Sherlock Holmes in Orbit

by Mike Resnick (ed)

  Holmes picked up the spring.

  “Metal expands when it heats,” he said. ‘This was cunningly placed so its expansion disarranged a connection in your motor. Whenever the temperature rose, the motor would stop. Naturally, you drove rapidly when you went to investigate each new field theorem. Of course your motorcar would overheat—and, consequently, misbehave—under those circumstances.”

  “The Martians disrupted the electrical flux of my motorcar—it’s an inevitable result of the energy field that supports their coracle. It can fly through space, Mr. Holmes, from Mars to Earth and back again!”

  Holmes sighed, and picked up the bit of black silk.

  “This is all that is left of the flying coracle,” he said. “The hot-air balloon, rather. Candles at its base heated the air, kept the balloon aloft, and produced the lights.”

  “The lights were too bright for candles, Mr. Holmes,” Sir Arthur said.

  Holmes continued undaunted. “Add to the balloon a handful of photographer’s flash powder.” He shook the bit of black silk. Gray dust floated from it, and a faint scent of sulfur wafted into the air. “It ignites, you are dazzled. The silk ignites! The candles, the balloon, the straw framework—all destroyed! Leaving nothing but dust ... a dust of magnesium oxide.” He stroked his fingertip through the gray powder.

  “It did not burn me,” Sir Arthur pointed out.

  “It was not meant to bum you. It was meant to amaze you. Your abductors are neither malicious nor stupid.” Holmes brushed the dust from his hands. “We were meant to imagine a craft that could fall from the sky, balance on its legs, and depart again, powered on flame, like a Chinese rocket! But it left the tracks of four legs, awkwardly spaced. I found this suspicious. Three legs, spaced regularly, would lead to more stability.”

  “Very inventive, Mr. Holmes, but you fail to explain how the Martians transported me to their coracle, how the portholes sealed without a trace, how they spoke to me in my mind.”

  “Sir Arthur,” Holmes said, “are you familiar with the effects of cocaine?”

  “In theory, of course,” said Sir Arthur. “I’m a medical doctor, after all.”

  “Personally familiar,” Holmes said.

  “I’ve never had occasion to use it myself, nor to prescribe it,” Sir Arthur said. “So, no, I am not personally familiar with the effects of cocaine.”

  “I am,” Holmes said quietly. “And you show every sign of having recently succumbed to its influence. Your eyes are glassy. Your imagination is heightened—”

  “Are you saying,” Sir Arthur said with disbelief, “that the Martians drugged me with cocaine?”

  “There are no Martians!” Holmes said, raising his voice for the first time. “There are hoaxers, who created a clever illusion, dazzled you, drugged you, and took you to a hiding place—a raft, no doubt, that would mimic the motions of a boat floating in the air. They disguised themselves, spoke from behind masks—or behind a curtain!—taking advantage of your distracted consciousness. You saw the needle yourself, the second needle that drugged you again, so they could place you where you would be safe, and soon found!”

  Sir Arthur gazed at Holmes for a long moment, then chuckled softly.

  “I understand,” he said softly. “I do understand.”

  “You understand that you have been tricked?” Holmes asked.

  “I understand all. You need say no more. Someday, in the future, when you’re persuaded of my complete goodwill, we’ll have occasion to speak again.”

  Sir Arthur rose, crossed the room, and opened his desk. He drew out a sheet of paper, returned, and presented the paper to Holmes.

  “This is a letter of credit,” he said, “in payment for your services. It’s sufficient, I hope?”

  Holmes barely glanced at the paper. “More than sufficient,” he said. “Most generous, I would say, from a client who believes I have been made a fool of by Martians.” “Not at all, Mr. Holmes. I understand your reasoning. You are very subtle, sir, I admire you.”

  “Then you accept—”

  “I accept your explanation as proof of my hypothesis,” Sir Arthur said. “And I admire you beyond words.” He smiled.

  “And now, we are all very tired. I must rest, and then—to work! To introduce the world to the wonders approaching us. I’ve taken the liberty of hiring a private railroad car to return you to London. A token of my esteem.”

  Speechless, Holmes rose.

  “Your luggage is in the autocar. James will drive you to the station. The autocar will not misbehave, because our visitors have gone home for the moment. But—they will return!”

  Sir Arthur and Lady Conan Doyle accompanied us to the drive, so graciously that I hardly felt we were being shown the door. I climbed into the motorcar, but Sir Arthur held Holmes back for a moment, speaking to him in a low voice, shaking his hand.

  Holmes joined me, nonplussed, and James drove us away. The motorcar ran flawlessly. As we passed a field that yesterday had been a smooth swath of grain, but today was marked by a field theorem more complex than any before, we saw Robert and Little Robbie directing spectators around the patterns. They both had taken more care with their appearance than the previous day, and wore clothes without holes or patches.

  His expression hidden in the shade of his new cap, Robert turned to watch us pass.

  “Holmes—” I said.

  Holmes gently silenced me with a gesture. He raised one hand in farewell to the farmer. Robert saluted him. A small smile played around Holmes’s lips.

  As soon as we were alone in the private train car, Holmes flung himself into a luxurious leather armchair and began to laugh. He laughed so hard, and so long, that I feared he was a candidate for Bedlam.

  “Holmes!” I cried. “Get hold of yourself, man!” I poured him a glass of brandy—Napoleon, I noticed in passing.

  His laughter faded slowly to an occasional chuckle, and he wiped tears from his eyes.

  “That’s better,” I said. “What is so infernally funny?”

  “Human beings,” Holmes said. “Human beings, Watson, are an endless source of amusement.”

  “I do not like leaving Sir Arthur with a misapprehension of events. Perhaps we should return—seek out the raft on which he was held captive.”

  “It has, no doubt, been sunk in the deepest part of the lake. We would never find it... unless we could engage the services of Mr. Verne’s Captain Nemo.”

  “I’m astonished that you’ve read Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea,” I said.

  “I have not. But you did, and you described it to me quite fully.” He sipped the brandy, and glanced at the glowing amber liquid in appreciation. “Hmm. The last good year.”

  I poured cognac for myself, warmed the balloon glass between my hands, and savored the sweet, intoxicating bite of its vapors. It was far too early in the day for spirits, but this one time I excused myself.

  “When we return to Baker Street,” said Holmes, “I might perhaps borrow your copy of War of the Worlds, if you would be so kind as to lend it to me.”

  “I will,” I said, “if you promise not to rip out its pages for your files. Bertie inscribed it to me personally.”

  “I will guard its integrity with my life.”

  I snorted. The train jerked, wheels squealing against the tracks, and gathered speed.

  “What about Sir Arthur?” I asked, refusing to be put off again. “He believes he’s been visited by Martians!” “Watson, old friend, Sir Arthur is a willing participant in the hoax.”

  “You mean—he engineered it himself? Then why engage your services?”

  “An innocent, unconscious participant. He wants to believe. He has exchanged Occam’s razor for Occam’s kaleidoscope, complicating simple facts into explanations of impossible complexity. But he believes they are true, just as he believes spirits visit him, and Houdini possesses mediumistic powers, and I ..He started to chuckle again.

  “I don’t understand the purpose of this hoax!” I said, hop
ing to distract him before he erupted into another bout of hysteria. “Nor who perpetrated it!”

  “It is a difficult question. I despaired of solving it. I wondered if Sir Arthur wished to pit his intellect against mine. If the journalists and photographers conspired to create a story. If Constable Brown wished to draw more resources to his district—and found he enjoyed the limelight!”

  “Which of them was it, Holmes? Wait! It was the photographer—only he has access to flash powder!”

  “And an intimate knowledge of Surrey fields? No. The flash powder is easily purchased—or purloined. It was no one you mention.”

  “Then who?”

  “Who benefits?”

  I considered. If Sir Arthur wrote of the events, he might make a tidy sum from a book and lecture tour. But Holmes had already stated that Sir Arthur was innocent. Still, what benefited Sir Arthur would benefit his whole family ... “Not Lady Conan Doyle!” I exclaimed, aghast.

  “Certainly not,” Holmes said.

  “The butler? The driver? He would know how to sabotage the car—”

  “Robert Holder, Watson!” Holmes cried. “Robert Holder! Perhaps—indeed, certainly—with help from James and the butler and other tenants in the neighborhood. But Robert was the mastermind, for all his rough appearance. A veritable Houdini of the countryside!” Holmes considered. “Indeed, he used some of my own techniques. And he almost defeated me!”

  “He risked all by challenging you!”

  “I was unforeseen—surely he intended Sir Arthur to conduct the investigation. When you and I arrived, Robert must have realized he would stand or fall by his boldness. He offered Sir Arthur a compelling reason to dismiss my solution—and me. Sir Arthur accepted the offering. How could he resist?”

  Holmes gazed out the window of the train for a moment. Unmarred fields rippled past, like miniature green seas.

  “If not for Robert’s misapprehension about the velocity of light,” Holmes said, “a misapprehension that I shared, I would have known what happened, and I would have known how—but I never would have been certain who.”

  “You sound curiously sympathetic, Holmes,” I said with disapproval.

  “Indeed I am, Watson. Robert is clearly an honorable man.”

  “Honorable!”

  “He refused Sir Arthur’s offer to relieve him of the year’s rent. He has no wish to steal.”

  “Only to lie.”

  “Like Houdini. Like any entertainer, any storyteller. Shakespeare lied. You have lied yourself, my friend, in your descriptions of our adventures.”

  “I have disguised individuals,” I said, taking offense. “I have, yes, perhaps, dissembled occasionally ...” I hesitated, and then I nodded. “Very well. I have lied.”

  “Life is hard for people who work the land. You and I are prosperous, now. But remember what it was like when we were younger, scraping along from season to season, with never a new shirt or a pair of boots that did not let in the rain. Imagine seeing no better prospects. For the rest of your life.”

  I suddenly remembered father and sons, and their new clothes.

  “Who can blame them for creating a diversion, a mystery to attract sightseers, people of leisure with money to spare. People,” Holmes added, “with a blind eye to turn to the evidence lying plain before them.”

  “What of your commitment to the truth, Holmes?” I asked with some asperity.

  “I know the truth,” he said. “You know it. Sir Arthur knows it, but rejects it. I have kept the solution to other mysteries confidential; it is part of my duty. How is this different?”

  I suddenly understood. Holmes’s sympathy was not so much directed toward the hoaxers as away from the curiosity seekers who were willing, indeed eager, to be fooled.

  “Very well, Holmes,” I said. “I am content, if you are.”

  We rode in silence for some miles, lulled by the rocking of the train, enjoying Sir Arthur’s excellent cognac and the peaceful English countryside. I wondered what the world would be like if beings from another planet did visit us.

  “Holmes,” I said.

  “Yes, Watson?”

  “Why was Sir Arthur so willing to pay you, when he did not believe your solution? What did he say to you, just as we left?”

  “He said, ‘I understand why you are such an extraordinary person. Like Houdini, you have good reason to hide your abilities, your true nature. I understand why Sherlock Holmes cannot be the one to reveal the truth about our visitors. I will do it, and you may trust me to keep your secret.’ “

  “Your secret?”

  “Yes, Watson.” Holmes smiled. “Sir Arthur Conan Doyle believes I am a Martian.”

  THE ADVENTURE OF THE MISSING COFFINby Laura Resnick

  “A noteworthy moment in the annals of crime, Watson,” Holmes said to his faithful companion one cold night in the autumn of 1895.

  “Hmmm? What?” the good doctor mumbled sleepily. “Wake up, Watson!” Holmes snapped at his trusty biographer. “This is another pinnacle of logic in my brilliant career. D’you suppose Boswell slept while Johnson worked?” “According to Mr. Boswell’s account, they did sleep occasionally,” Watson muttered, glancing at his watch. “For pity’s sake, it’s past midnight, Holmes. You’ve been at it since dawn.” He straightened his collar as he shifted his position in the old chair by the fire, then peered through the feeble gaslight. Holmes had once again littered their rooms in Baker Street with an alarming array of scientific paraphernalia and was currently engaged in heating a test tube over a Bunsen burner. The substance inside the tube was particularly odorous. “Good God, what are you doing?”

  “Hah!” Holmes cried with an expression of pleasure that suggested he had awoken the good doctor precisely to be asked that very question. “I am engaged, my dear Watson, in determining the guilt or innocence of Mr. Ricardo Fitzgerald-Schwartz.”

  “Ricardo ...” Watson frowned. “Are you referring to the infamous Adventure of the Rabbi’s Rosary?”

  “I am indeed. If, upon reaching boiling temperature, the liquid in this vial turns yellow, Fitzgerald-Schwartz is innocent. If, however, it turns red, then he is guilty as sin.” “But, Holmes—”

  “Ah-hah! It’s boiling now, old chap.”

  “But, Holmes—”

  ‘There! There we have it! Do you see? Watson, do you seer

  “Yes. It’s turning red.”

  “Guilty! Fitzerald-Schwartz is guilty! I have proved it scientifically, beyond the shadow of a doubt!” Holmes cried in triumph.

  “Well, then I suppose it’s a good thing that he was condemned and hanged three months ago, isn’t it?” Watson said mildly.

  Holmes looked pained. “Oh, Watson, Watson.” Holmes rested his head upon the table, heedless of the murky red substance now freely bubbling over the sides of the test tube and staining everything with which it came into contact. “It was all so sordid, so mundane. So degrading. I wish they had never called me into that case.”

  “Yes, it is a pity that four eyewitnesses stepped forward and testified before you had the opportunity to make more than one or two brilliant deductions,” Watson said sympathetically.

  “People have no business going around witnessing crimes,” Holmes snarled. He lifted his head. His neck and the side of his face were now stained red. “Crime is my territory! Do I interfere in their petty little lives?”

  “Really, Holmes, you’ve been sulking about this for too long. It’s time to put it behind you.”

  “Behind me?” Holmes cried. “Watson, how can I? Since that appalling affair, not one single new client has walked through that door!” He pointed accusingly at the entrance to their rooms. “How can I recover my wits if I am to be driven to madness with boredom and inactivity?”

  “Indeed.” Watson surveyed the mess. The red froth was now dribbling over the edge of the table to stain the Turkish carpet. “Nevertheless, I doubt that proving the guilt of a man who’s already been hanged for the crime is quite the way to keep yourself occu
pied until our next client appears.”

  “Then what would you recommend, Doctor?” Holmes responded peevishly.

  Watson gave a long-suffering sigh. “You could always—”

  He was interrupted by a sound at the window. As their rooms were a good twenty feet above street level, this was surprising enough to cause them both to forget the argument at hand and rush over to the somewhat dirty window.

  Peering out into the darkness, Watson murmured, “I could have sworn I heard something.”

  “You did, Watson, you did,” Holmes assured him, also peering out into the London night. “We may have a visitor.” “A visitor? Is that possible? How could—”

  “When you have eliminated the impossible, my dear Watson, whatever remains, no matter how—”

  “Please, don’t repeat that again. What do you suppose it could have been? A bird flying off course and hitting the window?”

  “Nonsense. I am something of an authority, you know, on the sounds various objects make when hitting glass. I’ve even written a—”

  “—a small monograph on the subject. Yes, I know. What do you think it was, then?”

  “Hmmm. Given the probable velocity of the object, combined with the distinct thud it made when coming into contact with the window, which is made of a particularly—” “Why don’t we just open the window and find out?” Watson suggested impatiently.

  “Good God, no! If you did that, Doctor, you would lay us both open to danger of a magnitude which, I dare say, can hardly be exaggerated. No, do not think for even one second—”

  He was interrupted by yet another thud against the window. “Holmes! It’s a bat.” Watson chuckled, turned away from the window, and resumed his seat by the fire. “Good heavens, old chap! You really had me worried for a minute there. Danger? Hah!”

  “Oh, Watson, Watson. Do not be deceived. ‘Tis a very clever scheme. A deception of the most infamous nature.”

  Watson yawned hugely and stretched. “If you say so, my dear fellow. However, I’m afraid not even great danger and infamous deception can keep me awake any longer. I’m off to bed.”

  Holmes scarcely nodded as his old friend passed him by and headed for the door. His eyes were fixed on some distant place. Liverpool, perhaps.