Sherlock Holmes in Orbit

by Mike Resnick (ed)

  Dr. Serling stood and moved to Holmes, who also stood.

  With an extended hand the doctor said, “I would like to thank you for your attempt and your time. It was generous of you.”

  Holmes only nodded and shook his hand. Then Dr. Serling turned to me as Dr. Frederick moved to shake Holmes’s hand.

  “Where will you be going?” I asked as he took my extended hand.

  “We left a homing beacon in a hotel room in New York. We will return there and do our best to not influence the future too much.”

  “That seems like a very logical plan of action.”

  He smiled at me. “It would seem we have very few other options at the moment.”

  He turned and moved back to the large case as Dr. Frederick shook my hand and then moved over beside the case.

  Holmes picked up the large book and handed it to him. “You might want this.”

  Dr. Frederick shook his head. “Please keep it as a gift. At this point it is nothing more than a work of fiction.”

  “I will treasure it,” Holmes said and tucked the book under his arm.

  Dr. Serling nodded, reached inside the case and suddenly they were both gone.

  The crackling of the fire was the only sound as I stood staring at the empty place where they had been.

  “Quite something, isn’t it?” Holmes said.

  I turned and watched as Holmes almost dropped into his chair, the exhaustion heavy on his strong shoulders. He laid the book on his lap and stared at it as if it were a monster to be tamed.

  I poured us both a hot coffee and a snifter of brandy and then dropped into the chair across from him. He continued to stare at the cover of the book, not even offering his thanks for the drinks.

  “It seems,” I said, “that the night wore on you as much as it did on myself.”

  Holmes only nodded.

  I took a sip of the brandy, letting it warm the deep cold inside. “It is lucky that you did not find the answer to their problem.”

  Holmes looked up at me and for the first time I saw his eyes, eyes watery and burning with an almost insane gaze.

  “My dear Watson,’* he said, his voice low, barely in control, a state that I had never witnessed in Holmes. “I knew exactly what caused the change.”

  “What!” I almost came out of my chair, my coffee spilling a hot stain down my trousers.

  He nodded slowly. “I lied to them. Actually the solution was simple.” He tapped the book but made no motion to continue.

  “Please, Holmes. I must know.” I was sitting on the edge of my chair, facing him.

  He grunted and then for the first time reached for his brandy. After a long sip he looked me square in the eye. “It is the knowledge of nightmares.”

  “But they will be my nightmares,” I said.

  He looked and me and then slowly nodded. “I first read the answer in here. It said that at the time of the sighting of the iceberg the First Officer William Murdock ordered the engines ‘foil speed astern* and put the helm ‘hard to starboard.* Now, such a move would cause the ship to turn to port.”

  I nodded. I knew enough sailing to understand that basic principle.

  “But,** Holmes said, “putting the engines foil speed astern made such a huge ship much more difficult to control and thus the turn was just slightly slower. The ship would then strike the iceberg in a direct manner, thus causing enough damage to cause it to flounder.”

  “I am at a loss,” I said. “Is that what happened? Why did the ship stay afloat?”

  “No,” Holmes said. “The engines remained foil speed ahead, thus giving the ship just a fraction more ability to maneuver, thus allowing it to only graze the iceberg.”

  “So First Officer Murdock somehow changed his order? But how?”

  Holmes shook his head. “No, he ordered foil speed astern just as the book says. When I heard him give that order was when I first knew that our guests were correct. That ship should have sunk that night.” He took another drink from his brandy.

  “That was why you needed to visit the engine room?” Holmes nodded. “The man on the telegraph between the bridge and the engine room at that moment was not from our time. He ignored the order and thus saved the ship. And changed the future it would seem.”

  I stared at Holmes. “How could you know he was from a different time?”

  “Simple, really. Just as Dr. Serling wore what he called contact lenses, so did the man on the telegraph in the engine room.”

  I sat staring into my brandy, letting what Holmes had told me sink in. Finally I gathered enough nerve to ask the question I knew Holmes was expecting. “If history really was changed by someone from the future, why didn’t you set it right?”

  Holmes almost laughed. “I had the opportunity to do so. Remember what Dr. Serling told us about there being more than one future from every decision?”

  “Forks in a road,” I said.

  Again the insanity seemed to bum like a flash fire in Holmes eyes as he fought for control. “We are simply on the branch of the road where I did not stop the person from the future.”

  He gulped down the last of his brandy, studied the crystal snifter for a moment, and then with all the force he had he threw the glass into the fire where it shattered and sent sparks flying.

  He leaned back into his chair and closed his eyes. His hands gripped the large book in a death grip, his knuckles white. Softly he said, “On that other road I stopped that man, doomed a great ship, and killed over fifteen hundred human beings in the process. I know that road exists. I know I walked it.”

  My head was spinning from the very thought of what Holmes had suggested. I took a sip of my brandy and stared at the light reflecting off the shattered fragments of Holmes’s glass. “You mean,” I finally said, “that on that other world we are sitting talking about how you stopped that man and the deaths it caused?”

  Holmes nodded very slowly.

  “But you could have never done that.” I wanted to shake him, wake him from his crazy thoughts.

  He opened his eyes and I saw they were almost empty of energy and life. “My dear Watson. I most certainly could have. And in that other world, on that other road, I most certainly did.”

  He closed his eyes again and sank farther into his chair, as if a huge weight were pushing him down.

  And I finally understood what that weight was. My friend had had the future of the world on his shoulders tonight. More weight than any man should be forced to carry. Even if that man was Sherlock Holmes.

  THE RICHMOND ENIGMA by John DeChancie

  (Being a manuscript, one of many, found among the effects of the late John H. Watson, M.D., formerly of the Army Medical Department.)

  As I look through my notes on the sundry cases on which, over the years, my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes has been engaged as an investigator, I see many that are above the commonplace, some that are odd, and a very few that may be termed “singular.” But I do believe that the case which I have decided to call, for want of a better name, “The Richmond Enigma” is the only one that may aptly be described as peculiar. I recount it here, not with any eye toward publication, or any sort of public disclosure whatsoever— indeed, I should think the public would make me a laughing stock—but purely for my own amusement, and in keeping with my resolve to record the salient events of every case on which Sherlock Holmes has brought to bear his formidable powers of scrutiny and ratiocination, this one being no different from any other in that regard.

  It began on a spring morning in late March of 1896.1 had just come downstairs and found Holmes by the far window in the sitting room, playing his violin. I recognized the tune: from the Beethoven violin concerto; third movement, I believe.

  I said nothing as he finished the passage. Then he laid down his bow carelessly on the acid-stained, deal-topped table which stood in the chemical comer, and on which lay an assortment of scientific accoutrements.

  After staring out the window for a moment, he turned to me with a bright
smile. “Good morning, Watson!” he said. “Getting in a bit of early practicing, eh?”

  His smile turned rueful. “I fear, Watson, that I shall never be as good a musician as I want to be, regardless of how much I practice.”

  “Nonsense, Holmes. With talents as numerous as yours, it’s very likely you could do anything you set your mind to.” Laying down the violin, Holmes acknowledged the compliment with a nod. “I thank you, my dear Watson. But rote discipline, which great musicianship demands as much as artistic sensitivity, is not my forte. My mind rebels at the routine, the mundane. I cannot long perform tasks that require tedious repetition, endless grinding, on and on. As to this beautiful instrument, I will never be its master. I love to play but balk at daily finger exercises. The battle is therefore lost before it is begun.”

  Armed with a newspaper, I seated myself on one of the armchairs by the fireplace and began my frontal assault on the day’s events. I had barely gotten started when Holmes said, “You are up quite late this morning.”

  I peered over the newspaper at him. “The devil you say. Why, it’s not half past nine.”

  “Nevertheless, you missed the delivery of this note, from a Mr. Eustace Filby.’’

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. He’s due to arrive any moment. Had you deigned to come down any later, you might have missed him.” “Really, Holmes.” I tossed the paper aside. “And what does this Mr. Filby want?”

  “I have gleaned only the vaguest notion from this, the vaguest of notes,” Holmes said, holding up an envelope neatly slit open at one end. “Do you wish to read it?”

  “I shall be satisfied with your précis, my dear Holmes.” Holmes smiled. “It is brief. I will read it entire.” He pried out the folded note, opened it, and read: “ ‘Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Detective Investigator, 221B Baker St.’ etcetera ..

  “Oh, ‘Detective Investigator,’ is it now?” I twitted. Holmes paid service to this gentle gibe with a brief upcurl of his lip. “ ‘Sir: I shall call on you this morning, very early. If you are so kind as to receive me, my intention is to relate to you some rather curious business in Richmond, which you may find of interest—and then again, which you may not. Should the former be the case, I would seek to engage you in an investigation of said business, to make of it what you will, to our mutual benefit and satisfaction.’ Signed, ‘Eustace T. Filby.’ “

  I nodded. “Curious note, indeed. What time did he say he’d arrive?”

  “ ‘Very early.’ “

  We had not long to wait. After but a few more conversational exchanges, we were interrupted by Mrs. Hudson’s polite knock against the door jamb.

  “A Mr. Filby to see you, sir,” she said to Holmes. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Hudson. Do send him up.” Our Mr. Filby turned out to be a tall, red-haired man with a raw, ruddy face. He was dressed in somber attire; that is to say, conservatively, in the darker shades and quieter weaves of material. His morning coat was black, his waistcoat a dark maroon. The gray of his trousers was a brooding shade indeed, barely set off by the darker stripes. His tie, black, was precisely tied, his collar primly starched. He came into the room and surveyed it, and us.

  Holmes and I rose.

  Holmes said, “Mr. Filby, I presume?”

  “Yes, sir. And you are, I take it, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” “I am, sir. May I present Dr. John Watson—my Boswell, as it were.”

  “Indeed,” said Filby bowing slightly. “I have read your accounts of Mr. Holmes’s exploits with great interest, Dr. Watson. I am honored to make your acquaintance.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said.

  Holmes said, “Mr. Filby, please be seated, and tell me how long you have been a solicitor.”

  The man halted a motion to seat himself. “How did you know I was a solicitor?” he asked with surprise. “There was nothing in my note—”

  “Besides having noticed that your message was written on legal paper, I also see that you wear the uniform of your profession,” said Holmes.

  “Uniform? Why, I don’t quite know what you mean.” Holmes laughed. “Come now, sir. There are three types of professional men who are in the habit of wearing sedate attire: the clergyman, the lawyer, and the undertaker. I deemed it improbable that an undertaker would seek the services of a private investigator. You are obviously not a man of the cloth. Ergo, you are in the legal profession. The only decision then to face me was whether you were a barrister or a solicitor. Barristers, however, tend ever so slightly toward more conventionally colorful clothing, for when they appear in court the unbecoming gaudiness is hidden by robes. Therefore, sir, you are a solicitor.”

  “Remarkable,” Mr. Filby said.

  “Not really so remarkable,” Holmes said. “I have made a hobby of studying revealing trivia. The sartorial habits of the various professions is one area of study that I find immensely useful. Regarding lawyers, I can hazard a guess as to what city a lawyer practices in by the shoes he wears. Also, I can tell whether he is in independent practice or is a member of a large firm. In addition ... but enough. Please sit down, Mr. Filby.”

  Filby took his ease on the settee. We repaired to the armchairs. Holmes crossed his legs languidly, and, as is his wont when in an analytical mood, put his fingertips together and peered over them at our guest.

  “I am grateful,” said Filby, “that you saw fit to receive me at so early an hour. The matter I wish to discuss with you is of such a singular nature, taxing my poor powers of description, that the note which you received must have been somewhat ... how shall I put it? Enigmatic?”

  “Only mildly so,” said Holmes dryly.

  “I offer my apologies. But now I will explain my business, if I may.”

  “Please do.”

  “Very well, sir. I come to discuss with you a matter on which I have been engaged not only as a solicitor—for that is indeed my profession—but also as a friend of the client. In fact, I have been appointed the executor of his estate.” Holmes interjected with, “ ‘He’ being ...?”

  “I refer to my client, Mr. —, of the city of Richmond.”

  (I omit the name, for reasons which will become clear later.)

  At the mention of the name, I detected an odd glimmer in Holmes’s eye. At the time, I did not know what to make of it.

  “Very well,” said Holmes. “Go on.”

  “In sum, and in short, the problem is this. Mr. — is missing. He has been missing for some six months. I wish you to find him. Short of that, I would charge you to ascertain whether he is alive or dead. If the latter, his estate can then be properly settled.”

  “This seems a straightforward matter,” Holmes observed. “In fact, it seems more a matter for New Scotland Yard than for a private consulting detective. Have you gone to the police?”

  “No, sir, I have not.”

  “May I ask why you have not?”

  Filby let out a great sigh. “That, sir, would involve relating the circumstances immediately attendant upon his disappearance. And that... well, Mr. Holmes. Were I to go to the police, they might think me insane. Or they might believe me to be hoaxing them. In either case, they would lock me up and throw away the key.”

  Holmes’ eyes narrowed to slits. “Indeed,” he said softly. “Indeed.”

  “But,” stated Mr. Eustace Filby with firm resolve, “I have no qualms about telling you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I shall relate the whole story, omitting nothing.”

  “Stout fellow,” Holmes murmured. “Do go on.”

  “Very well. It began almost exactly one year ago, when I

  received from Mr. — a draft of a will that contained some very unusual clauses. It appointed me the executor of the estate, which I knew to be a sizable amount—for, as I said, I am also on social terms with this particular client, and knew him to have a tidy income on some very considerable holdings. He does not work, occupying his time with the devising of unusual mechanical inventions.”

  “How very interesting,” said Holmes. “What sort of inventions were these
?”

  Mr. Filby thought for a moment. “One of them, I remember, was a box affair that he purported to be capable of sending telegraph messages without the use of wires for transmission.”

  “Absurd,” was my comment.

  Filby turned to me. “My sentiments exactly. However, he claimed to have conducted experiments which proved his theories. He even demonstrated to me, and some few others, how the box worked. Actually, there were two boxes. One to send the alleged message, and one to receive it. ‘Messages,’ indeed. Sparks, is what were sent, if they were sent at all.” “Sparks?” said Holmes.

  “A coil in one box emitted a dim spark, and almost simultaneously, a like coil in the second box did the same. My friend’s claim was that the two events were causally related.”

  “Indeed,” Holmes said with interest. “But nothing came of this miraculous device?”

  “Nothing whatsoever. There were other contrivances. Dozens, which he exhibited and demonstrated, usually at dinner parties he would give, and to which he would invite a close circle of intimate acquaintances. I cannot begin to count how many of these mechanisms I have seen in the last ten years, all different, all quite obscure as to their intent or purpose, all completely mystifying. Mystifying to me, that is, and to the rest of his friends. However, as we were rather fond of him, and even, in our own way, admired him, we indulged him in these curious enthusiasms. But let me return to the matter of the will. The will stated that I would be made an executor of the estate in the event of my client’s death, or, in the event he should disappear for an indefinite period, I would be made a trustee.”

  ‘That is very strange,” Holmes said.

  “Yes. Stranger still, there was a codicil which specified that the house was not to be sold. In fact, it was to be kept up, maintained, and looked after, though never to be let, leased, or occupied. The house was to remain as it was, down to every candlestick, every rack of furniture, untouched. Indefinitely, until its owner should return.”

  “And he has not,” Holmes said.

  “No, he has not returned in six months.”

  “He took a trip,” I suggested.