AN: We meet a surprise character in this chapter. See if you can figure out who it is before the name is mentioned. :) Mycroft also makes a brief appearance.
A STUDY IN SURVIVAL
Chapter 2: Calm Before the Storm
July 25, 1901 Sunday afternoonAfter leaving Baker Street, he dispatched several telegrams – one to Mycroft, asking for arrangement of Mrs. Hudson and Billy's transportation to Norfolk and a meeting at the Diogenes Club; others went to Holmes's agents in various parts of Town, warning them to leave if possible. Then, as an afterthought, he'd sent a brief message to a scientific acquaintance who might, he thought, be interested in observing the Martians at close quarters.
The remainder of the day he prowled about London, gathering all the information he could about events near Woking. More soldiers and heavy artillery were sent in, telegraph communication was silent, and some trains were stopped. Refugees arrived in southwest London in steady streams, bearing tales of "boilers on stilts, one hundred feet high" carrying weapons that set houses, forests, and people afire from a distance. The scraps of news they brought sparked a stirring of unrest in the great city. Traffic increased steadily in the main roads.
July 25, 1901
Sunday evening
Church bells rang for evensong. The sun was just setting, the Clock Tower and the Houses of Parliament rising against a gold sky barred with stripes of reddish-purple cloud.
Newspaper-seller spread in ripples from Fleet Street, waving freshly printed papers and bawling such headlines as "Dreadful catastrophe!" "Fighting at Weybridge! Full description!" "London in danger!" Sherlock Holmes bought a paper from the nearest vendor and read of the battle with the Martians.
Despite popular opinion, the Martians were not small sluggish creatures, but minds swaying vast mechanical bodies; they could move swiftly and smite with such power that even the mightiest guns could not stand against them.
They were described as "vast spider-like machines, nearly a hundred feet high, capable of the speed of an express train, and able to shoot out a beam of intense heat." Masked batteries, chiefly of field guns, had been planted in the country about Horsell Common, and especially between the Woking district and London. Five of the machines had been seen moving toward the Thames, and one, by a happy chance, had been destroyed.
In the other cases, the shells had missed, and the batteries had been at once annihilated by the Heat-Rays. The Martians retreated to the area around the cylinders. Signalers with heliographs pushed forward upon them from all sides. Guns were in rapid transit from Windsor, Portsmouth, Aldershot, Woolwich – even from the north. Altogether, one hundred and sixteen were in position or being hastily placed, chiefly covering London.
More cylinders had followed the first, one falling to earth every night. It was hoped that further arrivals could be destroyed with powerful explosives, which were now being manufactured and distributed.
Authorities estimated, from the size of the cylinders, that each one could hold, at the outside, five Martians – fifteen altogether from the three missiles that had landed so far. One of them, at least, was disposed of – perhaps more.
A warning to stay calm, despite the imminent threat, and assurance that proper steps would be taken if mass evacuation of London became necessary, followed this information.
Heavy losses of soldiers were mentioned, but the tone of the dispatch was optimistic. The Martians had been repulsed; they were not invulnerable.
Holmes took a cab to the Diogenes Club, where he met with his older brother in the Stranger's Room.
The door swung silently open on well-oiled hinges to allow Mycroft Holmes's entrance. "Good to see you, Sherlock. How much have you heard about these Martians?" he asked, settling his massive form into a chair facing his brother. "They kept me extraordinarily busy today. I haven't had so many panicked military commanders to handle in months."
"I know nothing save what the papers and refugees say," Sherlock replied, "and their news is disturbing enough. I apologize for disturbing you today with a trivial request, but I wanted my landlady and her son safe. London will be reduced to a state of 'every man for himself' in under twenty-four hours."
Mycroft nodded in agreement. "What about your doctor friend, Watson?"
"I put forward the idea of evacuation, but he refused with a tenacity that does him credit. An old soldier like Watson is just the sort who will be useful in coming days, despite his stiff leg."
"What exactly did you have planned, Sherlock?"
Holmes leaned slightly forward. "A small band of men whom I know can be trusted to keep their head in a crisis. The purpose is not only to survive, but also to be prepared for the unpleasant prospect that the Martians may rule the earth."
"I find that idea uncommonly repulsive," commented Mycroft.
"As do I, but it must be considered. Should such a distasteful event occur, I would consider it my duty to minimize the loss of knowledge that inevitably follows a conquest. By the by, this telegram was waiting for me when I arrived. What do you think of adding the sender to my merry men?" Holmes handed over the slip of paper.
Mycroft read the missive and raised an eyebrow. "The man is a genius, but I have my doubts about associating with high explosives in these fiery times. You are aware of his reputation, are you not?"
"Yes, Mycroft. I have had the pleasure to speak with him on occasion," Holmes said dryly, folding the telegram and slipping it into his coat pocket.
"Since you are willing to take the risk and humour the fellow's idiosyncrasies, I see no problem. He does have a mind of the first order. An ideal candidate to preserve science, zoology in particular."
"Good. Now if I may enquire into your plans for the immediate future…" Holmes allowed his voice to trail off.
"Scampering about and hiding from extra-terrestrial invaders holds little appeal for me. I have matters in some semblance of order at the office and leave London on a late train. And you, Sherlock?"
"I shall remain here," Holmes replied quietly. "Don't attempt to persuade me otherwise, Mycroft. London is home turf, so to speak. I know nearly every inch of this city. Once the greater part of the population is gone, and looters settle down, I think I would be better off in Town. I have my revolver and a supply of ammunition, as does Watson. The three of us – Watson, my fierce acquaintance, and I – should be able to hold our ground." He stood and extended a long, thin hand. "I must be getting back to Baker Street. Take care, Mycroft."
"See that you don't do anything foolish, Sherlock."
The brothers shook hands and parted ways.
July 25, 1901 Sunday nightSherlock Holmes returned to Baker Street in a roundabout way, avoiding large roadways with their heavy, and still increasing, traffic. One or two cartloads of refugees passed along Oxford Street, and several through Marylebone Road, but Regent Street was full of the usual Sunday night promenaders. Along the edge of Regent's Park as many couples as usual strolled under the scattered gas-lamps. The night was warm and still. Occasionally, the firing of heavy guns could be heard to the south.
Holmes climbed the stairs, stepped into the sitting room, and froze. Crates were piled everywhere. A few lay with the tops pried open, packing straw littering the floor. "It is fortunate that the landlady is out, or she would have my head on a platter," he announced to the room.
"It is indeed fortunate, if she is so ferocious a specimen as to threaten bodily harm in response to a little clutter," rumbled a deep voice behind him.
Holmes spun on his heel, startled, to look at the speaker.
He was surprisingly short, but more than made up for his lack of height in breadth and depth. A barrel-like chest, huge spread of shoulders, enormous head, and rippling black beard captured the eye when one took a glance in his direction. A person more physically different from Holmes was hard to imagine.
"Professor Challenger, I perceive. And these crates would be yours?"
"They are."
"Scientific equipment, no doubt."
"Your intrusive telegram requested it."
"I apologize for the intrusion, Professor, but recent events forced my hand. It is my intention, you see, to take measures for the preservation of scientific knowledge should the Martian conquest of England prove successful."
"Do you consider such a conquest probable?"
"Unless some unforeseen or unaccounted-for factor comes into play, I consider it to be nearly inevitable." Holmes traded his coat for the mouse-coloured dressing gown and removed a few straws before settling into his velvet-lined armchair. "After all, Professor, the Martians have superior weapons. They have destroyed several batteries of artillery; we have killed one of them. They have reinforcements arriving with every cylinder that falls. I do not see how we can hold against these creatures."
"You are correct, Mr. Holmes, as far as you go," rumbled Challenger. "I shall elaborate a bit on your conclusions in due time. At present they will serve. There is," he continued, glaring suspiciously, "one question I will put to you. Your telegram explained very little. Why did you desire for me to burrow in with you?"
"I have already mentioned, Professor, my wish to prevent the loss of man's scientific knowledge. With my private inquiries into chemistry, my friend Dr. Watson's medical abilities, and your acknowledged supremacy in zoology, I feel a good start has been made."
"Acknowledged supremacy?" repeated Challenger. "It appears that a prophet is truly without honour in his own land, and a scientist persecuted in his own branch of study." He laughed heartily at his joke, head thrown back and eyes half-shut. "It is a sign," he added, after settling down, "of some tendencies toward intelligence on your part when you accurately judge another man's mental powers. Whether you can do the same for yourself is yet to be seen."
Holmes sat up rigidly. "I do not indulge in flattery or false modesty, nor do I entertain an inflated view of my own powers. Kindly keep that in mind, my good Professor."
Challenger took a step toward Holmes and prepared to blast out an angry retort, but the opening of the sitting room door interrupted him.
"Holmes, I have the list—Good heavens!" Dr. Watson stared in shock first at the mess added to the normal clutter, then at Professor Challenger. "Holmes, who is this?"
Holmes opened his mouth to answer, but Challenger spoke first.
"I am Professor George Edward Challenger," he announced, eyes half-closed and luxuriant black beard thrust forward.
"A pleasure to meet you, Professor. As I was saying, Holmes, I have the inventory of food you asked for." The doctor handed over several sheets torn from a notebook.
"Ah, thank you, Watson." Holmes began scanning the pages, ignoring the increasingly indignant professor.
"Is it possible, sir, that you have never heard of G. E. C.?" Challenger demanded.
Watson looked pensive for a moment before answering. "I'm afraid not, Professor. Should I have?"
Professor Challenger said nothing, but stroked his spade-shaped beard and swelled with indignation.
"My dear fellow," cut in Holmes, "the good professor is here at my invitation. It was my intention to ride out the coming storm with him, on account of his superior knowledge and intelligence. Professor Challenger, this is my friend and associate Dr. John Watson."
"It is comforting to see that one of our little band can recognize a superior brain when he meets it. Perhaps I underestimated our chances of success after all," Challenger said with labored sarcasm.
"I beg your pardon!" exclaimed Watson.
"Please, Watson, Professor, we may be spending a not inconsiderable amount of time in close quarters," cut in Holmes. "It would be wise to tolerate each other's behavior and control one's own actions.
"I expect," he continued, "the exodus from London to begin tonight or tomorrow. Once it starts, we must be constantly on our guard. I suggest an early surrender into the arms of Morpheus, as there is a strong possibility our rest will be interrupted."
AN: Holmes and Watson are my favourite Doyle team, but Challenger and Co. make a close second. I couldn't resist tossing G. E. C. into the works.
"Surrender into the arms of Morpheus" – a phrase from Nicholas Meyer's The Seven-per-cent Solution.