Dr. Walton spluttered in embarrassment. He had glanced at the newspaper while eating a not quite tender enough beefsteak and three eggs fried hard, but had missed the story in question.
Henry Praeger nodded eagerly. “I did, Mr. Helms, and wondered if you might call at a House, not really expecting mine to be the one you chose, of course. But I am honored to make your acquaintance—and yours, too, Dr. Walton.” He could be charming when he chose.
Dr. Walton remained uncharmed. He murmured something muffled to unintelligibility by the luxuriant growth of hair above his upper lip.
“You can convey my desire to the Preacher?” Helms pressed. “His views on the present unfortunate situation are bound to be of considerable importance. If he believes that killing off his opponents and doubters will enhance his position or that of the House of Universal Devotion, I must tell you that I shall essay to disabuse him of this erroneous impression.”
“That has never been the policy of the House of Universal Devotion, Mr. Helms, nor of the Preacher,” Henry Praeger said earnestly. “Those who claim otherwise seek to defame our church and discredit our leader.”
“What about the men who assuredly are deceased, and as assuredly did not die of natural causes?” Dr. Walton inquired.
“What about them, sir?” Praeger returned. “Men die by violence all over the world, like. You will not claim the House of Universal Devotion is to blame for all of those unfortunate passings, I hope?”
“Er—no,” Walton said, though his tone suggested he might like to.
“When the men in question have either criticized the House or attempted to leave the embrace of its creed, I trust you will not marvel overmuch, Mr. Praeger, if some suspicion falls on the institutions you represent,” Athelstan Helms said.
“But I do marvel. I marvel very much,” Praeger said. “That suspicion may fall on individuals . . . that is one thing. That it should fall on the House of Universal Devotion is something else again. The House is renowned throughout Atlantis, and in Terranova, and indeed in England, for its charity and generosity toward the poor and downtrodden, of whom there are in this sorry world far too many.”
“The House is also renowned for its clannishness, its secrecy, and its curious, shall we say, beliefs, as well as for the vehemence with which its adherents cling to them,” Helms said.
“Jews are renowned for the same thing,” Henry Praeger retorted. “Do you believe the tales of ritual murder that come out of Russia?”
“No, for they are fabrications. I have looked into this matter, and know whereof I speak,” Helms answered. “Here in Hanover, however, and elsewhere in this republic, men are unquestionably dead, as Dr. Walton reminded you a moment before. Also, the Jews have the justification of following custom immemorial, which you do not.”
“You are right—we do not follow ancient usages,” Praeger said proudly. “We take for ourselves the beliefs we require, and reshape them ourselves to our hearts’ desire. That is the modern way. That is the Atlantean way. We are loyal to our country, sir, even if misguided officials persist in failing to understand us.”
“You don’t say anything about the dead ’uns,” Walton remarked.
“I don’t know anything about them. Nor do I know how to reach the Preacher.” Praeger held up a hand before either Englishman could speak. “I shall talk to certain colleagues of mine. If, through them or their associates, word of your desire reaches him, I am confident that he will in turn be able to reach you.” His shrug seemed genuinely regretful. “I can do no more.”
“Thank you for doing that much,” Helms said. “Tell me one thing more, if you would: what do the symbols flanking the cross to either side signify to you?”
“Why, the truth, of course,” Henry Praeger answered.
Dr. Walton was happy enough to play tourist in Hanover. Even if the city was young—almost infantile by Old World standards—there was a good deal to see, from the Curb Exchange Building to the Navy Yard to the cancan houses that were the scandal of Atlantis, and of much of Terranova and Europe as well (France, by all accounts, took them in stride). Walton returned from his visit happily scandalized.
Athelstan Helms went to no cancan houses. He set up a laboratory of sorts in their rooms, and paid the chambermaids not to clean it. When he wasn’t fussing there with the daggers that had greeted him or the good doctor, he was poring over files of the Hanover Herald he had prevailed upon Inspector La Strada to prevail upon the newspaper to let him see.
From sources unknown to Walton, Helms procured a violin, upon which he practiced at all hours until guests in the adjoining chambers pounded on the walls. Then, reluctantly, he was persuaded to desist.
“Some people,” he said with the faintest trace of petulance, “have no appreciation for—”
“Good music,” Dr. Walton said loyally.
“Well, actually, that is not what I was going to say,” Helms told him. “They have no appreciation for the fact that any musician, good, bad, or indifferent, must regularly play his instrument if he is not to become worse. In the absence of any communication from the Preacher, what shall I do with my time?”
“You might tour the city,” Walton suggested. “There is, I must admit, more to it than I would have expected.”
“It is not London,” Athelstan Helms said, as if that were all that required saying. In case it wasn’t, he added a still more devastating sidebar: “It is not even Paris.”
“Well, no,” Walton said, “but have you seen the museum? Astonishing relics of the honkers. Not just skeletons and eggshells, mind you, but skins with feathers still on ’em. The birds might almost be alive.”
“So might the men the House of Universal Devotion murdered,” Helms replied, still in that tart mood. “They might almost be, but they are not.”
“Also a fine selection of Atlantean plants,” the good doctor said. “Those are as distinctive as the avifauna, if not more so. Some merely decorative, some ingeniously insectivorous, some from which we draw spices, and also some formidably poisonous.”
That drew his particular friend’s interest; Dr. Walton had thought it might. “I have made a certain study of the noxious alkaloids to be derived from plants,” Helms admitted. “That one from southern Terranova, though a stimulant, has deleterious side effects if used for extended periods. Perhaps I should take advantage of the opportunity to observe the specimens from which the poisons are drawn.”
“Perhaps you should, Helms,” Walton said, and so it was decided.
The Atlantean Museum could not match its British counterpart in exterior grandeur. Indeed, but for the generosity of a Briton earlier in the century, there might not have been any Atlantean Museum. Living in the present and looking toward the future as they did, the inhabitants of Atlantis cared little for the past. The museum was almost deserted when Walton brought Helms back to it.
Helms sniffed at the exhibit of extinct honkers that had so pleased his associate. Nor did a close-up view of the formidable beak and talons of a stuffed red-crested eagle much impress him. What purported to be a cucumber slug climbing up a redwood got him to lean forward to examine it more closely. He drew back a moment later, shaking his head. “It’s made of plaster of Paris, and its trail is mucilage.”
“This is a museum, not a zoological garden,” Dr. Walton said reasonably. “You can hardly expect a live slug here. Suppose it crawled off to the other side of the trunk, where no one but its keeper could see it?” Helms only grunted, which went some way toward showing the cogency of Walton’s point.
Helms could not lean close to examine the poisonous plants; glass separated them from overzealous observers. The detective nodded approvingly, saying, “That is as it should be. It protects not only the plants but those who scrutinize them—assuming they are real. With mushrooms of the genus Amanita, even inhaling their spores is toxic.”
A folded piece of foolscap was wedged in the narrow gap between a pane of glass and the wooden framing that held it in place. “Wh
at’s that, Helms?” Dr. Walton asked, pointing to it.
“Probably nothing.” But Athelstan Helms plucked it away with long, slim fingers—a violist’s fingers, sure enough—and opened it. “I say!” he murmured.
“What?”
Wordlessly, Helms held the paper out to Walton. The doctor donned his reading glasses. “‘Be on the 4:27 train to Thetford tomorrow afternoon. It would be unfortunate for all concerned if you were to inform Inspector La Strada of your intentions.’” He read slowly; the script, though precise, was quite small. Refolding the sheet of foolscap, he glanced over to Helms. “Extraordinary! What do you make of it?”
“I would say you were probably observed on your previous visit here. Someone familiar with your habits—and with mine; and with mine!—must have deduced that we would return here together, and that I was likely, on coming to the museum, to repair to the section of most interest to me,” Helms replied. “Thus . . . the note, and its placement.”
Dr. Walton slowly nodded. “Interesting. Persuasive. It does seem to account for the facts as we know them.”
“As we know them, yes. As we are intended to know them.” Athelstan Helms took the note from his companion and reread it. “Interesting, indeed. And anyone capable of deducing our probable future actions from those just past is an opponent who bears watching.”
“I should say so.” Walton took off the spectacles and replaced them in their leather case. “I wonder what we shall find upon arriving in Thetford. The town is, I believe, a stronghold of the House of Universal Devotion.”
“I wonder if we shall find anything there,” Helms said. Walton raised a bushy eyebrow in surprise. The detective explained: “The missive instructs us to board the train. It does not say we shall be enlightened after disembarking. For all we know now, the Preacher may greet us in the uniform of a porter as soon as we take our seats.”
“Why, so he may!” Walton exclaimed gaily. “I’d pay good money to see it if he did, though, devil take me if I wouldn’t. The porters on these Atlantean trains are just about all of them colored fellows.”
“Well, you’re right about that.” Helms seemed to yield the point, but then returned to it, saying, “He might black his face for the occasion.” He shook his head, arguing more with himself than with Dr. Walton. “But no; that would not do. The Atlantean passengers would notice the imposture, being more casually familiar with Negroes than we are. And the dialect these blacks employ is easier for a white man to burlesque than to imitate with precision. I therefore agree with you: whatever disguise the Preacher should choose—if he should choose any—he is unlikely to appear in forma porteris.”
“Er—quite,” the doctor said. “You intend to follow the strictures of the note, then?”
“In every particular, as if it were Holy Writ,” Helms replied. “And in the reckoning of the chap who placed it here, so it may be.”
Above the entrance to Radcliff Station was the inscription THE CLAN, NOT THE MAN. Radcliffs (in early days, the name was sometimes spelled with a final e) were among the first English settlers of Atlantis. That meant those earliest Radcliff(e)s were nothing but fishermen blown astray, an unfortunate fact the family did its best to forget over the next four centuries. Its subsequent successes excused, if they did not altogether justify, such convenient amnesia.
The station smelled of coal smoke, fried food, tobacco, and people—people in swarms almost uncountable. Dr. Watson’s clinically trained nose detected at least one case of imminent liver failure and two pelvic infections, but in those shoals of humanity he could not discern which faces belonged to the sufferers.
He and Athelstan Helms bought their tickets to Thetford and back (round trips, they called them here, rather than return tickets) from a green-visored clerk with enough ennui on his wizened face to make even the most jaded Londoner look to his laurels. “Go to Platform Nine,” the clerk said. “Have a pleasant trip.” His tone implied that he wouldn’t care if they fell over dead before they got to the platform. And why should he? He already had their eagles in his cashbox.
Carpetbags in hand, they made their way to the waiting area. “Better signposts here than there would be in an English station,” Helms remarked—and, indeed, only a blind man would have had trouble finding the proper platform.
Once there, Helms and Walton had a wait of half an hour before their train was scheduled to depart. A few passengers already stood on the platform when they arrived. More and more came after them, till the waiting area grew unpleasantly crowded. Dr. Walton stuck his free hand in his left front trouser pocket, where his wallet resided, to thwart pickpockets and sneak thieves. He would not have been a bit surprised if the throng contained several. It seemed a typical Atlantean cross section: a large number of people who would not have been out of place in London leavened by the scrapings of every corner of Europe and Terranova and even Asia. Bearded Jews in baggy trousers gabbled in their corrupt German dialect. Two Italian families screamed at each other with almost operatic intensity. A young Mexican man avidly eyed a statuesque blonde from Sweden or Denmark. Walton frowned at the thought of such miscegenation, but Atlantis did not forbid it. A Chinese man in a flowing robe read—he was intrigued to see—the Bible.
Boys selling sausages on sticks and fried potatoes and coffee and beer elbowed through the crowd, loudly shouting their wares. A sausage proved as spicy and greasy as Walton would have expected. He washed it down with a mug of beer, which was surprisingly good. Athelstan Helms, of more ascetic temperament, refrained from partaking of refreshments.
The train bound for Thetford came in half an hour late. Dr. Walton called down curses on the heads of the Atlantean schedulers. “No doubt you have never known an English train to be tardy,” Helms said, which elicited a somewhat shamefaced laugh from his traveling companion.
Instead of seating passengers in small compartments, Atlantean cars put them all in what amounted to a common room, with row after row of paired seats on either side of a long central aisle. Dr. Walton also grumbled about that, more because it was different from what he was used to than out of any inherent inferiority in the arrangement.
NO SMOKING! signs declared, and FINE FOR SMOKING, E10! and SMOKING CAR AT REAR OF TRAIN. The good doctor returned his cigar case to his waistcoat. “I wish they’d collect fines for eating garlic, too,” he growled; several people in the car were consuming or had recently consumed that odorous, most un-English comestible.
Athelstan Helms pointed to several open windows in the car, which did little to mitigate the raw heat pouring from stoves at either end. “Never fear, Doctor,” he said. “I suspect we shall have our fair share of smoke and more in short order.”
Sure enough, as soon as the train started out, coal smoke and cinders poured in through those windows. Passengers sitting next to them forced them closed—all but one, which jammed in its track. The conductor, a personage of some importance on an Atlantean train, lent his assistance to the commercial traveler trying to set it right, but in vain. “Guess you’re stuck with it,” he said. The commercial traveler’s reply, while heartfelt, held little literary merit.
Dr. Walton closely eyed the conductor, wondering if he was the mysterious and elusive Preacher in disguise. Reluctantly, he decided it was improbable; the Preacher’s career spanned half a century, while the gent in blue serge and gleaming brass buttons could not have been much above forty.
For his part, Helms stared out the window with more interest than the utterly mundane countryside seemed to Walton to warrant. “What’s so ruddy fascinating?” the doctor asked when curiosity got the better of him at last.
“Remnants of the old Atlantis amidst the new,” his colleague replied. Walton made a questioning noise. Helms condescended to explain: “Stands of Atlantean pines and redwoods and cycads and ginkgoes, with ferns growing around and beneath them. The unique flora that supported your unique avifauna, but is now being supplanted by Eurasian and Terranovan varieties imported for the comfort and convenience of
mankind.”
“Curious, what, that Atlantis, lying as it does between Europe and the Terranovan mainland, should have native to it plants and creatures so different to those of either,” Dr. Walton said.
“Quite.” Athelstan Helms nodded. “The most economical explanation, as William of Occam would have used the term, seems to me to be positing some early separation of Atlantis from northeastern Terranova, to which geography argues it must at one time have adhered, thereby allowing—indeed, compelling—Darwinian selection to proceed here from those forms present then, which would not have included the ancestors of what are now Terranova’s commonplace varieties. You do reckon yourself a Darwinist, Doctor, do you not?”
“Well, I don’t know,” Walton said uncomfortably. “His logic is compelling, I must admit, but it flies dead in the face of every religious principle inculcated in me since childhood days.”
“Oh, my dear fellow!” Helms exclaimed. “Where reason and childish phantasms collide, which will you choose? In what sort of state would mankind be if it rejected reason?”
“In what sort of state is mankind now?” the good doctor returned.
Helms began to answer, then checked himself; the question held an unpleasant and poignant cogency. At last, he said, “Is mankind in that parlous state because of reason or in despite of it?”
“I don’t know,” Walton said. “Perhaps you might do better to inquire of Professor Nietzsche, who has published provocative works upon the subject.”
Again, Helms found no quick response. This time, a man sitting behind him spoke up before he could say anything at all: “Pardon me, gents, but I couldn’t help overhearing you, like. You ask me, Darwin is going straight to hell, and everybody who believes his lies’ll end up there, too. The Good Book says it, I believe it, and by God that settles it.” He spoke in Atlantean accents, and in particularly self-satisfied ones, too.
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