“Ignore him, Watson, he has no conception of the forces at work here. This is yet another of Nikola’s experiments . . .”
We stumbled into the chill night, Holmes turning and locking the door behind us. We ran across the street and watched as madness descended . . .
A shimmering funnel, of a color that we could not discern, appeared in the night sky, somehow blocking out the stars. The funnel seemed to bisect the walls of Nikola’s warehouse without rending the wood asunder. From within the funnel came a buzzing and whirring as of the wings of a million locusts . . .
Then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over. The night sky resumed its normal properties. We stood quietly smoking for over an hour, watching, waiting—for what, I am not entirely sure. Finally Holmes said, “It was a brief visit; I expect that Mr. Persano’s interview was less than satisfactory. Shall we go in? I believe the danger is well passed. Nikola’s no doubt here somewhere, watching to see how this all plays out. It would be a shame to disappoint him.”
The vast room was undisturbed. Persano was alive, after a fashion . . . We found two more of the remarkable worms, and no doubt Holmes has them still bobbing and nodding in jars of formaldehyde. The cylinder and star-stone we took with us also; surprisingly, their owner never called upon us for their return.
Persano never spoke an understandable word again. From time to time he would scream out strange sounds that were completely beyond even the most capable of linguists to decipher. The cries sounded like an attempt to reproduce sounds never intended for the human throat. Persano died in a madhouse some months later; what he saw remains a mystery that he took with him to the grave.
We did have opportunity to study the worms at leisure. They were no doubt parasites, though of several rather unusual aspects. Their ichor, upon examination, indicated a diet of metal, yet their aspect shares commonalties with certain worms native to Africa and known for boring into a human or animal host. Is it possible that their host organisms are beings of living metal?
Whatever the aspect of the ethernauts, the sight of them drove the sanity from Persano. Indeed, while Holmes commented earlier on our inability to discern the motives of a truly alien mind, he neglected to offer any speculation as to how terrible the aspect of such a being might be and how even a strong-willed man like Persano might be blasted into madness by the sight.
The events following that awful night were rather anticlimatic. We saw no more of Dr. Nikola, though I have reason to suspect that my friend may have had some further communication with him, perhaps on unrelated matters. As I synopsize these most unusual events of nearly thirty years ago, I cannot help but marvel at some of the things that have come to pass. Nikola’s Chinese colleague made his terrible presence felt in London, just as the doctor implied that he would. Nikola himself disappeared into the maw of the Great War, though I suspect that this vanishing is merely temporary. Can such a man as Nikola be truly gone for good? I think it unlikely. We struggle along in a hideously ruined world now, a world growing ready for the advent of a leader capable of promising and demonstrating great marvels. I suspect that the doctor will make an appearance on the world stage sooner rather than later. I do not know if he ever successfully replicated the formula which he sought, but he has had many years in which to conduct his research and recruit new allies in his pursuits.
My friend Holmes has long since retired to an isolated farm in Sussex, where he raises bees. I learned enough of my friend’s methods to find the reasons for his avocation elementary. I can only hope his scientific experiments are successful, and that he is never tempted to move the star-stone from its place of proximity to the metal cylinder.
The Mystery of the Hanged Man’s Puzzle
PAUL FINCH
Neither Holmes nor Watson had really wanted to attend.
Watson went as far as to say he didn’t think they should. And he had good reason for that. One might argue that they were honor-bound to attend, that it was in some ways incumbent on them—after all, this was the net result of much of the work they had done together—but in the particular case of Harold Jobson, the blame rested entirely with the Metropolitan police; neither the good doctor nor his friend had been at any stage involved. Despite this, a letter from the aforementioned gentleman had arrived at 221B Baker Street on a bright May morning in 1897, in the form of a personal invitation. Even then, Holmes might not have been tempted. But there was something about the Jobson case . . . something odd and inexplicable. And then there was the letter itself, and its curious, rather ominous wording. And at the end of the day, Newgate was only a quarter of an hour’s carriage ride away.
Jobson smiled across the table at them. He had broad, strong features and a chalky-white complexion, which under his mop of jet-black hair, looked almost ghostly. “I knew you’d come,” he said quietly.
“Then you’re quite the prophet,” Holmes replied.
Jobson shook his head. “It’s just that I read people well. I knew the great Sherlock Holmes would never be able to resist a matter of national, even international, importance.”
“You made that case well in your letter. Can you enlighten us further?”
“I can, but I won’t. Instead, I have something for you.” Jobson fished a folded scrap of paper from his trouser pocket, opened it, then turned and sought the warders’ permission. Both officers examined the item closely before exchanging bewildered shrugs and passing it over the table.
At first glance, Holmes, too, was unable to make head or tail of it. It was a crude, pencil-drawn grid pattern, consisting of ruled lines; most were connected, forming a vague network, though there was no symmetry or identifiable configuration; most of the lines finally tapered down and merged at the right-hand side. Lying roughly in the center, though perhaps slightly to the left, at a point otherwise unreferenced, there was a small circle in red ink.
“What is this?” Watson finally asked.
“That’s for Mr. Holmes to fathom out,” their host replied. “In giving it to you, Holmes, I’m giving the world a chance. Of course, I owe the world precious little . . . so it’s only a slim chance. By my approximation, you have, at the most, two or three days to solve the puzzle.”
“And if I fail?” Holmes wondered.
Jobson leaned forward over the table, his smile becoming a ghastly sickle-shaped grin. “If you fail . . . there’ll be a calamity the like of which you have never imagined. I, of course, won’t be here to see it. But in that respect, I’ll be among the lucky ones.”
“I’d have thought someone in your position would be seeking to make peace with his fellowmen, not leave them a legacy of hatred,” said Watson.
“It isn’t my legacy, Dr. Watson,” the felon replied. “Don’t be lulled into the cozy misapprehension that in destroying me, the state is destroying its prime foe.” He glanced up at the clock on the gray brick wall. It read five minutes to nine. “Quite the opposite, in fact. In roughly five minutes’ time, your troubles will only just be starting.”
A moment later, Holmes and Watson were out in the passage. With a loud clang, the cell closed behind them. Twenty yards to their left, the door stood open to a brightly lit, whitewashed chamber, in the middle of which a slender gentleman in funereal black was putting the last delicate touches to a noose.
“Well, Holmes . . . did he have anything to say?” came a gruff voice.