My wife and father-in-law entered the house quickly after I reached the door. I held Gilda close to me, fearful that the sight of a corpse might upset her. She made me feel foolish, for she barely batted an eyelash at the sight. I thanked the gods above that I had found a woman of such incredible fortitude.
Metropolis knelt beside Bartholomew Smithson, examining the wound that had done him in. With blazing eyes, the Doctor turned to face me. “Those scoundrels! If they’ve stolen his papers, I’ll hunt those jackanapes down and skin them alive!”
“Who do you think did this, daddy?” Gilda was wandering about the room now, taking note of the same photographs that had seized my own attention. She wore a familiar expression of regret that mirrored my own.
Metropolis muttered a string of four-syllable obscenities that brought a flush to my face, despite the fact that I was well used to his bouts of anger. When he’d finally risen to his feet and regained control of his vocabulary, the good Doctor spoke in grave terms to his daughter. “Smithson was planning to share his findings at a major scientific conference to be held in London on the 15th of this month. I managed to convince him otherwise, but some word of his findings must have leaked out. He told me that he’d received several missives threatening him with harm if he didn’t agree to sell off his secrets to a man named Whip Marshall. I’d wager my last nickel that Marshall’s behind this now!”
I had made my way over to an overturned desk by this time, running my hands through the mass of papers and writing utensils. “Doctor, if I may be so bold, perhaps the time has come for us to know the full details of this thing?”
Metropolis turned his steely gaze upon me and his great girth seemed to solidify into something even more imposing than before. “True enough. The time for illumination has come. But it must be given with great haste — and I will only deliver it while we are en route to the home of Mr. Marshall!”
I stifled the urge to sigh, instead locking eyes with my beloved wife. She seemed to share my exasperation but both of us knew through years of practice that there would no hope in dislodging Metropolis from his chosen course of action. Still, I felt obliged to carry on the usual game. “Shouldn’t we call the authorities first?” I offered.
“Feel free to call them if you must,” Metropolis said with a dismissive wave of his hand. The Doctor was all ready striding towards the front door. “But I certainly won’t wait around to answer the meandering questions of a Neolithic dunderhead who masquerades as a law enforcement official! Time is wasting and first contact with the residents of Counter-Earth awaits the victors!”
I felt a sense of urgency suddenly overtake me at those words. Contact with the residents of Antichthon? It sounded like madness, but when Doctor Metropolis uttered such things, I could not help but be swept along in the excitement.
Gilda obviously felt the same. She had located the phone and quickly dialed the operator, explaining the situation in terse language. She had set the receiver back in its cradle before the operator could press for more details.
Taking her hand in mine, we hurried off after the indefatigable Doctor Metropolis.
The way into town was unfortunately a terrifying affair. The doctor had insisted upon driving and not even Gilda’s stern experience in dealing with her father could dissuade the man from having his way. As such, I was forced to divide my attention between the narrative my father-in-law related and the many near-death experiences we collectively shared as a result of his driving.
Doctor Metropolis is many fine things: his knowledge of both the arts and the sciences cannot be argued; despite his bluster, I have personally seen him show great kindness to those in need; and his devotion to his daughter cannot be argued. But let it be said quite frankly: the man simply cannot drive. His sense of direction is, at best, a frightful thing; couple that with his unerring ability to strike every rock or pothole in the road and it made for a distressingly eventful trip.
Nevertheless, what the doctor had to share with us was most intriguing. I shall endeavor to remember his words as best I can, though dear reader, please keep in mind that much of this was overheard while I was trying to hang on to my wife, my hat and my very survival.
“Smithson told me that he had found a way to locate the exact location of Antichthon using a specially made telescope. Apparently, a layer of thick clouds obscures it from our sight, on those rare occasions when it would normally come into view. Smithson was startled to discover a series of flashing lights that seemed to encircle that globe. Being less of an ignoramus than most men, he quickly realized that was a pattern to these displays. They were attempting to make contact with us via some sort of code! Which he was convinced he could decipher!”
“Astonishing,” I managed to say, in between gasps of alarm. “What sort of message were they transmitting?”
“They are in dire straits,” the doctor said with a shake of his head. “According to the messages that Smithson deciphered, the residents of this other world are captives somehow. They are unable to leave their planet and traverse the spheric ether that separates our worlds. They claim that long ago they were trapped in this place and that some of their children were left behind on our own world — they wish to be reunited with their progeny.”
“And they wanted Smithson to help?” I inquired, not quite sure where all this was heading.
“Exactly!” the doctor bellowed, his eyes alighting with a renewed fire. “Zounds, but you are quick, aren’t you?”
I harrumphed at that, sensing that Metropolis was having a bit of fun at my expense.
The doctor seemed to have no guilt over his actions, however, and continued barreling along — both in terms of his driving and his speech. “Smithson immediately felt a sense of kinship with these people, one forged through a commonality of existence. They’re most likely a mirror image of us, Stanford. Oh, there will be differences to be sure, but at their core, they’re as human as you or I. When Smithson heard of their crisis, he decided to help them. That’s why he contacted me, of course.”
“Of course,” both Gilda and I responded simultaneously.
“Between the two of us,” Metropolis continued, “we were able to build a rocket ship big enough to hold a small group of men — perhaps four or five at the most. It was our hope to journey to this Counter-Earth and meet with those poor people, offering whatever help we could. Smithson hoped to gain more assistance from those blunderheads in the scientific community and that, no doubt, is what led to Marshall finding out the truth!”
“How can you be sure it was Marshall?” I wondered aloud.
“Because that damned fool was at Smithson’s home the other evening when I came by! I interrupted what was obviously a heated argument, though Smithson wouldn’t speak of it once Marshall was gone.”
“Father,” Gilda asked, looking utterly calm during the harrowing ride. I could only suppose that she was far more used to his driving than I ever would be. “You mentioned that you and Mr. Smithson built a rocket ship? Where is it hidden?”
That question brought about such a calamity that I feared death was about to overtake us all. Doctor Metropolis spun the wheel so hard that our car careened off the road and bounced along the grasses before settling gently at the edge of a large cliff.