Sherlock Holmes in Orbit

by Mike Resnick (ed)

  “If he did,” said Filby, “he left no clue as to his intended destination. I have done some detective work on my own, checking and rechecking steamship records. I could find no indication that he left the country. If he is still in the British Isles, he has completely hidden himself.”

  “No one can hide forever,” I said.

  Filby eyed me. “You have not heard the rest of my story, Dr. Watson. If you think what I have related so far is strange, you will be dumbfounded at the end of my tale.” “Pray continue, Mr. Filby,” instructed Holmes.

  “I will, sir. A most extraordinary request accompanied the draft of the will. I was not to discuss the will or its contents with anybody, under any circumstances, not even with the client himself! All communication about this matter was to be written. But that is not all. I could reply to the letter, but I was not to do so until a full year had passed. But before that time had elapsed, more instructions would come, again by way of the post.”

  “And what did you think about this strange business?” Holmes asked.

  “Why, sir, I was nonplussed! Befuddled. Perplexed and befuddled. I did not know what to make of it. I could not even call on my client and ask him about it, for I was expressly forbidden by that same client to do so!”

  “What did you do?”

  “I put the will and the letter in my files, and dismissed it as an aberration of his sometimes peculiar personality. Until ...

  Holmes had been listening with his eyes almost shut. He opened them. “Until ... ?”

  “Until he disappeared. But I must lead up to that. I have told you about his penchant for mechanical contrivances. About six months ago, at his house, among this same circle of friends, he told of a new invention he had been working on. This one ... and here is where I began to doubt my client’s sanity—this one, gentlemen, was supposed to be a device capable of conveying a traveler through time.” “Time?” I said with some puzzlement.

  “Yes. He called the device a Time Machine.”

  “It was some sort of timepiece? A clock?”

  “No, Dr. Watson. Not a clock. I don’t know how else to put it. It was a machine that could travel through time, past and future. He explained the theory—something to do with four dimensions ... I confess I did not understand much of it. However, he showed us a working model of the device, then, shortly afterward, the device itself, though the latter was not yet completed. In the main, the Time Machine was a metallic frame, inside which was mounted a seat facing a set of two crystalline control bars. Parts of the device were of brass, other components were perhaps of nickel or some other silvery metal. It was quite remarkable, and well-made.”

  “You said ... a working model.” Holmes’s eyes were wide and attentive.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Filby. “I did say ‘working,’ did I not? And I saw the model work, if my client’s explanation is to be believed. The curious little device, a miniature of the one in the laboratory, disappeared from a table top, and did not reappear. I saw it vanish with my own eyes, and still have trouble believing it.”

  “A parlor trick,” said I.

  “An illusion—perhaps,” Filby said. “I thought so at the time. But now I am not so sure.”

  “And did your client travel through time?” Holmes asked. “Or, should I say, did he claim to have done it?”

  “He did so claim,” Filby said. “He invited me and a few others to a dinner party the next Thursday. Unfortunately, I could not attend. But I have had many corroborating accounts of what happened. And this is what happened: the guests arrived, but the host was nowhere to be found. Dinner began. Halfway through it, my client suddenly burst from his laboratory, dressed in rags and looking as though he’d come from a battlefield. He was covered with mud, and had numerous cuts and bruises on his arms and face. After gulping down two glasses of wine, he related to his dinner guests the fantastic story of his journey into the future.” “The future, eh?” I chuckled.

  Holmes’s countenance was completely serious. “How far into the future?”

  Filby gave a mirthless laugh. “If you can believe it, his assertion was that he traveled into the future more than eight-hundred thousand years.”

  “Good heavens,” I exclaimed. “Why, that’s ...” “Scarcely to be credited?” said Filby. “Certainly. Nevertheless, if it was fiction, my client’s literary talents are formidable. It was a long and detailed account, though I’m not sure I could—”

  “As best as you can, and summarizing as much as possible,” Holmes said, “please render an account of his journey.” “I shall certainly try,” said Mr. Filby, the solicitor.

  [If I thought this manuscript fit for publication, I would here give a more or less verbatim transcription of Filby’s words, taken from my notes. But, as I deem it improbable that this will ever see print, I will simply outline the bizarre exploits of the Time Traveler (as I will hereafter call him), as told by Filby, omitting much that is as interesting as it is irrelevant.

  [The world of Anno Domini 802,000 and some odd years was—or will be—a strange one. Humanity had divided into two groups. These were the Eloi, elfin creatures who lived an idyllic life in a garden-world of endless delights and pleasures—and the Morlocks, a primordial, degenerate, and bestial race that dwelt in machine-cluttered caverns beneath the earth. The Eloi, diminutive and handsome, if listless and strangely uninterested in anything but the most basic pastimes, led lives cut savagely short; for the awful truth was that the Morlocks preyed upon them, using them as food. The Time Traveler found this state of affairs as repugnant as any decent man would. He tried to do something to rectify the gross injustice of it, and succeeded in destroying many of the beasts in a raging brushfire; but it is doubtful whether he effected any great change in the future world-at-large. He did strike up a rather intimate relationship with one of the Eloi, a woman named Weena. But she died in that same conflagration. Despairing, he went on into the unimaginable future—and here the tale grows more fantastic still. He traveled almost to the end of time, and the end of the Earth itself, and saw many a strange and curious thing—the bloated, dying sun, the horrific creatures that huddled under it, the blackened skies of Doom itself. It was a world as dark as the Time Traveler’s mood. Saddened and disillusioned, he returned to the present, and his long-forgotten dinner party.]

  At the end of the story, Filby sighed. But he had more to tell. “One of the men who was there that night called on [the Time Traveler] the next day. My client avowed that he was determined to mount the Machine again and travel in time, armed now with a camera, and a knapsack for collecting specimens. He said he would return shortly. The visitor heard the Time Machine start up. When he went back to the laboratory to investigate, the curious vehicle was gone. It has not returned since.”

  “And since that time, six months ago,” Holmes finally said, “you have seen to it that the house has been taken care of.”

  “Quite true.”

  “And the place is unoccupied?”

  “Yes. The housekeeper, Mrs. Watchett, and the manservant have moved out. Mrs. Watchett, who now lives with her sister in Croydon, believes the house to be haunted. However, she comes every two weeks to dust and look after things.”

  “I see,” said Sherlock Holmes. He then fell silent.

  Filby and I regarded each other for a while, then looked away. Holmes was deep in reverie, his eyes closed, his head tilted back against the chair.

  The silence continued. When it began to grow uncomfortable, I cleared my throat. Holmes finally opened his eyes, and I was relieved, for I thought he had fallen asleep. He rose.

  “Would it be possible to inspect the house?” he asked of Filby.

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “Today?”

  “By all means. However, I must do one item of business while I am in London. Otherwise—”

  “Then, may we meet you at the house later today—say, five o’clock?”

  “I will give you the address,” said Filby, and he did.

/>   Filby got to his feet. “Mr. Holmes. Is it possible that you could find him? Or at least ascertain whether the fantastic tale he told is true?”

  “I believe I can,” Holmes said. “As for believing the tale, you say that he brought back no specimens, no evidence whatsoever, from his first trip?”

  “Ah, I nearly forgot!” cried Filby, who immediately began to dig in the pockets of his waistcoat. “I do have something—given to me by one of the men who was there that night. He didn’t know what to do with them. Here they are.

  He brought forth a folded piece of waxed paper, and unwrapped it. Inside were two tiny white flowers, stems and all. They were flattened, withered, and dried out, but still quite intact.

  “These are some flowers that Weena gave him,” Filby said.

  Holmes took the specimens and examined them. Presently, he looked at Filby, then at me. He then crossed the room and laid them on the chemical table.

  After searching the bookshelves, he brought forth a fat volume on botany, sat at the table, and began his study. Filby and I seated ourselves as he worked. One book was not enough for Holmes. He went and fetched two more, then a third. He looked through all of these, then returned to the shelves for yet a fourth book.

  After fifteen minutes, Holmes rose from the chemical table, bearing the flowers, still in their nest of paper, back to their caretaker.

  Filby wrapped them up again and put them back into his pocket.

  “Mr. Filby,” said Holmes. “The tale your client told was absolutely true.”

  Filby’s jawed unhinged. He swallowed hard, then said, “Absolutely astounding. If you say so, Mr. Holmes, then it must be true.”

  “It is,” stated Holmes. ‘Those flowers are of no species known today. I would immediately dismiss the notion that they are of some obscure plant from a far-off jungle, for they have all the earmarks of being indigenous to a temperate, not a tropical, climate. Moreover, they are unutterably strange, showing some extremely unusual characteristics, especially as regards the pistils. No, these flowers never grew in the England we know.”

  “Remarkable,” Filby said.

  “We shall meet again in Richmond, at five, then?”

  Filby looked up at him. “Eh? Oh! Certainly. Yes, yes, I must be going. Thank you, sir. Thank you.” Filby got to his feet.

  “Good day,” said Holmes as Filby left.

  “I knew him,” Holmes said as the sound of the front door closing came to us.

  “Eh? Knew whom? Filby?”

  “The Time Traveler. I knew him during my two years at college. Moreover, I am distantly related to the man.”

  “Extraordinary. So that’s what was behind the gleam in your eye.”

  “Gleam? Perhaps. A gleam of remembrance. Of recognition. I recollect him to have been a strange fellow. I did not know him well, but I do remember him.”

  “Holmes, are you going to tell me, now that Filby is gone, that you believe that utterly preposterous story about the Time Machine?”

  Holmes turned full face toward me and fixed me with a sober look. “I do. The flowers prove it. However, I have some thinking to do on this matter. Much thinking. If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Certainly, my dear fellow.”

  Holmes retired to his room, leaving me free at last to peruse the daily paper, which I did.

  The day wore on. I went out to do some bank business, returning at a quarter of three. Holmes had yet to emerge from his room. I spent some time at my desk, going over my notes, then looked at my watch. It was time we were getting to the station. I went up and got dressed, came downstairs again. No Holmes in sight. I was about to go give his door a knock when he finally emerged. He went to his desk, took out paper and a pen, and began writing. Whatever the message, it was short. He folded the paper, put it in a large envelope, took a match to some sealing wax, and sealed it. He then rose, went to the door, unhung his cape-backed overcoat and deerstalker, and put them on.

  “Come, Watson,” he said, stuffing the envelope into an inside pocket. “We must deliver a letter.”

  “I’m your postman,” I said as I got into my greatcoat. The weather had been chilly and wet for late March. “Perhaps you’d like to tell me to whom the letter is addressed?”

  ‘To the Time Traveler, Watson,” said Holmes.

  “Ah.”

  It was all a lot of nonsense, of course, but I was determined to see what Holmes could make of it. After I turned down the student lamp, we left.

  Finding a free cab at that time of day was a difficult proposition, but luck was with us, and we bade the cabman to make haste to Paddington Station. We made it in time to catch a train on the suburban line.

  The trip out to Richmond was short and uneventful, and completely silent on Holmes’s part. He stared out the window. I could only hazard a guess as to what was going through that subtle mind. Morlocks and Eloi? The mating habits of anomalous flora? The swollen red sun at the crack of Doom? Perhaps it was something completely trivial. We lesser mental beings, with our clumsy, clanking brains, can only dimly imagine the workings of a mind such as the one possessed by Sherlock Holmes. A more finely tuned, oiled, and efficient mechanism nowhere exists; but exactly how it works, how it arrives at its mental results and solutions, which it freely gives forth, is the darkest mystery of them all.

  We easily got a hansom at the Richmond station, and proceeded toward the address that Filby had given us. It turned out to be a capacious suburban house with many gables and windows, sitting on a large lot surrounded by a high iron fence.

  “Perfect,” said Holmes. “Perfect.”

  Perfect for what? I did not ask. We alighted from the cab, paid the cabman, and went to the front gate which was locked. I looked at my watch. It lacked but three minutes to the hour of five.

  Filby appeared precisely at five o’clock. He took a key to the gate and admitted us. We followed him to the front door, which he also unlocked, with a different key. We entered.

  The place was dark and silent, shrouds covering most of the furniture. The place was impeccably free of dust, but the stale smell of disuse and abandonment was heavy in the air. The place was handsomely appointed, from what I could see of it. We walked through the house. The library was well-stocked, as I thought it would be, and favored the natural sciences over literature and the fine arts.

  We came upon the Time Traveler’s writing desk. Papers were piled high on it. I peered at them. They seemed to be diagrammatic drawings, engineering specifications, technical studies of some sort, all very obscure. Holmes stood at my side. He did not appear to give them much notice.

  He took the envelope from his pocket.

  I gave Holmes a look. “Do you expect him to return?” “He may. It is a gamble. He may, after all, be dead, done in by Morlocks, or some other fantastical beast. But if he is alive, he will surely return to his house, and if so, he will find this envelope.”

  “Perhaps,” said I.

  Holmes nodded. “Perhaps.”

  “What now, Holmes?”

  “We wait.”

  “Wait?”

  “Yes. But not here. In the laboratory. Will you wait with us, Mr. Filby?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Holmes.”

  “What are we waiting for,” I inquired, “and for how long?”

  “We have an appointment at eight o’clock,” Holmes said. “Come, let us situate ourselves in the laboratory.”

  “Aren’t you going to leave your letter?”

  “Let me see the laboratory first.”

  The laboratory was connected to the house by a long passage. The door was not locked. We went in and beheld what was more a workshop than a place for scientific inquiry. Tools lay all about on work benches. Materials—lengths of pipe, metal rods, and other oddments—lay in piles in the comers.

  One bench was covered with more mechanical drawings. Holmes placed the letter on top of them.

  ‘There. If he returns, he might want to consult his drawings, in order to make repairs to hi
s machine.”

  “Good guess,” I said.

  “And now we wait,” said Holmes.

  “There are no chairs, Holmes,” I said. “I will go fetch some.”

  “Thank you, Watson.”

  Filby assisted. We brought three chairs into the workshop and set them at the far end. The three of us seated ourselves, and I began to wonder about Holmes’s sanity. Whom did we await? I was determined not to ask. Come the hour of eight, I would either know the answer, or be confirmed in my suspicions that Holmes’s finely wrought mental machine needed a bit of oiling, or perhaps a complete overhaul.

  “I need a book. If you don’t think the owner would mind, Mr. Filby.”

  “You have my permission to borrow any book, Dr. Watson.”

  “Thank you.”

  I left, returning with a philosophical treatise on the physical sciences; also, I brought a candlestick. The light outside was waning. I lighted the candle. Holmes nodded his approval.

  The evening dragged on. Holmes was silent throughout. Filby made the occasional innocuous comment, at which Holmes merely nodded. I read. The stiff-backed chair prevented me from nodding off. The book was interesting indeed, and I could see how the Time Traveler might have gotten some notions from it. The author dealt with various ideas about the nature of time and space. It was all very interesting, and completely academic. Nevertheless, I forged on.

  Presently, I looked at my watch. It was ten minutes after seven. Sighing, I rose from my uncomfortable seat and announced that I was going to fetch another book, the treatise having bogged down in mathematical arcana.

  I was waylaid in the library by a shelf of medical books which caught my interest. I sat in a comfortable stuffed chair and pored over at least a dozen volumes, deciding which one I would take back to read. I must have lost track of time, for when I consulted my watch again, I saw that it was just shy of eight. I hurried back toward the laboratory.

  I had just about reached the door at the end of the long corridor when I heard a curious sound, like the rushing of wind, but mixed with an unnerving mechanical whine. I grasped the door handle and pushed the door open. A draft of cold air washed over me.