Philip Farmer: The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Peerless Peer

Holmes, gasping and sputtering, said, “If this execrable voyage turns out to be for nothing... If I was forced to endure that madman’s dangerous antics only to have...!”

Suddenly, the colonel was gone. Holmes regained his normal colour and composure, and he said, “Do you know, Watson, I believe I know that man! Or, at least, his parents. I’ve been studying him at every opportunity, and though he is doubtless a master at dissimulation, that nose is false, he has a certain bone structure and a certain trait of walking, of turning his head, which leads me to believe...”

At that moment the telephone rang. Since I was closest to the instrument, I answered it. Our commander’s voice said, “Batten down all loose objects and tie yourself in to your beds. We are in for a hell of a storm, the worst of this century, if the weather reports are accurate.”

For once, the meteorologists had not exaggerated. The next three hours were terrible. The giant aeroplane was tossed about as if it were a sheet of writing paper. The electric lamps on the walls flickered again and again and finally went out, leaving us in darkness. Holmes groaned and moaned and finally tried to crawl to the W.C. Unfortunately, the craft was bucking up and down like a wild horse and rolling and yawing like a rowboat caught in a rapids. Holmes managed to get back to his bed without breaking any bones but, I regret to say, proceeded to get rid of all the vodka and brandy (a combination itself not conducive to good digestion, I believe), beef stroganoff, cabbage soup, and black bread on which we had dined earlier. Even more regrettably, he leaned over the edge of the bed to perform this undeniable function, and though I did not get all of it, I did get too much. I did not have the heart to reprimand him. Besides, he would have killed me, or at least attempted to do so, if I had made any reproaches. His mood was not of the best.

Finally, I heard his voice, weak though it was, saying, “Watson, promise me one thing.”

“What is that, Holmes?”

“Swear to me that once we’ve set foot on land you’ll shoot me through the head if ever I show the slightest inclination to board a flying vehicle again. I don’t think there’s much danger of that, but even if His Majesty himself should plead with me to get into an aeroplane, or anything that flies, dirigible, balloon, anything, you will mercifully tender euthanasia of some sort. Promise me.”

I thought I was safe in promising. For one thing, I felt almost as strongly as he did about it.

At that moment, the door to our cabin opened, and our attendant, Ivan, appeared with a small electric lamp in his hand. He exchanged some excited words in Russian with Holmes and then left, leaving the lamp behind. Holmes crawled down from the bunk, saying, “We’ve orders to abandon ship, Watson. We’ve been blown far south of Cairo and will be out of petrol in half an hour. We’ll have to jump then, like it or not. Ivan says that the colonel has looked for a safe landing place, but he can’t even see the ground. The air’s filled with sand; visibility is nil; the sand is getting into the bearings of the engines and pitting the windshield. So, my dear old friend, we must don the parachutes.”

My heart warmed at being addressed so fondly, though my emotion was somewhat tempered in the next few minutes while we were assisting each other in strapping on the equipment. Holmes said, “You have an abominable effluvia about you, Watson,” and I replied, testily, I must admit, “You stink like the W.C. in an East End pub yourself, my dear Holmes. Besides, any odour emanating from me has originated from, or in, you. Surely you are aware of that.”

Holmes muttered something about the direction upwards, and I was about to ask him to clarify his comment when Ivan appeared again. This time he carried weapons which he distributed among the three of us. I was handed a cavalry sabre, a stiletto, a knout (which I discarded), and a revolver of some unknown make but of .50 calibre. Holmes was given a cutlass, a carbine, a belt full of ammunition, and a coil of rope at one end of which were grappling hooks. Ivan kept for himself another cutlass, two hand grenades dangling by their pins from his belt, and a dagger in his teeth.

We walked (rolled, rather) to the door, where three others stood, also fully, perhaps even over-, armed. There was a window further forward, and so Holmes and I went to it after a while to observe the storm. We could see little except clouds of dust for a few minutes and then the dust was suddenly gone. A heavy rain succeeded it, though the wind buffeted us as strongly as before. There was also much lightning, some of it exploding loudly close by.

A moment later Ivan joined us, pulling at Holmes’ arm and shouting something in Russian.

Holmes answered him and turning to me said, “Kentov has sighted a Zeppelin!”

“Great Scott!” I cried. “Surely it must be the one sent to pick up Von Bork! It, too, has been caught by the storm!”

“An elementary deduction,” Holmes said. But he seemed pleased about something. I surmised that he was happy because Von Bork had either missed the airship or, if he was in it, was in as perilous a plight as we. I failed to see any humour in the situation.

Holmes lost his grin several minutes later when we were informed that we were going to attack the Zeppelin.

“In this storm?” I said. “Why, the colonel can’t even keep us at the same altitude or attitude from one second to the next.”

“The man’s a maniac!” Holmes shouted.

Just how mad, we were shortly to discover. Presently the great airship hove into view, painted silver above and black below to conceal it from search lights, the large designation L9 [7] According to German official records the L9 was burned on September 16, 1916, in the Fuhlsbüttel shed because of a fire in the L6. Either Watson was in error or the Germans deliberately falsified the records in order to conceal the secret attempt to rescue Von Bork. At the time this adventure occurred, the L9 was supposed to be in action in Europe and its commander was Kapitän-leutnant d. R. Prölss. Editor. on its side, the control car in front, its pusher propellor spinning, the propellors on the front and rear of the two midships and one aft engine-gondolas spinning, the whole looking quite monstrous and sinister and yet beautiful.

The airship was bobbing and rolling and yawing like a toy boat afloat on a Scottish salmon stream. Its crew had to be airsick and they had to have their hands full just to keep from being pitched out of their vessel. This was heartening to some degree, since none of us on the aeroplane, except possibly Kentov, were in any state remotely resembling good health or aggression.

Ivan mumbled something, and Holmes said, “He says that if the storm keeps up the airship will soon break up. Let us hope it does and so spares us aerial combat.”

But the Zeppelin, though it did seem to be somewhat out of line, its frame slightly twisted, held together. Meanwhile, our four-engined colossus, so small compared to the airship, swept around to the vessel’s stern. It was a ragged approach what with the constantly buffeting blasts, but the wonder was that it was accomplished at all.

“What’s the fool doing?” Holmes said, and he spoke again to Ivan. Lightning rolled up the heavens then, and I saw that his face was a ghastly blue-grey.

“This Yank is madder than the other!” he said. “He’s going to try to land on top of the Zeppelin!”

“How could he do that?” I gasped.

“How would I know what techniques he’ll use, you dunce!” he shouted. “Who cares? Whatever he does, the plane will fall off the ship, probably break its wings, and we’ll fall to our deaths!”

“We can jump now !” I shouted.