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Sherlock Holmes in Space -- The Knower -- Chapter 7
a story by jabney based on (the now public domain) characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
As we began the stroll back to our rooms, I grumbled about the paucity of information forthcoming from the Captain.
"Not a paucity at all, Watson. Consider what our visit has gained us."
"What?" I said, "A view of Windsor Castle that hurt my arm when I gestured toward it? A chance to barely avoid a stampeding herd of mechanical cattle, and their leavings? Strolling through a vast, soul-less housing development that turns out to be an even more soul-less "Art Installation?" Watching as a Captain with something to hide manages to do so without a single question from the greatest detective of the age?"
"Our age or this age, Watson?"
"Doubtless both," I said, "But even I would be hard pressed to prove it based on the events of the day."
"Consider, though, what we know now that we may have but guessed when we started out this morning. We know that there are several levels of illusion operating simultaneously. We know that there are resources to boggle the imagination. At least for some. We know that the scream is not localized to only our flat. And we have a local insider's tip to what he, or they, consider to be the highlight of a major art exhibit."
"They? Why didn't you get an answer to that while we were at the Carriage house?"
"Because that was on the Captain's mind. I could tell. He was preparing himself to discuss that particular subject. I said, before we arrived did I not, that we would pursue a more direct line of questioning?"
"And that was?"
"The scream, what else."
"Pardon me for saying so, but I heard no question regarding the scream, Holmes."
"And yet we have answers. Answers we did not have earlier today. A question need not always be accompanied by a question mark. In fact, some of the best questions are not. Now, keep an eye out for Ravensridge Lane."
"Here, let me look it up on the tri-fold, Holmes. I'm getting the knack."
Holmes reached over, snapped the device closed and said, "This art installation represents an era before the use of portable difference engines," he saw my response and added, "For yes, the tri-fold is simply Babbidge's machine writ large, or small as the case may be. We shall use our eyes and whatever other senses may be called into service. What was the last cross street?"
"Mulberry Street, I believe."
"And the next?"
I walked a little ahead to see better, then turned and said, "Normale Way."
"And we are on?"
I got closer and saw the sign. "Baseline Road."
"And the house numbers?"
"I see a number Three, across the street is Two and..."
"And the house at the corner will be number One. We shall visit that house."
"But didn't the Captain say the highlight was..."
"Think Watson, a highlight is a highlight because it stands out. What it stands out from is equally important."
As we neared the door of number One, several things happened: a set of sprinklers rose above the grass surface and began to spray the front lawn, a flag much like the American flag, but with more stars, extended on a small extension above the front door, a large, low slung horseless vehicle with four vestigial 'openings' on each side of a section in front of a large, curved slanted sheet of glass, turned from the street and paused in front of one of the carriage doors. The vehicle bore letters that said, "ROADMASTER" emblazoned across its bustle.
Then the sound of a dog barking came from within. A handsome golden retriever bounded through a small door set within the front door and the driver of the vehicle got out of the vehicle holding a small device. "Hello Spot old fellow," said the driver in a stilted tone.
"Holmes, that dog has no spots. And what is he planning to do with that thing?"
"I suspect we are seeing a representation of the era. Reality and emulation. Watch."
The dog leapt up and licked the driver's face. The driver's nose dislodged partially but he seemed not to notice. No blood flowed but there were sparks. Holding the device up to shoulder level, the driver pressed a button. Nothing happened. He muttered what sounded suspiciously like a mild curse and pressed again. This time, several carriage doors slowly started to rise, though not the one in front of his vehicle. The curse this time was not so mild. A woman's stilted voice cane from inside the house, "Honey, the neighbors will hear! I'll have Junior turn off the UHF adapter and you try again."
Finally, the correct door was raised, the vehicle driven inside, and the door was lowered. Shortly afterward, smoke started rising behind the house! "Should we call the fire department, Holmes?"
"No, I do not think so. Although you might suspect such an accursed dwelling deserving of its mistreated owner's wrath, I suspect we are witnessing yet another American custom." Holmes was proven correct when the savory odor of meat grilling over charcoal wafted its way from the back yard to the front. As it did, the front door opened and a voice from within called out, "Welcome to split-level living - mid-Atlantic American style. The mid-twentieth century middle class at home! Please cover your shoes with the shoe-socks provided at the door, then come on in!"
We dutifully placed the felt overshoes over our own shoes and stepped inside. We each pocketed a free guide book and looked around. A docent, it would seem, came down the stairs telling the assembled crowd about the travails of living with the family even though only away from Buffalo for two weeks. The docent paused at the landing, lit a cigarette and said, "When I was a child, Mama would go into the City only on the Erie Lackawana, "The Road of Anthracite" the ads called it, and she liked it because we wouldn't get our outfits all sooty from the burning of a cheaper grade of coal. I liked it because it crossed what was once the largest concrete structure in the world, the Paulinskill Viaduct, along the Lackawana Cutoff. And because of Phoebe Snow. Phoebe Snow was a famous fictional figure in Erie Lackawana ads in the first half of the twentieth century and..."
The docent stamped the cigarette and said, "Do you two, constituting the sole audience I've had in several weeks, mind if I break character for a moment?"
"But only for a moment. You are doing a most convincing job with the subject matter you have at hand," Sherlock Holmes said resulting in the docent's brief look of pleasure.
"Thank you gents. You wanna know about the famous Phoebe Snow, she was a singer long after "The Road of Anthracite" turned into a hiking trail. And she wasn't lily white like the cartoon ad character she took her name from. Good singer, I heard a copy of the last show she put on. Heard it here. One good thing the mid-twentieth century had was hi-fi systems. And that whole anthracite thing? The railroad happened to own some anthracite coal mines. Of course they're gonna play up the cleaner coal thing."
"Did they fund this project?" I asked.
Holmes looked at me. Impressed? Annoyed? It was sometimes difficult to tell which.
The docent said, "Nah. Those assets were gone long ago. This was a Maryland and Northern Virginia real-estate developer's fortune that had long outlived its utility to society. Though I think the departee's grandmother came from a railroad family. It seems a stretch, I suppose, but we docents are supposed to customize our scripts based on our personal knowledge of one of several different topics. I know the Paulinskill Viaduct from the bottom side 'cause we'd go there on Friday the thirteenth after the movie in Blairstown. It was in it."
"The Viaduct?" said Holmes.
"No. The town is in the movie and the theater that's in the movie shows the movie. Recursive, don't you think." Holmes and I looked at each other, upon hearing, "Recursive." "Anyhow," the docent went on, "The kids used to go to the real, fake Camp Crystal Lake, but that was out of the question by my day. The next scariest nearby thing was climbing the Paulinskill Viaduct from underneath, I mean what's a kid not to like? Dangerous? Kids had died there. Weird runes? Messages left by spray paint from hands long stilled by death still lingered. Huge arches each with openings. Haunted? Who can say. Forbidden? Absolutely."
"I see what you mean," said Holmes, "And was the departee tempted by the haunted viaduct?"
"The departee? The departee never saw it. The Oligarch had long set on its course by the time the departee came around. And there's no reproduction of the viaduct on board. And please don't go requesting it. At least not on my behalf."
"We shan't," said Holmes. I nodded in agreement.
"Good," the docent said, "They're always on the lookout for new attractions to add. Especially non-controversial ones that can make use of asteroid slag. That was a major selling point by the departee for this install. Underneath the very thin vinyl siding is double row of cinder block."
"So is the departee still with us?" I said.
"Hardly," said the docent, "The longest victory lap is a year at most. And most take far less than that. They are in such a hurry."
"A hurry?" I said.
The docent said, sounding somewhat surprised by my naivete, "Why, to avoid, "Mirror Shock" of course. Why do most people who choose to depart do it the first time they are young. Or as young as they can afford to do it."
"And the screams?" said Holmes casually.
"You pair must have been a laugh riot around a campfire at ghost-story time. Were you the types that avoided marshmallows if they were roasted on anything other than an officially approved roasting stick? Of course it's the screams. Or at least part of it, Every kid on-board knows that. What ring are you fellas from anyway?"
"Most recently, London. I'm Sherlock Holmes and this is..."
"Dr John Watson, of course," the docent said. "I'd heard the rumor the Captain wanted to get you two here. But I never thought he'd be able to get both the Admiral and the Knower on board with his plan."
"Well, I'm not certain about the plan, but Watson and I are here." He extended his hand, and the docent shook it.
"Old fashioned custom eh," the docent said, then turned to me, "I suppose you too." We shook hands also and then the docent said, "Doxy."
I said, "Well doxy to you as well."
"Doxy's the name. Doxy the docent," said our new friend.
"So, do any of the other houses have docents?" Holmes asked.
"Exhibit pavilions, you mean," Doxy said with slightly exaggerated inflection, "A few have docents. Some even get a little traffic now and again."
"But none with tours so well annotated as your, 'off-script' performance, I presume?" said Holmes.
"There's, "Off-script" and then there's, "Off-script." A good off-script can build traffic. And one thing most docents crave is repeat business, within moderation, of course. Poor Dixie over at the, "Remodeling Mistakes" house, I mean, "Exhibit pavilion," had a daily repeat for a month and a half. The daily was already slotted as a Class C Departee and he technically wasn't in violation of anything. Still, it was a little creepy for Dixie. After he departed, I didn't have the heart to tell her I could have answered his question the first day. Not that I would, of course. Not on day one."
"And his question?" I said.
"There were several. Some pretty direct, and others as unsuccessful in disguising their real origin as the worst of the remodeling foul-ups in Dixie's muddled exhibit. But they all boiled down to pretty much one thing, how to spot a fake from an original." Doxy started to say more, but then noticed Holmes and I shooting glances at each other. "And if you want the answer I would have given him. Well, not on day one."
"Doxy, we will be back," said Sherlock Holmes.
"Especially with that wonderful smell coming from the back yard," I said.
Doxy seemed to consider for moment, than said, "Of course that smell is only on New York Strip day. That's not available for sampling. Hot-dog grilling day is first and third Saturdays, and it is available for sampling. But they won't tell us the ingredients, and..."
"Understood," Holmes said.
"But," and here Doxy's voice dropped to a whisper, "The day after tomorrow is grilled chicken thighs day. Some of the pavilions seem to have 'issues' on grilled chicken thighs day for some odd reason and the docents wind up here. You may want to do the same. Around supper-time."
"Sounds delightful," said Holmes, "We may surprise you."
"It's not a surprise if it's expected, now is it. But to whet your appetites further, I'll leave you with a thought to ponder, "Why did the chicken cross the road when the chicken's exact duplicate was on the other side?"" With that, Doxy went back on-script, presumably, and exited to the back yard grumbling about the difference between rare and medium-rare. Neither, I hoped, was in the script on grilled chicken thighs day.
...