“Sounds a bit mad,” I replied, taking a seat in a much more uncomfortable chair favored by Gilda. Staring across at the man who had changed so much in my life, I was forced to remember how it all began, oh so many years ago. Fancying a young woman named Mary Huntington, I joined up with an expedition led by the Doctor to explore a remote section of South America. The adventure had led us into a hidden world of sorts and garnered me a great deal of fame for the subsequent written account. Unfortunately, most of those profits went to my newspaper, the Daily Spectrum. While things had not gone well with Mary, I had gained newfound confidence in myself and in my abilities. Alongside the Doctor, I took part in adventures that I had written up under the dramatic titles The Hidden Horrors, The Boiling Seas, The Mystery of the Floating City and Modern Day Ragnarok. Some of my later spiritualist-leaning beliefs had cost me my job with the Spectrum but the money I’d saved up had made life for Gilda and myself quite comfortable.
“Is your mind tumbling through other corridors, Stanford?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You’re obviously distracted with things that must be of considerable import.” The Doctor frowned severely. “Are my rantings that unbearable?”
“I was just reminiscing.”
“Your age is beginning to catch up to you,” the Doctor sagely replied.
“That brings up a good point, Doctor. One that’s often bothered me. You were born in 1863… and its 1932 now. That makes you 69 years old.”
“Your grasp of mathematics is astonishing.”
“I’m getting at the fact that you have the vitality of a man half your age!”
The Doctor shifted in his seat, obviously uncomfortable for one of the few times in our relationship. “A story for another day, my boy. One where we have hours to spend and a strong dose of brandy to ease the tale.”
We sat in silence for a moment before my mind returned to our previous point of discussion, prodded so by the chiming of the hall clock. “So why did you come here to tell me about Antichthon?”
“Because it’s true, by God. Every last bit of it.”
“You must be joking!”
“Hardly, Stanford. You mustn’t confuse my ebullience for jocularity.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it!” I replied.
The Doctor leaned forward in his chair, bits of food lodged here and there in his beard. “In the morning, you and I will go see a friend of mine. I want you to meet him and hear his astonishing notions. His research methods are far more slipshod than my own but I find him less than befuddled, which is far more than I can say for most of my compatriots in science.”
“I look forward to joining you both,” Gilda said, startling both the Doctor and myself. She stood at the foot of the stairs leading to our rooms above, her long sleeping gown brushing the floor. She looked lovely to my adoring eyes. It had been said by others that she was more striking than beautiful but I would never have agreed with that. She was both of those things and more besides.
“Did we rouse you?” her father asked, a rare gleam of paternal devotion evident on his face.
“You would have roused the dead, Father.” Gilda came into the room, leaning over to kiss him on his weathered cheek. “You’re tired. Come take a room and let us all rest.”
Metropolis agreed far more readily than I had expected him to. Once he was safely ensconced in the guest room, my wife and I returned to our own quarters. We chatted amiably for a few moments, enjoying a laugh at her father’s expense. Sleep came quickly for Gilda but I lay awake for some time, marveling over the ideas that her father had expressed.
A Counter-Earth? It seemed impossible that Metropolis might actually give the idea some credence… but if anyone in the world had proven himself again and again to be worthy of the benefit of doubt, it was Doctor Metropolis. I finally drifted off to sleep, certain that some new and great adventure was about to begin.
The three of us made the early morning trek to the laboratory belonging to the Doctor’s friend; Gilda and myself exchanging bemused looks as my father-in-law ranted and raved about the newest scientific journals. Though Metropolis had many wonderful attributes, it could not be said that modesty was present amongst them. In fact, the exact opposite tended to be true: when presented with an opportunity to wax poetic about his own mental attributes as compared to those of his many enemies, Metropolis could rarely restrain himself.
Our destination lay in the English countryside, a quiet little manor surrounded by stone walls and a wrought iron gate. The perfectly manicured grounds made my heart swell with appreciation, as I had been a closet horticulturist for many years.
Gilda pointed out several exotic plants, knowing my interests well and we chatted amiably about such things as we exited our vehicle. The Doctor, of course, had insisted on driving my car, which once would have filled me with dread. The man handled the road with a bravery that bordered on the foolhardy but I had long since learned to ignore his death-defying tendencies.
Metropolis sauntered towards the front door, looking a little less like a wild man than he had the night before. His beard and hair were still unkempt but he had at least dried himself off and smoothed down the folds of his suit.
“Your father’s good health is most impressive,” I whispered to my wife, holding her hand tightly in my own.
“I can only hope that we’ll look as well when we’re his age,” Gilda agreed and I nodded in reply.
“Damnations!” Metropolis bellowed, pounding on the door with a meaty fist. “Why is Bartholomew not answering? I told him I would be here first thing in the morn!”
Gilda pulled away from me and moved to peer around the side of the house. She let out a small gasp and I hurried to join her. Immediately I spotted the source of her dismay: one of the side windows had been brutally shattered and several drops of what appeared to be blood lay on the ground outside the house, mixed in amongst several sets of footprints.
“Doctor Metropolis!” I yelled but the big man was already on his way to join us. For one so large, he could move remarkably fast when prompted to do so. The doctor pushed past me with a brusque shove and reached the signs of forced entry. He peered inside but immediately realized that his massive frame would never fit in through the aperture.
“Stanford, come here!” he barked and I quickly divested myself of my coat so that I could squeeze inside. I carefully made sure that I didn’t cut myself on the broken glass, keeping an eye out for any of the intruders. I immediately saw that the house had been ransacked and that there was a body lying on the floor nearby, a large pool of blood spreading out from under his head. The corpse belonged to a man in his early 70s, his liver spotted bald scalp now ruined by a nasty looking wound.
“What do you see, man?” Metropolis was shouting from outside and I winced at the sound. I consoled myself a bit with the knowledge that if the intruders were still within they would have surely heard us at the door already. There would be no surprising them.
“Your friend,” I said, glancing back at the window, where I could see the top of the doctor’s head, his eyes peering inside. “What was his name again?”
“Bartholomew Smithson.”
“I think he’s been killed. I’ll go meet you at the front door.”
Tiptoeing around the dead body, I felt a sudden remorse for this man. There were various photos on the wall showing a variety of people, some young and some old. All, I assumed, were important to this man in some way. One picture in particular caught my eye — it showed the dead man, smiling and full of life, with his arm around the shoulders of a little girl about the age of eight. She resembled him in enough ways that I knew she must be a relative.