Below the Orange antimacassar lies the bones of the Chapter known as 8.
Other Chapters:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
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Sherlock Holmes in Space -- The Knower -- Chapter 8
a story by jabney based on (the now public domain) characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
8
The, "Sun" had passed the height of its afternoon peak out-put and shadows were starting to be more elongated as we resumed our stroll, first across Normale, then crossing Oriole Way, Partition Street, Quincy Ave, and Quincy Jr Bypass until we finally reached Ravensridge Lane. Holmes said, "Watson, have you noticed anything different about this road?"
"Just more houses that look the same," I said.
"But there are two notable things about Ravensridge Lane. The houses..."
"Pavilions, Holmes."
"Call them what you will, how would you know which house, or pavilion, is yours? They appear to be identical. Down to the pattern left on the grass after mowing. And they all bear the same number, "Six.""
"Clever Holmes, want to bet the odd man out will be number, "Nine?"
"Probably something like that. I'd venture to say that the smaller the external difference, the greater the import of what is within. We must remember to thank the Captain, and Doxy."
"Doxy never mentioned Ravensridge Lane. Seemed a bit jealous of the more popular exhibits, if you ask me."
"Ah but look Watson, all the exteriors here are exact duplicates of Number One Baseline, Doxy's purview. I venture to say the interiors are likewise duplicates. Walk faster. We need to see the exception."
"Well there seems to be the big attraction. Around that bend up ahead. That's a big backyard cookout."
"That's no cookout Watson! Don't run, but walk quickly! We must get there before it's completely destroyed."
...
"Bert Piffect at the scene of a three-alarm fire in the arts district. Let's talk to these gentlemen. Your name, sir? What brought you to foxtail house today?" He pushed toward me a metal cylinder that looked something like a miniature of one of those German airships entering its protected resting space, had the protected resting space been constructed from the fur of some long-haired giant creature and then folded back on itself.
"Am I supposed to eat this?" I said, somewhat indignantly.
The young woman with him was wielding a device that I assumed to be a camera, although a little smaller than the cameras of the London press photographers, and she looked at him and said, "Cut. I told you that wind-screen was more trouble than it's worth." She then looked at me and said, "Sorry, it's the first real story we've been allowed to cover this semester. I'm Amanda Coffle, the director, and this is Bert Piffect, the on-air talent. He thought the roar of the fire might require the use of the heavy-duty wind sock on the interview mike."
"Mike? And where is he?" I said.
"It's "Microphone," Amanda." Then turning to Holmes and me, "We're supposed to use the jargon of the era," he said, "The age when the real thing was built." He indicated with a gesture that he was speaking of the original development.
"We're also expected to follow the norms and conventions of the era. I didn't see you offer these men an on-camera waiver form," said Amanda.
"Those came later," said Bert, "This was the golden age of ambush-style news-casting."
"Ambush style?" said Holmes, who had been watching with what looked to be detached amusement.
"You know," Amanda said, "Asking a mother who has just lost seven children to a flood, "So, Mrs Jones, how does it feel to watch all your children swept away by the river.""
I said, "Fortunately, for the sake of good taste, there don't appear to be any injuries today. At least there are no ambulances, nor hearses."
"Good quote, with that, "Good taste" bit edited out, but we really need a medic or a public safety official to say it," Bert said.
"I'm a..." I started to say. Holmes loudly cleared his throat, I then said, "I'm a...fraid that if it's a local official you need, neither of us can help you."
Holmes said, "We were walking down Ravensridge Lane when we spotted the smoke. By the time we reached here, the place was engulfed in flames and the firefighting apparatus was already hard at work. What would you estimate the hose pressure to be, Watson? I'm sure the young people here would be most interested in providing that sort of detailed information to their audience."
I ventured a guess and then Holmes asked if either Bert or Amanda knew the relative humidity and atmospheric pressure. They both declared they did not and Amanda began quickly packing her camera in its bag. She said, "Gotta run. I think the fire-chief is coming out now!" As the pair walked away, I saw Amanda silently mouth the word, "Boring" to her companion.
"Good job getting shed of them, Holmes," I said.
"Whatever do you mean Watson? You don't think their audience would find that level of precision fascinating?" I swear I sometimes have a difficult time telling when the man is being serious and when he's being facetious. There was no such problem telling the mood on the face of the person who pulled up to the curb being driven in a vehicle with flashing lights and a blaring siren that otherwise looked to be similar to, yet plainer than the, "ROADMASTER" driven by Doxy's 'host' with the soon-to-be dislodged nose.
"You two? You're sharper than I thought," said Director Parrish. "Did you notice anything at all? I'm guessing the perps managed to burn up anything that might be of interest."
"Are you sure it was the work of, what was it, "Perps?" After all, there were sparks at another pavilion when Spot, the un-spotted retriever licked the nose half-off the face of his returning owner. Deferred maintainance has been the cause of more disasters than all of the criminal world combined, I'm sure of that."
"Mr Holmes allow me to tell you how things are here. The same as they were back in your day. Doubtless the same as they were back when Pharaoh was tracking down Joseph for some dream analysis. The squeaky wheel gets the grease. And for some reason, the structure that you see smoldering before your eyes has been one of the squeakier wheels aboard the SS Oligarch. I assure you, there's no way the foxtail house caught fire by accident."
"Foxtail house, is that the official name?"
"No. It's one of those deliberately obscure artistic names. "Justice Will Out," or somesuch. It's on the files back at HQ. It's called foxtail house because twice a year the "Sun" illuminates the lamp in the picture window," the time-line alarm sounded at this and I silenced it quickly drawing only a slight glare from Director Parrish, who went on, "The 'sun' illuminates the lamp in the... large window so that it resembles a fox with a blazing tail."
"That's the only difference between this and the other... pavilions?" I said.
Parrish thought for moment then said, "The only one that can be seen from the front. Some people say the mobile hanging in the entryway catches the light from the tail so that on the morning of midwinter day and the evening of midsummer day there is a shadow image on the basement door. It's the only basement in the whole division, so of course some of the local youth have decided it's the entryway to the underworld."
Holmes said, "A mobile?"
My time-line alarm sounded and Director Parrish said, "Hand that thing to me. And don't tell Cody." He pressed a code on his tri-fold, pointed it at my tri-fold, then said, "It's on vibrate mode. You're on your honor now Dr Watson. I would suggest that if it starts vibrating too often, you turn the audible mode back on."
"Mobile must be something to do with Alabama," I said.
"An interesting guess, but rather far afield in this instance," said Parrish, laughing. "A mobile is a hanging collection of shaped objects. An art object. We have one over the baby's crib. Mind you, why grown-ups would want one is beyond me."
"Is this particular mobile fireproof?" said Holmes.
"We should know soon enough. Our arson investigation team is a bit rusty, but they have solid grounding in good theory. Despite our distance from the institutions of
Earth." Director Parrish seemed somewhat defensive as he said this.
I said, "If you have read my recountings of Sherlock Holmes's cases then, you may recall the numerous occasions on which he was only too glad to give credit and glory to the local officials. Even, I might add, at the cost of diminishing his own role." I suppose I sounded somewhat defensive in turn but Holmes merely gave a brief, slight smile.
Holmes then said, "Do you have photographs of the mobile's shadow?"
"We have a complete virtual model of the house back at HQ. I can let you examine it in great detail. Not that you'd know about things like that from the news reports, the press seldom pays attention to such boring details."
"That will be most helpful I'm sure, Director," said Holmes. "And as for the press, we met two young students of the craft who are covering the story. Perhaps your viewpoint is just the sort of thing the next generation of reporters needs. That's the pair over there, interviewing the fire-brigade's dalmatian. Oh, and as far as they are concerned, Watson and I are simply a couple of anonymous art lovers who happened across the event. Unless you want our names associated in the public mind with..."
"No point in muddling the issue I should think," said Parrish, "How are you gentlemen getting back?"
"We thought we'd stroll back the same way we came," said Holmes.
"Not advised. Just last week we had to haul out a fellow who'd been bitten by a rattlesnake around the time you'd be hitting the wild west grounds. Nasty business. If you want to sniff around 'til the Parade of Homes closes, I'll be able to give you a ride back in a real police skimmer."
"A question of authenticity, I presume," I said.
"Oh yes. Of all the twelve ships..." Parrish started to say as I reacted with a start.
"I think Watson is not yet used to the vibrate mode. Suffice it to say that authenticity is highly important here, correct?"
"Correct Mr Holmes. In fact there is an exhibit here devoted to the mistreatment of authentic styles. That sort of thing doesn't bother me, mind you, but my wife was surprisingly distressed when she toured it."
We all agreed that the scene of the fire had been too compromised by far too many feet to yield much useful information to the Sherlock Holmes investigative style. But Holmes brightened somewhat when Director Parrish told him about the, "Virtual reconstruction" that was being put on file by the police photographers busy at work in the wake of the fire brigade.
Nevertheless, Holmes did take a detailed look at the carriage house doors and the lawn. While the great detective was occupied with sticking page corners of the guidebook between the sections of the great doors and then carefully folding the corners over, Parrish said in a low voice to me, "I can hardly wait to see the expression on his face the first time Sherlock Holmes uses filtering algorithms."
I started to say that Holmes had been filtering data all his life, when Holmes returned. "I think I've gotten what I can from what's left," here he raised his eyebrows slightly at the veritable army active on the site. "Director Parrish, Watson and I will be happy to take you up on your offer of a ride. Is there anything that you would recommend we see while you finish your business here?"
"As a matter of fact I do have a suggestion. Do you see my driver?" said Parrish.
"Not at the moment," said Holmes.
"Good! Hop in."
We got in the police vehicle, Parrish pushed some buttons, and a great loud siren sounded as lights began flashing. We pulled out of the parking spot with great alacrity and Parrish said, "One thing to be said for the split-level era, the police knew how to make their presence known." With that last he pushed another button and the siren became even louder. As we rounded a corner and screeched to a stop after traveling block after block of homogeneous structures it was clear where Director Parrish was taking us. "Remodeling Mistakes" did not begin to describe the mish-mash that awaited us. Parrish then said, "The project administrators have a sense of humor, though. The docent for this particular exhibit is as pretty as this house is a monstrosity. Dixie, I think her name is. And her age is real. I'll be back in an hour or two."
"Watson, there may be the clue as to why Mrs Parrish was so saddened after visiting here. No woman likes to hear her husband speak that enthusiastically about another woman's beauty."
When we got inside, I could see why the Director spoke as he did. Dixie the docent, whatever her real name, wore a smile that forgave every remodeling mistake that man could possibly make. To come home to such a face would erase such petty concerns as style and decor. Then she spoke, her face beaming, "Welcome friends. Thank you for visiting our cautionary tale. And as you take away suggestions on what not to do in your own home, please also take away this: the projects that you will see, misguided though they may be, were inspired by love. Most of them represent many hours of hard work and more than a few nicks and bruises meant not to purposely create architectural blasphemy, but only for the purpose of making the home more homelike to the family within." I noticed two or three men, apparently there with their wives, give their companions a look that seemed to ask for understanding. Dixie continued, "Our goal is not to poke fun at these oh so passionate albeit misguided re-modelers. Rather, our goal is to inspire you to emulate their enthusiasm and love while being guided by a respect as well for the passion and vision of the original creators."
I stood there for a moment, then said, "Holmes, I think I'm in love."