Below the Orange antimacassar, the chapters have advanced to double digits. To wit, chapter 10.
Other Chapters:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Sherlock Holmes in Space -- The Knower -- Chapter 10
a story by jabney based on (the now public domain) characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
When I got back Cody had started passing around a box of chocolates. "As you may have started to gather," he said, "The SS Oligarch is somewhat representative of the North American continent, though not exclusively so, and chocolate is something we are proud of. As is our Bourbon Whiskey. These chocolate candies combine the two. Fortunately, the richness of the chocolate makes it difficult to consume them to excess. Still, fair warning, people have been known to get tipsy before they were aware they were doing so."
"And the other continents?" said Holmes.
"North America has the SS Oligarch. One of two such vessels. There are twelve authorized ships altogether. That is to say, they started out together. All the continents or political hegemonies extant at the time of departure are represented."
"The departure?"
Edgar said, "I'm afraid Mr Holmes that your generation's descendants, and our generation's ancestors, weren't very good caretakers of the planet. Dr Watson you may ignore your time-line alarm for that piece of information. Because ignoring is precisely what was done. One voice, sent back in time, still wouldn't have made a difference."
"And who is left back on Earth?"
"We don't know," said the Knower, who didn't seem too distressed at this lack of knowledge. "I know that may sound callous to your ears Mr Holmes, and to you as well, Dr Watson, but pigheadedness is one thing, deliberate obstruction is another. And deliberate obstruction that rises to the state of global civil war, that sirs, is unforgivable."
Edgar displayed the sort of tribal anger that I had seen before. It was in Afghanistan and preceded one group completely slaughtering a neighboring group which had shared the same valley for hundreds of years. The thought that Earth had come to such a state might have left me speechless back in London, but not here. I had to ask, "But how could your world, our world too of course, have marshaled the resources to build twelve such vessels as these under such circumstances?"
"Twelve authorized," said Cody.
Edgar joined in, "And we did not build them."
"They were, of course, thoroughly investigated by the S.I.T."
"Tell them what the letters stand for, Cody," said Edgar.
"I told them back in London, if I recall."
"Even though Cody would be hard pressed to tell us what he had for breakfast, I don't doubt that he remembers correctly, but just for the sake of being on the same page, as it were, the acronym officially stands for Scientific Integrity Team."
"And un-officially?" said Holmes.
Edgar said, "The most polite would be Silly Interfering Twits."
"And then there's..."
"Let our visitors use their imaginations, Cody." Turning to Holmes and me, Edgar continued, "And before you ask, yes the story of Troy was almost as familiar to our generation as to yours, despite a drastic decline in the study of classical languages." The time-line alarm vibrated, and I tried to suppress what I suppose was a look of envy. Thoughts of lucky lads of the future whiling away their hours with heads un-bothered with the subtle distinctions of Greek and Latin verb declensions seemed unfair.
Sherlock Holmes stood and said, "You have given us crucial information, and though it might have been useful to learn of it earlier, I will not chide you. I suppose that I should should feel more confident because this knowledge, while it will inform my," he looked at me, "That is our, investigation in the future, it does not alter its direction in the immediate future." Edgar and Cody gave each other a pleased look. Holmes continued, "There are a few questions I need answered sooner rather than later: Watson's time-line alarm responds to the most minute detail when comments come from someone of authority. And yet its behavior is more lax around those of, what shall we say, lower rank."
"Good old S.I.T." said Cody. "Rank has its privileges as far as they are concerned. Their problem is they confuse rank with competence."
"And is a low level manipulator considered to be of lower rank?"
This question from Holmes seemed to have caught Edgar off-guard, because he began coughing violently. Though it may have been a Bourbon-filled chocolate that he ate too quickly. Cody didn't cough but he said, "If his name is, "Otis Ferg" that would depend on what he felt like being on that particular day. But do be careful. He is a person you want to stay on good terms with. Don’t be like..."
"Cody is trying to say that it is important to get off on the right foot with Otis Ferg. Some of us have learned that lesson the hard way. Take along the remainder of the Bourbon-filled chocolates. And any of the particular indulgences from your era that you think might prove of interest to a free-thinker, Mr Holmes."
"And where might we be likely to find this free-thinker?"
"The Sir Alec Guinness. If he's feeling particularly world-weary he might be downstairs in the Smiley Grill, but I usually find him upstairs in the Lucas Lounge."
"In fact, Cody and I are headed in that direction if you'd like some company on the ride. Of course we won't be going in."
"Please don't let out presence inconvenience you or influence you to change your plans."
"Not at all Mr Holmes. But as much as S.I.T. is pro-hierarchy, the patrons of the Sir Alec Guinness are devoutly skewed in the other direction. Cody they at least pretend to tolerate, but my reception would be a frosty one indeed. Nothing personal, Cody assures me, it goes with the job."
Cody said, "That's right, being Knower not only has the benefit of wrinkles and gray hair, while your peers rejuvenate every few years, but people that you've never even met are pre-disposed to dislike you."
I felt rather sorry for the Knower, and then I thought of our own King. I resisted the temptation to ask Edgar if he, too, grew up in the shadow of a formidable parent. Holmes asked a question about a fold-out lever on the side of the tri-fold, a lever I confess I had not noted, which prompted a debate between Edgar and Cody that filled the time on the journey to The Sir Alec Guinness. We said our goodbyes to the pair and exited the conveyance around the corner from the Bleeker Street location where we hoped to find Otis Ferg, low-level manipulator. "Holmes, I never would have thought that keyboard technology would arouse such strong emotion. Tactile bumps? Virtual smooth? What's the difference. It's all pretty much a miracle as far as I'm concerned."
"Did you notice, Watson, that the youthful looking Cody, seemed to take a more traditional stance than our stodgy looking friend Edgar? I think, in this matter, I shall follow Cody's method the next time I use the tri-fold for any extended work."
"I suppose. But consider how many mode options you have to go through before the pump elevates the right set of letters. I could be typing in Mandarin before I know it. Besides, I'm not sure I'd trust the tri-fold communications skills of the man who originated, "Sheer luck homes."" I thought I saw Holmes suppress a smile but further discussion would have to wait because we had reached the entrance of our destination.
"ID please," said a dis-embodied but otherwise realistic looking head in a niche by the door to The Sir Alec Guinness.
"I think it wants us to show our tri-folds," said Holmes.
"The name is Chalfont," said the head, "And where else do you think an ID would be found other than a tri-fold?"
We each presented our tri-folds and Chalfont said, "You wise-ass kids, you replaced the wrong digit in your date of birth. Gheesh."
I said, "Look here, whatever your name is, the dates shown are correct. Call the manager if you don't believe it."
Chalfont said, "I should be calling the police, but wait here. I'll get the manager. I'm warning you, though, if you think I don't like a joke, wait until you meet the manager. She'll have the Director himself and then..."
The warning tone in the voice trailed off, as did the voice itself, and Chalfont's eyes faded and closed.
"You know Holmes, I don't think the manager of an establishment such as this would fancy having the Director..."
"And what sort of establishment do you think it is, "Doctor" know-it-all?" The voice came from Chalfont's head, but it was a different voice. If the original Chalfont's voice carried a tone of warning, this voice, a woman's voice, combined the most formidable traits of a Valkyrie, an Amazon and Madame Defarge.
"My friend here was under the impression that this was a haven for free-thinkers," said Holmes, "And both of us are rather sure that Director Parrish would not be a good mix with the clientele, if Dr Watson's impression is correct."
"The impression is correct. Parrish is not a good mix. And your features aren't very Chinese, Mr Sheer luck homes."
"I'd like to fix that."
"Ethnic reassignments? Do you have any idea how much paperwork is involved? Besides, this is not a cocoon joint."
"Madame..."
"Who said anything about, "Madames?" Came the voice booming out of Chalfont's head, "Ever since that stupid kid and his so-called producer did that feature on us as a class project..."
"That wouldn't be, Bert Piffect, by any chance?" said Holmes.
"OK, that does it. I'm calling..."
"I was simply going to say that Dr Watson and I were ambushed, I believe his director called it, by young Mr Piffect. Can we please continue this discussion inside your fine establishment. There is somebody we need to see."
"Yeah? Who, and how badly do you need to see this person?"
"His name is Otis Ferg, and we are sacrificing the remainder of a box of Bourbon-filled chocolates to get his attention."
"If Otis is willing to see you, you will already have his attention. You will not require chocolates. Besides, I've already restricted him to one yorkshire pudding a week and he does not need the extra calories. How much chocolate are we talking here?" said the suddenly interested voice of the manager.
I thought quickly and said, "Most of the bottom layer. And I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you had, oh about half, of what's there."
"A deal. But one goes to Chalfont. He won't taste it of course, but it makes him feel valued. You offer it to him, Doctor. It should soothe the hard feelings."
Several chocolates lighter, Holmes and I sat in a rather plain ante-room while the manager, sporting a surprisingly compact and good-looking body if you like that sort of horsey type, went to find Otis Ferg. Though even the face, more horsey still than the body, would not have prepared one for that voice. Fortunately, in person, her voice was somewhat modulated, perhaps the candy helped.
While we waited, I said to Holmes, "I've never fed a detached head before. That was an odd experience. I wonder what other things have gone into that mouth."
"Fortunately, it's in a very public area, although I'm still not entirely sure what that means in the era we find ourselves in."
"Well, at least there is still marriage in this era, Holmes."
Our conversation was interrupted as the brushed metal door marked, "Lucas Lounge" swung open and the sound of beat-heavy rhythm overlaid by slightly discordant tones escaped into the previously silent ante-room. The manager stood in the open doorway for a moment talking very loudly on her tri-fold, and then she finished, closed the door and said, "He's in the Smiley tonight. I'm not sure what that means, but come along."
The only other impressive door appeared to be made of oak and would not have looked out of place in a London grill in our own time. I started moving toward it, but Holmes waited. The manager said, "The Chinese-named gent's got the right idea, Doc. Over here." She pointed to a door marked, "Laundry" and, pushing a hamper filled with linens aside, led us into a lift. We descended and a door at the other end of car opened into an ante-room even more stark than the one upstairs. The manager picked up the handset of a rotary dial telephone, futuristic to my eyes, but I'm sure meant to appear old-fashioned to the clientele, and dialed. She said, "This is Control. Tell our brother in Christ, Ferg that two gentlemen wish to see him." She caught a look between Holmes and me and said, "Down here we utilize what we call, in tribute, "Moscow Rules," so to answer your unspoken question, this is not a mission, nor a monastery, nor a church. You really need to see the series."
"The series?" said Holmes.
"Tinker, Tailor," of course. "Then Smiley's People. Some people like the movie versions or the books, but of course we are modeled on the Alec Guinness vehicles, notably, "Tinker, Tailor."
"Of course," I said.
"He will be just a moment, he's up at darts and his team is actually winning."
"I wouldn't dream of disrupting a gentleman's game of darts," said Holmes.
The manager, or should I say, "Control" laughed a horse-like laugh, it seemed to fit her, and said, "You two are dressed like gentlemen, Otis is another story. Last year it was ripped tee-shirts and tight-fitting jeans. But not now. I mean he still shows good, but you can't carry that look off and sport five or ten extra pounds."
"Thus the limit on yorkshire pudding?"
"At his request," she said. "Me, I like a little bit of belly on a man." Why she looked at me when she said that was a mystery.
Holmes said, "If we pass muster and are allowed to return to your establishment, Watson and I shall certainly want to try the yorkshire pudding. Tonight though, I regret to say..."
Control said, "Tut tut, no need to apologize, this hour, carrying the remains of your dessert. It doesn't take a Sherlock Holmes to tell that you've just had dinner and... oh my God! "Sheer luck homes." Of course. And Dr Watson. Who else would you be here to see other than Otis Ferg. I'll fetch him right now!"
"Please, not until his game is done," said Holmes as the door opposite the lift exit opened and a man roughly my height and build emerged. His shirt was opened at collar, loose fitting with short sleeves and festooned with the most gaudy images of tropical foliage I had ever seen. In one of the two pockets was a sort of wallet for pens. With the shirt he wore steel-framed glasses, short pants and canvas shoes with what appeared, at first glance, to be no stockings.
"Otis Ferg here, how may I help you?" Control opened her mouth to speak, but Ferg started laughing. "Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, welcome. I expected you here tomorrow or the next day."