by Anthology
“Aliens?” said I. “Surely they are mostly still in their respective foreign countries.”
Mycroft smiled. “The word has gathered additional uses since your day, good doctor. By aliens, I mean extraterrestrials—creatures who live on other worlds.”
“Like in the stories of Verne and Wells?” asked I, quite sure that my expression was agog.
“And even in worlds beyond the family of our sun,” said Mycroft.
Holmes rose to his feet. “I know nothing of universes and other worlds,” he said angrily. “Such knowledge could be of no practical use in my profession.”
I nodded. “When I first met Holmes, he had no idea that the Earth revolved around the sun.” I treated myself to a slight chuckle. “He thought the reverse to be true.”
Mycroft smiled. “I know of your current limitations, Sherlock.” My friend cringed slightly at the overly familiar address. “But these are mere gaps in knowledge; we can rectify that easily enough.”
“I will not crowd my brain with useless irrelevancies,” said Holmes. “I carry only information that can be of help in my work. For instance, I can identify one hundred and forty different varieties of tobacco ash—”
“Ah, well, you can let that information go, Holmes,” said Mycroft. “No one smokes anymore. It’s been proven ruinous to one’s health.” I shot a look at Holmes, whom I had always warned of being a self-poisoner. “Besides, we’ve also learned much about the structure of the brain in the intervening years. Your fear that memorizing information related to fields such as literature, astronomy, and philosophy would force out other, more relevant data, is unfounded. The capacity for the human brain to store and retrieve information is almost infinite.”
“It is?” said Holmes, clearly shocked.
“It is.”
“And so you wish me to immerse myself in physics and astronomy and such all?”
“Yes,” said Mycroft.
“To solve this paradox of Fermi?”
“Precisely!”
“But why me?”
“Because it is a puzzle, and you, my good fellow, are the greatest solver of puzzles this world has ever seen. It is now two hundred years after your time, and no one with a facility to rival yours has yet appeared.”
Mycroft probably could not see it, but the tiny hint of pride on my longtime companion’s face was plain to me. But then Holmes frowned. “It would take years to amass the knowledge I would need to address this problem.”
“No, it will not.” Mycroft waved his hand, and amidst the homely untidiness of Holmes’s desk appeared a small sheet of glass standing vertically. Next to it lay a strange metal bowl. “We have made great strides in the technology of learning since your day. We can directly program new information into your brain.”
Mycroft walked over to the desk. “This glass panel is what we call a monitor. It is activated by the sound of your voice. Simply ask it questions, and it will display information on any topic you wish. If you find a topic that you think will be useful in your studies, simply place this helmet on your head” (he indicated the metal bowl), “say the say the words ‘load topic,’ and the information will be seamlessly integrated into the neural nets of your very own brain. It will at once seem as if you know, and have always known, all the details of that field of endeavor.”
“Incredible!” said Holmes. “And from there?”
“From there, my dear Holmes, I hope that your powers of deduction will lead you to resolve the paradox—and reveal at last what has happened to the aliens!”
“Watson! Watson!”
I awoke with a start. Holmes had found this new ability to effortlessly absorb information irresistible and he had pressed on long into the night, but I had evidently fallen asleep in a chair. I perceived that Holmes had at last found a substitute for the sleeping fiend of his cocaine mania: with all of creation at his fingertips, he would never again feel that emptiness that so destroyed him between assignments.
“Eh?” I said. My throat was dry. I had evidently been sleeping with my mouth open. “What is it?”
“Watson, this physics is more fascinating than I had ever imagined. Listen to this, and see if you do not find it as compelling as any of the cases we have faced to date.”
I rose from my chair and poured myself a little sherry—it was, after all, still night and not yet morning. “I am listening.”
“Remember the locked and sealed room that figured so significantly in that terrible case of the Giant Rat of Sumatra?”
“How could I forget?” said I, a shiver traversing my spine. “If not for your keen shooting, my left leg would have ended up as gamy as my right.”
“Quite,” said Holmes. “Well, consider a different type of locked-room mystery, this one devised by an Austrian physicist named Erwin Schrödinger. Image a cat sealed in a box. The box is of such opaque material, and its walls are so well insulated, and the seal is so profound, that there is no way anyone can observe the cat once the box is closed.”
“Hardly seems cricket,” I said, “locking a poor cat in a box.”
“Watson, your delicate sensibilities are laudable, but please, man, attend to my point. Imagine further that inside this box is a triggering device that has exactly a fifty-fifty chance of being set off, and that this aforementioned trigger is rigged up to a cylinder of poison gas. If the trigger is tripped, the gas is released, and the cat dies.”
“Goodness!” said I. “How nefarious.”
“Now, Watson, tell me this: without opening the box, can you say whether the cat is alive or dead?”
“Well, if I understand you correctly, it depends on whether the trigger was tripped.”
“Precisely!”
“And so the cat is perhaps alive, and, yet again, perhaps it is dead.”
“Ah, my friend, I knew you would not fail me: the blindingly obvious interpretation. But it is wrong, dear Watson, totally wrong.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean the cat is neither alive nor is it dead. It is a potential cat, an unresolved cat, a cat whose existence is nothing but a question of possibilities. It is neither alive nor dead, Watson—neither! Until some intelligent person opens the box and looks, the cat is unresolved. Only the act of looking forces a resolution of the possibilities. Once you crack the seal and peer within, the potential cat collapses into an actual cat. Its reality is a result of having been observed.”
“That is worse gibberish than anything this namesake of your brother has spouted.”
“No, it is not,” said Holmes. “It is the way the world works. They have learned so much since our time, Watson—so very much! But as Alphonse Karr has observed, Plus ga change, plus c’est la meme chose. Even in this esoteric field of advanced physics, it is the power of the qualified observer that is most important of all!”
I awoke again hearing Holmes crying out, “Mycroft! Mycroft!”
I had occasionally heard such shouts from him in the past, either when his iron constitution had failed him and he was feverish, or when under the influence of his accursed needle. But after a moment I realized he was not calling for his real brother but rather was shouting into the air to summon the Mycroft Holmes who was the 21st-century savant. Moments later, he was rewarded: the door to our rooms opened and in came the red-haired fellow.
“Hello, Sherlock,” said Mycroft. “You wanted me?”
“Indeed I do,” said Holmes. “I have absorbed much now on not just physics but also the technology by which you have recreated these rooms for me and the good Dr. Watson.”
Mycroft nodded. “I’ve been keeping track of what you’ve been accessing. Surprising choices, I must say.”
“So they might seem,” said Holmes, “but my method is based on the pursuit of trifles. Tell me if I understand correctly that you reconstructed these rooms by scanning Watson’s memories, then using, if I understand the terms, holography and micromanipulated force fields to simulate the appearance and form of what he had seen.”
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“That’s right.”
“So your ability to reconstruct is not just limited to rebuilding these rooms of ours, but, rather, you could simulate anything either of us had ever seen.”
“That’s correct. In fact, I could even put you into a simulation of someone else’s memories. Indeed, I thought perhaps you might like to see the Very Large Array of radio telescopes, where most of our listening for alien messages—”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure that’s fascinating,” said Holmes, dismissively. “But can you reconstruct the venue of what Watson so appropriately dubbed ‘The Final Problem’ ?”
“You mean the Falls of Reichenbach?” Mycroft looked shocked. “My God, yes, but I should think that’s the last thing you’d want to relive.”
“Aptly said!” declared Holmes. “Can you do it?”
“Of course.”
“Then do so!”
And so Holmes’s and my brains were scanned and in short order we found ourselves inside a superlative recreation of the Switzerland of May, 1891, to which we had originally fled to escape Professor Moriarty’s assassins. Our re-enactment of events began at the charming Englischer Hof in the village of Meiringen. Just as the original innkeeper had done all those years ago, the reconstruction of him exacted a promise from us that we would not miss the spectacle of the Falls of Reichenbach. Holmes and I set out for the falls, him walking with the aid of an Alpine stock.
Mycroft, I was given to understand, was somehow observing all this from afar.
“I do not like this,” I said to my companion. “ ’Twas bad enough to live through this horrible day once, but I had hoped I would never have to relive it again except in nightmares.”
“Watson, recall that I have fonder memories of all this. Vanquishing Moriarty was the high point of my career. I said to you then, and say again now, that putting an end to the very Napoleon of crime would easily be worth the price of my own life.”
There was a little dirt path cut out of the vegetation running halfway round the falls so as to afford a complete view of the spectacle. The icy green water, fed by the melting snows, flowed with phenomenal rapidity and violence, then plunged into a great, bottomless chasm of rock black as the darkest night. Spray shot up in vast gouts, and the shriek made by the plunging water was almost like a human cry.
We stood for a moment looking down at the waterfall, Holmes’s face in its most contemplative repose. He then pointed further ahead along the dirt path. “Note, dear Watson,” he said, shouting to be heard above the torrent, “that the dirt path comes to an end against a rock wall there.” I nodded. He turned in the other direction. “And see that backtracking out the way we came is the only way to leave alive: there is but one exit, and it is coincident with the single entrance.”
Again I nodded. But, just as had happened the first time we had been at this fateful spot, a Swiss boy came running along the path, carrying in his hand a letter addressed to me which bore the mark of the Englischer Hof. I knew what the note said, of course: that an Englishwoman, staying at that inn, had been overtaken by a hemorrhage. She had but a few hours to live, but doubtless would take great comfort in being ministered to by an English doctor, and would I come at once?
“But the note is a pretext,” said I, turning to Holmes. “Granted, I was fooled originally by it, but, as you later admitted in that letter you left for me, you had suspected all along that it was a sham on the part of Moriarty.” Throughout this commentary, the Swiss boy stood frozen, immobile, as if somehow Mycroft, overseeing all this, had locked the boy in time so that Holmes and I might consult. “I will not leave you again, Holmes, to plunge to your death.”
Holmes raised a hand. “Watson, as always, your sentiments are laudable, but recall that this is a mere simulation. You will be of material assistance to me if you do exactly as you did before. There is no need, though, for you to undertake the entire arduous hike to the Englischer Hof and back. Instead, simply head back to the point at which you pass the figure in black, wait an additional quarter of an hour, then return to here.”
“Thank you for simplifying it,” said I. “I am eight years older than I was then; a three-hour round trip would take a goodly bit out of me today.”
“Indeed,” said Holmes. “All of us may have outlived our most useful days. Now, please, do as I ask.”
“I will, of course,” said I, “but I freely confess that I do not understand what this is all about. You were engaged by this twenty-first-century Mycroft to explore a problem in natural philosophy—the missing aliens. Why are we even here?”
“We are here,” said Holmes, “because I have solved that problem! Trust me, Watson. Trust me, and play out the scenario again of that portentous day of May 4th, 1891.”
And so I left my companion, not knowing what he had in mind. As I made my way back to the Englischer Hof, I passed a man going hurriedly the other way. The first time I had lived through these terrible events I did not know him, but this time I recognized him for Professor Moriarty: tall, clad all in black, his forehead bulging out, his lean form outlined sharply against the green backdrop of the vegetation. I let the simulation pass, waited fifteen minutes as Holmes had asked, then returned to the falls.
Upon my arrival, I saw Holmes’s Alpine stock leaning against a rock. The black soil of the path to the torrent was constantly remoistened by the spray from the roiling falls. In the soil I could see two sets of footprints leading down the path to the cascade, and none returning. It was precisely the same terrible sight that greeted me all those years ago.
“Welcome back, Watson!”
I wheeled around. Holmes stood leaning against a tree, grinning widely.
“Holmes!” I exclaimed. “How did you manage to get away from the falls without leaving footprints?”
“Recall, my dear Watson, that except for the flesh-and-blood you and me, all this is but a simulation. I simply asked Mycroft to prevent my feet from leaving tracks.” He demonstrated this by
walking back and forth. No impression was left by his shoes, and no vegetation was trampled down by his passage. “And, of course, I asked him to freeze Moriarty, as earlier he had frozen the Swiss lad, before he and I could become locked in mortal combat.”
“Fascinating,” said I.
“Indeed. Now, consider the spectacle before you. What do you see?”
“Just what I saw that horrid day on which I had thought you had died: two sets of tracks leading to the falls, and none returning.”
Holmes’s crow of “Precisely!” rivaled the roar of the falls. “One set of tracks you knew to be my own, and the others you took to be that of the black-clad Englishman—the very Napoleon of crime!”
“Yes.”
“Having seen these two sets approaching the falls, and none returning, you then rushed to the very brink of the falls and found—what?”
“Signs of a struggle at the lip of the precipice leading to the great torrent itself.”
“And what did you conclude from this?”
“That you and Moriarty had plunged to your deaths, locked in mortal combat.”
“Exactly so, Watson! The very same conclusion I myself would have drawn based on those observations!”
“Thankfully, though, I turned out to be incorrect.”
“Did you, now?”
“Why, yes. Your presence here attests to that.”
“Perhaps,” said Holmes. “But I think otherwise. Consider, Watson! You were on the scene, you saw what happened, and for three years—three years, man!—you believed me to be dead. We had been friends and colleagues for a decade at that point. Would the Holmes you knew have let you mourn him for so long without getting word to you? Surely you must know that I trust you at least as much as I do my brother Mycroft, whom I later told you was the only one I had made had privy to the secret that I still lived.”
“Well,” I said, “since you bring it up, I was slightly hurt by that. But you explained your reasons to me when you returned.”
&nbs
p; “It is a comfort to me, Watson, that your ill-feelings were assuaged. But I wonder, perchance, if it was more you than I who assuaged them.”
“Eh?”
“You had seen clear evidence of my death, and had faithfully if floridly recorded the same in the chronicle you so appropriately dubbed ‘The Final Problem.’ ”
“Yes, indeed. Those were the hardest words I had ever written.”
“And what was the reaction of your readers once this account was published in the Strand?”
I shook my head, recalling. “It was completely unexpected,” said I. “I had anticipated a few polite notes from strangers mourning your passing, since the stories of your exploits had been so warmly received in the past. But what I got instead was mostly anger and outrage—people demanding to hear further adventures of yours.”
“Which of course you believed to be impossible, seeing as how I was dead.”
“Exactly. The whole thing left a rather bad taste, I must say. Seemed very peculiar behavior.”
“But doubtless it died down quickly,” said Holmes.
“You know full well it did not. I have told you before that the onslaught of letters, as well as personal exhortations wherever I would travel, continued unabated for years. In fact, I was virtually at the point of going back and writing up one of your lesser cases I had previously ignored as being of no general interest simply to get the demands to cease, when, much to my surprise and delight—”
“Much to your surprise and delight, after an absence of three years less a month, I turned up in your consulting rooms, disguised, if I recall correctly, as a shabby book collector. And soon you had fresh adventures to chronicle, beginning with that case of the infamous Colonel Sebastian Moran and his victim, the Honorable Ronald Adair.”
“Yes,” said I. “Wondrous it was.”
“But Watson, let us consider the facts surrounding my apparent death at the Falls of Reichenbach on May 4th, 1891. You, the observer on the scene, saw the evidence, and, as you wrote in ‘The Final Problem,’ many experts scoured the lip of the falls and came to precisely the same conclusion you had—that Moriarty and I had plunged to our deaths.”