This is a Sherlock Holmes story I wrote a few years ago, set in an alternate London where the British Empire expanded into the reaches of outer space. Will be posted in chapters on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Scroll to the end for chapter list.
I reentered the shop, paper bag in
hand, to hear Miss Morstan’s voice. She sounded exasperated and frazzled. “All
right, let’s start again. I think we must have missed something.”
She
and Holmes were seated near the table, which was completely strewn with the
various shiny pieces that made up the MAID and my poor arm. I joined them,
setting the sandwiches down.
“We
know that we’re looking for something capable of receiving transmissions,”
continued Miss Morstan. “We know that, whatever it is, it has something in
common not only to these devices but to the majority of all mechanical
objects.”
“We
do not know why our foe wants to build such an odious transmitter in the first
place,” I contributed.
Holmes
shrugged. “With such a machine the man could bring London—indeed, all of
Britain, and Mars and Venus besides—to their knees. But yes, Watson, you do
have a point—there is most likely a specific purpose to this fiendishness.”
Miss
Morstan ran her hand over her hair. “Could the man have been exaggerating the
reach of his device to you?”
“Watson
and I witnessed the effects first-hand. I suspect our man may be working on a
device larger than the one he carries with him, meant to control robots at a
greater range.”
Miss
Morstan frowned. “That would be very difficult, but if we know how he does it
we may be able to stop it. What exactly was he stealing?”
“I
believe he took the late Professor Spence’s research on the transmission of
signals through etheric sound and frequency. I cannot say what he took from
Professor Sadd, although the fellow was an expert in both physics and Martian
biology.”
“Yes,
there were quite a few Martian artifacts in that house, weren’t there? He even
had a few Aphros Trees,” I commented.
Miss
Morstan smiled. “That must have been handy for him, to keep his robots
running.”
Such
a thought would, of course, occur first and foremost to a mechanic. I was about
to respond when Holmes suddenly interjected, “Wait. What did you say?”
“It
must have been handy for him to have the trees and the lubricant for his
robots,” repeated Miss Morstan.
“Physics,”
murmured Holmes. “Mechanics. He had the trees—” My friend leapt to his feet.
“Morstan! Do you have VL here?”
“There’s
a tub of it over there,” said Miss Morstan, frowning.
Holmes
dashed to the tub and scooped out a cup of VL. Setting it on the workbench, he
snatched up something that looked rather like a miniature tesla coil, snapped
on his goggles, aimed it at the VL, and, looking rather like the mad scientists
one frequently finds inhabiting sanitariums, started the device in his hands so
that it crackled with electricity. The VL suddenly flashed and sparks danced
over it, sending electrical currents into its center.
“That’s
it!” Miss Morstan cried. “The receiver and conductor of the signals is the
Venusian Lubricant itself!”
Having
finally grasped Holmes’s discovery, I was aghast. “But every machine in London
uses VL!”
“Exactly,”
said Holmes grimly. He turned the electrical device off and raised his goggles.
“All of England is prey to that mad, inspired fiend’s foul device!”
Holmes
paced nervously about the room while Miss Morstan repaired my arm and I sat and
watched him. I was gratified to see Holmes open the bag I had brought back from
the Cat and Fiddle. My efforts had not gone entirely to waste.
Miss
Morstan was reconstructing the inner workings of my arm. “If I had a machine
like that and no moral standards, the first thing I would…” She stopped, her
eyes wide. “He can commit any crime and no one will realize it is him.”
“We
have already established that,” snapped Holmes. “Our foe can do anything in any
house where robots…” He looked at Miss Morstan. “Yesterday, you said something
about the MAID we brought in. What was it?”
Miss
Morstan frowned in concentration. “I believe I merely stated that I had heard
it was a good model. New, but the Queen herself has—”
“Buckingham
Palace!” Holmes cried out. “If I had that sort of machine and no ethical
standards to stop me, the first thing I would accomplish would be the robbery
of Buckingham Palace! Oh, imagine the fame! The notoriety it would bring!” He
spun to face us. “And our villain is certainly the type who wishes for
acclaim.”
Miss
Morstan fastened the outside structure and returned my arm to me. Anger,
nervous tension and a prior knowledge of what to expect seemed to have sped her
work. “Well, Mr. Holmes, surely all that is now required is to warn Buckingham
Palace and keep a close watch on the crown jewels.”
“If
only it were that simple,” murmured Holmes. “Our foe has the perfect way of
infiltration. He shall not be caught unless—” He straightened, a new light
coming to his eyes, and turned to us. Miss Morstan and I looked at him
expectantly.
Sherlock
Holmes smiled. “I have a plan.”
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