Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson have traveled through space and time for reasons yet to be fully determined.
Below the Orange antimacassar, is a continuation of the story. Will Watson's meringues clash with the US version? And what about the Psalm-singing sheep? Remember, Holmes will have his memories of the future erased, the situational problem that Dr Watson faces is that, unlike Holmes, he will be allowed to return to his original time with his memories of the future. And he must not alter the time line.
Other Chapters:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Sherlock Holmes in Space -- The Knower -- Chapter #16
a story by jabney based on (the now public domain) characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
That evening, back at our re-created London flat in the midst of outer space, I attempted to describe the listening experience to Sherlock Holmes as we ate dinner. I found myself, more than once, reverting to trying to describe the music itself. And every time I did so, the attempted description seemed to end in the words, "You would have to hear it for yourself."
I think the fifth or sixth time I said it was after I was trying describe the song, "Sheep" from the album, "Animals" by Pink Floyd. I was trying to convey the transition from the pastoral yet faintly ominous mood that opens the song, to the words describing the horrors of the abattoir from the viewpoint of what seemed to pseudo Psalm-reciting sheep, then to, what?, a sheep-revolution? an inquisition of the sheep? All that culminating in a triumphant march of sorts that faded away. But triumph for whom? Holmes said, "Watson, I will have to hear it myself, if only to hear the Psalm-singing sheep."
"Psalm-reciting, and it's not a real Psalm. It's a parody of the 23rd."
"Is that sort of irreverence typical of the American music you heard today?"
"I couldn't say Holmes, but Pink Floyd was a London-based group."
While Holmes was busy washing-up the dishes, I thought I'd surprise him by trying to recreate a portion of the listening experience I'd had earlier. Evan and Jerome had agreed to create a play-list on my tri-fold, but they each cautioned that the listening experience would be different away from the Number One Baseline hi-fi system. Doxy the docent had smiled when overheard them say that and said, "I'm biased, but if you thought it sounded good today, tomorrow I'll be giving the systems a two-hour warm-up. To go with the grilled chicken thighs."
Holmes voice came out of the kitchen, "What's that racket, Watson?"
"Nothing." I was miffed, but Holmes was right. What had sounded so full and glorious to my ear earlier today at Number One Baseline Road, here sounded in turn constricted then bloated and altogether rather irritating. It would have been unfair to Holmes, and unfair to the music, for them to meet for the first time in an environment where music was treated as little more than aural wallpaper. I switched to a random video. The Scream started up at about the same time.
"It's sometimes difficult to tell the difference between the music on some of these programs and The Scream," said Holmes drying his hands as he emerged from the kitchen.
"Whatever do you mean?" I said, "Surely you can't compare..."
"But I can compare and I do compare. Consider, Watson, the background music in the majority of these video presentations is there to manipulate the minds, and the emotions, of the audience. For example, if there is to be a frightening scene, the music leading to it will assume an ominous tone. Or in rarer cases, establish a tranquil mood, only to have it challenged by something uncommonly violent. But even then, when the violence does happen, rest assured, it will be underscored by the music. And yes, I know there are no doubt ironic exceptions now and then, but let us not concern ourselves with those."
"So how does my visit to Doxy and Doxy's hi-fi set tie-in with all that?"
"That remains to be seen, Watson. It may be only that we have helped facilitate a friendship or two that otherwise might not have formed."
"No, "May" about it. Doxy, Jerome, Otis and Evan parted company on the most cordial of terms. They were old chums by the time the needle... I should say the, "Stylus," had reached the last run-out groove of the afternoon. But I wonder, Holmes, aren't we supposed to avoid cross-time-line entanglements?"
"Only those things which might have an effect on the past. The future here is as open to us as it is to..."
To whom it was open would remain a rhetorical mystery of no great significance, because we had a visitor at the door. An important visitor. It was Admiral Helen. And she appeared to be out of breath.
"Admiral Helen, to what do we owe this honor?" said Holmes.
"Interesting that you should use the word, "Honor" sir, Considering the fact that you seem to have made friends already with some of the most disreputable people aboard the SS Oligarch!"
"Are you speaking of young Mr Bert Piffect with Channel 19 News? Rest assured, I have already spoken with his Journalism Professor. I had a nice chat with her this afternoon, after the virtual forensics demonstration by Director Parrish. You were at the Director's demonstration, I seem to recall."
"Yes, as was a voting quorum of the Scientific Integrity Team," said the Admiral. "They brought a number of concerns to my attention after you had left." Without her noticing, I switched my tri-fold's time-line monitor to audible mode. This action seemed to be just in time, because, after a brief pause and without any context, she said, "Bo Diddley." The noise of the time-line alert appeared to startle her, but she quickly regained her composure. "I'm glad to see you are still using your time-line alert, Dr Watson. The S.I.T. will be gratified."
"And that, I presume, is but one item on your list, and probably not the most important," said Holmes.
"It is far from the most important Mr... sir." Admiral Helen seemed to be seeking to choose her words with a precision not usually associated with the matter of addressing someone. She then said, "I'll just come to the point."
"A most efficient tactic, or so I've found," said Holmes. "What seems to be the problem?"
Admiral Helen looked briefly at Holmes, then at me, then back at Holmes and said, "You cannot be Sherlock Holmes."
"Dr Watson and I left London as Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson. I assure you, nothing has changed for either of us, at least as far as we are concerned. And as it is your technology that transported us across great time and vast space, I would think it is up to you to explain why Watson and I cannot be ourselves."
"Sir, Dr Watson is free to be Dr Watson. It is a common enough name. But the name, "Sherlock Holmes" is uniquely identifiable. And you don't have a license to use it."
...
"I'm not certain which is the bigger disappointment, Watson," Holmes said to me after Admiral Helen left, "Knowing that my name was appropriated for a brew pub that never actually got built, whatever an American style brew pub may be; or that I shall have to ride as a passenger on your motorcycle because my license is suddenly invalid."
"Tonight, Holmes?"
"I think tonight we should remain in. Admiral Helen's visit was informative and brings to light some interesting considerations. Especially in light of my visit with young Master Piffect's professor today."
"What a twit!"
"The professor was actually very pleasant, Watson. Or do you mean Piffect?"
"You know perfectly well what I mean Holmes. And unless the professor promised on the spot to expel that libelous brat, Piffect, I will withhold my judgment of the professor as well. What kind of man teaches his students..."
"Her students, Watson. She reminds me of Mrs Hudson, in fact."
"Be that as it may, Holmes, "News 19" presented us in a most scandalous manner. As if I would ever ask about eating a dog!"
"There are cultures where that would be considered standard practice, Watson, and others where dining on braised short-rib of beef would be an outrage. But culinary considerations aside, it turns out that, "News 19" is not presented to its audience as serious news at all. My reluctance to present our true identities rendered us perfect subjects for what passes as collegiate satire these days."
"And how does that mesh with Admiral Helen's visit," I said, perhaps with more vehemence than Holmes expected.
"Still touchy, I see. You mustn't let that cloud your thinking. This is a vastly different world than the England we know. And before I try to posit an hypothesis, a question. Have you heard any contemporary music since you've been here?"
"I suppose I must have. It sounds sort of like..." and my words trailed off. Everything I had heard that was presented as music, in and of itself, that is; was made in a time when, in theory, a baby I could have treated in London might have still been alive to hear it. Albeit of an age where the hearing that remained would have been of limited utility. "I should imagine that what we've heard thus far is to lay the groundwork for what is currently popular."
"Perhaps, Watson, but I wonder. What do you think is the basis for wealth aboard the SS Oligarch?"
"Money, status, power, the ability to control the resources that people desire, you know, the usual, I should suppose."
"And yet we have seen an embarrassment of riches, have we not? Jerome alludes to the vast difference between the life of a level ten, to which he aspires, and that of a level eight. To hear him tell it, you'd think he was forced to begging in the streets to avoid starvation. Piffect's professor is a level six, and she told me that her biggest concern is whether to feed the cat smoked salmon or fresh trout."
"Well, Holmes, Jerome is of a courting age. It costs money making an impression. This professor, I believe you said she reminds you of Mrs Hudson, and Mrs Hudson's romantic days are comfortably in her past."
"Don't let Mrs Hudson hear you say that. For a man that prides himself for his way with the ladies, I sometimes marvel, Watson, that any of them should speak to you at all!"
"Laugh if you want, Holmes, but since I don't have my cap set for Mrs Hudson, I see no need to flatter her with what she would surely see as insincerity."
"If you persist in such bleak talk with the woman who prepares our meals back in London, I should check the soup now and again, were I you, Watson. And since we are on the subject of meals, there's another thing I learned today about shipboard customs; we should bring some sort of side dish or a dessert to Doxy's grilled chicken thighs cookout tomorrow. That presents a problem."
"Nonsense, Holmes, I'm a passably decent cook."
"For an Englishman, yes. But I fear that the cuisine of the England of our time has gained something of an international reputation. And it is hardly a sterling one. Clotted cream and strawberries should be acceptable anywhere of course, save for one problem, no decent cream is available here."
"But there are fresh eggs, are there not?" I said. "I'll whip up some meringues."
"A safe choice, Watson. A bit dull, perhaps, but safe."
The next day, the making of the meringues proved anything but dull. Unlike the sitting room, the kitchen of our flat in space made no pretense at emulating 221B Baker Street and, in fact, no pretense at emulating a proper, well-equipped English kitchen of our original era. There was no un-tinned copper bowl in which to bring the egg whites to the stiff peaks that I was taught at a very young age were desirable for making proper meringues, nor was there a decent whisk to beat them with had there been a copper bowl. I mentioned the idea of calling one of our new friends for some cooking advice when Holmes suggested using the search function of the tri-fold instead.
I searched under "meringues" but the first page of results was all about how various pie-fillings should be expected to react with a meringue topping. This was indeed a North American ship. I book-marked one page with a lemon meringue pie recipe for another time, and changed the search terms to, "whipping egg whites." That was what I wanted. One of the links mentioned the use of a copper bowl, "For Luddites and those in search of upper-body exercise" but it recommended the use of a mechanical mixing device and the addition of cream of tartar for those without a copper bowl.
"I learned some cooking facts today, Holmes," I said as I eventually emerged from the kitchen wiping flecks of egg-white off my whiskers. "Cream of tartar is not to be found in the chilled section at the market, as it is not really a cream at all. And the speed control of the mixing device should be raised gradually to match the changing texture of the egg-whites instead of starting at full speed."