Sherlock Holmes in Orbit

by Mike Resnick (ed)

  A photographer lowered his heavy camera from his shoulder. He set it up on its tripod and disappeared beneath the black shadow-cloth to focus the lenses. He exposed a plate, setting off a great explosion of flash powder. Smoke billowed up, bitter and sulfurous.

  The journalists began to question Constable Brown, who puffed himself up with importance and replied to their questions. We hurried away, before the journalists should recognize Sir Arthur—or Holmes—and further delay us.

  “If the motor starts,” Sir Arthur said, “we will be in time for the séance.”

  For a moment I wondered if Holmes would turn volte face, return to the field, and submit to questioning by Constable Brown and the journalists, in preference to submitting to the séance.

  To our surprise, the motorcar started without hesitation. As Sir Arthur drove down the lane, Holmes puzzled over something in his hands.

  “What is that, Holmes?”

  “Just a bit of wood, a stake,” Holmes said, putting it in his pocket. “I found it in the field.”

  As he was not inclined to discuss it further, we both fell silent. I wondered if we had to contend with—besides the field theorems, the ghostly lights, and the séance—wooden stakes and vampires.

  ‘Tell me, Sir Arthur,” Holmes said over the rhythmic cough of the motor, “are any of your spirits known to live on Mars?”

  “Mars?” Sir Arthur exclaimed. “Mars! I don’t believe I’ve ever heard one mention it. But I don’t believe I’ve ever heard one asked.” He turned to Holmes, his eyes bright with anticipation. “We shall ask, this very evening! Why, that would explain Professor Schiaparelli’s ‘canali,’ would it not?”

  “Perhaps,” Holmes said. “Though I fail to understand what use channels would be—to dead people.”

  Darkness gathered as we motored down the rough lane. Sir Arthur turned on the headlamps of the autocar, and the beams pierced the dimness, casting eerie shadows and picking out the twisted branches of trees. The wind in our face was cool and pleasant, if tinged somewhat with the scent of petrol.

  The engine of the autocar died, and with it the light from the headlamps.

  Sir Arthur uttered another of his exotic curses.

  “I suppose it will be of no use,” he said, “but would one of you gentlemen kindly try the crank?”

  Holmes—knowing of my shoulder, shattered by a Jezail bullet in Afghanistan and never quite right since—leaped from the passenger seat and strode to the front of the automobile. He cranked it several times, to no avail. Without a word, he unstrapped the engine cover and opened it.

  “It’s too dark, Mr. Holmes,” Sir Arthur said. “We’ll have to walk home from here.”

  “Perhaps not, Sir Arthur,” said I. “Holmes’s vision is acute.” I climbed down, as well, to see if I could be of any assistance. I wished the automobile carried a kerosene lamp, though I suppose I would have had to hold it too far away from the engine, and the petrol tank, for it to be of much use.

  “Can you see the difficulty, Holmes?” I asked.

  His long fingers probed among the machined parts of the engine.

  “Difficulty, Watson?” he said. “There is no difficulty here. Only enterprising cleverness.”

  The automobile rocked, and I assumed Sir Arthur was getting down to join us and try to help with the repairs.

  “Cleverness?” said I. “Surely you can’t mean— Ah!” Light flickered across his hawkish face, and for a moment I thought he had repaired the engine and the headlamps. Then I thought that Sir Arthur must have an innovative automobile, in which the headlamps gained their power from an independent battery rather than from the workings of the motor.

  But then, I thought, they would surely not have failed at the same moment as the motor.

  And finally I realized that the headlamps were dark, the engine still, and the lights on Holmes’s face emanated from a separate source entirely.

  I raised my eyes in the direction of the flickering lights. An eerie radiance lit the forest beyond the road. As I watched, it descended slowly beneath the tops of the trees.

  “Sir Arthur!” I cried.

  His silhouette moved quickly toward the mysterious lights.

  Holmes and I ran after him. I felt a shiver, whether of fear or of unearthly chill, I could not have said.

  Suddenly a great flash of light engulfed us, and a great shock of sound. Dazzled, I stumbled and fell, crying, “Sir Arthur!” I thought I heard one of Sir Arthur’s exotic oaths, this time in the voice of Sherlock Holmes.

  I came to myself, my sight flickering with brilliant black and white afterimages. When my vision cleared, I found myself staring straight up into the night. Among the constellations, Mars burned red in the darkness. I shivered in sudden dread. I sat up, groaning.

  Holmes was instantly at my side.

  “Stay quiet, Watson,” he said. “You’ll soon be right. No injuries, I fancy.”

  “And you, Holmes? And Sir Arthur?”

  “My sight has recovered, but Sir Arthur does not answer my hallo.”

  “What happened, Holmes? What was that explosion?”

  “It was ... what Robert called a flying coracle,” Holmes said. “But it has vanished, and with it Dr. Conan Doyle.” “We must return to Undershaw! Call out a search party!” “No!” Holmes exclaimed. “He has been spirited away, and we have no hope of finding the location unless I can inspect the site of his disappearance. Before searchers trample it.”

  “But Lady Conan Doyle!” I said. “She’ll be frantic!”

  “If we return now,” Holmes said, “we can only tell her Sir Arthur is lost.”

  “Kidnapped!” I only wished I knew who—or what—had done the kidnapping.

  “Perhaps, though I doubt he believes so.”

  “He could be killed!”

  “He is safe, I warrant,” Holmes said.

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because,” Holmes said, “no one would benefit from his death.” He settled into the seat of the autocar. “If we wait till dawn, we may retrieve him and return him safely to the bosom of his family. Before they have any more concern than a few hours of wondering where we have got to.” “Very well, Holmes,” I said doubtfully, “but the responsibility for Sir Arthur’s safety lies on your shoulders.”

  “I accept it,” Holmes said solemnly. Suddenly, he brightened somewhat. “I fear we shall miss the séance.”

  I confess that I dozed, in the darkest hours of the night, cold and uncomfortable and cramped in the seat of the disabled motorcar. My last sight, before I slept, was the scarlet glow of Mars sinking beneath the tops of the trees. I dreamed of a race of beings so powerful that the canals they built could be seen from another planet.

  When I woke, shivering, tiny dewdrops covered my tweeds. The silence of night gave way to the bright songs of dawn. The scent of wet grass and sulfur wafted into my nostrils. I tried to remember a particular point of my dream. Holmes shook me.

  “I’m awake, Holmes!” I said. The snatch of memory vanished without a trace. “Have you found Sir Arthur?”

  “Not yet,” he said. “Hold this, while I crank the motor.” He handed me a bit of metal—two strips sintered together to form one curved piece.

  “What about Sir Arthur?” I asked. “What about your search?”

  “My search is finished,” Holmes said. “I found, overhead, a few singed tree-leaves. At my feet, a dusty spot on the ground. Marks pressed into the soil, forming the comers of a parallelogram—” He snorted. “Not even a square! Far less elegant than the field theorems. Savory food for speculation.”

  “But no trace of Sir Arthur?”

  “Many traces, but ... I think we will not find his hiding place.”

  I glanced up into the sky, but the stars had faded and no trace of light remained.

  Holmes fell silent. He would say no more until he was ready. I feared he had failed—Holmes, failed—and Sir Arthur lay dead in some kidnapper’s lair, on or off our world.


  The autocar started without hesitation. I had never driven a motorcar—it is folly to own one in the city, where a hansom is to be had for a hand wave, a shout, and a few shillings. But I had observed Sir Arthur carefully. Soon we were moving down the road, and I fancy the ruts, rather than my driving, caused what jolts we felt.

  “And what is this, Holmes?” I asked, giving him his bit of metal. He snatched it and pointed straight ahead. I quickly corrected the autocar’s direction, for in my brief moment of inattention it had wandered toward the hedgerow.

  “The bit of metal, Holmes?”

  “It is,” he said, “a bit of metal.”

  “What does it mean?” I said irritably. “Where did you find it?”

  “I found it in the motor,” he said, and placed it in his pocket. “And may I compliment you on your expert driving. I had no idea you numbered automobile racing among your talents.”

  I took his rather unsubtle hint and slowed the vehicle. Hedgerows grew close on either side; it would not be pleasant to round a turn and come upon a horse and carriage.

  “I dreamed of Mars, Holmes,” I said.

  “Pah!” he said. “Mars!”

  “Quite a wonderful dream!” I continued undaunted. “We had learned to communicate with the Martians. We could converse, with signals of light, as quickly and as easily as if we were using a telegraph. But of course that would be impossible.”

  “How, impossible?” Holmes asked. “Always assuming there were Martians with whom to converse.”

  “Light cannot travel so quickly between the worlds,” I said.

  “Light transmission is instantaneous,” Holmes said in a dismissive tone.

  “On the contrary,” I said. “As you would know if you paid the least attention to astronomy or physics. The Michelson-Morley experiment proved light has a finite speed, and furthermore that its speed remains constant—but that is beside the point!”

  “What is the point, pray tell?” Holmes asked. “You were, I believe, telegraphing back and forth with Martians.”

  “The point is that I could not converse instantaneously with Martians—”

  “I do see a certain difficulty in stringing the wires,” Holmes said dryly.

  “—because it would take several minutes—I would have to do the arithmetic, but at least ten—for my ‘hallo!’ to reach Mars, and another length of time for their ‘Good day to you’ to return.”

  “Perhaps you should use the post,” Holmes said.

  “And that is what troubled me about Robert’s description!” I exclaimed.

  “Something troubled you?” Holmes said. “You have not mentioned it before.”

  “I could not think what it was. But of course! He thought he saw a signal from Mars, to the coracle, at the instant after its disappearance. This is impossible, you see, Holmes, because a message would take so long to reach us. He must have been mistaken in what he saw.”

  Holmes rode beside me in silence for some moments, then let out his breath in a long sigh.

  “As usual, Watson, you shame me,” he said. “You have provided the clue to the whole mystery, and now all is clear.”

  “I do?” I said. “I have? It is?” I turned to him. “But what about Sir Arthur? How can the mystery be solved if we have lost Sir Arthur? Surely we cannot return to Undershaw without him!”

  “Stop!” Holmes cried.

  Fearing Holmes had spied a sheep in the road while my attention was otherwise occupied, I engaged the brake abruptly. The autocar lurched to a halt, and Holmes used the momentum to leap from the seat to the roadway.

  Sir Arthur sat upon a stone on the verge of the track.

  “Good morning, Dr. Conan Doyle,” Holmes said. “I trust your adventure has left you none the worse for wear?”

  Sir Arthur gazed up with a beatific expression, his eyes wide and glassy.

  “I have seen things, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “Amazing things ...”

  Holmes helped him to the automobile and into the passenger seat. As Sir Arthur settled himself, Holmes plucked a bit of material from Sir Arthur’s shoe.

  “What have you found, Holmes?” I asked.

  “Nothing remarkable,” replied Holmes. “A shred of dusty silk, I believe.” He folded the fabric carefully, placed it into his pocket, and vaulted into the autocar.

  Sir Arthur made no objection to my driving us back to Undershaw. It was as if he had visited a different world, and still lived in it in his mind. He refused to speak of it until we returned to his home, and his worried wife.

  A paragon of womanhood, Lady Conan Doyle accepted Sir Arthur’s assurances that he was unharmed. She led us to the morning room and settled us all in deep chairs of maroon velvet.

  Sir Arthur commenced his story.

  “It was amazing,” Sir Arthur said. “Absolutely amazing. I saw the lights, and it was as if I were mesmerized. I felt drawn to them. I hurried through the woods. I saw the ring of illumination, just as Robert described it. Brighter than anything we can manufacture, I’d warrant—never mind that it floated in the sky! I saw the coracle. A flying vehicle, turning slowly above me, and windows—and faces! Faces peering down at me.”

  Holmes shifted and frowned, but said nothing.

  ‘Then I saw a flash of light—”

  “We saw it, too,” said I. “We feared you’d been injured.”

  “Far from it!” Conan Doyle said. “Uplifted, rather! Enlightened! I swooned with the shock, and when I awoke—I was inside the coracle!”

  “How did you know where you were?” Holmes demanded. “Could you see out the windows? Were you high above the ground?”

  “I was in a round room, the size of the coracle, and I could feel the wafting of the winds—”

  It occurred to me that the previous night had been nearly windless. But perhaps the flying coracle had risen higher and the wind aloft had freshened.

  “What of the portholes?” Holmes asked.

  “There were no portholes,” Sir Arthur said, still speaking in a dreamy voice. “The walls were smooth black, like satin. The portholes had closed over, without leaving a trace!” “Sir Arthur—” Holmes protested.

  “Hush, Mr. Holmes, please,” Lady Conan Doyle said, leaning forward, her face alight with concentration. “Let my husband finish his story.”

  “I was not at all frightened. I was strangely content, and immobile,” Sir Arthur said. “Then ... the people came in and spoke to me. They looked like—like nothing on this Earth! They were very pale, and their eyes were huge and bright, shining with otherworldly intelligence. They told me—they told me, without speaking, they spoke in my mind, without moving their lips!”

  “Ah,” Holmes murmured, “so at least they had lips.” “Shh!” Lady Conan Doyle said, dispensing with courtesy. “What did they tell you, Sir Arthur?” I asked.

  “They wished to examine me, to determine if their people and ours are compatible, to determine if we can live together in peace.”

  “Live together!” I ejaculated.

  “Yes. They did examine me—I cannot describe the process in polite company, except to say that it was ... quite thorough. Strangely enough, I felt no fear, and very little discomfort, even when they used the needles.”

  “Ah, yes,” Holmes murmured. “The needles.”

  “Who were these people?” I asked, amazed. “Where are they from?”

  “They are,” Sir Arthur said softly, “from Mars.”

  I felt dazed, not only because of my exhaustion. Lady Conan Doyle made a sound of wonder, and Holmes— Holmes growled low in his throat.

  “From Mars?” he said dryly. “Not from the spirit realm?” Sir Arthur drew himself up, bristling at the implied insult. “I’ll not have it said I cannot admit I was wrong! The new evidence is overwhelming!”

  Before Holmes could reply, Sir Arthur’s butler appeared in the doorway.

  “Sir Arthur,” he said.

  ‘Tell Robert,” Holmes said without explanation, “that we have no need to examine an
y new field theorems. Tell him he may notify the constabulary, the journalists, and the king if he wishes.”

  The butler hesitated.

  “And tell him,” Holmes added, “that he may charge what he likes to guide them.”

  The butler bowed and disappeared.

  ‘They’ll trample the theorem!” Sir Arthur objected, rising from his chair. “We won’t know—”

  “But you already know, Sir Arthur,” Holmes said. ‘The creators of the field theorem have spoken to you.”

  Sir Arthur relaxed. “That is true,” he said. He smiled. “To think that I’ve been singled out this way—to introduce them to the world!” He leaned forward, spreading his hands in entreaty. “They’re nothing like the Martians of Mr. Wells,” he said. “Not evil, not invaders. They wish only to be our friends. There’s no need for panic.”

  “We’re hardly in danger of panic,” Holmes said. “I have done as you asked. I have solved your mystery.” He nodded to me. “Thanks to my friend, Dr. Watson.”

  “There is no mystery, Mr. Holmes,” Sir Arthur said. Holmes drew from his pocket the wooden stake, the metal spring, and the scrap of black silk. He placed them on the table before us. Dust drifted from the silk, emitting a burned, metallic scent and marring the polished table with a film of gray.

  “You are correct. There is, indeed, no mystery.” He picked up the stake, and I noticed that a few green stalks remained wrapped tightly around it. “I found this in the center of the new field theorem, the one that so conveniently appeared after I expressed a desire to see a fresh one. Unfortunately, its creators were unduly hurried, and could not work with their usual care. They left the center marker, to which they tied a rope, to use as a compass to form their circles.”

  Holmes moved his long forefinger around the stake, showing how a loop of rope had scuffed the comers of the wood, how the circular motion had pulled crop stalks into a tight coil.

  “But that isn’t what happened,” Sir Arthur said. “The Martians explained all. They were trying to communicate with me, but the theorems are beyond our mental reach. So they risked everything to speak to me directly.”