Sherlock in Cheyenne - The Adventure of the Six Letters

There is no crime in this adventure. You may choose to skip this part of the diary, but Mr. Holmes does see and talk to one of Them. Though what he sees is rather small.

Mr. Holmes is of the opinion that we can prevent frozen moments by not including anyone in our notifications except for the authorities themselves. No Sams, or Dr. Kipowitzs as intermediates. These intermediates may be unexpected and undesired elements in a chain of information that gives cause for adjustment to the time order (or whatever), ergo, a frozen moment. 

 

Mr. Holmes also has worked up an alarm setup to make us aware that a frozen moment has started. It should set off an alarm in milliseconds of the start of a frozen moment. Maybe even microseconds. Mr. Holmes will start up a chemical reaction in our lab that will overshoot equilibrium, then it will “rebound” and overshoot again, and so on with additional reagent dripped in rarely. If the reactions stops due to a frozen moment, its lack of action will unblock a pencil of light that will then strike a sensor and an alarm, like a klaxon – it startled me even in that mode when I knew it was coming- will sound. Since frozen moments have only occurred if we are together, then the most likely locale will be the basement when the alarm sounds and we will need to dash outside, otherwise we are sitting ducks. 

So, OK, I like the alarm and it works, but preventing a frozen moment is too passive for me. I want to get at Them, find out who or what They are or is this thwarting Their worldly intents going to be endless? It could be so if I cycle through junior high again. Do my three years and then start back in the seventh grade, and on and on?

So long as They are inventive in their schemes, I don’t think Mr. Holmes cares if I recycle. He does have an impatience with a lack of a challenge. He may even attempt to assist the locals in some criminal investigations. Perhaps he’ll sign on for some cold cases. But he runs the risk of the need to finish whatever he has ongoing with the cops if at the same time he may have read in the newspaper that They are at it again.

He potters about in our lab. He has gone to an international newsstand (didn’t have it before) to read weeks old mags and newspapers from Great Britain. He reads books checked out on my library card, one was about quantum mechanics.

This diary is mostly about what we have done vis à vis Them , so a lot of my activity isn’t recorded and it isn’t in the world crime-fighting mode. I have family, friends, school, and my extracurricular games and preoccupations that keep me hopping. I write in the diary in the basement bedroom.

The bedroom has all that isn’t tied down out in the center. The basement is rather large. He and I occupy a space taking up maybe one third of the area. My bed is away from the E wall and the two-drawer chest is by the bed. A few steps W is my card table and chair. Immediately to the right of the table are the two shelves with one containing the typewriter. The shelves at my end lean against a post that is from ceiling to floor. To my left from the table a few steps away is another post. Mr. Holmes sits SW, so to speak, from me, a few steps away. It is all a tight grouping.

The space heater is by the bed or under the table for comfort. Another comfort, unexpectedly, is Mr. Holmes. Especially on those winter nights of extreme cold and wind, it is a comfort to know he is there, in the chair. Sometimes he turns around my table lamp to read (no, he cannot see in the dark). More often he is in the chair, eyes closed (he says) and he thinks. He is with me, we are together as a team but I like the guy in any event. I have missed him when he goes out on a long journey. We sometimes talk of the USA now, in the large, and he is informative about the Victorian England he knows even if it died out pretty soon after he got his start. He continues to be in Victorian England long after it ceased to be. 

So, with a lot of hesitation, I brought forth my plan of the six letters. My plan was to type six short letters, one to the Air Force, one to the newspaper, and four others to four national organizations that could be put to good use about how the scheme of challenge and rebuke has gone down. No names, no tracing to us. But my letters, though no crime is involved, does break the current way of potentially not putting us in direct contact with the powers that be. These powers may be the best and the brightest but they are our only choices. This not going only to the authorities, if Mr. Holmes is correct, will disturb the mix and we will get a visitation from you know who. But we will be warned and we can repel them and follow them to their lair. So I hope. I can drive a car, sort of, Mr. Holmes cannot. I will manage somehow and we will put them on the defensive, so I hope. Mr. Holmes is kindly going along with this six-letter plan. We mostly recognize that one member of the two person team must, simply must put it to them, answer questions, get “this” better defined.

The letters were sent off. Five of the letters were returned. They did not have any marks on them, no “return to sender, address unknown.” Also, there were no return addresses on any of the envelopes. One letter, the one to the local newspaper, was not returned. This didn’t look good. And sure enough the klaxon sounded as we sat in the basement. I stood up from my chair. Mr. Holmes leaped to his feet and tossed me two revolvers, 9-shot 22s. He had his 38s ready to go. Outside we went to the end of the backyard. We overturned two picnic tables. He really didn’t need cover, but crouched low behind his table. I was ready and I knew we had probably an unlimited supply of ammo. Just keep pulling the trigger.

And here they came. Zeeglers carrying spears! They came around the E side of the front of the house and back towards us. They had about 60 yards of bare ground to traverse to get to us. I opened up at long range. Mr. Holmes had said you needn’t be a crack shot since a bullet could touch a Zeegler anywhere and they would disappear. Mr. Holmes held his fire until they got closer.

Zeeglers were poofing away at a rate like hotdogs at a fast eating contest but I could see more and more coming around the corner of the house. Must be hundreds of them. No chance for us. They would be nearly on us soon. Spears were coming in singly and in bunched volleys. I got one in the throat. Down I went.
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Again, like three times again, I was in bed. Mr. Holmes at bedside, natch.

Well, well, says he, same old story.

For me, it’s only the area of pain that changes.

Spear?

Yeah, in the throat.

Sounds most unpleasant.

I’ve got a sore throat.

Merely momentary, as we well know.

And you? How far did they get with the cars?

The motor cars? A good distance away from here. Dozens of black motor cars were in the roads round about. I got put in a back seat, a Zeegler on either side, as before. We went to Buffalo Ridge Road, then S to Pershing, then past your school, then S again past Alta Vista Elementary School, and to Lincolnway. Then we went to the rail yard. I was placed in an almost empty railcar. Inside were Zeeglers lining the interior. There was a highly polished ornate mahogany desk in the center of the car. I was placed in a chair in front of the desk. Seated behind the desk sitting in a high backed exquisitely upholstered chair was a person. I am sure it was a person. The person was all in black. Black gloves. Black hood over the head that came down to the chest. The hood had two holes for the eyes. The eyes were grey behind the very thick eyeglasses.

Then this one of Them spoke – Sherlock Holmes, I presume.

Elementary.

What brings you to Cheyenne, Mr. Holmes?

The plant life and the snow.

Then the desk, person, and Zeeglers disappeared. The railcar was jolted by another car kicked down the track by the switch engine making up a freighter.

So you see, my boy, we did learn something valuable about Them. Also, I hope you agree, we should not engage in provoking the powers that be. Your wrestling with the existing perplexities should take another form.

Ok, ok, I agree. You were right. What little we learned from sending the letters wasn’t enough. I will have to give it more “tink.”

“Tink?”

Supposedly what Einstein did.

Einstein?

A great scientist, successor in many ways to Newton.

Is he about?

No, though not long gone, but gone.

Said Mr. Holmes - Well then, it is back as we were – at least in large shape. Is today’s newspaper here?

Said I - Let me see about the throat. Yeah, it’s OK. So I’ll go upstairs and see about it.

In short order I returned with the paper and another invite to join us for supper. He had been at supper with us on a few other occasions and ate and drank well enough, I guess it went into nowhere once consumed. Mr. Holmes handled the conversation admirably, complementing the girls on their dresses, appreciating the food, and fielding and deflecting any and all comments and questions without giving offense. They liked him.

He had settled into the chair with a sigh - of relaxation or resignation -  I couldn’t tell. I decided I needed more bedrest. 

There is a small item in the paper - said he - about cigarettes missing from a local warehouse. Nothing else and there has been nothing else.  I suppose this is bearably enough for looking into.

By all means, Mr. Holmes. (He was getting desperate for what to do. A few missing cigs? No worldwide threat there. But then, at his start, he took all manner of cases. Some he could solve on the spot, there in his quarters, asking a few salient questions.)

I will, of course, need to visit the warehouse. Can you manage without me for a short time?

Of course, supper first?

Give them my regrets. You are not the only one I tutor, tell them, and I must be off to help another student.

OK. (And it wasn’t just a few missing cigs.)

Sherlock in Cheyenne - The Adventure of the Tarnished Snowflakes

Yep, Mr. Holmes was on to another one. It had snowed and snowed and snowed near Scottsbluff. The stuff wouldn't melt. Then it disappeared. Mr. Holmes travelled to the region to get the lowdown. The locals whispered from concealment to tell Mr. Holmes that no melting had occurred. So much snow there had been that some people were in danger of asphyxiation. Getting about was all but impossible.

Mr. Holmes came back all fired up. The game is afoot, said he.

Quote a new raven - evermore?

Then the newspaper (and Mr. Holmes remained convinced that the same reporter had done the Babel plant reporting) carried an account of a tall snowfall in central Wyoming. Naturally, Mr. Holmes took a powder. Naturally I was at home, watching TV, playing chess with Duane (at his house, always at his house) or reading or studying or sleeping.

Mr. Holmes, upon his return, had a small tin box with him.

He said to me - I have returned (obviously), as he removed the superfluous boots, parka, and mittens. I have snowflakes for your examination.

Shouldn't we get them upstairs to the refrigerator? (He knew about them now, he had a house tour upstairs once while everyone else was out.)

No need, they can't melt.

I didn't even say Huh?, and I opened the box and found snowflakes piled on one another.

I said - These look alike. Shouldn't they be more irregular? I was comparing them.

Splendid! My dear boy, you have one key point well in hand.

And the other key?

Here, he said, and he gave me his famous magnifying glass.

I checked them out but I couldn't see anything unusual.

No dice - I said.

It is hard to observe this matter to be sure. A microscope should show it well enough.

Show?

Some of them are tarnished.

Can I touch them?

Here, he said, and brought some out of a coat pocket. He gave a clump to me with my hands cupped together.

I said- They are light in weight...They feel like... like, well, like plastic. Like Christmas tree decorations.

Ah, Prince Albert, said Mr. Holmes. But what is "plastic?"

A group of chemicals - I glanced inadvertently at the chemistry lab in the basement - in later times they get to be even more ubiquitous and even harmful to the surroundings.

Do they tarnish?

Not as I understand "tarnishment."

Have you a microscope?

No, and none magically appeared as did the typewriter.

Well, then, it is back out to get one.

Try the high schools for used ones.

Meanwhile, take care not to touch the ones in the tin.

Righto.

Soon Mr. Holmes had a microscope. It was an old immersion oil one. Another clue - such a microscope can visualize bacteria. Now Mr. Holmes cleared a space among the chemistry equipment to make room for the microscope.

He had been looking at a scraping from a "tarnished" flake only a short time when - Ah, he said, as I expected. I will need growth medium, special blends, dishes to pour molten (heated by our chemistry burners) forms into them and inoculation rings and a box with bulbs as I suppose the latter arrangement would serve as an incubator.

My turn, out I went to a biology supply store. Well equipped. Nothing like when I was here originally.

A few days later, Mr. Holmes had isolated and cultured a new strain, Plasticus zeegleritis, as I called it. Mr. Holmes was not amused. Even so, I helped pour plates and watched over the incubator.

Mr. Holmes decided that the fruit of his labors should be deposited with a Dr. Kipowitz, liaison to the Air Base, for special projects, or so Mr. Holmes knew about from his sources. (All those walks and nights out had not been for nothing.)

Mr. Holmes took care of the deposit. The Air Force flew into the clouds that They were using for fabrication of their "snow." The bacteria were liberally distributed into ''Their" clouds. Their snowflakes lost their luster pronto. Mr. Holmes had gotten hold of a very virulent strain.

Naturally enough, So They didn't like what we (really Mr. Holmes) had done. Naturally there was a frozen moment ongoing and we didn't know it. Naturally we got a visit. Naturally they didn't bother to knock. About a dozen Zeeglers came boiling through the door after the door got slammed back against the wall.

Mr. Holmes was firing away with his revolvers. Some of the Zeeglers disappeared but not enough. They grabbed Mr. Holmes and hustled him to the door. I would have been OK, I guess, but I got up off the bed to go to Mr. Holmes aid and got a bullet in the chest.

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Mr. Holmes was sitting on the edge of the bed when I came to.

How are you, my boy?

Same as ever plus a sore chest.

Again, no marks, some loss of consciousness, then back to normal.

Yes, whatever is normal in this place. What did they do to you?

The frozen moment didn't last long enough, apparently. Three black motor cars were in the road in front of your house. I was placed in the back seat of one of these motor cars with a Zeegler on either side of me. Then we drove off - for two blocks. Then I was sitting in the roadway. The motor cars and the Zeeglers were gone.

I said - I'm thinking we should forestall their attack or turn the tables on them.

How do you propose to accomplish such a task?

I don't know as yet. Right now this pain in the chest reminds me of our mandatory PE "dive" from the high board at our school's pool. Everyone had to do it. Get on the high board, go from the edge of the board and down into the water. You didn't need to dive elegantly, yet feet-first was "chicken." Much more macho PE then. Do it or flunk. They graded us on PE. Imagine that! Much trauma for many of us, including me, was involved in climbing up the tall ladder, inching out on the board to the end, and then off into space, falling. I couldn't go headfirst. But I didn't know what to do otherwise. In the end, I belly-flopped and I wasn't the only one. So red was my chest and it smarted no end. So I passed "diving" in PE.

So sorry about all this - so said Mr. Holmes.

I said that the way to learn enough about the Zeeglers and Them would be to provoke a frozen moment. If, as you say, the frozen moments, which can be from split seconds to minutes, and they are adjustments to make things not get too far from expectations - whoever's or whatever's expectations that they may be - then a longer frozen moment, and one we expect, may be possible.

I respect, he said, your desire to learn more and be satisfied within this knowledge but it could be a provocation little appreciated by those or it - however we were brought here. I do not feel our work here is yet completed.

I will try to be less than provocative but this being subject to attack and hurt is a little annoying.

Most surely. I don't wish to you to suffer unnecessarily, my boy. Perhaps we can devise a warning for us of the start of a frozen moment or be preventive of them.

Huh?

Sherlock in Cheyenne - The Adventure of the Babel Plants - Part Three

Part Three

Hi there, I'm back. Sam somehow got it across to the Air Force what was at stake. My sister is OK, I'm OK. As far as I know, everyone else is OK.

I've been on a date. We went to a baseball game. Then we played chess. I have some algebra to look at. I'm going jogging too. Got TV to watch soon - Twilight Zone, might be pertinent. Plus I'll get out the telescope for a short session with the Moon. Lastly, I'll reread some Sherlock Holmes stories. Tomorrow is a guitar lesson (self-taught.)

Sam's Hobby Shop is no more. Sam left town abruptly. No return of Sherlock Holmes. We really didn't do so badly. I hope the seaside is all he hoped for.

The algebra is almost done. There is a knock at the door. Now no one in this family ever knocks. So a salesman got in the back way? It's possible.

Then I hear - My dear boy, may I come in?

Sherlock Holmes!

Come in! And in came Sherlock Holmes, in a parka with mittens, and snow boots. Good lord, what's the getup?

For winter, though the cold will not adversely affect me, I must seem to be prepared. True enough?

True. (I shook his hand, sans mitten, furiously.) Boy am I glad to see you!

I am glad to be back. We must reunite in any event.

Ah, save the world yet again, I said jovially.

Certainly so, he said seriously, and then he smiled. May I - he gestured toward the armchair.

Of course, of course, it is your chair. Mom wanted to toss it, saying it was ratty looking but I said it was a good reading chair. True enough - for you.

How have you been, my boy?

Well enough. How was the coast?

Never mind the coast, I was in the mountains of Colorado. I ascended a peak not far from the Wyoming border and found a summer cabin. I nary disturbed a mote while there. I smoked in the cabin as I wished. On their wireless I heard that They were countervened. How was it done?

I related how it came about.

You see? We are a team. Your role was indispensable.

I did not pick up on that but related we ought to give thanks to Sam.

Not so fast, my boy. Sam is confined on the base for an indefinite period.

Huh?

He attempted to sell our cure to the Air Force.

Oh, so that explains why he is out of business.

Yes, indeed. Tutor Holmes returns! Shall we resume?

Huh?

I'll have a seat and take a look at the newspaper.

He had sat down and with me sitting on the bed when he looked up at the east window, the only window in the basement, a small one, and high on the wall.

Odd, he said, it’s all stopped.

I looked out the window and couldn't see what he saw. He, as they said in Victorian times, "sprang" from his chair. I rushed for the door.

Outside all was motionless except for us, and we would soon know of others. But we could see no people. I walked two blocks to Buffalo Ridge Road and saw six cars headed north and four going south. None of the cars were occupied.

This was the first "frozen moment" we had noticed. We may have missed ones of a few seconds in duration. But this one was lasting a much longer time. I walked back home. We went downstairs. Mr. Holmes had just gotten started reading and I was on the bed when the door burst open. I recognized the black hair, the black beard.

Ok, who’s the wise guy? he asked. Then with a pistol he shot Mr. Holmes. As an afterthought, he shot me in the head.

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I awoke with a terrible headache. Mr. Holmes was sitting on the edge of the bed.

Interesting, Mr. Holmes said, is it not?

What? Ow!

Head painful?

A shot to the head and I am alive. Is that what you mean by "interesting"?

Yes, good shot, between the eyes.

Good for him, and you?

The bullet had no effect on me. It had a more forceful charge in your case. But I hazard a guess that your headache will be gone straight away and with no lasting ill effects.

So we learn more about this world. In fact, I know the failed assassin.

Do tell.

Yes, he was Mr. Zeegler, a shop teacher at my school.

I doubt it was he. More likely in disguise or a facsimile.

Why not the real thing?

I think They of the Babel plants have in Their employ or by some arrangement those who can do Their bidding.

Robots?

Robots, what are they?

From a more later time, if like him, mostly of use in industry or domestically. They were mostly confined to fiction for a long time.

Why don't you accost Mr. Zeegler tomorrow at school?

Accost? How?

If necessary, use my revolver.

Whatever for?

Mr. Holmes looked at me as if I were a dunce.

No way! I would be out of school! I mean, for crying out loud! I would be in prison!

Come, come no need to become so ruffled. You would not of course be with him in public. Never you mind. I will chat him up. I will be an uncle of yours.

How long have you had that revolver?

From the beginning. I have two, actually. Would you want one? I can always procure more.

Can I see it? (I held out my hand). Ah, Smith and Wesson, 38. No, I can't carry one. Kids in my day didn't need them. Too many questions.

Well, should we be attacked again, I can provide you with arms.

Thanks.

Mr. Holmes interviewed Mr. Zeegler. I had never liked Mr. Zeegler. In shop we built iron mud scrapers, plastic peanuts trays with heat shaping; wood bowls with lathes, and small electronics. It was implied I needed to get a radio kit (he probably got a kickback on every purchase.) I declined; we couldn't afford it. The jerk lowered my grade.

Mr. Holmes thought Mr. Zeegler, the shop teacher, to be harmless. The other Mr. Zeegler was in with Them. He looks to me as Mr. Zeegler because he stands out as a lousy excuse for a teacher. Among all the others at the school I had (and have) nothing but praise, unless they be PE teachers and one science teacher that gave us all electrical shocks. Teachers came with the territory. Teachers were teachers. They got our respect without much quibble. Later, older as I became, as the era evaporated, fewer teachers got respect because of their status.

Winter was coming. Cheyenne is a windy place and wintry winds were awful at times. I hugged the space heater. Mr. Holmes read the newspaper.

Ah, said Mr. Holmes, again our intrepid reporter strikes. Notice how early we again encounter Their projects. It has snowed near Scottsbluff, Nebraska, a great deal. The weather has warmed, and the snow is not melting.