Chapter Two

On Sudden Reactions

According to his notes, Professor Jansen was attempting to synthesize a compound with properties similar to tungsten. His goal appeared to be a more efficient type of electric light bulb. Tungsten tended to be a rather temperamental substance to work with, which made the production of light bulb rather complicated. Earlier portions of the notebook were filled with chemical and mathematical equations and write-ups of several failed compounds. So far his attempts had either been too expensive to be feasible or outright failures.

The last pages concerned observations of his final experiment. The process was simple, combine the chemicals and heat the mixture until the chemical bonds reformed, creating a new compound. The results of the experiment were not recorded, so the professor must have left, by whatever means, before the reaction was completed.

I was curious to see the results myself. I confess I was not terribly worried about the professor's whereabouts. I agreed with good inspector's assertion; no doubt that Jansen would wash up on the shores of some pub or in the casualty ward.

But my curiosity had driven me back to the chemistry laboratories. My curiosity wasn't strong enough to induce me to skip supper, though, and between one thing and another I didn't get back to the laboratory until the sun was sinking below the horizon. The police had long since left, taking their crime scene tape with them, so I set up the experiment in Jensen's lab where I wouldn't get in anyone's way.

The concoction required careful temperature control, so that the liquid wouldn't crystallize too quickly and fracture or boil off, so I was stuck in the room, making minute adjustments to the flame of the Bunsen burner and scribbling theological ramblings on loose leaf paper. Therefore I very nearly missed the all-important moment of crystallization.

The orange glow cast over my notes by the flame suddenly increased in intensity. I automatically reached out to turn down the flame and noticed that the liquid in the beaker was becoming solid. I instantly snapped off the flame and realized that the glow was coming from the crystal itself. It increased in intensity and burned blindingly white, like a magnesium flare, but strangely gave off no heat.

I stood transfixed, like a rabbit caught in the headlamps of a car, wondering what these strange new lights could be, but I could not look away. The light washed away the walls, windows and the work bench; and I thought that Professor Jansen had found his replacement for tungsten.

When I regained consciousness on the floor of the laboratory, I thought that perhaps the formula could use some work. I remained there for a minute or so, waiting for the purple spots in front of my eyes to fade and collecting my thoughts.

I wondered if the Professor had encountered the same sudden and dramatic release of energy. I wondered if it would be possible to stabilize the reaction and keep the chemical from turning into a supernova. I wondered what had happened to the light fixture.

I gazed up at the unlit fixture for several moments, trying to figure out what about it had struck me as being subtly off. I got carefully to my feet, checking for damage. It seemed that other than a few bruises from when I hit the floor, I was unscathed. I moved carefully over to the light switch and found it missing. Baffled, I tried the other side of the door, but there was no switch there either. The electric lights had disappeared. The fixture was gas.

I stared at it for a moment, then took myself outside for some fresh air. The corridor was dark, but I found my way outside just in time to see a hansom cab rattle past. I perched on the steps, wondering if the blast had knocked me silly.

I stared across the Oxford courtyard but no answers were forthcoming. The courtyard deserted, despite the relatively early hour. My watch said that it was just after eight, so I had not been unconscious very long, which was a small comfort. I watched as a small figure passed along the street, pausing to light the gas flares which lined the roadway. The night filled with a soft orange glow, the lamplighter disappeared round the corner and I took myself back inside.

The light fixture was still gas, the Bunsen burner was gone and there were two thin scorch lines encircling the walls of the room.

I had learned my lessons at the side of the world's foremost expert on deductive reasoning. I liked to think that I had learned my lessons well. But I was not at all sure about the conclusions the available evidence was leading me to.

Holmes was fond of saying that when faced the impossible, one must look to the simply improbable. But if it were impossible that I had been transported back in time several decades, what on earth could the improbable be?

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Now I know there are people out there who ask for constructive criticism, then freak out when you suggest using a spellcheck. I am not one of these people. I mean it when I ask for criticism, even if it is of the "dude, your story sucks" variety. Although if you think it sucks you could tell me why. That being said…

Questions? Comments? Criticisms? Complaints? Review!

.•´¨•»¦«•Kerowyn•»¦«•´¨•.