Sherlock Holmes Through Time and Space Read online

  Sherlock Holmes through Time and Space

  Sherlock Holmes through Time and Space

  Edited by

  Isaac Asimov, Martin H. Greenberg, and Charles G. Waugh

  Jacket Art by Thomas Kidd.

  Interior Illustrations by Thomas Kidd and Richard Berry.

  Bluejay Book’s Inc.

  A Bluejay Book, published by arrangement with the editors.

  Copyright © 1984 by Isaac Asimov, Martin H. Greenberg and Charles G. Waugh.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the express written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. For information, contact Bluejay Books, 130 West Forty-Second Street, New York, New York 10036.

  Manufactured in the United States of America.

  First Bluejay Printing: October 1984.

  Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Main entry under title:

  Sherlock Holmes through time and space.

  1. Fantastic fiction, American. 2. Science fiction, American. 3. Doyle, Arthur Conan, Sir, 1859-1930—Parodies, imitations, etc. 4. Holmes, Sherlock (Fictitious character) I. Asimov, Isaac, 1920- . II. Greenberg, Martin Harry. III. Waugh, Charles.

  PS648.F3S54 1984 813'.0876'08 84-18580 ISBN 0-312-94400-4

  The publisher wishes to acknowledge the special editorial contributions made to this book by Stuart Shiftman and Larry Carmody. Furthermore, the artists wish to acknowledge Stuart Shiftman's contributions without which this book would have not have looked truly Sherlockian.

  an ebookman scan.

  Contents

  Sherlock Holmes Through Time and Space

  Contents

  Sherlock Holmes by Isaac Asimov

  The Adventure of the Devil's Foot by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

  The Problem of the Sore Bridge—Among Others by Philip José Farmer (writing as Harry Manders)

  I. II. III. IV. V. VI. VII. VIII.

  The Adventure of the Global Traveler by Anne Lear

  The Great Dormitory Mystery by S. N. Farber

  The Adventure of the Misplaced Hound by Poul Anderson and Gordon R. Dickson

  The Thing Waiting Outside by Barbara Williamson

  A Father's Tale by Sterling E. Lanier

  The Adventure of the Extraterrestrial by Mack Reynolds

  A Scarletin Study by Philip José Farmer (writing as Jonathan Swift Sommers III)

  Foreword

  I - HERR RALPH VON WAU WAU

  II - THE SCIENCE OF ODOROLOGY

  III - THE STATEMENT OF THE CASE

  IV - LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS, COURTESY OF VON WAU WAU

  V - MORE DAWNING LIGHT

  VI - FOLLOW THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD

  VII - NO EMERALD CITY FOR ME

  VIII - THE CONCLUSION

  Voiceover by Edward Wellen

  The Adventure of the Metal Murderer by Fred Saberhagen

  Slaves of Silver by Gene Wolfe

  God of the Naked Unicorn by Richard Lupoff (writing as Ova Hamlet)

  I. II. III. IV.

  Death in the Christmas Hour by James Powell

  The Ultimate Crime by Isaac Asimov

  End of Sherlock Holmes Through Time and Space

  Sherlock Holmes by Isaac Asimov

  “Watson! The game is afoot.”—Sherlock Holmes

  It can easily be argued that Sherlock Holmes is the most successful fictional character of all time. It has been a century since he was created in the mind of Arthur Conan Doyle, and in all that time he has delighted countless millions of readers with an intensity that has not diminished with time. A substantial fraction of those readers refused to accept Holmes as fictional, but thought (and some think so even today, I’m sure) that he was real and alive and sent him letters, addressed to 221B Baker Street, outlining their problems.

  This very success, which gave pleasure to the reading public generally, was the source of great annoyance to Conan Doyle. Sherlock Holmes obscured all his other literary endeavors, which dwindled and died in the vast Sherlockian shade. It even obscured Conan Doyle as an individual, for he became nothing but an intermediary between the detective and the public.

  Conan Doyle knew this and resented it bitterly. He tried to end his enslavement by demanding a higher price with each story he wrote. It didn’t work; the price was always met. He resorted to more drastic measures and wrote a story in which he ruthlessly killed his detective. It didn’t work; outraged public demand forced him to resurrect Holmes.

  I have often thought that Conan Doyle turned to spiritualism and other follies in later life in an (unconscious?) effort to dissociate himself from Holmes and to achieve some sort of fame that would adhere to himself alone. The extremities of irrationality to which he descended (he believed in fairies and let himself be fooled by obviously faked photographs) may well have been a wild attempt to rebel against Holmes’s supreme rationality. If so, that didn’t work either. Conan Doyle was laughed at, but Holmes was still revered.

  Holmes’s success added him quickly to the notable roster of people (both real and fictional) who are “undefined.” What I mean by this is simple:

  When Holmes describes James Moriarty, that master criminal, as “the Napoleon of crime,” he doesn’t bother to pause and explain who Napoleon was. He takes it for granted that Watson knows who Napoleon was and Conan Doyle can safely take it for granted that virtually anyone capable of reading him knows who Napoleon was.

  In the same way, when anyone describes someone as being “a regular Sherlock Holmes,” he never pauses to explain what he means. The name is part of the English language. Each of us assumes that all others know exactly who Sherlock Holmes is.

  Holmes set the fashion for detectives, or at least for the most unfailingly fascinating ones, for all times. To be sure, there were fictional detectives before Holmes; and some who must undoubtedly have inspired Conan Doyle’s creative effort (notably, Edgar Allan Poe’s detective, Dupin), but the overwhelming success and popularity of Sherlock Holmes wiped out all that had gone before as though they had never been. It was Holmes who became the model.

  Holmes was a gifted amateur who could see clearly through a fog that kept the professional police (Scotland Yard bunglers) hopelessly puzzled.

  This sounds like an inversion of the natural order of things. How can amateurs be superior to professionals? Actually, it’s a reflection of Victorian superstition and the English acceptance of their caste system. The Scotland Yard bunglers were, at best, middle class; perhaps even lower class in origin. The gifted amateur, however, was a gentleman who had been to Eton (or Harrow) and Oxford (or Cambridge). Naturally, an English gentleman would be born far superior to tradesmen and others who were beyond the pale.

  And so the tradition of the gentleman detective came into being and was particularly beloved by a century of superb mystery writers, particularly those who were English, with Peter Wimsey being perhaps the most extreme case. Even when the detectives were professionals, they were often gentlemen who became policemen out of some quirk (Roderick Alleyn and John Appleby, for instance).

  Nor did those mystery writers who followed Conan Doyle attempt to hide their indebtedness, for they could not. Consider the very first mystery written by Agatha Christie (the most successful of all the post-Doyle writers), The Mysterious Affair at Styles. The narrator, Captain Hastings, confesses his ambition to become a detective himself. He is asked “The real thing—Scotland Yard? Or Sherlock Holme
s?” And Hastings replies, “Oh, Sherlock Holmes by all means.”

  The stage is set, in this way, for the appearance of Hercule Poirot, the best of all fictional detectives in the Sherlockian tradition.

  To step down several notches, I have frequently described my own creation, the waiter Henry, in the stories that feature him, as “the Sherlock Holmes of the Black Widowers.” Since it is useless to deny the debt, mystery writers refer to it brazenly and thus disarm, in advance, those who might otherwise sneer Sherlock Holmes invited imitation, of course, both worshipful and mocking. Mark Twain was one of the mockers, and did a very poor job of it, unfortunately. More successful was Robert Fish in his Schlock Homes stories. While Conan Doyle’s copyrights were in force writers could only approach Holmes obliquely, of course, but they managed to write pastiches, often humorous ones, in a variety of ways. After the stories passed into the public domain, “new” Sherlock Holmes stories, as identical to the original in all respects as the writer could manage, began to be written in surprising numbers.

  In fact, so numerous are the Sherlock Holmes continuations, parodies, and pastiches, that they can be divided into subgroups. The particular subgroup we deal with in this book are stories in which the Sherlockian style of fiction is treated in terms of science fiction or fantasy, and it is surprising (as you will see) how well the legend survives the transition.

  This book contains fifteen stories that in one way or another deal with Sherlock Holmes. The first story is by Conan Doyle himself; an authentic Holmes story entitled “The Adventure of the Devil’s Foot,” one of two that, in all the canon, are most nearly science fiction. [The other, “The Adventure of the Creeping Man,” can be found in The Best Science Fiction of Arthur Conan Doyle (Carbondale, Ill., Southern Illinois University Press, 1981), edited by Charles G. Waugh and Martin H. Greenberg.]

  It is very good science fiction, too, and you will be amazed how neatly Conan Doyle anticipated a phenomenon that was to be commonplace a generation after his death.

  The last story is one of my Black Widowers, one in which an aspect of the Holmes stories is analyzed in the true spirit of the Baker Street Irregulars (see the story itself for some details on this organization), and a legitimate conclusion is reached.

  In between are thirteen stories in which you will meet the spirit of Sherlock Holmes in the form of animals, robots, extraterrestrials, and so on. There is no limit to authors’ imaginations in this respect—or to the pleasure they will give to all true Sherlockians (the American phrase), or Holmesians (the British).

  The Adventure of the Devil's Foot by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

  As a matter of fact, Conan Doyle wrote science fiction, too, and very good science fiction. My personal feeling is—and I hope the Baker Street Irregulars don't hear me—that his science fiction is better than his mysteries.

  In recording from time to time some of the curious experiences and interesting recollections which I associate with my long and intimate friendship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have continually been faced by difficulties caused by his own aversion to publicity. To his somber and cynical spirit all popular applause was always abhorrent, and nothing amused him more at the end of a successful case than to hand over the actual exposure to some orthodox official, and to listen with a mocking smile to the general chorus of misplaced congratulation. It was indeed this attitude upon the part of my friend and certainly not any lack of interesting material which has caused me of late years to lay very few of my records before the public. My participation in some of his adventures was always a privilege which entailed discretion and reticence upon me.

  It was, then, with considerable surprise that I received a telegram from Holmes last Tuesday—he has never been known to write where a telegram would serve—in the following terms:

  Why not tell them of the Cornish horror—strangest case I have handled.

  I have no idea what backward sweep of memory had brought the matter fresh to his mind, or what freak had caused him to desire that I should recount it; but I hasten, before another canceling telegram may arrive, to hunt out the notes which give me the exact details of the case and to lay the narrative before my readers.

  It was, then, in the spring of the year 1897 that Holmes’s iron constitution showed some symptoms of giving way in the face of constant hard work of a most exacting kind, aggravated, perhaps, by occasional indiscretions of his own. In March of that year Dr. Moore Agar; of Harley Street, whose dramatic introduction to Holmes I may someday recount, gave positive injunctions that the famous private agent lay aside all his cases and surrender himself to complete rest if he wished to avert an absolute breakdown. The state of his health was not a matter in which he himself took the faintest interest, for his mental detachment was absolute, but he was induced at least, on the threat of being permanently disqualified from work, to give himself a complete change of scene and air. Thus it was that in the early spring of that year we found ourselves together in a small cottage near Poldhu Bay, at the further extremity of the Cornish peninsula.

  It was a singular spot, and one peculiarly well suited to the grim humor of my patient. From the windows of our little whitewashed house, which stood high upon a grassy headland, we looked down upon the whole sinister semicircle of Mounts Bay, that old death trap of sailing vessels, with its fringe of black cliffs and surge-swept reefs on which innumerable seamen have met their end. With a northerly breeze it lies placid and sheltered, inviting the storm-tossed craft to tack into it for rest and protection.

  Then come the sudden swirl round of the wind, the blustering gale from the southwest, the dragging anchor; the lee shore, and the last battle in the creaming breakers. The wise mariner stands far out from that evil place.

  On the land side our surroundings were as somber as on the sea. It was a country of rolling moors, lonely and dun-colored, with an occasional church tower to mark the site of some old-world village. In every direction upon these moors there were traces of some vanished race which had passed utterly away, and left as its sole record strange monuments of stone, irregular mounds which contained the burned ashes of the dead, and curious earthworks which hinted at prehistoric strife. The glamour and mystery of the place, with its sinister atmosphere of forgotten nations, appealed to the imagination of my friend, and he spent much of his time in long walks and solitary meditations upon the moor. The ancient Cornish language had also arrested his attention, and he had, I remember; conceived the idea that it was akin to the Chaldean, and had been largely derived from the Phoenician traders in tin. He had received a consignment of books upon philology and was settling down to develop this thesis when suddenly, to my sorrow and to his unfeigned delight, we found ourselves, even in that land of dreams, plunged into a problem at our very doors which was more intense, more engrossing, and infinitely more mysterious than any of those which had driven us from London. Our simple life and peaceful, healthy routine were violently interrupted, and we were precipitated into the midst of a series of events which caused the utmost excitement not only in Cornwall but throughout the whole west of England. Many of my readers may retain some recollection of what was called at the time “The Cornish Horror,” though a most imperfect account of the matter reached the London press. Now, after thirteen years, I will give the true details of this inconceivable affair to the public.

  I have said that scattered towers marked the villages which dotted this part of Cornwall. The nearest of these was the hamlet of Tredannick Wollas, where the cottages of a couple of hundred inhabitants clustered round an ancient, moss-grown church. The vicar of the parish, Mr. Roundhay, was something of an archaeologist, and as such Holmes had made his acquaintance. He was a middle-aged man, portly and affable, with a considerable fund of local lore. At his invitation we had taken tea at the vicarage and had come to know, also, Mr. Mortimer Tregennis, an independent gentleman, who increased the clergyman’s scant resources by taking rooms in his large, straggling house. The vicar, being a bachelor, was glad to come to such an ar
rangement, though he had little in common with his lodger, who was a thin, dark, spectacled man, with a stoop which gave the impression of actual, physical deformity. I remember that during our short visit we found the vicar garrulous, but his lodger strangely reticent, a sad-faced, introspective man, sitting with averted eyes, brooding apparently upon his own affairs.

  These were the two men who entered abruptly into our little sitting-room on Tuesday, March the 16th, shortly after our breakfast hour, as we were smoking together, preparatory to our daily excursion upon the moors.

  “Mr. Holmes,” said the vicar in an agitated voice, “the most extraordinary and tragic affair has occurred during the night. It is the most unheard-of business. We can only regard it as a special Providence that you should chance to be here at the time, for in all England you are the one man we need.”

  I glared at the intrusive vicar with no very friendly eyes; but Holmes took his pipe from his lips and sat up in his chair like an old hound who hears the view-halloo. He waved his hand to the sofa, and our palpitating visitor with his agitated companion sat side by side upon it. Mr. Mortimer Tregennis was more self-contained than the clergyman, but the twitching of his thin hands and the brightness of his dark eyes showed that they shared a common emotion.

  “Shall I speak or you?” he asked of the vicar “Well, as you seem to have made the discovery, whatever it may be, and the vicar to have had it secondhand, perhaps you had better do the speaking,” said Holmes.

  I glanced at the hastily clad clergyman, with the formally dressed lodger seated beside him, and was amused at the surprise which Holmes’s simple deduction had brought to their faces.

  “Perhaps I had best say a few words first,” said the vicar, “and then you can judge if you will listen to the details from Mr. Tregennis, or whether we should not hasten at once to the scene of this mysterious affair. I may explain, then, that our friend here spent last evening in the company of his two brothers, Owen and George, and of his sister Brenda, at their house of Tredannick Wartha, which is near the old stone cross upon the moon He left them shortly after ten o’clock, playing cards round the dining-room table, in excellent health and spirits. This morning, being an early riser, he walked in that direction before breakfast and was overtaken by the carriage of Dr. Richards, who explained that he had just been sent for on a most urgent call to Tredannick Wartha. Mr. Mortimer Tregennis naturally went with him. When he arrived at Tredannick Wartha he found an extraordinary state of things. His two brothers and his sister were seated round the table exactly as he had left them, the cards still spread in front of them and the candles burned down to their sockets. The sister lay back stone-dead in her chair, while the two brothers sat on each side of her laughing, shouting, and singing, the senses stricken out of them. All three of them, the dead woman and the two demented men, retained upon their faces an expression of the utmost horror—a convulsion of terror which was dreadful to look upon. There was no sign of the presence of anyone in the house, except, Mrs. Porter, the old cook and housekeeper, who declared that she had slept deeply and heard no sound during the night. Nothing had been stolen or disarranged, and there is absolutely no explanation of what the horror can be which has frightened a woman to death and two strong men out of their senses. There is the situation, Mr. Holmes, in a nutshell, and if you can help us to clear it up you will have done a great work.”