“Then come back with me.”
Miya drove her knee hard into her former lover’s groin, causing Lazarus to groan in pain. As he doubled over, she backhanded with the butt of her pistol, sending a spray of blood flying from his mouth. “I’ll always love you,” she said, turning from him and sprinting down the side of the mountain.
Morgan helped his employer to his feet. “Want me to shoot her? I can make the shot from here.”
Lazarus shook his head. “Let her go.” Wincing, he turned back to the others, who were all steadfastly refusing to acknowledge what they had just seen. Sporrenberg was busy flipping through Stanford’s journal. “We have to get to that hotel where they’re holding Agnes.”
“What about the Soul Stones?” Samantha asked.
“We’ll make sure Kelly knows where they are. She can come back for them if she wants.” On impulse, Lazarus took Marshall’s bag from Sporrenberg and dumped out its contents. He refilled it with several of the Stones. “That should hold her until she can mount another expedition.”
“And he’s coming with us?” Eun asked, jerking a thumb at Marshall’s prone body.
“Yes. He has a lot to answer for. I only wish we knew for certain what became of Maggie. If the Circus found her, I don’t think there’s any chance she’s still alive.”
Sporrenberg stepped up, the journal still in his hand. “May I return to America with you? I’d like your assistance in tracking down Die Glocke.”
“You’re welcome to. Should you contact your superiors? If Lunt gets hold of them first, it might look very bad for you.”
“I will send them a report of what happened here — a censored one, but it should answer their questions. There are many above me who do not share the Fuehrer’s trust of Lunt or The Illuminati. No one will question me if I put the blame on Lunt.”
Morgan nudged Femi’s body with the toe of his shoe. “I hope this was the last we’ll see of this old crone.”
Lazarus stared at the corpse before stepping over and removing the head with the aid of his dagger. He held the skull aloft by the stringy remains of Femi’s hair and then threw it with all of his might over the edge of the cliff. It vanished into the recesses of the mountains and Lazarus whispered, “If she comes back from that, we’re all in trouble.”
BOOK TWO
THE ANTICHTHON CRISIS
Chapter VII
Stanford’s Journals — 1932
Doctor Metropolis stood straight-backed, eyes livid with rage. The pouring rain had soaked him to the bone, making his formerly crisp white shirt become plastered to his barrel chest and his heavy coat a dripping mess. His thick beard, so like those of the ancient Assyrians, was drenched, each tightly bunched curl sparkling with trapped moisture. Though huge in personality and torso, the Doctor had been cursed somewhat with short legs, giving him the stubby appearance of an ape in modern clothing, or of a walking and talking tree trunk.
A flash of lightning illuminated him to a greater degree, giving him a slightly sinister appearance. He took a deep, rattling breath and then whispered, “Are you going to stand there with mouth agape all evening, my boy? Or will you step aside so that I may warm myself by your fire?”
The Doctor didn’t bother waiting for my reply. Instead he came upon me like a great beast, lifting me up under the arms and setting me neatly aside. He flung off his coat, depositing the garment on my favorite rug with a moist smacking sound. “Damnations!” he exclaimed, stopping in front my fireplace and rubbing his hands together. “I’m so vexed I can hardly stand it!”
I made a motion indicating a desire for him to be quiet. “Gilda is asleep.”
“At this hour?” Metropolis asked, his bushy eyebrows rising in surprise. “Is she becoming an invalid?”
“Well, it is almost one in the morning,” I replied, keeping my voice as neutral as possible. Whenever the Doctor was in an agitated state it was a good idea to stay out of his range of fire. “I’m sure that if you wanted to come back after breakfast, we could—”
“Breakfast sounds marvelous, Stanford. Two pieces of toast with butter, some ham and a stiff drink.” The Doctor sat down heavily in my favorite chair, his wet form melding into the soft fabric. “I’m glad you were awake, at least,” he shouted at me as I moved into the kitchen to begin preparing his repast.
“I wasn’t,” I replied. “I fell asleep in that chair you’re in. I was working on an article and dozed off.”
“Whatever rubbish you were working on can be set aside,” Metropolis answered. “My business is far more important… and will be of great interest to the readers of your paper.” Without waiting for me to respond, Metropolis began speaking aloud in the same brusque manner in which he sometimes addressed his students. “Obviously, you’re familiar with the Antichthon theory. Sometimes it’s referred to as the Clarion theory. I—”
Stepping from the kitchen, I professed my ignorance of the matter and was rewarded with a look of extreme exasperation. After a moment of disbelieving sputtering from the Doctor, he continued by saying in a slower voice, as if he were speaking to a newly discovered tribe of natives who had never encountered the English language before.
“Antichthon is supposed to be a planet in exactly the same orbit as our own but on the far side of the sun.”
“But we would have seen it,” I ventured, fully aware that it was dangerous to actively engage the Doctor in a scientific discussion. One always ran the risk of looking like a colossal fool. “The Earth’s orbital movement isn’t a perfect ellipse, so a planet like that would be visible from time to time. Not to mention the fact that this Antichthon’s gravity would disturb the orbits of other planets in the solar system, making—”
“Excellent points, my boy.” The Doctor tugged on his beard, eyes glinting with amusement. “I always thought you were smarter than the average muckraker, Stanford. It’s why I let you marry my daughter.”
I couldn’t imagine anyone ‘letting’ Gilda do anything. She was her father’s match in terms of willful determination. I elected not to say this, however.
The Doctor was still nodding at my words, which did wonders for my ego. “The idea for Antichthon comes from Philolaus, who needed to explain how a flat world — which he believed Earth to be — could move around a fixed point in space while simultaneously spinning on its own axis without spilling everything on its surface off into space. Since he believed that our planet must have always been facing a fiery center of space, he needed to find a way to justify this with the prevailing Pythagorean school of thought of the time. That school believed that planets were composed of flaming or ethereal matter with little density of their own… but the Earth was obviously composed of water and rock. If there were only a single Earth, the universe’s center of balance would be coinciding with its spatial center. Thus, he believed there must be a counter-balance of equal mass to match our own. A Counter-Earth, in effect.”
“But that was discounted as soon as the idea of a spherical world was accepted, wasn’t it?”
“My ham?”
Blinking at the sudden change in conversation, I recovered and reentered the kitchen, returning a moment later with the rest of the Doctor’s repast. He began devouring it like a wild man, saliva dripping down his chin and resting in his already wet beard. Around mouthfuls he continued, “Modified, really. Some adherents were able to account for the resulting difficulties. A Latin cosmographer named Pomponius Mela updated the theory, postulating that Antichthon must have a balanced distribution of land and water to match our own. He’s the one who first drew a cosmological map depicting the existence of our antipodes — Antichthon.”