The butler bowed and disappeared.
"They'll trample the theorem!" Sir Arthur objected, rising from his chair. "We won't know-"
"But you already know, Sir Arthur," Holmes said. "The creators of the field theorem have spoken to you."
Sir Arthur relaxed. "That is true," he said. He smiled. "To think that I've been singled out this way-to introduce them to the world!" He leaned forward, spreading his hands in entreaty. "They're nothing like the Martians of Mr Wells," he said. "Not evil, not invaders. They wish only to be our friends. There's no need for panic."
"We're hardly in danger of panic," Holmes said. "I have done as you asked. I have solved your mystery." He nodded to me. "Thanks to my friend Dr Watson."
"There is no mystery, Mr Holmes," Sir Arthur said.
Holmes drew from his pocket the wooden stake, the metal spring, and the scrap of black silk. He placed them on the table before us. Dust drifted from the silk, emitting a burned, metallic scent and marring the polished table with a film of white.
"You are correct. There is, indeed, no mystery." He picked up the stake, and I noticed that a few green stalks remained wrapped tightly around it. "I found this in the center of the new field theorem, the one that so conveniently appeared after I expressed a desire to see one afresh. Unfortunately, its creators were unduly hurried, and could not work with their usual care. They left the center marker, to which they tied a rope, to use as a compass to form their circles."
Holmes moved his long forefinger around the stake, showing how a loop of rope had scuffed the corners of the wood, how the circular motion had pulled crop stalks into a tight coil.
"But that isn't what happened," Sir Arthur said. "The Martians explained all. They were trying to communicate with me, but the theorems are beyond our mental reach. So they risked everything to speak to me directly."
Holmes picked up the spring.
"Metal expands when it heats," he said. "This was cunningly placed so its expansion disarranged a connection in your motor. Whenever the temperature rose, the motor would stop. Naturally, you drove rapidly when you went to investigate each new field theorem. Of course your motorcar would overheat-and, consequently, misbehave-under those circumstances."
"The Martians disrupted the electrical flux of my motorcar-it's an inevitable result of the energy field that supports their coracle. It can fly through space, Mr Holmes, from Mars to Earth and back again!"
Holmes sighed, and picked up the bit of black silk.
"This is all that is left of the flying coracle," he said. "The hot-air balloon, rather. Candles at its base heated the air, kept the balloon aloft, and produced the lights."
"The lights were too bright for candles, Mr Holmes," Sir Arthur said.
Holmes continued undaunted. "Add to the balloon a handful of flash powder." He shook the bit of black silk. White dust floated from it, and a faint scent of sulphur wafted into the air. "It ignites, you are dazzled. The silk ignites! The candles, the balloon, the straw framework-all destroyed! Leaving nothing but dust… a dust of magnesium oxide." He stroked his fingertip through the powder.
"It did not burn me," Sir Arthur pointed out.
"It was not meant to burn you. It was meant to amaze you. Your abductors are neither malicious nor stupid." Holmes brushed the dust from his hands. "We were meant to imagine a craft that could fall from the sky, balance on its legs, and depart again, powered on flame, like a Chinese rocket! But it left the tracks of four legs, awkwardly spaced. I found this suspicious. Three legs, spaced regularly, would lead to more stability."
"Very inventive, Mr Holmes, but you fail to explain how the Martians transported me to their coracle, how the portholes sealed without a trace, how they spoke to me in my mind."
"Sir Arthur," Holmes said, "are you familiar with the effects of cocaine?"
"In theory, of course," said Sir Arthur. "I'm a medical doctor, after all."
"Personally familiar," Holmes said.
"I've never had occasion to use it myself, nor to prescribe it," Sir Arthur said. "So, no, I am not personally familiar with the effects of cocaine."
"I am," Holmes said quietly. "And you show every sign of having recently succumbed to its influence. Your eyes are glassy. Your imagination is heightened-"
"Are you saying," Sir Arthur said with disbelief, "that the Martians drugged me with cocaine?"
"There are no Martians!" Holmes said, raising his voice for the first time. "There are hoaxers, who created a clever illusion, dazzled you, drugged you, and took you to a hiding place-a raft, no doubt, that would mimic the motions of a boat floating in the air. They disguised themselves, spoke from behind masks-or behind a curtain!-taking advantage of your distracted consciousness. You saw the needle yourself, the second needle that drugged you again, so they could place you where you would be safe, and soon found!"
Sir Arthur gazed at Holmes for a long moment, then chuckled softly.
"I understand," he said softly. "I do understand."
"You understand that you have been tricked?" Holmes asked.
"I understand all. You need say no more. Some day, in the future, when you're persuaded of my complete goodwill, we'll have occasion to speak again."
Sir Arthur rose, crossed the room, and opened his desk. He drew out a sheet of paper, returned, and presented the paper to Holmes.
"This is a letter of credit," he said, "in payment for your services. It's sufficient, I hope?"
Holmes barely glanced at the paper. "More than sufficient," he said. "Most generous, I would say, from a client who believes I have been made a fool of by Martians."
"Not at all, Mr Holmes. I understand your reasoning. You are very subtle, sir, I admire you."
"Then you accept-"
"I accept your explanation as proof of my hypothesis," Sir Arthur said. "And I admire you beyond words." He smiled. "And now, we are all very tired. I must rest, and then-to work! To introduce the world to the wonders approaching us. I've taken the liberty of hiring a private train to return you to London. A token of my esteem."
Speechless, Holmes rose.
"Your luggage is in the autocar. James will drive you to the station. The autocar will not misbehave, because our visitors have gone home for the moment. But-they will return!"
Sir Arthur and Lady Conan Doyle accompanied us to the drive, so graciously that I hardly felt we were being shown the door. I climbed into the motorcar, but Sir Arthur held Holmes back for a moment, speaking to him in a low voice, shaking his hand.
Holmes joined me, nonplussed, and James drove us away. The motorcar ran flawlessly. As we passed a field that yesterday had been a smooth swath of grain, but today was marked by a field theorem more complex than any before, we saw Robert and Little Robbie directing spectators around the crushed patterns in the field. They both had taken more care with their appearance than the previous day, and wore clothes without holes or patches.
His expression hidden in the shade of his new cap, Robert turned to watch us pass.
"Holmes-" I said.
Holmes gently silenced me with a gesture. He raised one hand in farewell to the farmer. Robert saluted him. A small smile played around Holmes's lips.
As soon as we were alone in the private train car, Holmes flung himself into a luxurious leather armchair and began to laugh. He laughed so hard, and so long, that I feared he was a candidate for Bedlam.
"Holmes!" I cried. "Get hold of yourself, man!" I poured him a glass of brandy-Napoleon, I noticed in passing.
His laughter faded slowly to an occasional chuckle, and he wiped tears from his eyes.