“It’s as plain as the nose on my face. It’s as plain as the nose on your face, by God,” Karpinski replied, which drew a nervous laugh from his audience. “They’re a state within a state. They have their own rules, their own laws, their own morals. People are loyal to the Preacher, not to the United States of Atlantis. Time—past time—to bring ’em into line.”
“Are these your opinions alone?” the detective inquired.
Karpinski laughed in his face. “I should hope not! Any decent Atlantean would tell you the same.”
“The decency of framing the Preacher and his sect for a crime they did not commit I leave to others to expatiate upon,” Athelstan Helms said. “But did you act alone, Sergeant, or upon the urging of other ‘decent Atlanteans’ of higher rank in society?”
“I got my orders from Hanover,” Sergeant Karpinski answered. “I got them straight from Inspector La Strada, as a matter of fact.”
“That’s a lie!” La Strada roared.
“It is not.” Helms pulled from an inside jacket pocket a folded square of pale yellow paper. “I have here a telegram found in Sergeant Karpinski’s flat—”
Inspector La Strada, his face flushed a deep, liverish red suggestive of extreme choler, pulled from a shoulder holster a large, stout pistol that would have been better carried elsewhere upon his person; even in that moment of extreme tension, Dr. Walton noted that the weapon in question was a Manstopper .465—a recommendation for the model, if one the good doctor would as gladly have forgone. La Strada leveled, or attempted to level, the revolver not at either of the two Englishmen who had uncovered his nefarious machinations, but rather at Sergeant Karpinski, whose testimony could do him so much harm.
He was foiled not by Helms or Walton, but by the reporter sitting to his right. That worthy, possessed of quick wits and quicker reflexes, seized Inspector La Strada’s wrist and jerked his hand upward just as the Manstopper discharged. The roar of the piece was astoundingly loud in the enclosed space. Plaster dust drifted down from the ceiling, followed a moment later by several drops of water; the pistol had proved its potency by penetrating ceiling and roof alike.
Another shot ricocheted from the marble floor several feet to Dr. Walton’s left and shattered a window as it left the lecture hall. After that, the gentlemen of the press swarmed over the police inspector and forcibly separated him from his revolver; had they been but a little more forceful, they would have separated him from his right index finger as well. The Atlantean policemen in the hall, chagrin and dismay writ large upon their faces, descended to take charge of their erstwhile superior.
“Sequester all documents in Inspector La Strada’s office,” Athelstan Helms enjoined them. “Let nothing be removed; let nothing be destroyed. The conspiracy against the House of Universal Devotion is unlikely to have sprung full-grown from his forehead, as Pallas Athena is said to have sprung from that of cloud-gathering Zeus.”
“Never you fear, Mr. Helms,” a reporter called to him. “Now that we know something’s rotten in the state of Denmark, like, we’ll be able to run it down ourselves.” His allusion, if not Homeric, was at least Shakespearean.
“God, what this’ll do to the elections next summer!” another reported said. Then he blinked and looked amazed. “Who can guess now what it’ll do? All depends on where La Strada got his orders from.” Although he casually violated the prohibition against ending a sentence with a preposition, his remarks remained cogent.
“Why would anybody need to try to take down the House like that?” yet another man said. “Its members have sinned a boatload of genuine sins. What point to inventing more in the hope that they’ll provoke people against the sect?”
“Such questions as those are not so easily solved by detection,” Helms replied. “Any remarks I offer are speculative, and based solely on my understanding, such as it is, of human nature. First, the Preacher and his faith continue to attract large numbers of new devotees nearly half a century after he founded the House. His sect, as you rightly term it, is not only a religious force in Atlantis but also a political and an economic force. Those representing other such forces—I name no names—would naturally be concerned about his growing influence in affairs. And a trumped-up killing—or, more likely, a series of them—allows the opposing forces to choose their timing and their presentation of the case against the House, which any possible natural incidents would not. Some of you will perhaps grasp exactly what I mean: those whose papers have been loudest in the cry against the Preacher.”
Several reporters looked uncomfortable; one or two might even have looked guilty. One of those who seemed most uncomfortable asked, “If all these charges against the House of Universal Devotion are false, why would Inspector La Strada have brought you over from London? Wasn’t he contributing to his own undoing?”
“Why? I’ll tell you why, by Jove!” That was the good doctor, not the detective. “Because he underestimated Mr. Athelstan Helms, that’s why! He thought Helms would see what he wanted him to see, and damn all else. He thought Helms would give his seal of approval, you might say, to whatever he wanted to do to the House of Universal Devotion. He thought Helms would make it all . . . What’s the word the sheenies use?”
“Kosher?” Helms suggested, murmuring, “Under the circumstances, an infelicitous analogy.”
Dr. Walton ignored the aside. “Kosher!” he echoed triumphantly. “That’s it. He thought Helms’ seal of approval would make it all kosher! But he reckoned without my friend’s—my particular friend’s—brilliance, he did. Athelstan Helms doesn’t let the wool get pulled over his eyes. Athelstan Helms doesn’t see what other blokes want him to see or mean for him to see. Athelstan Helms, by God, sees what’s there!”
Athelstan Helms saw the reporters staring at him as if he were an extinct honker somehow magically restored to life—as if he were a specimen rather than a man. He coughed modestly. “The good doctor does me too much honor, I fear. In this case, I count myself uncommonly fortunate.”
“Well, what if you are?” a reporter shouted at him, face and voice full of fury. “What if you are, God damn you? What have you just gone and done to Atlantis? Do you count us uncommonly fortunate on account of it? You’ve gone and given that bearded maniac of a Preacher free rein for the rest of his worthless life!”
Another man stood up and yelled, “Hold your blasphemous tongue! God speaks through the Preacher, not through the likes of you!”
Someone else punched the Preacher’s partisan in the nose. In an instant, fresh pandemonium filled the lecture hall. “I think perhaps we should make our exit now,” the detective said.
“Brilliant deduction, Helms!” Walton said, and they did.
Boarding the Crown of India for the return voyage came as a distinct relief to Helms and Walton. Behind them, the United States of Atlantis heaved with political passions more French, or even Spanish, than British. The Atlantean authorities also refused to pay the sizable fee La Strada had promised them, and laughed at the signed contract Dr. Walton displayed. Under the circumstances, that was perhaps understandable, but it did not contribute to Walton’s regard for the republic they were quitting.
“A bloody good job you insisted on return tickets paid in advance,” he told Helms. “Otherwise they’d boot us off the pier and let us swim home—and take pot shots at us whilst we were in the water, too.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” Helms said. “Well, let’s repair to our cabin. If the ocean was rough coming here, it’s unlikely to be smoother now.”
Walton sighed. “True enough. I have a tolerably strong stomach, but even so. . . . Where have they put us?”
Helms looked at his ticket. “Suite twenty-seven, it says. Well, that sounds moderately promising, anyhow.”
When they opened the door to Suite 27, however, they found it already occupied by two strikingly attractive young women, one a blonde, the other a brunette. “Oh, dear,” Walton said. “Let me summon a steward. There must be some sort of mistake.”
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The young women shook their heads, curls swinging in unison. “You are Mr. Helms and Dr. Walton, aren’t you?” the goldenhaired one said.
“Yes, of course they are,” the brunette said. “I’m Polly, and she’s Kate,” she added, as if that explained everything.
Seeing that perhaps it didn’t, Kate said, “We’re staying in Suite twenty-seven, too, you see. The Preacher made sure we would.”
“I beg your pardon?” Walton spluttered. “The Preacher, you say?”
“You are handmaidens of the Spirit, I presume?” Helms showed more aplomb.
That’s right.” Polly smiled. “He is a clever fellow,” she said to Kate.
“But . . . !” Walton remained nonplused. “What are you doing here?”
Polly’s expression said he wasn’t such a clever fellow. It vexed him; he’d seen that expression aimed his way too often while in Athelstan Helms’ company. “Well,” Polly said, “the Preacher believes—heavens, everyone knows—the spirit and body are linked. We wouldn’t be people if they weren’t.”
“Quite right,” Helms murmured.
“And”—Kate took up the tale again—“the Preacher’s mighty grateful to the two of you for all you did for him. And he thought we might show you how grateful he is, like.”
“He’s mighty grateful,” Polly affirmed. “All the way to London grateful, he is. We are.”
“Is he? Are you? I say!” Dr. Walton was sometimes slow on the uptake, but he’d definitely caught on now. “This could be a jolly interesting voyage home, what?”
Athelstan Helms was hanging the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the suite’s outer door. “Brilliant deduction, Walton,” he said.
(This page constitutes an extension of the copyright page.)
“Aubudon in Atlantis” © 2005 by Harry Turtledove. First published in Analog, December 2005.
“Bedfellows” © 2005 by Harry Turtledove. First published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, June 2005.
“News from the Front” © 2007 by Harry Turtledove. First published in Asimov’s, June 2007.
“The Catcher in the Rhine” © 2000 by Harry Turtledove. First published in The Chick Is in the Mail, ed. Esther Friesner, Baen, 2000.
“The Daimon” © 2002 by Harry Turtledove. First published in Worlds That Weren’t, ed. Laura Anne Gilman, Roc, 2002.
“Farmers’ Law” © 2000 by Harry Turtledove. First published in Crime Through Time III, ed. Sharan Newman, Berkley, 2000.
“Occupation Duty” © 2007 by Harry Turtledove. First published in Time Twisters, ed. Jean Rabe and Martin H. Greenberg, DAW, 2007.
“The Horse of Bronze” © 2004 by Harry Turtledove. First published in The First Heroes, ed. Harry Turtledove and Noreen Doyle, Tor, 2004.
“The Genetics Lecture” © 2005 by Harry Turtledove. First published in Analog , October 2005.
“Someone Is Stealing the Great Throne Rooms of the Galaxy” © 2006 by Harry Turtledove. First published in Space Cadets, ed. Mike Resnick, L.A. Con IV, 2006.
“Uncle Alf” © 2002 by Harry Turtledove. First published in Alternate Generals II, ed. Harry Turtledove, Roland Green, and Martin H. Greenberg, Baen, 2002.
“The Scarlet Band” © 2006 by Harry Turtledove. First published in Analog, May 2006.
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