“This is a matter of the utmost gravity,” he began, seating himself and turning his chair to face us. “Altor Benn has been murdered—assassinated is the better word—in his private ship, with no possible way for the murderer to escape.” “Plainly it was possible, Mr. Drimba, for the murderer is not in your custody,” said Holmes. “Who was this Altor Benn?”
“He was renowned as a mediator of great skill, one who believed absolutely in the power of reason, and had come to settle the final stages of the trade dispute between the Shalanic Commonwealth and the G’daak Hegemony.” ‘These are the empires you spoke of?”
“Yes. Each controls the wealth of tens of thousands of worlds, and as they are expanding in the same directions, clashes over newly discovered worlds have escalated nearly to the point of war. But both sides realize that diplomacy is far less expensive, and therefore a number of years ago jointly convened a treaty conference.
“The talks, however, have been marred by deceit and acrimony, and it is only recently that agreement became conceivable. Hence the arrival of Altor Benn, who was to smooth the few remaining disputes and preside over the actual signing of the treaty. But now each side has accused the other of assassinating Benn in order to sabotage the agreement, and relations are deteriorating. There are, in truth, radical factions on both sides who would profit from war, and I expect it is one of these, rather than one government or the other, that is responsible for this crime. In any case, only a full disclosure of the facts can save the conference and avert tragic repercussions.”
Holmes nodded. “One rash act can undo the diplomacy of a generation. And you are charged with the investigation?” “I am,” he replied. “I command the station built to accommodate the negotiations. It is on the far side of your Moon, where we may come and go without observation.” “Surely,” I said, “there are barren worlds within your purview where such precautions would be unnecessary.” “True,” replied Drimba, “but your Earth is well situated in neutral territory between the home worlds of the two empires. And by obtaining supplies from your provisioners— London being, of course the natural choice as the center of the civilized world—we avoid the vast cost and inconvenience of shipment over stellar distances.”
“You say you command the station,” said Holmes. “You are, then, a military man.”
Drimba twisted his mouth into what was for him a smile. “I ‘command’ a motley company of uncommitted Filgi mercenaries and some few others as a member of what might loosely be described as an interstellar constabulary force. Beyond these, my command is honored mostly in the breach, for the prime ministers of each government have their own large retinues over which I have little control.” Drimba glanced at the instruments surrounding the screen. “We have nearly reached Altor Benn’s vessel. It is floating in what your astronomers call a LaGrange point, equally convenient to Earth and Moon, yet far enough away to escape detection.”
Holmes shrugged. He has often professed a total disregard for matters astronomical, caring little whether the Earth revolves about the sun or vice versa. “How was the crime discovered?” he asked.
“We received an automatic distress signal from Benn’s ship,” replied Drimba. “He did not respond to our attempts to establish communications, so I assembled as many of my Filgi mercenaries as could be gathered for a rescue mission.” “There is no set procedure?” asked Holmes.
“Our function is primarily security and protocol; I confess I was ill prepared for an emergency of this nature. It is, however, understood that when the alarm is sounded, all Filgi on duty report to a designated vessel, as well as those not on duty who can get to the dock in time. I believe over half the contingent were able to respond, and we managed to race to this location within the half hour. There is Benn’s ship now.”
There grew upon the screen the image of a vessel similar in design to ours but, by the relative size of its entry hatch, considerably larger. There was a panel of blinking lights to the left of the hatch.
‘The lights you see indicate, among other things, whether the hatch was last used for entry or exit. They are integral to the hull and cannot be tampered with, being activated electrically by the hatch itself.”
“And I presume that upon your arrival, the lights indicated that someone had entered the ship,” said Holmes.
“Quite correct. But they also indicated that the interior of the ship was airless. I now feared greatly for Altor Benn’s life, for he breathes even as you and I do, and he had not responded to our wireless messages. My one hope was that he had managed to don his vacuum suit before the disaster struck.”
“Vacuum suit?” I asked, for the phrase had no meaning.
Drimba rose. “There is so much to explain,” he said, striding to his cabin. He returned immediately with three small packages. One he kept for himself, the others he gave to Holmes and me.
“Despite all precautions, the airlessness of space represents a constant danger. Should our hull be breached and our air evacuated, we would perish in moments without these.” He pressed a button on one end of his package; it began to unfold itself into a silvery oversuit, open in front, with a clear visor and a set of small cylinders attached to its back. He gestured for us to do likewise, and following his lead, we climbed into our suits.
“They are far sturdier than they look,” continued Drimba, “and are perfectly capable of surviving the rigors of the vacuum of space. Every member of our mission, from the two prime ministers to the lowliest private in my command, has his own suit and knows how to use it. You must learn as well.”
Holmes and I found that by pressing together the edges of the opening, the suit sealed itself, and we were now quite isolated from the outside world.
“I am speaking to you by wireless,” said Drimba, his voice coming from a spot near my right ear. “The hissing you hear is the oxygen that is being fed into your suit from the cylinders on your back. If you look to your left, you will see a gauge divided by eight marks ...”
I heard Holmes interrupting. “I presume that this indicates the amount of oxygen remaining.”
“Correct again, Mr. Holmes,” said Drimba. “A full charge is approximately three of your hours. It is normal procedure to refill the cylinders when the level drops below the halfway mark, for we have periodic drills which exhaust the cylinders. We had, in fact, just done so.”
I attempted to take a step, and found my feet glued to the deck. I heard Drimba’s laughter echo through my suit.
“Dr. Watson! I apologize! A problem serious enough to cause one of our vessels to lose its air is likely to disrupt our artificial gravity. Therefore we have built powerful magnets into the soles of these suits to enable one to walk instead of floating helplessly. If you will but lift your heel and slide forward ...”
I am sure that Holmes and I were quite a spectacle, gliding about the deck of a space ship thousands of miles above the Earth as if we were ice-skating on a frozen Scottish pond.
After familiarizing ourselves with the simple controls of these vacuum suits, we removed them and pressed Drimba to continue.
“As I said, finding the ship airless, all the members of my crew, myself included, donned vacuum suits.”
“Do you and your crew carry them about with you?” asked Holmes.
“Only when we are off duty. Otherwise they are stored in a compartment aboard ship. Each is marked, for every man is responsible for his own suit.
“You will notice that the hatches of these two ships fit together,” said Drimba, gesturing toward the screen. Indeed, the two ships were now in contact. “Altor Benn’s ship now has pressure and gravity equal to ours, but that was not the case yesterday. When I entered his ship, I discovered that the main power had been shut down. There were but a few self-powered emergency lights relieving the darkness, yet they were sufficient to reveal the body of Altor Benn, floating weightless in the center of the bridge. He was not wearing a vacuum suit.
“This was plainly no accident, Mr. Holmes. The air had
been deliberately evacuated from the ship—not an easy task, for in the interest of safety, it is first necessary to shut down all of the operating systems of the ship. I dispatched my company to restore heat, air, light and power, and to search for the person responsible, assuming he must still be aboard.”
“But you were unsuccessful,” said Holmes. “Did you consider the possibility of suicide?”
“Let us step inside Altor Benn’s ship, and I will show you why that cannot be.”
We entered the spacious main cabin of the larger vessel. “Excellent!” cried Holmes. “You have not removed the body!”
Indeed, the body of Altor Benn dominated the large space. Stretched out upon a table, he was five and a half feet in height, extremely rotund, with a bright red complexion and, like Drimba, four fingers on each hand. He was clad in a long green robe with an elaborate orange scarf knotted so tightly about his neck that the flesh bulged out on either side.
“Strangulation?” I asked.
Drimba shook his head. “Beneath the scarf there is a small puncture wound; he was stabbed with a long, thin object that passed through several vital organs and into his brain, causing instant death. His body has swollen from internal pressure in the presence of vacuum. We have treated it to prevent further decomposition.”
“And you replaced the scarf after locating the wound?” asked Holmes.
“We used Roentgen rays to examine his body; there was no need to disturb his clothing. Yet his clothing is part of the puzzle. The scarf you see is a mark of rank. Yet among members of Altor Benn’s race, it is common to wear a scarf that matches the color of the robe. In fact, at the reception honoring his arrival yesterday, this was the robe he wore— with a green scarf. Equally remarkable is the fact that he wore a scarf at all on his vessel; the Mediator was notoriously informal for his rank, and always removed his scarf as soon as possible.”
“So you surmise that after the murderer struck and killed
Mediator Benn, he then capriciously placed a second scarf around his neck, initiated a call for help, exposed the vessel to the vacuum of space, and somehow made good his escape?” asked Holmes.
“I see no alternative.”
“There are always alternatives. But let me examine the wound.”
Holmes unwound the scarf, removed his glass from a pocket and brought it close. Peering intently, he gestured for Drimba to join him.
“This faint discoloration surrounding the wound—it is not blood?”
Drimba shrugged. “I cannot identify it. Perhaps a stain from the scarf.”
Holmes grunted, then threw himself flat on the metal deck. Even to one who has seen Holmes in full cry, his methods often startle.
“Holmes! I say!” cried Drimba.
“Here,” said Holmes, “and here, and here. These marks upon the deck have been made, if I am not mistaken, by you and your crew in your vacuum suits; see how they grow more distinct in the direction of travel. We are fortunate; in another day, oxidation would have rendered them invisible. There are many pairs of small markings, and one larger.”
Drimba nodded. “The Filgi are considerably smaller than I; they must indeed be our tracks.”
The vacuum suit tracks led to every part of the craft. In the private chamber, Holmes discovered a closet containing a number of robes and a chest containing scarves in matching colors. In another hung a vacuum suit, its oxygen gauge indicating a full charge.
“Unless I am mistaken,” observed Holmes, “Mediator Benn piloted his ship alone, as there are no other vacuum suits in evidence.”
“Quite true,” agreed Drimba. “He took considerable pride in his skills.”
Holmes spent a few more moments examining the floor between the closet and the entry hatch, then rose abruptly.
“There is no more to be learned here. But I have some few questions for the members of your crew.”
“I rather thought you might. Let us depart, then, for the far side of the Moon.”
The sight of the Moon swelling in the viewing screen of
Drimba’s ship held my utter attention. Yet Holmes remained lost in thought. Only as we prepared to land did he shake his head and speak.
“How I wish I had thought to bring a pipe, Watson. Tobacco so concentrates the mental processes. I have facts in abundance, but no frame to surround them. It is obvious how the assassin left the ship, but to identify and capture him ... that will be an undertaking. And the matter of the second scarf remains unresolved.”
“If I may ask, Mr. Holmes,” began Drimba.
“All in good time, sir. Crack the egg prematurely and the bird will die; patience will hatch us a falcon. But I need more information. If this were an earthly crime and an earthly criminal, I would have my informants, my case books, my cross-references. This is terra incognita—or perhaps luna incognita—and I have nothing to provide me with the small yet vital bits of information I require to piece these clues into a quilt that covers the crime.”
A section of the lunar surface swung open as we approached it, and we found ourselves docking at an underground berth. Drimba rose to open the hatch. “Perhaps I can satisfy your needs, Mr. Holmes, even as I offer you and Dr. Watson the hospitality of my station.”
Our berth connected to a wide corridor populated by strollers having an unimaginable variety of shapes and appendages. Perhaps I had been inured to wonders by our journey and continued conversation with a man not of my planet, for I found the sight more curious than frightening. Drimba directed us toward the end of the corridor.
“Few here have ever seen a human before,” said Drimba, “and you may be the object of scrutiny.”
“The same might be said of certain public houses I have had occasion to visit in the East End,” said Holmes dryly. “Lead on.”
We entered a vast room cut from the living rock of the Moon and were immediately assaulted by the sounds of alien music and by odors pleasant and unpleasant that could not be identified. The room was a riot of colored light, ranging from the dimmest red to barely visible violet. Beings of all descriptions were gathered in these vivid, coruscating pools of brightness, and nearly all with glasses in their hands (or what passed for hands).
We seemed to be in the station’s social hall.
Drimba led us to a table in an area of normal illumination. “There are countless races in the galaxy,” he said, “many of them so alien that commerce and communication with them are impossible. Of those races who are roughly similar in constitution, as are you and I, we find that the primary difference is the light by which they see. Your sun is highly energetic in a certain part of the spectrum; you are responsive to that light. Some see well into the infrared, still others into the ultraviolet. The Filgi, for example, fall into the latter group.
“This room is considered neutral territory. There and there,” he said, gesturing to tables near to us but not to each other, “you will even find the two Imperial prime ministers and their guards.”
A four-armed waiter with completely human blue eyes wheeled to our table a cart with plates of food and a variety of beverages, including what I found to be a very fine light ale. I was painfully reminded that our dinner remained uneaten back on Earth, and was suddenly ravenous.
“Please enjoy our hospitality,” said Drimba. “As for the Filgi ...”
He took a pair of dark-lensed eyeglasses from his pocket and handed them to Holmes. “Since I must often visit their quarters, I use these spectacles to see in their light, as the only color we have in common is the upper reach of violet; all lesser colors are black to them, as all of theirs are invisible to us.”
Holmes held them to his eyes and scanned the room. He gestured toward an area bathed in a dim violet glow. “Filgi, I presume.”
Drimba nodded. In the murkiness, one could barely discern beings that fit Drimba’s earlier description. Holmes sat bolt upright. “I am several kinds of fool!” he exclaimed. “This was entirely foreseeable. Watson, if at any time in the future you hear anyone al
lude to my superior powers of deduction, cane him immediately! Mr. Drimba, have you a ready source of reference on the Filgi?”
Drimba frowned. “We have a central reference, a ... you have no word for it I fear. You may think of it a highly ordered brain with a great capacity for storing facts, a central exchange, a clearinghouse, if you will. Every datum from every department and field of knowledge is pigeonholed within, and can be handed out in an instant or correlated with all other data. Your Mr. Babbage touched on its philosophy with his difference engine, but our ... call it what you will ... operates on electrical principles.”
“Ha!” cried Holmes. “I have used almost the same words to describe the mind of my brother Mycroft. Let us then call your device a Mycroft; lead me to it. Watson, this is, I fear, a solitary pursuit, yet I suspect you will be of invaluable use to me here.”
Holmes and Drimba departed, leaving me to discover that the preparations of this kitchen beneath the Moon’s surface compared very favorably with Mrs. Hudson’s.
In twenty minutes, Drimba returned alone. “A message from Mr. Holmes,” he said, handing me a note and two small cards.
“Watson,” read the note, “this Mycroft of Drimba’s is a remarkable device. The final bit of information I required was instantly at hand, and the game is now afoot in earnest. I have gone to Altor Benn’s ship on Drimba’s fastest vessel to confirm what should have been obvious to me at the outset; he assures me that I shall be back well within the hour. I have made one or two other preparations as well. Take the two cards which I have enclosed and give one to each of the two prime ministers. One of them is in grave danger; there will be no mistake as to which it is. Drimba will see to his safety. You will know when I have returned, for a general alarm will be sounded. Do not panic, but meet me at the boat dock and the assassin will reveal himself to us. Holmes.”
Sherlock Holmes in Orbit Page 11
