A Voice in the Night

by Jack McDevitt

  She felt herself gliding into the night, riding a gust of cool air, curving round the Queen.

  Halfway to town, she met her father. He had Jerry Haskin with him, and Millie Michel, and Clem Sangmeister, and two or three others. They were hurrying toward the Aerie. But they stopped and her dad grabbed her and showed his relief. “You okay, Sylvie?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

  They all looked up at the tree, glittering against the stars. “Are you serious?” he asked. He looked down at her. The relief had been replaced by a sternness that she rarely saw. “I told you not to do that.”

  “It looks great,” said Clem.

  Dad frowned at him, but Clem smiled back. “It’s beautiful.”

  Two of the others pretended to raise glasses to it.

  “Merry Christmas,” said Millie.

  Her father assured everyone she would be dealt with properly. But he was too relieved to be angry for long. Nevertheless, he was clearly annoyed that she had disobeyed his wishes. “You’ll be grounded, young lady,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, Dad.” The others were all grinning at her. And finally her father joined the crowd. “Just don’t,” he said, “do anything like that again.”

  “Okay.”

  “Sylvie,” said Jerry, “Why did you do it?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “I thought the Capellans needed a tree.” She almost giggled.

  “I see.” Dad was frowning again. “You could have been killed.”

  “I was careful.” Here, at least, her conscience was clear. “I took no chances.”

  “Well, I hope you’re satisfied.” He delivered a long, deep sigh. I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.”

  Only adults, who generally lack a sense of magic and imagination, are able to sleep easily on this night. Sylvie tossed restlessly, listening to her father moving around downstairs, listening to the wind push against the side of the house. Outside, occasional voices drifted by. Late revellers headed home.

  At a few minutes before midnight, she sat up against her pillows so she could see the top of the Aerie. And it occurred to her that Christmas had come at last to Capella III.

  THE LOST EQUATION

  Emil Kohler was a guy who laughed a lot, chased women, generally enjoyed life, and in his spare time picked up a Ph.D. in physics. But on that gray afternoon, when he walked into a London café, carrying a briefcase, he did not look happy. We hadn’t seen each other since he’d left Baltimore for a teaching position at Brunel University. “Henry,” he said, “it’s good to see you.” We shook hands and he slipped into a chair. “How long has it been?”

  “About four years.”

  “Well, I see you’ve been moving along. Congratulations.” He dug into the briefcase and produced a copy of my new book, The Philosophy of Friedrich Nietzsche. I was still trying to forget my earlier one, an unhappy analysis of George Bernard Shaw which had sold about fifty copies. I’d said good things about Shaw but apparently even he didn’t like it.

  He held it up so a customer seated across from us could admire it. “I wonder if you’d autograph it for me?”

  I was trying to look modest. “Of course.” I inscribed it For Emil, a man of exquisite taste, and signed it.

  “How did you get involved with German philosophy?” he asked.

  “Manufacturing cigars can take you down strange roads.” That had been the family business. “Anyway, it’s good to see you, too, Emil.”

  “You still with the Sun?”

  “I’m the Sunday editor.”

  “Beautiful. I always knew you would go places.”

  “How is life at Brunel?”

  “It could hardly be better, Henry. I don’t think I ever realized how much I’d enjoy teaching physics.” He picked up the menu, but he didn’t seem to be paying much attention to it. “You said you’re also going to Germany on this trip?”

  “Yes. Next week.”

  “Will you be stopping by to say hello to him? To Nietzsche?”

  “He died a few years ago.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry to hear it.” He hadn’t closed the briefcase yet. And I could see distraction in his eyes. “Why don’t you come over to the house tonight, Henry? For dinner. Eliza will be there.”

  I had no idea who Eliza was. “I’d like to,” I said. “But I have a previous commitment. Dr. Watson is giving the graduation address this evening at the London Metropolitan University. I’m going to do a story on it.”

  “Dr. Watson? The Dr. Watson?”

  “Yes. Are you interested? Would you like to go?”

  “Really? Can you arrange that?”

  “Sure. No trouble at all. Least I can do for a fellow graduate from Baltimore Polytechnic.”

  He laughed. “What time?”

  “Six o’clock. You’ll be there?”

  “Oh, yes. Certainly. Wouldn’t miss it.”

  “Good. I didn’t know you were a Holmes enthusiast.”

  “Isn’t everybody on the planet?” He was still holding the briefcase open.

  “Now why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?”

  He looked momentarily puzzled. “Nothing. I’m fine. No problems.”

  “Let me phrase it differently. What else is in the briefcase?”

  He flashed a tentative smile. “Mr. Holmes has nothing on you, has he?” He lifted out a pair of notebooks. “You remember when I left home I told you I was coming here to spend some time with relatives?”

  Emil had never known his mother, and his father had died while he was at the Polytech. “I remember you said something about a cousin. His name was Earl, right?”

  “It was Steve.” His lips tightened. “Steve Addington. He died while I was on the way over.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “What happened?”

  A waiter showed up. We both ordered fish and chips. When we were alone again, Emil continued: “A stroke. He was only thirty-two. Nobody saw it coming. He was a professor at City University. He was on his way home one night but when the coach arrived they found him collapsed inside. Died at the hospital a few hours later.”

  “Pity. He was a physicist, too, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes. He was the one who got me interested in the field. That was before my family moved to the States.” Emil had blond hair and amiable blue eyes. But they’d become intense.

  “So what’s going on?”

  He set his elbows on the table, folded his hands, and braced his chin on them. “You know who Einstein is?”

  “The Swiss patent clerk who published something about relativity?”

  “Yes. Are you familiar with the equation he’s come up with?”

  “Not really. I probably shouldn’t admit this, Emil, but I’ve never had much interest in physics.”

  “As far as I can tell, Steve was there first, with the relativity research.” He opened one of the notebooks to a page that had been folded over so he could find it easily, and passed it to me. “These are Steve’s.” The page was covered with numbers, symbols, and obtuse terms that meant nothing to me. The only thing I recognized was Newton’s name followed by a couple of exclamation marks. He pointed at a line near the bottom. E=c²m. “You recognize it?”

  “Not really.”

  “It’s the Einstein equation. Steve had the light and mass symbols in reverse order, but it doesn’t matter.”

  “So what’s the point, Emil?”

  “This is central to Einstein’s work. Particles can be made to produce substantial amounts of energy. This is the heart of it, Henry.”

  “So you’re telling me that your cousin was interested in the same thing Einstein was doing. Why does that matter?”

  “Henry, he was ahead of Einstein. This stuff is all dated 1902 and 1903. But he never told anybody.” He took a deep breath. “Steve had the formula two years before Einstein did.” It was beginning to rain. A coach rattled past. I didn’t see it, but it made a lot of noise and reminded me there was a real world out there. �
��Henry, we’re talking about the biggest scientific breakthrough since Darwin.”

  “Okay,” I said. “So why didn’t he tell anybody?”

  When Watson, supported by a cane, appeared, he had a slight limp, probably resulting from the injury he’d suffered in the Second Afghan War. But he made it onto the stage and took his place at the lectern without any help. The applause was thunderous, and I wondered if maybe I should put the philosophers aside and start writing crime stories. He waited for the noise to subside. When it did, he thanked his audience with a voice that rang out across the theater, a fortunate quality in an era that did not yet have much in the way of microphones. He congratulated them on this “grand milestone in our lives,” and proceeded to talk about achieving success. “It is essential,” he said, “to learn to believe in yourself. Most of us underrate what we are capable of. Authority figures, parents, teachers, doctors, are always showing us what we do wrong. ‘Don’t touch it; you’ll break it.’ We mean well, but after a while, people begin to believe what they hear.

  “Be aware that education doesn’t stop with graduation. Keep your mind open. Don’t assume that a position is correct simply because you happen to believe in it. Follow the facts. If they lead in a different direction, then be willing to make the adjustment. It’s okay to be wrong. Just don’t persist in it. That is the definition of stupidity.”

  When he’d finished he got a standing ovation. He bowed, the hall quieted, and he started walking away from the lectern. Suddenly he turned back. “By the way, I almost forgot. An old friend came with me this evening, and I think you might enjoy meeting him.” He looked out into the audience. “Ah, there he is. Sir, would you come up onto the stage for a moment, please?”

  Everyone in the building must have known who the friend was. He was seated about three rows back, on the aisle. Before he had a chance even to stand, the place erupted. He got to the aisle, walked to the front of the theater and climbed a half-dozen stairs onto the stage. He acknowledged the ongoing applause with a bow, and waited for Watson to calm everyone down. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the doctor said, “I’d like to introduce Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

  That brought another thunderclap. Holmes looked out over the crowded seats, and waited for the noise to subside. “Thank you,” he said. “It’s an honor to be here with the class of 1908. I can’t help wondering what you will live to see in a century that promises such enormous progress.”

  When it was over and the students should have been filing out with their diplomas, they instead crowded around the famous pair while they were escorted into a conference room that already contained waiting journalists. Questions were being directed at them as Emil and I showed our passes and entered. “We haven’t seen any more of your work on Mr. Holmes in almost four years. Is it over, Doctor?”

  “You mean the writing?” asked Watson. “I doubt it. I still have notes of numerous cases.” He smiled. “All right, I can tell you that two more are coming. The curious business of the Wisteria Lodge will be released at the end of the summer. And the affair of the Bruce-Partington plans will arrive in December.”

  One of the reporters clenched a fist and said “Wonderful.”

  A hand went up. “Mr. Holmes, are you working on anything now?”

  And another: “Is there any chance you will be coming out of retirement, Mr. Holmes?”

  “You’re not wearing your deerstalker, sir? Does that have any significance?”

  He raised his hands and waited for them to quiet down. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I’ve put on a few too many years to continue running about the London streets. I’m planning on settling in and doing some reading.”

  The questions continued for about ten minutes until Watson finally thanked everyone and indicated it was time to go. As he and Holmes headed for the door, Emil leaned in my direction. “Aren’t you going to ask him something?”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  He rolled his eyes. Security cleared a path for the two guests, but we followed them outside, waited for an opportunity, and closed in on them as they started across the campus. Eventually they noticed us, and the doctor frowned. “Can I do something for you gentlemen?”

  “My name—,” I said.

  Holmes finished it: “—Is Henry Mencken.”

  My jaw dropped. “I didn’t realize I was so well known in England.”

  “I’m not sure who you are, Mr. Mencken. But Watson told me you were coming, and no Briton would wear that hat.”

  “He’s the author of a new book on Nietzsche,” said Watson.

  “Excellent.” Holmes smiled as if he knew who Nietzsche was.

  The doctor’s expression suggested he hadn’t been taken in. “Mr. Mencken is also a well-known critic.”

  “Well, Watson, I assume we both have a soft spot for critics.”

  We shook hands, and I introduced Emil, who appeared overwhelmed. “I’ve always enjoyed your work, Dr. Watson,” he said. “It’s an honor to meet you both.”

  The conversation went on in that vein for another minute or so until Holmes started to drift.

  Emil hesitated. “Before you leave, sir, I wonder if I could arrange to get your help.”

  We took a carriage to the Moonlight Café, which was apparently a favorite of Watson’s. Emil explained about the equation. I expected Holmes to wave the whole business away as a matter of no consequence. There’d been no murder, no theft, no blackmailing. He was, after all, basically a policeman. Why would he be interested in this issue?

  But to my surprise, he listened closely to Emil’s account, examined Addington’s notebooks, and eventually pressed his fingertips to his forehead and stared down at the table. “He died in 1904, a year before Einstein’s theory became public, correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re a physicist also, Professor Kohler? “ Kohler nodded. “Have you spoken with any of his colleagues about this?”

  “There was one he worked with occasionally. Thomas Gordon. I showed these to him but he said he didn’t know anything about it. In fact, he said it’s not possible that Steve could have developed this research. He maintained that if he’d been working on anything like this, he would have said something. He confirmed that particle theory was Steve’s field of interest. But he didn’t believe he could have gotten this far.”

  “Was that simply an emotional reaction? Or did he have a concrete objection?”

  “He just didn’t think Steve was capable of this kind of breakthrough.”

  “Have you discussed any of this with his family? Friends? Anyone other than Gordon?”

  “I talked with his parents. He lived with them. They’re my uncle and aunt.”

  “And what did they tell you?”

  “They said it was news to them.”

  “Who else was in his life? How about a girlfriend?”

  “There was one. Amy Monroe. She’s married now. Her name is Daniels.” He shrugged. “She didn’t know anything either. Outside the classroom, Steve apparently led a pretty close life. He was devoted to his work and shut everybody else out.”

  “It’s certainly curious.” Holmes glanced through the notebooks again, and then handed them back. “So he locked down the discovery of the age but forgot to mention it to anyone. Is that where we’re going with this?”

  “Yes, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Where did they come from?” He was looking at the notebooks.

  “His father found them in his office. A few weeks ago. They were thinking about disposing of them but decided to show them to me first. Asked if I could make any sense of them.”

  “You’ve checked the handwriting?”

  “Yes. It’s Steve’s.”

  I was getting bored. It was starting to rain, and watching people outside scurrying for cover was more interesting than the conversation. “Why,” I asked, “do we care? So your cousin came up with relativity first. And kept it to himself. But it’s a subject nobody understands. What’s the difference?” Emil took a
deep breath. He was disappointed in me. “I’m serious. I understand you feel an obligation to your cousin, but beyond that, why would it matter?”

  Emil glared at me. “This from the guy who’s always going on about reality. And truth.”

  “Sometimes an issue really has no significance,” I said. “Suppose we found out that somebody knew about evolution before Darwin? Or discovered electricity when Ben Franklin was three years old. What difference would it make?”

  Holmes seemed focused somewhere else. Then: “But wouldn’t we be curious as to why the person who figured out evolution before Darwin didn’t say anything?”

  A waiter finally arrived and took our orders, informed us of a special, and left. Watson watched as he returned to the kitchen. “Easy answer there, Holmes,” he said, without returning his attention to the table. “You start talking about evolution in the last century and you get into trouble with the Church. I suspect that’s about over, fortunately, but in Darwin’s time it was a serious hazard.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” said the detective, who was possibly not quite as infallible in real life as he was in Watson’s accounts. “If these documents are valid, is there any conceivable reason that Addington would have remained silent?”

  Emil shook his head in frustration. “It makes no sense to me.” His eyes were fixed on Holmes. “Can I persuade you to look into it?”

  “I must confess it’s of interest,” said Holmes.

  “May I ask how much your services would cost?”

  “Let’s discuss that later, Dr. Kohler.”

  “Okay. I just wanted you to understand I don’t have substantial resources.”

  “I’ll require contact information. Addington’s parents, Gordon, and the girlfriend. Amy Daniels, I believe you said. “

  “I can provide that now.”