by Eric Brown
Miss Hamilton-Bell hesitated, her hands folded on her lap. She looked up, from myself to Holmes, then said, “Tomorrow, gentlemen, I leave Earth bound for Mars.”
I nearly choked on my tea. I sat up, mopping my waistcoat with a handkerchief, at the same time spluttering my objections. “Leave? For Mars? Have you taken leave of your senses? The Martians killed your simulacrum on Mars – and they will gladly do the same to you if you so much as set foot on their home world!”
She stopped me with a raised hand. “Dr Watson, if I may interject.”
“Why, of course. My apologies. I… I am concerned for your safety, needless to say—”
“And I appreciate that concern, though I think that I should make one thing clear before I go on.”
Holmes leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. I wondered if he were ahead of me once again, and had an inkling of what she was about to say. “And that is?”
“The Martians are aware of me as Miss Hamilton-Bell, but they do not know me in any of my other guises.”
“I was aware that ‘Hamilton-Bell’ was a nom de guerre,” Holmes said. “But you have others?”
“Several, though the less said about these, perhaps, the better. My colleagues at the Natural History Museum know me as Dr Amelia Davis. For the past two years,” she went on, “I have been liaising with my opposite number at the Martian equivalent of the Natural History Museum in Glench-Arkana.”
“Liaising?” I said. “To what end?”
“To arrange the loan of an ancient Arkanan artefact known as the Keld-Chenki stone, a menhir inscribed with a sacred religious text and treasured by the Arkana race. It will form the centrepiece of an exhibit of ancient Martian carvings at Kensington later this year.”
“And you are going to Mars to supervise its transport?” I said.
Before she could reply, Holmes said, “But there is obviously more to your trip than merely assuring the safe conduct of a Martian menhir to Earth?”
She inclined her head. “As we collect the stone, sympathetic Martians in Glench-Arkana will deliver a device which we plan to secrete within the packing crate.”
“A device?” Holmes asked.
“Namely, an electromagnetic pulse generator.”
Holmes leaned back, smiling. “I begin to see…” he said in admiration.
I looked from him to Miss Hamilton-Bell. “Would you mind explaining to a simple doctor of medicine…?”
“The first electromagnetic pulse generators were developed by Korshanan scientists soon after the conflict with the Arkana almost a century ago,” said Miss Hamilton-Bell. “Since then, they have been adapted and refined, and can emit high energy waves which disrupt – indeed, render wholly inoperative – all electrical devices within range: telephones, wireless devices, tripods—”
“And simulacra!” I cried.
“Precisely,” she said. “Once we have the generator in London, it will be taken by one of our operatives in an air balloon high above the capital, and activated. Within seconds, the capital will be in chaos. All simulacra will be revealed for what they are, and the army will stage a coup the like of which has never before been seen on British soil. This will be repeated in cities all around the world, with electromagnetic pulse generators that have been ferried from the red planet over the course of the past few months. Also, when my ship leaves Mars for Earth, the massed armies of the Korshana will begin a military assault on Glench-Arkana and other Arkanan cities.”
“Now,” I said, “I see what you meant when you said that the end game is approaching.”
“Very soon, my friends, we will begin the long fight to rid Earth of our Martian oppressors.”
“Which is all very well,” I said, “but are you sure you’ll be safe journeying to Mars? I mean to say—”
She reached out and laid a delicate hand on my liver-spotted metacarpus. “Dr Watson, I appreciate your concern, but I assure you that all will be well. The Martians suspect nothing. As Dr Amelia Davis, I have travelled to Mars on numerous occasions, and I am well known in Martian academic circles as a friend of the Arkana.”
Over the course of the next hour, Miss Hamilton-Bell went into more detail concerning the imminent uprising, quizzed on various points by Holmes, who wanted to know every facet of the proposed rebellion.
At one point I said, “If two of your guises are Miss Hamilton-Bell and Dr Amelia Davis… pray tell, what is your true identity?”
She smiled. “Perhaps for reasons of security it would be wise if you were to continue to think of me as Miss Hamilton-Bell,” she said.
A little later I recalled my ward, and slipped upstairs to check on Miss Fairfield. She was sleeping soundly, and I retreated without rousing her.
“Is she well?” asked Miss Hamilton-Bell on my return.
“Sleeping like a top,” I reported.
“It would be best if Miss Fairfield made this her home for the time being,” she said. “I will have someone stay here and look after her while I’m away.”
“To that end,” Holmes said, “we should perhaps inform Mr Wells of what happened to Miss Fairfield. He might, perhaps, be of a mind to effect a rapprochement. I should contact him forthwith. I wonder if I might use your telephone?”
While Holmes was in the hallway, Miss Hamilton-Bell poured more tea and asked further questions concerning our exploits in Woking that afternoon, information that I was only too happy to relay.
On his return, Holmes reported, “Mr Wells is meeting us at seven this evening. He sounded preoccupied, and said that he had some important information to impart.”
“He didn’t say what?” I asked.
“Not over the telephone.” He glanced at the clock, and said that it was almost time for the communiqué from our Martian controllers.
As the hour approached, Holmes excused himself and moved to the kitchen, and presently we heard the sound of him conversing in the Martian tongue.
Miss Hamilton-Bell raised an eyebrow. “He speaks the language like a native born,” she said.
“Holmes never does things by halves,” I replied. “If he sets his mind to doing something – and his skills are numerous – he endeavours to do it to the best of his ability.”
“He is something of a polymath, then?”
I smiled. “He would be gratified to hear you say that.”
Holmes returned, and I could tell from the lugubrious cast of his features that all was not well.
“Holmes?” I said, my heart racing.
He took his place in the armchair beside the hearth before replying. “We have been summoned to the embassy at eleven tomorrow morning.”
I swallowed, fearful of his answer to my question. “Do you think they’ve rumbled us, Holmes?”
He stroked his chin with a long forefinger, his grey eyes distant. “I could not discern this from the tone of his voice – it was Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran himself who contacted me – nor from the content of the command.”
“What did he say, precisely?”
“He was brusque, sparing no niceties in conversation with what he considered, quite understandably, to be no more than an automaton. He simply said that we were to present ourselves at his office at eleven tomorrow, and there ended the conversation.”
“But is there any way that our guises might have been seen through?” I asked.
“I am asking myself the self-same question,” Holmes replied absently.
“Surely Moriarty’s simulacrum could not have communicated the fact,” I said, “as you blew its cranium to fragments.”
“I am of the same opinion.”
“And the Martian who barged into the room upon the hour?” I said.
Holmes shook his head. “I assume that I only wounded the creature, but even so there was no way he might have seen through our disguises – even if he were aware of the Holmes and Watson simulacra in the first place.”
He fell silent, and an awful possibility presented itself to me. I wondered if the same had occurred to Holmes.
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“There is always the possibility,” I said, “that Baro-Sinartha-Gree’s part in the affair has been discovered and that the truth was… extracted from him.”
My friend nodded. “That had crossed my mind.” To Miss Hamilton-Bell, he said, “Is there any way you might contact Baro-Sinartha-Gree in order to ascertain his well-being?”
“I will try to reach him by telephone,” she said. “He works an early shift at the manufactory, from dawn until two. He should be at his lodgings in the grounds of the institute by now, if all is well.”
She repaired to the hallway where, in due course, we heard her speaking Martian. She spoke, was silent, then spoke again.
I gripped the arms of the chair, considering Baro-Sinartha-Gree’s valour and hoping against hope that he had not suffered because of us.
Miss Hamilton-Bell returned to the room, somewhat downcast.
“Well?” I enquired.
“Baro-Sinartha-Gree is not at his lodgings. I spoke with a flatmate, who said he has not been seen since this morning.”
My stomach turned. “If he has been tortured, and the story extracted from him…”
“But would that necessarily account for your summons to the embassy?” she asked.
“Perhaps the Martians would have checked our rooms in Baker Street first,” Holmes said, “and on finding us absent then contacted us with the summons.”
“In that case,” said Miss Hamilton-Bell, “you should think twice, both about returning to Baker Street this evening, and of course about meeting Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran at the embassy tomorrow.”
“She’s right, Holmes. It’s not worth the risk, if poor Baro-Sinartha-Gree has been tortured and was unable to hold his tongue.”
“You should go into hiding for the time being,” she said. “Discretion is the better part of valour, after all – and you have already more than distinguished yourselves today. You are welcome to make this your base for as long as you wish.”
Holmes thanked her, then consulted his timepiece. “If we are to meet Wells at Euston, Watson, we should be making a move.”
After I had looked in once more on Miss Fairfield, and instructed Miss Hamilton-Bell that upon awakening our patient would be in need of a square meal, we said our goodbyes and took a cab into central London.
* * *
Holmes had slipped once more into one of his ruminative moods. He did not speak until we alighted at Euston, and as we hurried through the crowded streets, he took my elbow and said, “There are never sanguine tidings without corresponding misfortunes. I relished word from Miss Hamilton-Bell of the imminent uprising, and relished more our part in it. If our dissimulation has been rumbled, however, we will be unable to play a full part in proceedings.”
“Oh, I don’t know, old man. I’m sure she’ll find us something to do.” How could I admit to my friend that, for my part, I was not a little relieved at the thought that our rendezvous with the Martian ambassador in the morning might be postponed? The only cloud on that particular horizon was the thought of what might have happened to poor Baro-Sinartha-Gree.
We arrived at the tea room a little before the hour, and I was in the process of ordering tea for three when I saw Wells bustling through the door and making a beeline to our table. His brow was furrowed and his mouth matched the lugubrious droop of his moustache.
He joined us and asked, “What of Woking, Holmes? I would have asked you over the telephone, but did not know whether my employers might be listening in.” He reached across the table and gripped the material of my friend’s sleeve. “Did you locate Cicely?”
Holmes assured him on that score. “Not only did we locate Miss Fairfield, and effect her rescue, but we also installed her in a safe house where she will be well looked after.”
Wells sat back and blew out his cheeks with relief, and for the second time that day Holmes gave a full account of our doings in Woking.
When my friend had finished, Wells declared, “You are miracle workers, and no mistake. You cannot begin to imagine my worry. I was beside myself.”
“You might look in on Miss Fairfield at some point,” Holmes said. “I think she will be eager to see you. I did not tell you at the time – not wishing to increase your concern – but Miss Fairfield left a cry for help at her apartment before she was taken by Moriarty.” He went on to tell Wells about the enigmatic code she had left in the typewriter. “Were you in the habit of visiting her there?” he asked.
“Before our little contretemps, yes. In fact, Cicely gave me a key to the apartment, which I’ve yet to return.”
I smiled. “She obviously still harbours feelings for you,” I assured him, “if she addressed her cri de coeur to you. She must have thought you’d come seeking her, sooner or later.”
“This is all very well,” Holmes said somewhat impatiently, “but you said you had information you wished to impart?”
Wells lowered his teacup and dried his moustache on a napkin, nodding. “That’s right, Mr Holmes. In the course of my duties this morning I intercepted a communiqué from Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran to one of his Martian operatives, concerning yourselves.”
Holmes lifted an imperious hand, for all the world like a tired traffic policeman. “I fear to ask… Has our cover been blown?”
Wells looked more than a little confused. “No, nothing like that. What the devil made you think…?”
I sat back, chuckling with relief. “For a while, Mr Wells, we feared that the truth of our identities had been tortured from Baro-Sinartha-Gree – the Martian who saved our bacon with the tripod.”
“If not that,” Holmes said, “then what was the purport of the communiqué?”
Wells nibbled his moustache. “I caught only the briefest glimpse of the telegram, you understand, and my Martian isn’t of the best. But I got the gist of it—”
“If you would please come to the point,” Holmes interrupted.
“Yes, of course. Well, what it said was that you were to be summoned to the embassy at eleven in the morning—”
“We know that,” Holmes said testily.
“—and then called upon to effect a kidnapping.”
I leaned forward, staring at him. “What!”
Wells repeated himself. “That’s all I read, ‘a kidnapping’. There was more, but Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran entered the office a few seconds later.”
“Good grief!” I said. “My word… Miss Hamilton-Bell suggested we go into hiding not an hour ago, and I think a wiser piece of advice has never been proffered. Let’s return to Barnes. What do you say, Holmes?”
My friend was sitting back in his seat with a certain look on his face that I had had the misfortune to witness in the past: his expression comprised six parts smugness and four parts condescension. He would soon expound upon the reason why my statement was wrong, and what his alternative assessment of the situation might be.
Wells finished his tea, bade us farewell and good luck, and hurried out to catch a cab.
When he had gone, I said, “A penny for them, Holmes.”
“Watson,” he began, “we will soon be commanded in our roles as Martian simulacra to perform a kidnapping of an eminent British worthy, no doubt. I suggest that this is a mere prelude to their being copied and then summarily murdered. Also, the very fact that we have been summoned precludes the notion that our cover has been blown. Do you agree so far?”
“Well, that would certainly seem to be the case.”
“So if we decided that, as Miss Hamilton-Bell said earlier, discretion is the better part of valour, and make ourselves scarce… What would be the net result of this?”
“We’d save our ruddy skins!” I declared.
“And the kidnapping of the said eminent worthy will be assigned to someone else – whether Martian or simulacra hardly matters. The result will be the same: an innocent human will suffer, perhaps to be replaced by his mechanical double. I, for one, have no intention of letting that happen.”
“Yes, very well. You have a point, I s�
��pose,” I said. “But what do you suggest we do?”
“What else? We keep the rendezvous with Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran in the morning, listen to his instructions, and then – once we have informed the victim of his fate, and suggested that he make himself scarce – we do the same and go to ground. Do you agree, my friend?”
“Well, all things taken into consideration, and given the danger to this person… Yes, Holmes, I suppose that’s the only honourable course of action, in the circumstances.”
“Excellent,” said he.
“But I must say that I’m not at all looking forward to meeting the ambassador one little bit,” I admitted.
Chapter Twenty-Five
At the Martian Embassy
I spent a troubled night beset by dreams of being chased by giant Martians, and in consequence woke late the following morning. Holmes was already at breakfast when I joined him, bleary eyed and not a little out of sorts.
“The day is brilliantly sunny, my friend,” he greeted me. “How about a spot of breakfast? Mrs Hudson has surpassed herself. Why, these devilled kidneys are exceptionally delicious.”
“I think I’ll just have coffee and toast,” I said, too feeble even to glance at The Times folded beside my place at the table.
“Suit yourself,” he said, “but it goes without saying that we need to fortify ourselves for the day’s events with a decent breakfast.”
“You’re rather looking forward to this, aren’t you?”
“And you’re not. That much is evident from your dyspeptic appearance.”
I sighed and poured myself a cup of coffee. “While I agree on an intellectual level with the gist of your argument – I see the sense of saving this innocent soul, of course – I fear what might await us in the embassy.”
“That we might be uncovered as not being simulacra at all?”
“In a nutshell, yes.”
Holmes waved this away. “You have no need to concern yourself on that score, Watson. Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran has no reason to suspect us. As far as he’s concerned, we’re a pair of obedient mechanical men there to do his bidding. The audience will be swift and to the point: he will issue his orders, give us our target, and dismiss us. What do you fear?”
