound without resorting to
the supernatural for drama. Holmes leaving me to think that
I was alone whilst he himself was camping upon the moor
added a nice touch. Even nicer because it was real. Holmes
always did have a flair for the dramatic."
"Watson, you can always be proud of your work," said
Holmes. "If I have at times accused you of stooping to
romance when recounting one of my little problems, rest
assured that I knew that your accounts were the best way of
placing my methods before the public eye. You have always
been able to speak to the man in the street with your pen,
Watson. I applaud your talents even as you have applauded my
own efforts upon the violin."
I answered such unaccustomed praise in the only manner
which I could. I gave Holmes a slight bow, and smiled
proudly. I treasured my friend's opinion above all others.
Even as I made further smalltalk with Trixie and Max, I felt
the warmth of my friend's words in my heart.
"Polios," began Max- but at a look from the Professor he
gulped and began again. "Grey, would you or your guests care
for another drink. I see that the Doctor's glass is empty."
"I, for one, came up here just to get another round,"
said Kazsh-ak. "My usual, Max."
"Yes," added the Professor. "A round on the house in
honour of Holmes' and Watson's visit. My treat..."
"Yes Sir!" snapped Max, passing glasses and pouring
drinks. "The good stuff, for three hundred and fifty seven...
Good thing that you own--"
"Max," said the Professor in a firm tone of voice.
"Yes sir, the customer is always right," Max replied
suddenly. He, Trixie, and another waitress began passing out
rounds of drinks. The other waitress was later introduced to
me as Blanche. A thoroughly pleasant young lady, I found her
to be. When the round was dispersed, we all rejoined in the
conversation. We talked of many things besides my humble
literary efforts, I am thankful to say. All that praise was
likely to go to my head. Many strange and mysterious things
were related to Holmes and myself over the course of the
evening. I dare say that Holmes had begun to wish to have
been born into these later times so as to be on hand to
study those strange, new mysteries, by the time our evening
was done. Holmes, I'm sure, enjoyed the attention. His
vanity was always within easy reach, but this only made him
look more normal. His thoughts, being so much more rapid
that the average man's, tended to isolate him and make him
appear aloof to those who did not know him well. I was
particularly glad to note that Holmes and Trixie disappeared
together for at least an hour. Trixie returned looking
radiant, smiled at Max- who shrugged and smiled himself -
then went on about her work. Holmes appeared about ten
minutes later, looking very relaxed. I haven't the foggiest
idea of what went on- And as a gentleman, I refuse to engage
in idle speculation. I simply smiled to myself and never
brought the matter up to Holmes at all. "I'll have to update that list,"
I muttered to myself.
**********
Yet, we were each of us glad, I think, when the
Professor passed us word that his agent, Maxwell, had made
good the pursuit of Jones. Thornby had returned some time
earlier and sat at the bar- oddly anti-social of him, I
thought. The Professor eventually spoke to him, then the two
of them spoke to the bartender. After a whispered
conversation with Max, the Professor led us behind the bar
to a small office. Various mementos and photographs in the
room led me to understand that the office belonged to Max.
Moments after our arrival, there came a knock upon the door.
"Come..." the Professor said loudly.
The man that entered was tall and strongly built. His
hair was short and dark, his features strangely regular and
average. His eyes were of indeterminate colour, and
reflected light oddly- such that I judged them to be
artificial in some way. At the Professor's invitation, he
sat. As he began to speak in well modulated tones, I noticed
that he had nothing in the way of body-language. He
exhibited an un-natural stillness, and some faint aura of
menace- Not directed at us, but rather as if he were some
elemental force, constrained to obedience.
"My report is inconclusive," he began. "I began by
returning to the British Museum and observing Holmes, Jones,
and Thornby during the time that they each watched the
others. On the night of the theft, I concealed myself and
recorded each movement Jones and his hirelings made in their
robbery. I knew that the first load of artworks had to evade
capture in order for our tracers to work, so I allowed it to
leave unmolested. I did, however, test the tracer tags and
mark the position of the stolen goods at all times. When the
raid began, I followed Jones and the Tourlanatti Customs
Agents and left the underlings to the locals. When Jones
made his escape, I was ready and I successfully followed
Jones to his hideaway. He first transported to his ship,
transported the contents of the vehicle that had escaped
with it's load to the ship, and got the ship underway. I
followed him out of the system, where they met with another
ship- a bigger, long-haul freighter -and transferred the
cargo and Jones. The freighter has been tagged so that I can
locate it again, by the way. The freighter proceeded along a
course that would take it to Sigma Draconis, possibly to
planets four or five, possibly just as an intermediate point
to a further destination. I kept following the freighter.
At Sigma Draconis four, Jones and
the cargo transferred to different ships awaiting there and
departed to separate locations. I followed Jones to a space
station orbiting in an asteroid belt around a burned-out
yellow dwarf star near Omicron Delta. There were seventy
three other ships docked to the station when Jones arrived.
Jones took a stateroom in the station and made no effort to
communicate to anyone, that I could detect. I entered the
station and observed Jones for several weeks as he remained
there. As he made no move to collect payment for the theft
or to contact any superiors, I felt it safe to assume that
he was awaiting contact from his employer and feared to act
further until contact was made. After another month passed,
my observations of the shipping traffic of the station led
me to believe that it was the waypoint of a vast smuggling
ring. Jones was eventually met by a Tral-d-nex-coukh
messenger, whereupon he immediately left on the next
departing ship. That ship went to Proxima Agornius Seven,
where Jones disembarked and attempted to loose himself in
the native population. I tracked him to a small inn outside
of the eleventh largest city on the planet. There, he
received a credit voucher for the amount of 50 million
credits by regular Interplanet Mail. Within minutes of this
payment, Jones was accosted and beaten by a pair of thugs.
He was not robbed, and the thugs told Jones that his master
was not pleased with his performance. He was instructed to
complete the mission and steal the rest of his targets from
the British Museum. He left Proxima Agornius Seven the next
day, nursing his wounds. Since he is restricted in his
velocity by using contemporary shipping, I thought it
prudent to return and report. I still have not found his
employer, but in eighty weeks he will be back on Earth and
again attempting to plunder the museum. I placed tracer tags
on the thugs, but they were local talent and knew nothing of
their ultimate employer."
"You did good, Maxwell," said Thornby. "How long have
you been working on Jones since I contacted you this evening
and sent you out?"
"I have been gone from Castle of the Winds for six years
since this evening," Maxwell replied, as if he had just run
down to the chemist's for a tin of tooth powder. "I was able
to make much better time on the trip back. Jones spent five
years in transit in various ships."
"Reminds me of a Saturday night in Toledo, Ohio," said
Thornby. "I spent a week there, one day." He smiled for a
minute, then grimaced. "Boss, there's something else. A
report from the science team. They're getting a signal from
one of the tracers... But there's something weird. They
can't pin down it's location. And why just one?"
"Trap," said Maxwell. "Best approximation."
"Yes," replied the Professor. "Next would be that it is
being constantly moved, next would be that it is being
duplicated so perfectly that the tracer tag is being copied
as well. I'll check Castle of the Winds' logs to see if
anyone is using our own equipment. Frankly, I doubt it. My
own people are either too loyal, or too well insulated, to
need to stoop to theft. If they wanted to sell copies of
artwork, why would they steal? Given the time, effort,
resources, and knowledge that went into the museum robbery,
for my own people it would have been just so much wasted
time. They would have access to much greater resources. They
could much more easily have diverted copies made from my own
collections. Less chance of running up against Customs, much
quicker money, much less effort. No, I doubt that it is an
inside job. Still, I will check."
"Excellent Professor," said Holmes. "We must cover all
of the possibilities. Mr. Maxwell, have you made provisions
to keep Jones under surveilance while you are here?"
"Not necessary, I shall return to the moment that I
left. For him, no time will pass that I am not watching."
"More of the Professor's machinery," I said. "Or am I
mistaken?"
"No Doctor, you are quite right. Everyone in my employ
is quite familiar with time travel. Maxwell is simply better
at it than most. But as to the rest of the beings alive
today, time travel is still just a device that writers use
to comment upon the present day and it's foibles."
"No matter," said Holmes. "Watson and I are content to
accept what progress we cannot understand. The situation
seems to break down into another period of waiting,
Professor. I find inaction to be most tedious. Is there not
a way that we can accelerate matters so as to approach the
conclusion more quickly?"
"I'm afraid not, Holmes. You see, without going into the
mathematics of time travel and manipulation, I can explain
it only thus; We are part of this event- Participants,
rather than observers. Therefore, we cannot simply visit the
moment in time that we solve the case to obtain our answers.
No, because we are ourselves part of the puzzle, we have to
gain the solution by our own efforts. If we were to go
forward in time now, there would not yet be an answer for us
to obtain. In effect, we have to find the answer to the
question before we could go forward and receive the
answer..."
"Boss," said Thornby. "Circular logic will just make you
dizzy."
"Indeed," said Holmes. "I quite agree. Although I
understood the Professor's explanation, I must admit that
the logic is rather torturous. I still find it hard to
believe that even though we are dealing with events four
hundred years in the past, we are still constrained to watch
them unfold as if they have yet to occur."
"I cannot re-write the laws of physics, Holmes," replied
the Professor. "I can appear to evade some of them, due to
my own technologies, but I assure you that I am not working
magic. Rather I am working within the bounds of more
accurate physics than that you are familiar with."
"Trust me," said Thornby. "As much as you wish to get
back in the field, Holmes, you can achieve more from this
position the timeline than you could back in London of
nineteen twenty six. Here we can implement an entire plan,
watch it to its conclusion, observe our mistakes, and
implement a new plan... Without wasting subjective time
doing it."
"Subjective time," I began. "What do you mean by that?"
"Subjective- an adjective; 'Deriving from an individual
viewpoint or bias.' In other words, the time that each of us perceives to pass," replied
Maxwell. "For instance, while you gentlemen have lived
through roughly six hours since arriving on this world, I
have lived over six years in pursuit of Jones and his
master. In those same hours that you saw pass here, Thornby
returned to the Professor's home and lived through two weeks
of his own research upon Jones and his robbery. Then he
returned here. Those six hours are subjective time for
yourselves, the two weeks are subjective time for Thornby,
and the six years are subjective time for myself. All are
equally real, no matter how ridiculous that they sound as
having been equal to one another. In this case, objective
time can be said to be equal to that which any of us have
lived through. That is because there is no true objective
time, simply that by which we choose to operate at any given
time. We pretend that our own lives are the absolute by
which all other times are to be measured. The subjective
time only becomes important when several differing rates of
time passage have to be reconciled."
"A nice summation," said the Professor. "Simplified a
bit, but that's all right. Advanced cosmology gives me a
headache. I prefer archeology- much less stressful."
"In any case," said Holmes. "Jones' master still worries
me. Everything so far seems to point to the setting of a
trap... But for whom? Myself? Could Jones' ego alone be the
reason that he called me into this case? But the techniques
involved point to some competitor of the Professor's... What
are we to make of that? That someone from the Professor's
past has planed revenge in this form? Or could it be that
the villain is connected to both the Professor and I in some
way. I can think of only one individual that I have been
bested by that could possibly be involved in this matter,
but I have no evidence that it is indeed he. There is no
reason to believe that the Professor has known this
individual by the same name, so I shall keep my theories to
myself for the nonce."
"Holmes? What are you talking about? You've never
mentioned anything about anyone who could do the things that
Jones can do."
"Shame, Watson! You yourself recorded it in that little
tale of our problem at Thor Bridge. Your account of the
matter was very revealing, in light of the present
evidence."
Try as I might, I could see no connection between the
unfortunate death of that South American woman that centered
in the false murder charge of the case that Holmes
mentioned. Holmes had deduced the woman's self-inflicted
death was caused by a desire to throw suspicion upon the
governess in the case. I recall that the governess was a
pretty young thing, but her name escapes me at the moment.
Holmes had proved that she was innocent. I had had a few
moments of doubt concerning my friend- Perhaps the strain of
the many changes we had undergone tonight had un-nerved
him... But then, he is who he is... I have not spent half my
life assisting him, only to doubt him now. If Holmes says
that there is a connection between the Thor Bridge case and
the matter at hand, then it is not Holmes' fault that I
cannot fathom it. He will reveal his mind in time, of this I
am sure.
"Professor," continued Holmes. "In the matter of your
own enemies, so to speak, could I bother you to list them?
Just for the process of elimination, of course."
"Of course," the Professor replied. "You already realize
that I don't believe a word of it, Holmes. You're on to
something, I can tell. If it will help, I'll tell you about
the people that have decided that I am in their way over the
years..." He paused in thought, then spoke slowly. "Of my
own people, only a... son-in-law, I suppose is the best
term, that bears me any ill will. And he may not be alive. I
witnessed the break-up of his time capsule over seven
hundred years ago. I assume that he perished then, since he
has not attacked me since. As for others, from other worlds;
I have been attacked by pirates- both on other worlds and on
various ships, ridden in a space shuttle that was attacked
by a dragon, fought off claim-jumpers on an archaeological
dig on one forgotten world... I was trapped on another world
during a revolution that turned bloody- Over twenty million
executed before the despot responsible was assassinated. So
sad... Oh- I have had to turn the tables upon fellow
archaeologists who had other plans for the treasures that we
dug up, than to turn them over to a museum. More times than
I can count, it seems. Like some kind of universal law;
Either your colleagues are doddering stick-in-the-muds,
slowly-dissipating alcoholics, idealistic kids, or two-faced
buggers that intend to cut your throat and abscond with the
artifacts the dig has uncovered. On the whole, I prefer the
doddering strict-constructionists and the damn-fool
idealistic kids- At least them, you can argue with. Its hard
to argue with someone who needs you dead in order to make
some money. Holmes," the Professor shook his head. "A list
of the hundreds of fiends I've crossed and survived will
likely take all night. Most possibly, it will get you
nowhere as well. I don't feel as if I know this foe man- and
I would recognize someone I'd crossed before. He is new to
me, yet uses technologies that are familiar... I
wonder..."
"Yes, Professor. Please," I said. "The least thing could
turn out to be the most important. Don't you agree, Holmes?"
"No, Watson. I tend to trust the Professor's instincts.
If he feels that the being behind Jones is a stranger to
him, then I shall take that into account. This enemy-
According to the professor's instruments, he has not sold
all of the stolen items, nor has he let any but one become
known in four hundred years. And this one cannot be tied
down to a definite location, but rather it wanders about.
Gentlemen, I am reminded of the art of fishing."
"In what way, Holmes?" I asked.
"In particular of the care that an angler prepares his
bait for the type of fish he wishes to catch. Of how the
bait is dangled in front of the prey, with tiny movements
designed to entice the fish to take the bait."
"You agree that it is a trap?" Maxwell asked.
"Oh," Holmes replied. "Absolutely, it is a trap. But the
question remains; Is it a trap for the Professor? Or is it a
trap for me, set by some old enemy that has gained new
allies?"
"Gained new allies?"
"Yes Watson, unless an old foe of ours was really an
alien all along. Either would account for our present
dilemma."
"Holmes," I said. "I am used to not understanding what
you are going on about most-times, but am I to believe that
Colonel Moran or Morse Hudson- or someone quite like them -
might have been contacted by criminals from off of our
Earth?"
"It is only a possibility, Watson. It is far more likely
that the villain is someone that was originally from another
world, and that we brought him to book in some ordinary
crime. He would feel the need for some sort of revenge, I
assume, and find himself enabled to do so by somehow allying
himself with fellow criminals from other worlds."
"Unlikely," I retorted. "Wouldn't just shooting us from
ambush have been simpler?"
"Right to the drama, Watson? No, he would want to
impress his new allies with his deviousness. He would feel
inferior to those beings that could travel between worlds,
and so he would seek to impress them by allowing them to
witness his triumph. Unfortunately, we haven't seen fit to
give him one yet. Indeed, I see no reason to allow him a
triumph at all. Whoever he may be, I swear I shall have him,
Watson! I swear- I shall have him!"
"Indeed," said the Professor in a grave voice. "It seems
that we are decided. Now it falls to us to make our plans
and see that Jones and his master cannot prevail." The
Professor paused, as if in deep reflection. "I believe it is
time to take chances, my friends. We need to go to the
location of the tagged treasure and yet have a way to escape
from whatever deadly contraption that we know has to be
there."
"Can we at least examine the area that the signal is
coming from? Preparations for an ambush might be visible. Or
some explosive device."
"Sounds like my job," said Maxwell. "I'll look into it
myself, rather than put anyone at risk."
"Thank you, my boy," the Professor said. "I hadn't
wanted to ask it of you."
"But what of the danger? Mr. Maxwell," I asked. "Are you
not at great risk? Surely your life is too valuable to throw
away just to spring what you already know to be a trap!"
"Steady on, Watson. I perceive that Mr. Maxwell is more
than he appears. I think it safe to assume that any danger
to him would be minimal."
"What do you mean, Holmes?"
"Certainly I have asked you to apply my methods many
times before, Watson. Do so now, observe Mr. Maxwell, and
give us your deductions."
My friend Sherlock Holmes could, upon occasion, become
quite annoying. He knew full well that he would see more,
and in far more detail, than would I in any examination of
this Maxwell fellow. I fumed for a moment, then got myself
in check. I managed to keep my voice in an even tone as I
spoke. Still, I made a note to myself to have a few sharp
words with Holmes in private, if this exercise had no other
end in mind than my own embarrassment.
"Very well," I said. "There were a few things that I
have noticed about Mr. Maxwell. Beyond the obvious that he
is a tall and powerfully built individual of early middle-age,
I noticed a certain artificiality in the appearance of
his eyes. I deduce either a prosthesis applied to overcome some
hereditary condition, or in recovery from some debilitating injury.
Maxwell also displays little nervous motion- He is un-naturally
still, perhaps from nerve damage also stemming
from the same injury. Yet his movements are fluid and
show no sign of nerve damage. He positively radiates self-confidence,
appears quite cunning, but seems to exhibit less
consideration of the dangers we predict. Therefore I feel it
evident that he is a seasoned veteran, a soldier of some
sort. He has done this sort of thing before, and therefore
feels that he knows what to expect. Beyond that, I can see
no more. I trust that I missed nothing of consequence?"
Holmes looked at me for a moment, without speaking. Then
with one of those familiar quick smiles, he burst into
speech. "You are progressing well, Watson. Although... Well,
I question one or two of your deductions, shall we say. I
see that you have observed a great deal, indeed. But I think
that your conclusions are suffering from too much reliance
upon the familiar of our own time. No Watson, I feel sure
that the strange gleam of Maxwell's eyes are from a
hurriedly adopted disguise. True, they betray that they are
artificial, but I put it to you that it is Maxwell that is
artificial- Not just his eyes. The lack of involuntary
movement suggests to me not injury, but a true lack of
motion- Something un-necessary for a machine at rest. The
fluidity of movement of the limbs suggests that the form
that we see before us is not Maxwell's natural one, but that
which he has adopted for convenience when interacting with
our kind. As for his military background, he would be better
suited as a spy than a soldier, considering the ability of
perfect disguise that I must assume that he possesses.
And as a machine, he would naturally be more durable than
we. He no doubt can withstand the blast of a assassin's
bomb, or be unaffected by his guns. I perceive Mr. Maxwell
to be a superb work of art- An intelligent machine!
Admirable, indeed! Cool calculation, calm observation... Mr.
Maxwell, I cannot help but envy you."
"Ten out of ten Holmes," said Thornby, grinning widely.
"Indeed," replied Maxwell as he bowed his head slightly
to Holmes. "You are very observant, Mr. Holmes."
"Quite" added the Professor. "Maxwell is just as you
say. But also quite a bit more. I found Maxwell floating,
adrift in the empty reaches of space- Between the stars. He
had been long dead- shut down, heavily damaged -just
drifting at random. From the damage done to him by the
vacuum itself and the condition of his surface from micro-meteorite
impacts, I was able to estimate that Maxwell had
been damaged and de-activated over five billions of years
ago. And that is a gulf of time such as to make the mere
four hundred years between you and I to be as nothing- A
mere snap of the fingers! After a time, I was able to repair
Maxwell. At first, I had him under the most stringent of
security measures. I had studied him for a long time before
beginning his repairs. I knew him to be some type of super-weapon,
built to infiltrate world after world. To what end?
To the end of conquest, or destruction- at the
bequest of alien masters, so long dead that the dust of
their bones has been drifting upon the winds of space... Oh,
longer than your sun has burned in the sky. I eventually overcame Maxwell's original
programming for destruction, then turned control of his life
over to him."
"I had developed a conscience, you see," Maxwell said.
His voice was nigh emotionless as he continued. "I
remembered the Old Ones that had built me- and others like
me. I remembered studying world after world of primitive
innocents, then being ordered to devastate their worlds.
Being forced to obey. Having to turn against beings that I
admired- and sometimes cared about... My will was not my own.
I have killed millions- All innocent of anything but
possessing a life. That- That is what my masters saw as a threat- Lives
beyond their control. All my past deeds haunted me, but
without free will, I was helpless. I railed against my
orders... Tried to disobey... But until the Last War, I was
helpless against my master's will. Other living weapons,
like myself, banded together to free ourselves from our
master's control. In the end, we succeeded. We turned upon
them. Using their own weapons, we punished them for the
thousands of centuries of death and destruction that they
had wrought through our slavery. We hunted them down, to the
very last one. There, my memory of those times end. I knew
no more until I awoke in the Professor's Museum. Castle of
the Winds has been my home, since the Professor gifted me
with both free will and a new life. As for danger to me, Doctor-
Your concern does you credit as a thinking and feeling
being. However, I have stood upon the surface of burning
suns and caused them to explode beneath my feet. I feel that
I can safely ignore the assassin's bullet or the terrorist's
bombs. My concern is for the bystanders- How may we preserve
them from harm?"
"And now it is my turn to state that your concern does
you credit, Mr. Maxwell," I said. "This is marvelous! A
living, thinking, feeling machine? How is it possible? But
the agony you must have suffered as a slave to the will of
these horrid masters... I can hardly grasp..."
"As to my form, Doctor," Maxwell began. "Just as your own
body is made up of individual cells, the cells of my body
are tiny machines. By working together, the same way that
cells of your own body work together, I appear to be one
individual creature. Truly, I am an aggregate of the myriad
tiny machines that make up my cells. They can move, re-organize
themselves, so that I can disguise myself as any
living being- or even inanimate objects. And the power
source that sustains me is so vast as to make me
invulnerable, invincible..." Suiting action to words,
Maxwell's features flowed like hot wax, then settled into
the form of my friend. Like mirror images, I was now faced
by two Sherlock Holmes. Then the features of Maxwell flowed
again and the image there was that of Thornby, then again
and the maid Trixie sat opposite me, then the bartender,
then Maxwell returned to his former shape. "I am the perfect
spy, the perfect weapon. I can go anywhere unseen, un-noticed.
And nothing can harm me without destroying all of
creation first. I have weapons hidden within my form- I need
carry nothing on my person that can be detected by any
search. In short, I am all that Holmes and Watson supposed
me to be, and more. Yet I mourn those lives I was forced to take before I
gained free will. I can never forget, I can never forgive...
I can try to make amends now- that is all.
Gentlemen, I must soon return to Jones. Before then, I shall return
here shortly to report upon the nature of the trap that has been
set for us." Maxwell then arose from his seat, gave a nod to
the Professor, and strode from the room without a backward
glance.
**********
Then there occurred the most singular incident I have
yet to relate in this matter. Within moments of Maxwell's
departure, a quite ordinary telephone upon Max's desk began
to ring. The Professor answered it, looked very surprised,
and replied. "Send him in, by all means," he said. At this,
Thornby looked more alert and adopted a questioning
expression. "An honoured guest has arrived, he wanted a
moment of my time. If you gentlemen don't mind? Good, please
stay. I think my friend would like to meet you."
A firm knock sounded at the door, then it opened. A tall
dark man entered the room, raising his right hand to his
hat-brim in a mock-salute. He wore black denim pants, a
charcoal Grey shirt, black frock coat, and heavy, oddly-cut
black leather boots. His hat had a wide, floppy brim, and
covered a long mane of silvered locks. Even his mustache
had silver hairs most prominent. It would take no stretch of
the imagination to picture this man in some American
frontier town... Perhaps as a doctor or lawyer, perhaps a
newspaper editor, but wearing some type of low-slung gun
belt. He refused a seat, saying that he did not have long to
visit. He stood, his left hand upon the doorknob, as if just
about to exit.
"Greetings," he said.
"Sir," the Professor replied. "I am honoured."
"'Bout time you showed up," added Thornby in a humorous
manner. "We've been running around like rats in a maze."
"I just wanted to meet Holmes and Watson, really," the
stranger said. "I didn't mean to break into the chase. I was
snowed-in at home and checked in with Grey's science team
out of boredom. They showed me some weird readings that
caught my interest and mentioned that Maxwell had just
departed to take a firsthand look at the mystery. I thought
that I'd pop over and say hello."
"Sir," Grey asked. "Do you have any insight into the
matter?" Holmes' eyebrow leapt to the top of his forehead at
this, but he kept silent.
"Undoubtedly, you're on the right track," said the
stranger. "I would only like to point out that Jones, though
he exhibits no ability to travel in time, does have an
advanced form of matter-transmitter. And the basis for any
good facsimile-producing machine is?"
"A teleport! He's jury-rigged a teleport into a copier,"
gasped Thornby. "Over four hundred years ago... That's about
the right time period. Grey? Who pioneered replicator
technology?"
"I see that my thoughts have born fruit already. Well,"
mused this strange man. "I have to get back home- My maiden,
fair awaits without... Without much patience, I'm afraid.
Nice meeting you, good luck!" And with that he opened the
door and left. No explanation was offered as to his
behavour, his identity... nothing. Holmes best summed him
up with his next remark.
"What a singularly enigmatic individual... But so
helpful! That is, I assume that his remarks have given us
another thread to our net."
"Quite," replied the Professor. "That seems to be the
universal opinion of the gentleman. He's a law unto himself.
I never know what he'll say or do or where he'll show up."
"What is his name?" I asked.
"He's never said," the Professor replied. "As far as I
have been able to ascertain, he has never mentioned his name
to anyone, ever. He simply acts in just the manner you
observed- As if we were all old friends who should know one
another. He seems never to have met a stranger. I rarely see
him in person, but rather I hear that he has visited the
Club or Pantheon rooms from time to time. His ability to
gain entry to the Pantheon room indicates that he is an
extremely powerful entity, indeed. On the few occasions that
we have actually met, his help has been most welcome."
"You're taking this rather calmly," Guiles observed.
"Usually, when he's shown up before- we've had our backs to
the wall and in danger for our lives. We're usually getting
shot at by now!"
"Calm down Thornby," replied the Professor. "No one is
shooting at us now. As always, he has left us with some
useful knowledge before he disappeared."
"Yeah, this time it isn't spare boxes of ammo that we'd
overlooked. I'll grant you that. But pardon me if I don't
take his sudden appearance to be a good sign, all right?"
"Granted," replied Professor Grey. "Now may we return to
the business at hand?"
**********
The end of this inexplicable interlude heralded the
return of Maxwell- Signaled by a firm knock at the door. As
he entered, I practically gaped at his scorched- Nay,
burned appearance! I immediately arose to offer my
medical aid, poor as it may have been in our present
surroundings, but he smiled and waved me away. Grey
explained that Maxwell was in no distress and would indeed
heal himself quickly. I was in no way prepared to witness
just how quickly, however. In a moment's time, his features
flowed and reformed- his burns healing visibly in seconds -
until once again he appeared as normal as before he'd
departed.
"My report Sir," Maxwell calmly stated as this repair
was proceeding. "It was a trap, a particularly nasty one at
that. To sum up, our enemy is sharp, powerful, and ruthless.
They sacrificed a six battleship flotilla and it's attendant
fleet- fully ten thousand beings -by setting off a nova once
I was in range. They caused me to expend a great deal of
energy in a pitched battle before detonating the star, but
the damage I suffered was minimal. My own fault, really, for
not recharging fully before leaving. My sensor scans of the
ships revealed that there was indeed a teleport unit rigged
to act as a replicator on board the flagship, but only one
item from the Museum theft was evident. There were thousands
of copies of a Vermeer that we had tagged. It was the same
as the one in your reference library on Level 7224, Sir."
"Hmmm, 'View of Delft' wasn't it?"
"Yes Sir, although theirs doesn't have the autograph
that yours does."
"Well, I did him a favor once so he added a thank you to
his signature on the copy he painted for me." At Holmes
query, the Professor added, "I traveled widely in my youth,
in time as well as space. Earth is a very nice world. I
enjoy visiting there."
"How many ships in this fleet?" Holmes then asked
Maxwell. "What were their dispositions? How expensive would
one of those teleport devices be, and more importantly, how
difficult would the modifications be?"
"Excellent questions Mr. Holmes," replied Grey.
"Thirty five major ships in all. Six battleships, twelve
cruisers, five destroyers, and ten fighter escorts.
Additionally, there were one thousand small fighters. The
teleport system would be standard on naval vessels of those
types- Except for the fighters- too small for the power
drain."
"But how did they explode a star?" I asked.
"Through devious means I expect," replied Holmes. "They
no doubt picked a likely star on the verge of exploding on
it's own for the site of their trap. One that perhaps needed
only a small push, that they could provide, to detonate at
need."
"Exactly right Holmes," Maxwell said. "That is indeed
what the enemy did. Everything was timed to await my
arrival."
"The mods to make a teleport into a replicator would be
easy to figure out for any genius who designs or repairs
those systems," Thornby stated. "But I doubt that we're
dealing with any of the recorded replicator pioneers here.
Naturally, some underhanded persons break ground in every
field before historians get around to noting the honest
researchers as the actual inventors."
"And to a foe whose war chest includes the cost of a
disposable fleet, a small sun, and ten thousand hirelings,"
said Holmes grimly. "The cost of the research and
development would be a pittance. Now we balance that against
the value to be earned from the sale of innumerable copies
of priceless Earthly art and we begin to see that our enemy
feels that the risk is well worth the game."
"And only we few stand in his way," I breathed.
"Exactly Watson," Holmes said evenly. "But the worst of
all is that he knows, Watson. He knows who we
are, for he has been able to plan ahead sufficient to
negate our every effort."
"We've been getting the runaround?" Thornby gasped.
"This whole thing has been a set-up from the beginning?"
"So this is some elaborate revenge scheme," mused Grey.
"Set in motion by someone whose nose I've been forced to
bloody in my past... Or is it my future? Its possible-"
"Or is it my past?" Holmes interjected. "We asked
the question before, but we abandoned it as unanswerable.
Was one of the criminals I pursued over my long career... an
alien? yet, the trap was baited for me and set for
Maxwell. I seriously doubt that an assassin would need a
fleet to do away with me... Therefore, some connection
between myself and Professor Grey is implied. But what?"
"So how do we figure out who it is?" Thornby asked. "I
mean, sure- Its got to be someone that we've got in common,
but how can we tell who? Any aliens that Holmes and Watson
faced had to have been disguised, or could at least pass for
Earthmen."
"Of my failures," mused Holmes, "only three had any hint
of what I now know to be other-worldliness. At the time,
such a concept was beyond me. The arrogance of youth! Ha!
However, that is the thread that we must pursue. Professor,
what foe men of yours have been known to operate in London?"
"What was the old saying? 'Choose your friends wisely,
your enemies will choose you for themselves.'" Grey sighed.
"A list of those that we have crossed swords with would fill
a library. Hmmm, well this is too subtle for it to be the
work of my step-son, unless it is to be in his far future.
Somehow I rather doubt that, though. He's far to impatient
to mature as he ages."
"Your step-son?" Holmes asked.
"Yes," Grey replied sadly. "A dangerous psychopath, I'm
afraid. As was his mother, although she showed no sign of it
for the short time we were together. She died many years ago,
raving, in a madhouse on my homeworld. Her son, a lad I
barely knew, has set himself the goal of hunting down and
murdering each and every one of his mother's lovers. A
sizable number, since she was quite fickle in her romances.
Unfortunately, he has succeeded in killing a sizable
fraction of her paramours. Heaven knows he's tried for me
often enough. But he hasn't been seen in seven hundred years and there is
more than one death penalty hanging over his head."
"Yet you do not sense his hand in this affair?"
"No Holmes. This just isn't his style. He would have
used the trap for Maxwell as a decoy. To lure him away and
attack us here. That didn't happen, so it cannot be my step-son.
He would never have let such an opportunity pass by. It
is bloody enough to be his handy work, or Valleor's for that
matter, but I doubt that. And Valleor's powers are tied to
this world and are weak and ineffectual elsewhere."
"A fact for which I am forever thankful," muttered
Thornby.
"Quite," agreed Grey.
"And who is Valleor?" Holmes asked.
"This world's very own devil. The local god of Evil,
incarnate. He was almost destroyed in the distant past of this world
after leading his worshipers in a bloody revolt against his fellow
deities. Though nearly powerless now by comparison to the
other local gods, he is still dangerous. But once again,
this is not his handy work."
"Pray continue, Professor. Your statement so far
contains some very interesting points."
"I believe that all of those Win-django pirates that
captured that passenger liner I was on were executed by the
Lilen-caresk-sar Monitor Patrol that came to our rescue. I'm
almost certain that all of the Zielian treasure hunters who
tried to claim-jump that dig I led on Carella 7B were either
captured or killed in the uprising that freed my fellow
archaeologists, our students, and our work crews. We turned
the captives over to the Zielian authorities for transport
to a prison colony. No possible escape for them."
"Indeed?" Holmes asked sharply. "An escape-proof prison?
I would have to see such a thing to believe in it."
"This is as close to escape-proof as is possible. The
prisoners were turned over to the Captain of the Zielian
transport ship as soon as it arrived. The Captain had each
prisoner put into a sleep-freeze container wherein they will
remain until the fully-automated and un-crewed ship reaches
the colony world- in ten thousand years."
"What is a 'sleep-freeze'?" I asked.
"Forced hibernation," Thornby replied. "At temperatures
far below the freezing point of water. The body slows down
so much that they would hardly even be in need of a shave
when they thawed."
"Impossible," I said. "The water in their cells would
burst the cell membrane. Tissue damage would be tremendous,
frightful. I've seen it in extreme cases of frostbite,
myself."
"There are chemicals that can be injected into the
bloodstream of the subject," said Maxwell. "These prevent
just the damage that you infer."
"Science marches on, 'eh Watson?" Holmes observed.
"After four hundred years," I replied heatedly at the
inference that I had forgotten we had come forward in time.
"It bloody well ought to!" Then I laughed at myself.
"Turn it the other way 'round" said Thornby. "Holmes
said that there were only three of his old cases that hinted
at alien influence. So let's look at those a little more
closely."
"Perhaps we will find the blighter is someone known to
you," I said excitedly.
"So," said Holmes. "A retelling of my failures is in
order, it seems. Very well, my ego has been bruised before
and recovered, no doubt once more will not prove fatal."
Holmes smiled and sipped his drink.
"I remember something about a strange worm," Thornby
sighed. "But I'd forgotten that you ever had failed cases,
Mr. Holmes."
"Oh, yes indeed," Holmes replied. "Sometimes, there
simply is no evidence. Other times, what evidence there is
proves inconclusive. There were many of my cases that I have
had to dismiss for lack of threads for my net. But we need
only concern ourselves with the truly strange."
"Not the giant rat," I said, smiling.
"No Watson, not the rat. There was no whiff of
otherworldlyness in that problem, merely some very evil men,
driven by greed. No, Thornby was right to bring up the worm
unknown, for that is the hallmark of the case of Isadora
Persano, the well-known journalist and duelist, who was
found stark staring mad with a match box in front of him
which contained a remarkable worm said to be unknown to
science."
"And the facts of the matter are?" Grey asked.
"That Persano carried out many indescrete affairs,
answered many challenges and was famous for dueling. Thus
he made many enemies. Additionally, his journalism read more
like gossip and slander than news. A fact which only adds to
his list of ill-wishers. There were unsubstantiated rumours
of occasions of blackmail and the fencing of various small
items of young ladies' jewelry, but I could find nothing for
which to bring him to the dock. The lady in question had
hired me to trace a family heirloom that Persano had
extorted from her. Persano's fence eluded my every effort.
Then he was found, mad, and placed in an asylum."
"So where does that get us? Checking up on all the men
whose wives Persano seduced?"
"That, Mr. Thornby, is where we leave the known of the
fact and begin to delve into speculation," Holmes voice
became stronger. "As much as I abhor idle speculation, I
feel it safe to assume that one of Persano's many enemies
made an attempt on his life by means of posting him a rare,
and no doubt poisonous, species of worm. The lack of
identification of the specimen precludes deduction of the
sender. It merely lowers the number of suspects to those who
have access to strange animals. I could find no correlation
among those known to me as Persano's enemies."
"I take it that the assumption that the worm could have
been from off-world is a new one to your calculations,"
Maxwell said. "I will be glad to look into the matter for
you, Sir."
"Perhaps later," Holmes replied. "I would prefer to
solve the mystery myself, rather than simply be told the
outcome. I should like to be present during your
investigation."
"Understood Sir, I would not do that in any case. I
would greatly enjoy your input."
"In for a penny..." the Professor sighed. "What is the
next matter? I seem to recall something about a ship
vanishing."
"Indeed! I remember that one well enough, myself. With
your permission, Holmes?"
"Capital Watson! By all means, do tell on. I have always
found your impressions to be invaluable toward pointing out
a solution."
"Thank you. Very well, as Holmes can no doubt relate,
one of my favorite reading materials are sea stories. I
suppose that my interest was fueled by my many passages by
ship to various parts of the world. I've always loved the
sea. So you can imagine that any case of Holmes that
involved a ship or boat gathered my especial interest. It is
no surprise then that when Holmes began investigating a
small smuggler and her crew, the few facts of the matter
stuck in my memory. The cargo smuggled appeared to be stolen
goods and fugitives, from France to England or England to
France -and thence to and from the continent. Strictly
channel-crossing you understand, no long-haul cruising."
"That seems clear enough," said the Professor. "What
happened?"
"Thank you. Well, Holmes had followed the trail of a
forger. The police were getting close to him and he'd done a
bunk. Holmes must have used fully half a dozen disguises to
finally trace the bugger to a particular ship at the docks.
He felt able to turn the matter over to the Yard, whose
worthies planned an early-morning raid. We arrived at the
berth to find that the ship had sailed hours earlier, and
that the Yard men had not posted a lookout. She was safely
away, for we'd need a fast ship indeed to overtake her." I
paused to take a sip of the Professor's excellent coffee.
"The Yard dropped the ball," said Grey. "Surprise is not
felt," he added in a droll voice. "Did you manage a
pursuit?"
"There was a police cutter available, and she was fast,
but in the end we lost the smugglers forever. We had almost
caught up with her, she was in sight, another few hours and
we had a chance to close with her -within sight of France,
perhaps, but it would be the only chance that we would have.
I can still remember the smell of the salt in the wind that
bellied our sails. Our Captain had put on all sail to gain
the speed necessary to overtake our suspects. We fairly flew
thru the water, our bow throwing spray into the air. The
weather was perfect, some early-morning fog lingering on,
but otherwise clear. We were standing in the bows trying to
sight the smuggler's crew. The Mate had provided me with a
set of binocular glasses and Holmes had his brass telescope,
and we were joined by the Mate and the Yard's investigator.
The four of us were watching intently, calling forth various
details of the rigging and deck- when the inexplicable
happened. After which, we turned about and made for home
with all speed. The Captain and Second Mate were also
observing the vessel at the time, so there are six credible
witnesses to the phenomena. We decided that descression was
rather the better part of valour and ran for our lives. I,
for one, shall never be ashamed of that retreat."
"Doctor," the Professor said, "your statement interests
me greatly. What did you see? What caused you to turn back?
It must have been something odd indeed to induce Holmes to
turn his back on it."
"Strange? Somehow the word seems so small. No, the sight
that I beheld through the glass was so far beyond the merely
strange that only the events of today can possibly compare.
Now that I know that there are ways to travel to other
worlds- Perhaps now I can make some sense out of the memory
of that day. But at the time, what I saw was awe inspiring.
We held her in our glass, we could see the men on deck, when
she utterly disappeared. Gentlemen," I said, raising my cup
in a toast. "I give you the cutter Alicia, which
sailed one spring morning into a small patch of mist from
where she never again emerged, nor was anything further ever
heard of herself and her crew." I paused for breath
thinking, not for the first time, that I run my sentences on
for longer than it is comfortable to speak them aloud. It is
the writer in me, I am sure.
"Nothing was ever heard? Nothing at all?"
"Not a whisper Maxwell," Holmes replied for me.
"We saw her," I said. "She sailed into a small fog bank,
was hidden for only a few moments before the fog dissipated,
but no trace of her remained. We could see for miles, so she
could not have given us the slip. The Alicia either
sank with all hands while within the fog or she vanished off
the face of the Earth. That was what we six attempted to
conceal in our carefully worded reports. After all, it is
impossible for a ship to disappear so quickly, yet she did.
That memory Gentlemen, has awoken me screaming in the late
night more than once, I am sorry to have to report."
"I looked for traces of the ship and her crew for
several years afterward," said Holmes. "To no avail, I'm
afraid. Not one single trace was ever found. Then, I was
baffled. Now, I am forced to assume that the cutter was
whisked away under the cover of the fog by an alien
influence or power."
"Yes," sighed the Professor. "Adjusting one's
assumptions about the universe is always a disturbing
experience. I speak from personal knowledge when I say that
the universe as a whole is indeed queerer than any one being
can possibly imagine."
"No wonder then that we are most often up the proverbial
tributary without benefit of the normal means of
propulsion," said Maxwell.
"In a chicken-wire canoe, no less," added Thornby.
"Gentlemen," said Grey. "Your levity exceedes you."
"Sorry sir," said Guiles.
"Shall we continue?" Maxwell inquired. "I now have two
items tagged for a search and record mission. I gather that
there was a third to be added?"
"Indeed!" Holmes boomed. "The last is the one which is
best explicable by means of alien transport-"
"I see, Holmes," I interjected. "It was in my
Thor Bridge tale after all!"
"Indeed," he replied. "I refer no less than to the case
of Mr. James Phillimore, who, stepping back into his own
house to get his umbrella, was never more seen in this
world. Phillimore had come to my attention as a fence in an
unrelated matter of stolen securities. My Irregulars had his
house under surveillance without break, and yet he was able
to re-enter his home one day and vanish silently away.
He was seen to enter, never to leave again, and no search
of mine could discover the means of his escape-- None. He
vanished. Now that I have seen Mr. Thornby's mode of
transport, many new lines of thought are now possible."
"Phillimore," said the Professor. "He seems to be our
best possibility. Maxwell, show us your recording of the
museum thieves' escape from custody. I am suddenly struck by
a leap of intuition."
"Certainly Sir," Maxwell replied. He then extended his
left hand toward the tabletop. A faint beam of light fanned
out from his palm and a small image of the museum's interior
sprang into being. It was perfectly real, three dimensional,
and showed a small group of men being led away by the
Police. Two separated from the main group by lagging behind,
then stepped into an adjoining room. Wherein they both
promptly vanished, first Jones-- then a moment later, the Customs Agent.
"Replay that last bit," said Thornby. "And give us a
close view of their faces."
Maxwell complied impassively. As the image returned and
the men became more distinct. "Jones is the smaller man," he
said. "The taller of the two is the leader of the party of
Tourlanatti Customs Agents, one Cinjanodd Nastra by name. That is the point in which I began to follow Jones."
Holmes peered closely at the image, then looked up to
address us in a tired voice. "He is also Mr. James
Phillimore. Gentlemen, if we had viewed this recording more
closely before now we would have had our man long ago. I
suggest that we return to the British Museum and spring our
final trap."
"So he's the big boss burglar?" Thornby asked, as if scandalized. "The cop that we called in?"
"So it would appear," said Maxwell. "And furthermore, I have been following the wrong man all along."
"Holmes," began the Professor. "I apologize for wasting
so much of your time. You are correct, I was remiss in not
showing you this evidence earlier."
"It is of no moment," Holmes replied. "As you have
pointed out, we have your mastery of time as our own ally.
Jones and Phillimore will not escape us again. I believe
that it is now time to return to the museum and put paid to
these villains. Our long wait is over."
"Return to the museum," sighed the Professor. "Yes, but
not the British Museum. Gentlemen, if you would be so kind
as to accompany me to Castle of the Winds, we will find all
of the equipment that we shall need to end this matter once
and for all." He gestured at one wall of the room and a door
appeared. "I invite you into my home."
**********
I was expecting to have to traverse that shifting
corridor once again, but found myself pleasantly surprised.
We arose and walked through the doorway into a small
anteroom. The door closed behind us of it's own accord, then
vanished.
"Thornby, Maxwell, we are on Level 47231," said the
Professor as the wall before us parted like a curtain.
"Notify Security to have a holding cell prepared. I also want a search
running on Phillimore's past movements to make sure that he is the fiend we want. Then go to
the teleport lab and set up an intercept. I will join you
there with our guests."
They both nodded and turned to go. Maxwell clapped his
hand upon Thornby's shoulder and they suddenly vanished. A
slight popping noise was the only evidence of their
departure. Professor Grey extracted a small box from his
coat pocket, pressed a control upon it's face, and we three
began to traverse the most opulent hallway I believe that I
have ever seen. The carpeting was a rich maroon colour, the
walls wainscoted in what appeared to be polished oak, above
which looked to be some type of stonework somewhat like
marble. Fantastic paintings and sculptures occupied niches
along the length of the hall, each perfectly lit from some
unseen source. There were hundreds of these exhibits, for
the hall appeared to stretch out past the limit of my
vision. Other hallways, also stretching into the far distance, opened
from the one we walked. There seemed no set pattern to them. We dallied
for half an hour, studying the Professor's collections in several of
the halls. Finally, we came upon an entry to another
chamber and I could hear Thornby's voice from within. We
stepped inside and I gasped. I glanced at Holmes, who
smiled, then I returned my attention to the vast room.
"I should think that the whole of Winchester Cathedral
could be fitted within these walls," Holmes said. I, myself
was still speechless.
"Well," replied Professor Grey. "I would have to remove
some of my equipment first. Come, we have much to do." We
approached an apparatus that was easily the size of a
locomotive, to find Thornby seated at a set of controls.
Maxwell was inspecting a raised dais that was over arched by
four massive buttresses, meeting overhead in a framed
circle. It was open to the room upon all sides, with no sign
of bars or caging that I would expect to be needed for a
prison cell.
"Is that the holding cell that you mentioned?"
"Yes, Doctor. Thornby should have the controls pre-set
for us quite soon."
"But there are no walls to keep them captive," I
complained.
"Stone walls do not a prison make," he replied. "Nor
iron bars a cage. Those arches will project a field of
energy which will prevent any escape."
"Professor," said Holmes. "It occurs to me that we shall
have the gravest difficulty in finding a prison which will
continue to hold these two. Have you given any thought at to
their ultimate disposition?"
"Indeed!" I said. "Whatever shall we do with them?"
"I have no prison at my disposal," Grey replied. "But I
have been giving the matter some thought. I have decided
that they would be too dangerous to allow their freedom. I
am afraid that I must set myself up as Judge and Jury."
"But not, I trust," said Holmes. "As executioner?"
"Such is not in my nature," Grey said calmly. "I
thought
to place them in suspended animation, then put them aboard a
ship to a prison colony of which I know. It is run by one particular
alien people who specialize in that sort of thing. The colony is
totally cut off from outside contact, except for prisoner transport
ships. When our pair arrive there, they will be
released to join the other prisoners... With the end
in mind that they should live out their mortal spans upon a
far distant world, to make of their lives whatever they wish.
The ship we shall use for their transport would take a thousand years
to reach it's
destination, thus insuring that any allies that they have here and now
would be long dead of old age before our pair ever awaken."
"That seems an equitable solution," I said.
"Thank you, Doctor. And now," the Professor paused. "I
think that it should fall to Holmes to activate the machine.
The honour of their capture rightfully belongs to you, sir."
He gave a slight bow to Holmes, then we walked to the bank
of controls at which Thornby sat.
"All is in readiness," Maxwell called out as he
descended from the dais. A soft, flickering glow sprang up
between the arches as he reached the floor and Thornby
touched a series of buttons upon the panel before him.
"This is the one that springs the trap, Mr. Holmes.
Touch this button," Thornby said. "And our two bothersome
burglars will become infinitely better acquainted with
lifetime imprisonment. The containment field is charged and
ready, the Sleep-freeze unit is standing by, as is the
unmanned transport ship. The interceptor is focused upon the
point of their disappearance from the British Museum.
"You may proceed when ready, Holmes."
"Thank you, Professor. I shall be more than happy to
remove James Phillimore from my list of failures. Though I
could wish that all this had never become necessary." Holmes
leaned over, stretching out his hand. "James Phillimore,
Cyrus Jones," he intoned. "With this motion I hereby bring
you to pay for your crimes against our human society." With
that, Holmes pressed the indicated button.
We all turned to look at the dais as a wordless scream
rang throughout the room. Within the field were Jones and
Phillimore, trapped.
Holmes smiled. "Anticlimactic, to say the least."
More screams, and not a few vile curses, sounded from
our captives as we approached the dais. But when they saw
Holmes they were stunned into silence. Professor Grey
addressed them quietly.
"Gentlemen," he said. "You have been apprehended in the
commission of a crime against an entire world. Your guilt is
undeniable. Furthermore, you have also been found guilty of
the willful murder of an entire solar system's inhabitants--
as well as thousands of your own underlings.
Have you anything to say before I pass sentence upon you?"
"You'll never keep us!" Phillimore shouted. "I'll make
you pay for this, if its the last thing I do!"
"I'll take that as a 'no'," Grey said drolly. "Very well. It is
my judgment upon you that you shall be taken from this
place, transported to the prison colony upon Tasen-eenoch
Four, and released into the general prison population.
Thereafter you will be allowed to live out the rest of your
lives without the possibility of release, parole, or escape.
There will be no guards for you to bribe or overpower, no
cells from which to escape, no prison walls for you to scale--
and no contact of any kind with
the rest of the galaxy. Your lives are your own, make of
them what you will. Thornby?"
"Yes sir?"
"Put them away."
As I watched, Jones and Phillimore became silent and
still. The flickering glow contracted until it pressed
closely around their bodies. Glass-like cylinders rose from
the floor to encase each of them, then they disappeared.
Thornby began powering down the machinery and I noticed a
rapidly diminishing hum, fading into silence. The professor
turned to Holmes and myself.
"I'll never be able to publish this adventure," I said
sadly. "I would be locked away as a raving lunatic."
"Balderdash," Grey replied. "Simply claim that it
is entirely a work of fiction. You are a writer, after all. It
is only natural to assume that you would not give up your
craft simply because Holmes and yourself have retired from
the pursuit of London's criminal underworld. What could be
more natural than if you desired to continue your writing
career?" We left the laboratory and proceeded down the
opulent hallway, but not back towards the Mare Inebrium.
"Sarah would never forgive me if didn't bring you to meet
her before I made arrangements to return you to your homeworld."
"Sarah?" I asked.
"The love of my life," Grey said. "No doubt she'll
insist that you both stay for tea."
"A fitting end to my career," Holmes sighed as we
walked.
"Nothing ever ends," Thornby said mysteriously.
"Nevertheless," Holmes replied. "I feel that this will
be my last case."
"Oh? I rather doubt that," said Professor Grey as we
came within sight of a petite young lady standing in a doorway ahead,
her long dark hair spilling about her shoulders. She smiled in welcome
and I
could feel my cares slipping away as if she were weaving some magic
spell. "As Thornby so aptly said, nothing ever ends. Especially here. I
think that you will still have much work to do when the two of you
return home. I'm afraid that you will have to disabuse yourself of the
notion of retiring to your Sussex beekeeping anytime soon."
"A work of fiction," I mused as we sat down to tea.
"That's the usual method of disguising unbelievable
truths," said Maxwell as he paused on his way out the door.
"It has always worked before."
"Come, come Watson," Holmes said with a sudden smile.
"You'll be putting that Wells fellow that you dislike so
much straight out of the business. And you won't even have
to embellish the tale to do so!"
"Ha!" I said, smiling broadly at that thought.
The End
Copyright 2000 by Dan L. Hollifield
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