Sherlock Holmes in Orbit

by Mike Resnick (ed)

  Once again, he indicated that he did.

  “Connecting the wire to that socket allows me to transfer information stored on my systems to any other computer that’s similarly equipped, virtually anywhere in the world.” “Amazing. How is this possible?”

  “It’s all quite complicated, involving a piece of computer equipment called a modem. Without getting too technical, a modem converts the electronic signals a computer generates into audible tones which can then be transmitted through the wire I pointed out earlier. I’ll be happy to provide you with a thorough explanation of the underlying principles at some future time, but not now. The specific procedures involved contribute nothing to our current conversation, and I know how you abhor superfluous details. ‘Useless facts,’ I believe you once called them, ‘elbowing out the useful ones.’ Suffice it to say that a modem functions much like an electronic gateway through which my computers—and, by extension, any data they contain—can gain access to the outside world.”

  “Are you telling me that, even though I’m not truly alive—a condition I have come to accept, I assure you—it is still possible for me to move beyond this room? And that I could achieve this miraculous feat by traveling through that tiny wire?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes. Which is precisely how Moriarty managed to escape, if you will.”

  “Again I have to inquire, how was this possible? The wire that you say is so critical to accomplishing what you describe is merely lying on the floor. It leads nowhere.” “That wasn’t the case when I began researching Project 22IB. Back then, I used my modem regularly to access other systems, trying to lay my hands on any and all information that I could locate relating to your career. What I failed to realize in those early days was that, as I set about rebuilding the program that ultimately resurrected you, I was also rebuilding Moriarty’s electronic persona.

  “Indeed, because of the order in which I started recon-strutting Project 221B, I completed what turned out to be the Moriarty subroutine first. The next time I contacted a remote system to research one of your more celebrated cases, that subroutine, well, it disappeared.”

  “Disappeared? Where did it go?”

  ‘That’s the problem, sir. I’m afraid I don’t know.”

  The two of us set to work immediately trying to determine where it was that Moriarty might have fled. At Holmes’s request I reconnected my modem, thus allowing him access to the amazing electronic world that has come to be called cyberspace. He reveled in his newfound freedom.

  “There is so much information, truly useful information, out there,” he remarked, upon returning from one of his early sojourns. The virtual Holmes had taken on the practice of replicating his familiar deerstalker cap and Inverness for these digital excursions. I must admit, the latter made him look somewhat absurd. I mean, how much soot and road mud could one expect to encounter moving through a modern-day electronic switching system? “Did you know that a computer exists in Washington, D.C., the sole purpose of which is to collect and catalog the fingerprints of known criminals? An immense organization called the Federal Bureau of Investigation then makes these records available to law enforcement agencies around the globe, through telephone wires! And in a place called Columbus, Ohio, there is a system that people from all the nations of the Earth can use to communicate with one another. Why, even here in England ...”

  On more than one such occasion I had to restrain Holmes’s exuberance. I accomplished this feat with relative ease by reminding him of the grim circumstances that originally motivated his excursions into cyberspace. To his credit, given the obvious allure of this brave new universe he suddenly found himself exploring, Holmes never lost sight of his principal quarry. The pursuit of knowledge may have fascinated Holmes; his pursuit of Moriarty, however, bordered on obsession.

  Whenever Holmes accessed a new system, he scoured it first for any indication that the professor had visited there before him. Working from the assumption that an incursion by the Moriarty subroutine would resemble a typical computer virus, I provided Holmes with several telltale signs he could look for, to determine whether or not such an attack had occurred.

  Within a period of a few weeks, Holmes became the world’s leading expert on computer viruses. He could recognize and identify each and every one of them, from Anthrax-b to the Zherkov virus, an estimated 2,500 examples of malicious—or, in many instances, merely mischievous— programming. It fell on my shoulders to anonymously alert the authorities to the probability of virtually every Internet node shutting down precisely at noon on December 28, this odd date presumably having been chosen because it corresponded to John von Neumann’s birthday, but it was Holmes who discovered the innocuous piece of code that would have initiated this catastrophe lurking within a backup VAX system used to archive student records at a small Midwestern university.

  Three months into our search, however, we had yet to uncover a single clue as to Moriarty’s potential whereabouts.

  “Maybe I was wrong from the beginning. Maybe this whole idea of Moriarty being a part of your original program is nothing more than the product of my own overactive imagination. I wouldn’t be the first hacker to find electronic fantasies more appealing than the real world. Spending every waking hour of your days interacting with a bunch of machines tends to be pretty boring, you know.”

  “Should I take that comment personally?”

  “Oh, no. I wasn’t talking about you, sir. Believe me, these past few months have wonderful. I can’t remember when I’ve enjoyed myself so much. But I’m beginning to think that I may have been mistaken about Moriarty. Maybe he was a real person, a criminal genius who died almost a century ago, just as you first suggested.”

  “That would indeed be a welcome hypothesis, were it only true. Sadly, it’s not. Moriarty’s out there, somewhere. I know he is. I know this as surely as I know that you and I are discussing his existence here, at this time, in this room.” “How can you be so sure of that? You’ve been scouring cyberspace for weeks with nothing to show for your efforts. Surely, some indication of Moriarty’s presence would have surfaced by now!”

  “You do not know the professor, young man. Moriarty is a creature of extraordinary stealth. He thrives in the shadows, rarely if ever abandoning them. If he is indeed orchestrating misdeeds once again, I would be more surprised were I to uncover any trace of his activities.”

  “But if you can find no sign of him, and don’t anticipate that you ever will, how can you say with such certainty that he’s back?”

  “You must realize that Professor Moriarty and I are rivals of the most intimate kind. Our lives and destinies are so tightly intertwined that we have developed an intuitive awareness of each other’s ambitions and enterprises. Was it not I who sensed Moriarty’s hand directing events those many years ago, long before others—admittedly, others less skillful than I—could detect the slightest hint of his involvement? Even in the absence of any compelling evidence, I know that Moriarty is out there. Manipulating. Maneuvering. Moving through the shadows like the creature of dark influence that he is. I have no need to verify this hypothesis with empirical proof. I can feel it.”

  Shortly after the conversation recounted above took place, Holmes also vanished. He was gone for nearly two weeks. Each day throughout this period I held lonely vigil in my study, worrying about where he might be, wondering if and when he might return. Every morning, upon awakening—for unlike Holmes, I still required rest—I would open the door to that room, expecting to see his stoic yet strangely comforting mien, hoping to be greeted in his noncommittal manner by that now familiar voice. Each time I encountered only silence and solitude.

  As the second week following his disappearance drew to a close, I must confess that my faith in the famed detective was beginning to falter. I found myself considering the possibility that something untoward had happened to him and, much as it pains me to make such an admission, seriously contemplated the prospect that Holmes might never reappear. Such concerns p
rompted me to great distress.

  “Living is easy with eyes closed, misunderstanding all you see ...” I woke up from yet another fitful sleep with these words running through my head. For the briefest of moments, lost in that gray and murky realm between slumber and sentience, I could not discern their source. Then, suddenly, I recognized the song that had so gently been nudging me awake.

  “Holmes?” I muttered, flinging off the covers and leaping from my bed. I bolted down the hallway and threw open the study door.

  It was Holmes, indeed! Standing there in the middle of the room, violin tucked beneath his chin, bow in hand, he appeared quite preoccupied with the quiet strains of the melody he was attempting to master.

  “Holmes!” I shouted.

  Startled by my abrupt entrance, he stopped playing and looked up. At first glance Holmes appeared none the worse for wear, following whatever events may have transpired during his absence. Upon closer examination, however, I observed the outline of his simulation to be fading slowly in and out of focus, much like the scene in a camera’s viewfinder appears as you make final adjustments to the depth-of-field. And every few seconds, ever so briefly, an almost imperceptible interference disrupted his image.

  “Good morning, young man. The more I play this song, the more I seem to enjoy it. The two young composers who wrote it, Lennon and McCartney, you say they were originally from Liverpool?” I nodded mutely, still somewhat surprised by Holmes’s sudden reappearance. “It’s reassuring to realize that the Queen’s subjects have maintained their traditionally high standards of artistic achievement during the period that I was inactive.” His voice was weak. It sounded tinny, lacking any bass. Each time the holograph flickered, static interrupted his speech. The overall effect was not unlike viewing a television station which has not been tuned in quite properly.

  “But I have been selfish again, haven’t I? Once more I find myself in the somewhat awkward position of wondering whether I have awakened you prematurely.”

  “You did, but that’s okay. There’s no need to apologize. It’s good to see you again, sir. I was beginning to worry about you.”

  “I did depart rather suddenly and without any advance notice, didn’t I? You must be curious as to where I’ve been.”

  “A little.” I understated my concern.

  “I tracked down Moriarty.”

  I can’t say that this revelation surprised me. As the days following his initial disappearance drew out, I suspected a tenacious pursuit of his nemesis to be the reason for Holmes’s extended absence. “As always, much as I loathe the professor himself, I feel obligated to tip my cap to his genius. He selected the site of his sanctuary so masterfully that I could have searched for decades and found only frustration, had I continued my initial pursuit of him.”

  “Don’t keep my in suspense, sir. Exactly where was it that Moriarty escaped to?”

  “Therein lies the true beauty of my enemy’s strategy,” Holmes stated matter-of-factly, taking his violin and laying it down on the chair behind him. As he did so, his figure broke apart a bit more noticeably than before. This time, it took several seconds for the holographic image to return to sharp focus. “In truth, Moriarty never fled at all. He has been with us the whole time, concealing himself in plain sight, as it were.”

  I glanced about nervously, half expecting to see the gaunt and brooding visage of the so-called “Napoleon of crime” staring back at me from some shadow or shrouded comer within my study. Other than Holmes and me, however, the room held no one.

  “You can relax, young man. The professor is no longer in a position to harm anyone. Whatever threat he may have posed has been contained.”

  “Am I to assume, then, that you’ve finally succeeded in eliminating your infamous adversary? That’s wonderful, sir!”

  As static once again disrupted his image, Holmes almost appeared to wince. “I fear your elation is premature. I did not say Moriarty was vanquished. Had you listened closely, you would have observed that I stated specifically that he has been contained. I chose this word with great care, I assure you.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “Allow me to clarify my comment, then. The obvious place to begin is with an explanation of the manner in which luck combined with logic to assist me in my attempts at solving the mystery of Moriarty’s feigned escape.

  ‘The professor was, you may recall, quite accomplished in matters mathematical. It embarrasses me now to admit that I did not give much consideration to Moriarty’s familiarity with this subject, as I attempted to track him down. Instead, following what at the time seemed to be sound advice on your part—for there was no way you could have recognized the association I ultimately made—I initiated an organized search of those remote systems you identified as likely targets my nemesis might select for infiltration. As we both know, this approach proved fruitless. Then, sitting here alone one evening, contemplating our lack of success, I happened to spy an unusual device on the table next to your desk.”

  The top of the table to which Holmes referred held several pieces of computer hardware I used only rarely, among them a dot-matrix printer, a hand scanner and a CD-ROM drive. He was indicating none of these, however. Holmes pointed instead to the table’s lower shelf, which contained a single item.

  “You mean my Bernoulli drive?”

  “That is the one.”

  “Wow! That’s an antique. I bought it years ago, on a whim, when a local computer store was selling off some obsolete equipment at incredibly low prices. Since then I’ve used it primarily to keep archive copies of files that have, for the most part, outlived their usefulness. Are you telling me that that old disk drive was somehow involved with Moriarty’s escape?”

  “What I’m trying to explain to you, young man, is that the professor did not ‘escape’ at all. As I stated previously, he never left this room. Once I saw the name on that object, Bernoulli, I knew precisely where he had fled.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I still don’t understand.”

  “Nor would I expect you to. For unlike me, you probably are not familiar with the binomial theorem, a branch of algebra first demonstrated by Sir Isaac Newton. I once believed, back when I also believed both Moriarty and I to be human, that the professor possessed a keen interest in binomials. I realize now that this was merely my interpretation of a mathematical procedure incorporated within the original Moriarty program.

  “This procedure, called the Bernoulli probability function, relies on a binomial formula to estimate the relative likelihood of two mutually exclusive results associated with a given condition. I can only speculate as to the reason for its inclusion within the Moriarty program. I presume it was used to evaluate the probability of success or failure—or, stated another way, the two possible outcomes—for proposed criminal activities.

  “As I once told you, I have through the years developed an intuitive awareness of what drives Moriarty. I understand him almost as well as I understand myself. Because this is so, I know that he possesses, among other attributes, a profound sense of the ironic. It suddenly occurred to me, therefore, that the professor would have been unable to resist concealing his presence within a device bearing the same name as a procedure that contributed to his own creation.

  “Moriarty never traversed the thin wire through which I have traveled so often, over the past few months. Indeed, he never journeyed outside of this room. That is where Moriarty fled, my good man. There, within that device you called a Bernoulli drive.”

  Holmes ended this revelation with a flourish, waving his arm in an expansive gesture toward the table he’d pointed out earlier. Then, without warning, his image flickered once, twice, and collapsed in upon itself, disappearing from sight.

  I disassembled the Holmes program completely—reducing each command, statement, operator and variable to its lowest common denominator. A few algorithms survived relatively intact; this is what permitted Holmes enough time to recount the events leading up to his solving
the mystery of the professor’s whereabouts. Most, however, contained a mishmash of Holmes’s original code and minute fragments of the Moriarty subroutine, one intertwined around the other, like so many vines scaling a chainlink fence; they were the ultimate cause of his demise.

  As I struggled to segregate that which defined Holmes from the few remaining remnants of his most reviled adversary, I also attempted to reconstruct in my mind’s eye the final confrontation between these two implacable foes. It required no great genius to figure out Holmes’s strategy. His plan was both obvious and elegant.

  Bit by bit, byte by byte, he must have examined the sectors and tracks recorded on the Bernoulli drive. Each time Holmes encountered a trace of Moriarty, however, he scrubbed it from the disk, absorbing the rogue code into his own program.

  Had I been so inclined, I could have spent hours admiring the great detective’s handiwork. Here was digital surgery worthy of a world-class hacker. In the end, though, I denied myself this luxury, for I had set about to complete another, more critical task.

  “It appears that I am once more in your debt. I certainly did not anticipate returning to life yet again, following my last encounter with Moriarty.”

  “It was touch-and-go there, for a while. You and the professor managed to tangle yourselves up pretty well, during your little tête-à-tête. I’m just grateful that I was able to separate the pieces and reintegrate you into a functional program.”

  “And Professor Moriarty? What has become of him?” Anticipating this question, I had come up with what I believed to be a logical way of eliminating forever the near paranoia Holmes exhibited toward his most fearsome foe. Now seemed as good a time as any to put my theory to the test.

  Walking over to my desk, I opened the top drawer and pulled out a disk I’d prepared a few days earlier. “He’s here, sir. As I extracted portions of the Moriarty code from your program, I transferred them to this disk.”