by Simon Hawke
"Why?" said Wells. "I understand none of this! What reason would they have to want you dead?"
"It is a long story," said Moreau, "but one that you must hear if I am to convince you of the danger we all face. It involves war, Mr. Wells. The greatest war of all time. A war to end all wars. And there is no telling how long it may last. It is even possible that it will never end. But first, you must meet the only other man who shares my secret. He may seem like an unlikely ally, but do not be deceived by his age or his appearance. He is a most unusual man. His name is Lin Tao . . ."
For a change, Ian Holcombe was glad for the help. It had been a long day and after working with Conan Doyle for several hours, he no longer had any qualms about "scribblers" in the crime lab.
"I owe you an apology, Doctor," Holcombe said as they were washing up and removing their aprons. Neilson handed them fresh towels. "About my behavior towards you earlier—"
"Think nothing of it," Doyle said. "And please, call me Arthur."
"Nevertheless, I do apologize. Arthur," Holcombe said. "You are a first- rate medical man. For someone not trained in pathology, you possess remarkable skill."
"Well, it's true that I am no pathologist," said Doyle, "hut I served as a ship's surgeon on several occasions, which is as good a way as any that I know to learn adaptability. And I had the good fortune to study under a most remarkable man once, Dr. Joseph Bell of Edinburgh, who taught mc the value of observing, rather than merely seeing. I never knew him to make a single incorrect diagnosis. His deductive faculties were brilliant. He could tell what a man's occupation was simply by observing him carefully. In fact, I modeled Sherlock Holmes on him."
"How is it that you became a writer instead of a practicing physician?" Holcombe said.
"A peculiar trick of fate, I suppose." said Doyle. “It seems that people would prefer me to stick to writing rather than practice medicine. They pay me truly exorbitant sums for my stories, but if I had to live off my medical training, Louise and I would doubtless starve." He chuckled. "I could not get any patients, and yet sometimes it seems as if the entire world is hammering down my doors, demanding more stories about Holmes. You simply would not believe the response to my killing him off. You should see my mail. I am berated with the most outrageous accusations. One woman called me a heartless brute." He sighed. "My own creation has me by the throat. And yet, I must confess, right now I almost wish I had him here beside me, in the flesh, to help us unravel this mystery and bring this maniac to justice."
"You think it is all the work of one man?" said Holcombe. "Another Jack the Ripper?"
"The evidence certainly seems to support that theory." Conan Doyle said, putting on his coat. "The modus operandi in all these grisly killings is the same, with the sole exception of the Crewe girl."
"The additional hair samples matched the ones you found beneath the fingernails of Constable Jones?" said Holcombe.
"Yes• we got some good ones off the late Mr. Tully. He must have grappled with the killer. That we are dealing with a madman, there can he no doubt, not only from the sheer brutality of these crimes, but from the strength the killer obviously possesses. To throw five men around as if they were no more than kittens takes much more than ordinary strength."
"A madman's strength," said Holcombe.
"Indeed." said Doyle. "But what puzzles me most is the manner in which the wounds were inflicted. I thought, perhaps, that our killer possessed some kind of weapon, a small club of some sort fixed with sharp animal claws, similar to those carried by some tribes of African natives. A minor example of the taxidermist's art. That might have accounted for the animal hairs—or at least hairs that appear to be very like an animal's. But then closer analysis suggests that they are human hairs, albeit unusually coarse. Consider the testimony of the eyewitnesses who saw the struggle from their windows. From the way things seem to have occurred during the struggle, it would have been necessary for our killer to use both hands during the fighting, which means that if his weapon were a club or something that he had to carry, he would have had to drop it and pick it up again several times during the fight."
"So the claws, or whatever they were, had to have been worn upon his hands, like gloves?" said Holcombe.
"That does seem to be the only possible conclusion that the evidence will support," said Doyle, "and yet, it seems to me that something worn upon the hands in such a manner would have to affect the killer's dexterity to some degree. And consider the manner in which Tully's hands were crushed. The bones in the fingers were all shattered, as if squeezed in a powerful vise. And at least two of the witnesses report seeing the killer catch Tully's fists as Tully tried to strike him and then force Tully to his knees. No one saw anything resembling a weapon, although with the heavy fog, the reliability of these reports is open to some question. No one was able to see the killer's face clearly, which is truly unfortunate. Still, everything we know indicates that this struggle took place hand to hand, which raises the inevitable possibility, unlikely as it may seem, that the killer actually has claws."
"The werewolf hypothesis again?" said Holcombe sourly. Neilson pretended to be busy cleaning up. but he was listening closely. As common with doctors working around "lesser employees." the two men spoke as if he wasn't even there.
"For obvious reasons, I am as unsatisfied with that conclusion as you are, Ian," Conan Doyle said, "but when we conclusively eliminate all probable explanations, what remains, no matter how improbable it seems, must be the truth."
"But have we eliminated all the probable explanations?" Holcombe said.
"We do not yet possess enough evidence to say for certain." said Conan Doyle. "Consider this. We are confronted with a killer who murders with animal savagery, and in an animal manner. A man whose hands seem to have sharp claws. A man who tears the throats out of his victims with sharp teeth. A man who seems to have inhuman strength. What if our killer is not human? The more we consider these facts, the less it seems that we are dealing with a man."
"But the witnesses saw a man," said Holcombe.
"The witnesses saw what appeared to be a man," said Conan Doyle. "In the heavy fog, how could they be certain? Remember, no one saw the killer's face. I keep thinking about the sole survivor of the struggle, Stanley Turner. A face covered with hair” he said. What does that mean, a heavy heard? He said a man appeared out of the mist and called to the killer, called to him—or it—several times while it growled, apparently eager to attack Turner and finish him off. The killer finally responded and then, in Turner's own words, 'shambled off after the
mysterious stranger. One might describe the movements of a great ape in such
terms."
"A trained ape?" said Holcombe. "Dressed in a man's clothing?"
"A great ape would have the necessary strength required," Conan Doyle said, "and the other elements would seem to fit as well, only the hair does not match that of any ape I am familiar with. Still, there are such rare creatures as the silver- backed gorilla, for example, which might have hair to match those samples that we have found. There are no such creatures in captivity in England that I know of, but great apes are very manlike and I have seen chimpanzees trained to an astonishing degree, so that they almost seem like people."
"But what motive would someone have to train such a creature to kill, apparently at random?" Holcombe said. "And how could someone keep such an animal concealed?"
"I don't know," said Conan Doyle, frustrated. "It is a maddening case. But the more I think about it, the more I consider the evidence, the more convinced I become of the fact that our killer is not human. The question is• if he is not human, then what is he?"
"I'd sooner accept the theory that we are looking for an ape rather than a werewolf," Holcombe said wryly.
"So would I. Ian, so would I." said Conan Doyle. "One thing seems certain, though, and that is that we are dealing with some sort of a monstrosity. I will be curious to see what happens in the next few days, if there will be any more kil
lings after tomorrow night.''
"Why after tomorrow night?" said Holcombe, puzzled. "Because tomorrow is the last night of the full moon," said Conan Doyle.
Neilson almost dropped a tray of instruments.
"A werewolf'• said H. G. Wells. He removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Really, Moreau, this is too much. just how much do you think one man can absorb in just one short afternoon'?"
"Not only a werewolf," said Moreau, "hut I have reason to believe that
Drakov may have created a vampire• as well. The template for the creature was
outlined in the notes he showed me—"
"Wait, wait," said Wells, holding his bands up in protest. He glanced from Moreau to the old Chinaman, Lin Tao, then back to Moreau again. "Let me understand you. Are we seriously talking about werewolves and vampires, such as those described in folklore? Men who turn into wolves when the moon is full, capable of being killed only by a silver bullet? Corpses reanimated by the devil, existing by the means of drinking human blood? Beings you cannot see reflected in a mirror, who turn into bats and can be destroyed only by wooden stakes driven through their hearts?"
"No, no. of course not," said Moreau. "What you are talking about is fantasy, the supernatural. What I am talking about is science. Specifically, the science of genetic engineering and biomodification. Biological experimentation, if you will, that is my field. I had developed a new way of manipulating human DNA . . . no, that would mean nothing to you, of course. How can I put it? This werewolf we are discussing, in a way, it was I who created him. I was the one who taught Nikolai Drakov everything he knows, to my everlasting shame. I was the one who showed him how animal genetic material . . . well, how surgical procedures, for lack of a better way of explaining it to you, can create beings who are neither men nor beasts, but something in between, creatures in whom elements of both men and beasts are combined. I never dreamed that he would take it so far. It never occurred to me that he had been studying the field for years, that he was an insane genius who would be able to observe my techniques and duplicate them, even refine them, that he was using me . . ."
Moreau's voice trailed off. He balled his fists and took a deep breath, shaking his head in an agony of rage and frustration.
"I am only confusing you," he said. "I can see it in your face. How can I explain? How can I make you see?"
"Why not convince him as you convinced me, Phillipe?" Lin Tao said softly. "Why not show Mr. Wells how much one man can absorb in just one short afternoon?"
Moreau stared at Lin Tao. "I had considered it," he said, "but it frightens me. What if something should go wrong? I mean no offense, old friend, but you are not historically important. Wells is. He will write extensively about the future. He will leave his mark. I have already interfered too much in his destiny. I am afraid to take it any further."
Lin Tao looked thoughtful. "In the words of the poet Hakuyo, 'Over the peak are spreading clouds, at its source the river is cold. If you would see, climb the mountain top.' It time is, indeed, as you have explained it to me, like a river with no end and no beginning, then perhaps, Phillipe, you should he afraid not to take it any further."
Moreau licked his lips nenou.sly. "Creatures in whom elements of both men and beasts are combined,” he murmured softly to himself. "And then the remarkable coincidence of my name . . ." He shook his head. "But that was another world. another timeline. It's true, this one is almost a perfect mirror image—"
"Moreau, in Heaven's name, man, what are you mumbling about?" said Wells. "I understand none of this!"
"Perhaps not at this moment, Mr. Wells," Moreau said, "but you will very shortly understand it perfectly. As you have already observed, the type of warp disc that I wear can generate a temporal field large enough to transport more than one individual. You have experienced one very short temporal transition, from Fleet Street to Limehouse. How would you like to experience a far greater one, from the 19th century to the 27th?"
Wells stared at him. "Do you mean that you propose for us to travel over seven hundred years into the future?"
"Exactly," said Moreau. "I think that would convince you of what science can accomplish beyond any shadow of a doubt." Wells swallowed nervously, glancing from one man to the other. "I am still not entirely convinced that I amt not dreaming all of this," he said. "But if it is truly possible to see the future, to actually travel there ... How could any man possibly. resist such a fantastic opportunity? When would we leave?"
Moreau pulled back his sleeve. "Right now."
5 _______
The waiting was driving Finn Delaney crazy. Andre had relieved him on the surveillance of Conan Doyle and he had relieved Steiger at the Hotel Metropole command post while Steiger took a break for some much needed sleep. Delaney had bathed and put on a silk robe. He sat drinking coffee, going over his notes on the mission, which were continually updated as new reports came in. They were making progress. but it was excruciatingly slow.
Ransome and Rirzo had been systematically eliminating names from their lists of recent leaseholds and depositors, trying to track down Drakov's alias in this time period. If he was using an alias and if he was even in this time period. Delaney could not believe he wasn't. It would not fit Drakov's pattern to release several hominoids in Victorian London and then clock out to another time period. He would remain close by, to watch and supervise his handiwork. Nikolai Drakov was a product of two times—the 27th century, where he had received his implant education, and the 19th, where he had received his values, twisted though they had become. Drakov was not the sort of man to remain behind the scenes for long. His ego would not allow it. He took responsibility.
Neilson was keeping them steadily posted on the progress of Grayson's investigation. Grayson was an unexpected blessing. He was doing much of their legwork for them. And Neilson's clandestine examination of Grayson's notes and files had produced an address for the missing Tony Hesketh. Rizzo had been pulled off the search for Drakov's hideout and he was now staked out in Bow Street, near Covent Garden, watching Hesketh's rooms. They were rotating their posts as best they could, shifting manpower where it was needed most, but they were still spread very thin. With the Temporal Crisis rendering the timestream unstable, the entire Temporal Corps was being spread thin. It was an insane. impossible task, trying to monitor all of history for temporal confluence points, where their timestream intersected that of the alternate timeline from which Moreau had come.
Ever since Delaney had studied Mensinger's Theories of Temporal Relativity back in Referee Corps School, he had been haunted by the feeling that irreparable damage to the timestream was inevitable. It was one of the chief factors responsible for his washing out of RCS, that and his inability to grasp the subtler concepts of temporal physics, or ten physics as the cadets in RCS had called it. Only a few could pass the stringent entrance examinations required for admission to RCS and of those only a handful ever made it through, those whose minds were capable of the intricate gymnastics necessary to arbitrate temporal conflicts as members of the Referee Corps. Delaney had not been up to the mental discipline required of temporal physicists and he had not been cold enough to maneuver battalions of temporal soldiers through historical scenarios, considering them as nothing more than factors in a point spread which determined the arbitration of international disputes. Deep down inside, Delaney had always known that he could never function as a referee, a temporal strategist; he knew he would never be able to escape the feeling that he'd he like the proverbial Dutch boy with one finger plugging up a hole in the dyke while with his other hand, planting a limpet mine to blow it open. And yet, at the same time, even while he had been frightened of the consequences of the Time Wars, he had found participation in them intoxicating. It was a life of unparalleled adventure and unprecedented risk. Once he had experienced it, he could never go back to being a civilian.
He had been among the first selected for the First Division, the elite unit of time commandos led by
Moses Forester. Until then, he had been like an anti- personnel mine, buried just beneath the surface and forgotten until some hapless individual, usually an officer, strayed too close and triggered him off, making him explode. If not for Forrester, Delaney knew he would have wound up in a stockade o,. still worse, cashiered from the service. A military prison, even cybernetic re-education therapy, would have been preferable to being drummed out of the Temporal Corps. There was nothing for him in civilian life. Like an attack dog trained to kill, he could not be redomesticated without a complete change in his personality. He simply knew too much. And his personality was such that he could not take any direction front inferiors. A mundane civilian job would have been out of the question. What was left? A life of crime? His ethics would not have permitted that. What then? He would have wound up as a derelict, a drunk, no doubt, or worse, a drug addict or a cybernetic dreamer, fleeing from an unacceptable reality until his body gave up on a life of desperate fantasy and surrendered to the reality of death.