The characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Over the Hill Gang, Newline and whoever
else has a stake in them these days.
Thank you, Ariadne, DNash and rann, for turning beta reading into a
painstaking scientific process. The time you invested is a blessing for all my readers.
London – 1914
“But I’m just a botanist!”
James Sykes-Plimpton smiled at this demonstration of humility.
“You’re very modest, Professor Summerlee. You’re a renowned
scientist. Your books and articles have been published in many languages and are used in colleges in England and abroad.”
Arthur Summerlee sucked on his pipe, a skeptical expression on his face.
He had never been very susceptible to flattery.
“Be that as it may, but you are not talking about a project that
is in need of a botanist. If I understand you correctly, you want to create a commission to evaluate scientific projects which
are crucial to our war efforts.”
Sykes-Plimpton still beamed at him.
The chap behaves as if we were exchanging pleasantries at a tea party
with the King, Summerlee thought. Something about the man’s behavior was quite irritating. Or maybe it was just
his posh accent. To Summerlee he seemed like the prototype of over-bred chinless wonders that cluttered so many layers of
British society.
“You must see that this is important, Professor,” insisted
a much less refined voice behind him.
Summerlee turned around. The other man who had received him in this small
government office was the exact opposite of Sykes-Plimpton. A brash Cockney type by the name of Mercer who seemed more at
home in a noisy Soho pub than a non-descript government office.
Neither man had been clear about their ranks or functions, but he knew
that they were His Majesty’s Secret Service. MI-5. When Summerlee had received the invitation to this meeting, he had
no doubt that his appearance was mandatory. The letter was official, the tone bureaucratic, but urgent.
“It’s not a matter of me acknowledging the importance of the
project, it’s a matter of whether I’m qualified to head it,” Arthur Summerlee replied in a matter-of-fact
tone.
The two government officials looked at each other. They obviously hadn’t
expected that their offer would be questioned or possibly even refused.
“What we need, Professor Summerlee, is a man who is able to evaluate
a wide variety of scientific projects. Someone who establishes a set of criteria that will help us invest precious resources
and scientific minds into the right projects. Similar to the work you did with several the academic review boards in Oxford
and Cambridge a few years ago. You will have a number of experts at your disposal. We have a list of potential members whom
we think would be valuable contributors, but it’s up to you to make the final selection.”
Sykes-Plimpton handed him a sheet of paper. Summerlee studied the list
carefully. Most of the names were familiar, many of them he knew personally.
“There are some names missing. A few more reputable scientists should
be on it.”
Sykes-Plimpton and Mercer exchanged a glance.
“Such as?” inquired Mercer.
“George Challenger for example. The man is a pain in the neck, but
he’s quite brilliant in several fields.”
“Professor Challenger was omitted for a very specific reason,”
Sykes-Plimpton replied with a half-smile.
“Oh?”
“He is actually working on one of the projects that the future commission
will need to evaluate.”
Of course. Challenger is the type of man who is at the forefront of
science, whatever I may think of him personally. This could be interesting, Arthur Summerlee mused.
“So you’re accepting the assignment, Professor?” Mercer
asked.
Summerlee nodded slowly. “I think I have to. If you believe this
is how I can serve my country in this time of war, I will do it.”
***
“YOU IMBECILE!”
Edmund Kingston, Professor Challenger’s long-suffering lab assistant,
cringed. He had just botched one of his experiments and Professor Challenger’s wrath was loud and painful.
“YOU ARE A USELESS FOOL! WHY DID I EVER HIRE YOU?”
Kingston was sorely tempted to tell the professor that he was still around
because he had shown a greater tolerance for the frequent verbal abuse that Challenger’s employees had to endure. The
professor had a hard time finding lab assistants. His reputation preceded him, and even the promise of better-than-average
salaries lured fewer and fewer qualified applicants these days.
“George, stop shouting!” The female voice was a mixture of
patience and exasperation. “We can all hear you perfectly well.”
“He ruined the experiment!” He wasn’t shouting anymore,
but his voice could hardly be described as normal conversational tone.
“The poor man fell asleep. He hasn’t been home for two days,
you didn’t let him sleep, and he probably hasn't eaten much either.”
Jessie Challenger scrutinized her husband, searching for a sign of understanding
for the needs of mere mortals.
“So what? I didn’t eat or sleep,” her husband responded
haughtily.
“And look how strange your behavior has become,” she retorted
with an amused smile.
“My behavior is NOT strange! I have no idea what you’re talking
about.” Professor Challenger didn’t hide his consternation.
Jessie Challenger decided to take matters into her own hands. “Edmund,
you go home and get some rest. Take the day off tomorrow—No, George, not another word!”
Challenger saw that his wife wasn’t joking and he didn’t dare
to protest. She turned back to Kingston with a kind smile. “Take the day off and spend it with your wife and children.
Paid vacation.”
Edmund Kingston couldn’t believe his ears. He looked at his employer.
Would he really go along with his wife’s unusual suggestion?
Challenger threw him a withering glance, but he didn’t contradict
his wife. “Go,” he said gruffly.
Kingston left the professor’s study in a hurry. Who knew how quickly
the man might change his mind?
Meanwhile Professor Challenger turned to his wife. “I want you to
know that his mistake will cost us at least three days of experiments. Time lost! Time that could have saved soldiers’
lives. And you rewarded him for making a mistake!”
Jessie Challenger shook her head sadly. “George, you don't understand,
do you? He only fell asleep because he was completely exhausted. I know your work is important, but you have to take into
consideration that a person’s strength has limits. They aren’t all like you.”
The sincerity of her expression finally got through to him. His anger about
the botched experiment slowly subsided.
“Go to sleep, George. You need some rest, too.”
“Yes. Yes, you’re right. But you know what—first we’ll
go and have dinner. It’s nearly 6 o’clock. Time for dinner, right? We could go out. We haven’t been to a
restaurant in months.”
Jessie Challenger smiled.
“Don’t worry about going out, George, I have a pot roast ready.
We don’t need to waste precious time with going to a restaurant. A meal, a few hours of sleep, and I will get you back
into your lab.”
George Challenger remembered the last pot roast his wife had cooked. She
had accomplished the amazing feat of serving meat that was partly burned and partly undercooked. A restaurant visit might
still be the better idea. Then again—her potatoes weren’t that bad.
***
The Summerlee Commission started its work in early 1915. Arthur Summerlee
handpicked the committee members and a slew of experts who would support their work and provide the necessary knowledge to
evaluate the experiments.
They went to work quickly, each member sworn to absolute secrecy. The number
of projects that had to go through the first review was immense. After intense discussion they narrowed the field considerably.
Only fifteen projects were kept in the end. These experiments received generous government funding and increased resources.
One of these projects was led by George Challenger.
None of the project leaders were aware that they were part of a review
and that the grants they received were part of a special fund, administered by a secret government body. None of the project
leaders had an inkling that the renowned botanist, Arthur Summerlee, had a major influence on their work. The shroud of secrecy
was impenetrable, and Summerlee sometimes wondered if rumors would ever find their way out. Would anyone even believe that
an old botanist like him could wield so much power?
Whenever Summerlee reflected about his newfound position, he veered between
bemusement and awe. He knew what was at stake. The choices he made might influence the outcome of the war. Lives could be
saved. Lives could be lost. His quiet life had suddenly taken on a whole new meaning.
For nearly a year the importance of his work was something he was acutely
aware of, but in a rather abstract fashion. Then one day the reality of the war hit close to home. His nephew returned from
the front. Summerlee remembered the day he had left to fight for his country. Twenty-one years old, a strapping young lad,
an ardent patriot who had talked about honor and duty, serving King and Country. The whole family had wished him well, proud
of his courage and sense of duty, but also gently teasing him about how seriously he took all this.
“Just make sure you don’t flirt too much with the French maidens,”
his father had ribbed him good-naturedly. But there hadn’t been much time for flirting. His letters home displayed the
brutal reality of the war. The trenches full of bloodied bodies. The modern weapons that made killing so much more efficient
and so much more horrifying. His letters had become shorter and shorter, as if he couldn’t find any more words to describe
what he saw. Then they stopped completely.
His mother, Arthur’s sister, had called. They'd had news about their
boy. He was coming home. Her voice was choked; she could hardly speak when she described his condition. A grenade had exploded
close to him, ripping his limbs apart. Poison gas had ravaged his lungs. It was a miracle he was still alive. A miracle? Or
a cruel twist of fate?
Summerlee had spent a few hours in the hospital room, staring at the sad
figure swathed in bandages. The stumps. The bandaged face. The wheezing breath. He tried to find a resemblance to his nephew,
but he couldn’t reconcile this sad figure with the image of the young man who had felt like a hero in his uniform.
If he dies, he’ll get a hero’s funeral. They’ll put
the flag on his coffin. No open casket. No one wants to see the true price of war…
Summerlee bid farewell to his nephew, who didn’t seem to recognize
him or anyone else for that matter. He hugged his inconsolable sister, unable to find words to comfort her. His brother-in-law
had been in a daze, unable to comprehend that his only son had to go through so much suffering. They shook hands in silence.
Summerlee walked out of the hospital as if ghosts were chasing him out.
In his agitated mind images of his nephew, passages of the reports he needed
to read for his commission work, and a war report he had heard on the radio earlier that day created a confusing maelstrom.
He stopped abruptly when he realized that he could hardly breathe anymore.
His mind completely preoccupied, he had walked very fast, too fast for his age. He leaned on a lamppost, slowly catching his
breath. It took him a moment to find his bearings. He had walked aimlessly, really. He looked at the tall building in front
of him. He had arrived at the Royal Zoological Society. He decided to take a break and have tea there.
Immediately after entering the foyer of the Society he heard a loud voice
coming from one of the lecture rooms.
George Challenger of all people, he thought wryly. Just a few
days ago he had read a progress report about his experiments with the van der Waals process. His experiments were interesting,
albeit highly experimental still.
For a moment he was tempted to leave again, but his weary body told him
otherwise. He definitely needed a bit of rest. A cup of tea. A conversation with a fellow scientist about something that was
unrelated to war and suffering. Orchids. Orchids were a wonderful subject to discuss. All beauty. Marvelous survival ability.
No ugliness. No pain.
“Professor Summerlee! I haven’t seen you in a while. How are
you doing, my friend?”
Professor Weisman’s beaming face greeted him. The man’s slight
lisp gave him a child-like quality. A renowned botanist and paleobotanist, he spent most of his time teaching in Oxford. The
two men corresponded frequently.
“Good to see you, too. What brings you to London?”
“I met with my publisher. I’m going to edit a collection of
articles, which outline the latest findings in paleontology. Actually the ruckus in there is about that collection. One of
the contributors to the collection—the infamous George Challenger—thinks he should be the only one included in
it. Because all the others are just—and I quote—rank amateurs, pathetic excuses for scientist, and generally incompetent
fools.”
“Which I’m sure didn’t go over well with the honorable
members of the Royal Society,” said Summerlee wryly.
“Precisely. I decided to escape from his harangue. How about a sherry?
Or maybe a cup of tea?”
“Tea would be wonderful.”
The two men walked into the library. They chose a quiet corner of the large
room and sat down in the comfortable leather chairs. One of the waiters hurried over to take their orders. A whiskey and soda
for Professor Weisman and tea and biscuits for Professor Summerlee. In a matter of minutes the gentlemen would be served their
beverages, the waiter assured them.
“So what are you spending your time on these days? Teaching? Writing?”
Weisman asked.
I’m helping the government determine how science can help to
win a cruel war, Summerlee thought. “I’m writing an article about the snakemouth orchid.”
“Pogonia ophioglossoides! How interesting! Tell me more.”
The next half-hour was filled with a lively exchange on the topic of orchids.
“WEISMAN!” An angry voice interrupted them harshly.
“Professor Challenger,” sighed Weisman. “What can I do
for you?”
“You can’t seriously consider including Halston’s ridiculous
theories in the anthology. The man is an imbecile!”
“Professor Halston is a renowned paleontologist. The collection would
be incomplete without his findings.”
“His theories are completely unscientific! He distorts facts so they
fit his theories. A charlatan, that’s what he is!”
Summerlee gazed at the excited man in front of him. What an arrogant
man he is. I wonder whether he ever tweaked facts until they fit his latest theory?
He had known George Challenger for years. It was inevitable that their
paths crossed. He grudgingly respected the man’s wide variety of knowledge. Unlike most scientists these days, Challenger
hadn’t specialized in one field; he was an expert in many fields. But he was also a man with a belligerent attitude
who rather lectured than listened.
Professor Weisman was unfazed by Challenger’s outburst. “My
dear Challenger, as I told you earlier, the collection will contain a variety of articles. My objective is to show the wide
range of theories that exist, and I for one think that Professor Halston’s theories are very interesting.”
“Hah! Humbug!” snorted Challenger.
Weisman raised an eyebrow.
“If you don’t mind, Professor Summerlee and I are in the middle
of a conversation we’d like to continue. We can talk later, if you want to pursue this topic further, Challenger.”
Challenger realized that the usually mild-mannered Weisman was at the end
of his tether. He retreated with a sour expression on his face.
“Brilliant mind, but what an unpleasant character,” commented
Professor Weisman.
“I agree. He’s his own worst enemy,” replied Summerlee.
The two scientists went back to their favorite topic—orchids.
***
“You’re positive that the mole is in MI-5?”
Sykes-Plimpton looked at the dark-haired woman. He didn’t mind her
asking the question. She was the type who checked each and every detail. She made her decisions based on a careful analysis
of all facts. She had to. She was set to become a triple agent who might be the deciding factor in England’s victory
over Germany and the Austro-Hungarian Empire.
“Everything leads to Huxley. We’ve been at his tail for a while.
He has been in contact with at least two men whom you identified as German agents. He seems to harbor a lot of sympathy for
the Huns. So far he hasn’t handed over any government secrets, but we’re pretty sure he will if given the right
incentive. The man’s integrity is definitely for sale.”
Marguerite nodded. “I will set a trap for him then. We need to make
sure that he hands over classified materials to the right people. Our people.”
“But be careful. Nothing too obvious.” Sykes-Plimpton felt
a slight embarrassment when he saw her sardonic smile.
Of course it was a bit daft to lecture a master spy like Marguerite Krux
a.k.a. Marguerite von Helfing a.k.a. Parsifal. She knew better than most men—or women—how to fool people.
“I’ll do my best, Mr. Sykes-Plimpton,” she purred, her
voice full of irony.
And her best she did, as usual. A seemingly chance encounter with Huxley
was set up quickly. The man reacted immediately to her subtle advances, at first misunderstanding her attention and hoping
that the Baroness might have a romantic interest in him. He was even more pleased when she offered him money in exchange for
his services as a spy for Germany. A lack of scruples and a penchant for a lifestyle he couldn’t afford made him an
easy target.
Huxley was completely unaware that Marguerite was in the process of eliminating
a ring of real German spies and replacing them with British agents. Everything he leaked was filtered through her and through
people who worked for England.
***
A few months later Sykes-Plimpton met again with the Baroness. She had
just returned from Shanghai.
“Were you successful?”
She looked at him hard. “The Russian operation isn’t really
a concern of yours, is it?”
Her reply was clear: Don’t ask unnecessary questions. Information
is disseminated on a need-to-know basis, and about this matter you don’t need to know.
He felt stupid when he realized that he had asked her out of a sentiment
of real concern for her–a sentiment that was utterly inappropriate in their line of work.
“I beg your pardon, Baroness. You’re right. Let’s talk
about the current mission.”
He handed her a set of documents. She went through them quickly. Then she
looked up and sighed. “I must admit I half expected this. Parsifal’s efficiency had to be questioned after a while.
The German agents are bringing less and less valuable information home.”
Sykes-Plimpton nodded. “I agree with you, it was only a matter of
time.”
Her gloved fingers drummed on the table. Her beautiful face wore an expression
of utmost concentration. “We need to give Parsifal a success,” Marguerite said slowly. “We need to deliver
information that is important enough to be seen as a triumph. Nothing that is truly critical for winning the war of course,
but something that has significance. Maybe a new weapon that looks promising. We could give partial or misleading information.”
“I’m happy to say that we’re quite prepared for that
the scenario you’re suggesting. There are a number of important scientific projects that have potential significance
for the outcome of the war. One of them could be the sacrificial lamb.”
“Who will choose it?”
“We have a committee in place that is evaluating the projects. Generally
it determines funding and resource allocation, but they’re also very capable of determining a ranking of projects.”
“Choosing the odd man out,” Marguerite said.
“Precisely. Or in this case—the odd project out.” “Let’s
hope they choose wisely.”
Sykes-Plimpton shrugged. “The commission has some of England’s
best scientific minds as its members. If they can’t choose wisely, no one can.”
***
Jessie Challenger left her husband reluctantly. Her brother’s son
had been killed on the battlefield in Arras, leaving behind a wife, two small children, and devastated parents. Her nephew
had been a slightly boring, stolid fellow, the type of man that never goes beyond mediocrity. Though he wasn’t brilliant
in any way, he was still a very lovable man who had inherent kindness that endeared him to his family and friends. Jessie
wanted to say good-bye to him by attending the memorial service in Manchester.
It was out of the question that her husband accompany her, as he was in
the middle of an important project.
Jessie worried about him. He had always been a driven man, but these days
he was so fully immersed in his work that he seemed to forget everything around him. Two of his assistants had left him recently.
Only Edmund Kingston remained. Jessie knew very well that he only put up with her husband’s outbursts and rages because
he had a large family to feed.
George had thrown a fit that morning because he hadn’t received a
delivery of iridium—an element he urgently needed for his experiments. Poor Kingston had been the recipient of choice
swear words and even a Bunsen burner had been hurled in his direction. This despite the fact that the poor man had no influence
whatsoever on the delivery schedule of the iridium.
“George, I’m leaving now,” she had called into his laboratory.
“I’ll see you at dinner,” had been his absentminded reply.
“George, I’m leaving for Manchester.”
A pause.
“What?”
He finally came to the door. With
a worried look she took in his disheveled appearance, the bags under his eyes, and his pale complexion. He was exhausted.
“George, you have to get some rest. Promise me you won’t work
all night again. And let poor Kingston go home tonight.”
Challenger nodded distractedly. “Don’t
worry about me. I know what I need to do.”
Looking at his wife, he realized for a short moment that there was a life
beyond his laboratory. A life in which a tragedy had befallen people she loved.
“Give my best to the family. Tell them he has not died in vain.”
Hasn’t he? Jessie wasn’t sure about that. The longer
the war lasted, the higher the death toll. The patriotic hurrah cries of the first war year had died away. Mournfulness had
replaced them. Too many young men had died or come back grey shadows of their former selves.
George kissed her tenderly. For an instant she was overwhelmed by emotion.
He was rarely affectionate, which made this moment all the more precious.
“Come back soon. I—I will miss you.” His voice was gruff,
as if he was embarrassed by his display of sentiment.
“I will miss you, too. Promise not to work too hard.”
He nodded, although he knew perfectly well that he would spend each waking
moment in his laboratory after she was gone. He had to do his part to end this war.
***
Professor Summerlee had been called back to MI-5. He was surprised, as
he usually communicated through his written reports with Sykes-Plimpton and Mercer. Since the initial meeting, he hadn’t
met with them at all.
They offered tea, which he declined, and they quickly came to the point.
“The task we have for you now is of the utmost importance.”
This time Sykes-Plimpton didn’t smile. His face had a seriousness
that Summerlee hadn’t seen before in the man.
“As you know the war is costing more and more lives. We have made
some progress, but are at a stalemate at the various fronts. Winning the war will take unusual means.”
Summerlee felt uneasy. “How unusual?”
“You’ll be the only person that knows the full truth. Your
King and Country are putting a lot of faith in you,” Mercer said in his cockney accent.
The botanist stared at the two men. Their attitude had definitely changed.
Gone was the slightly jovial manner they had displayed when they had given him the task of forming the commission. He could
imagine why. No one had expected the war to go on for such a long time. No one had expected that civilized European nations
would execute each other in blood-soaked trenches in France, Russia, and the Middle East.
God knows to what information these men are privy. They probably know
more about the price of the war than I ever want to know, Summerlee thought.
“What exactly do you want me to do?” He just wanted to know
what his assignment was and then leave this room to get back to his quiet study at home.
“The Summerlee Commission needs to choose three of the fifteen war-critical
projects, one of which will either be sabotaged or betrayed to the Germans.”
Sykes-Plimpton’s plummy voice was grim. Summerlee stared at the man,
wondering for a moment whether he had misheard him.
“What? I don’t think I understand.”
Mercer spoke up. “It’s not important that you understand, Professor.
All you need to know is that for reasons of state security we need to give the Germans the impression that they have undermined
one of Britain’s war efforts. You need to determine which of the projects is important enough to impress the enemy,
but not important enough to make a real difference to the outcome of the war.”
Summerlee felt disgust wash over him. He had been so naïve when he took
over this responsibility. Doing his duty for his King and Country. How noble it had seemed. But the truth of the matter was
that he was working with people who had chosen lies and betrayal as their profession. And now they asked him to sabotage a
scientific project that had been nurtured and developed for years. To him those fifteen projects represented the hard work
and determination of scientists who wanted to benefit mankind. The effective destruction of such a project seemed callous
and irresponsible.
“I beg your pardon, gentlemen, but these fifteen projects are all
of the utmost significance. They are all extremely important.”
“Professor, I’m sure that after careful analysis you and your
commission members will find a few that can be sacrificed for the sake of saving our great nation.”
Sykes-Plimpton made it clear that this wasn’t up for discussion.
“I’m sure it’s a consolation for you that you won’t be the one who makes the final choice. That will
be determined by a person who will be able to assess the military aspects of this operation. All you need to do is your job
as a scientist and committee head.”
Summerlee stood up. “Very well. I will do my best.”
***
“So it’s finally on its way? Are you sure, Kingston?”
Professor Challenger’s exhausted assistant nodded.
“Yes, the Royal Navy has ordered enough iridium for all our experiments.
It is processing batch AB 423.”
“Finally!”
Challenger rifled through his notes. His unruly curls were uncombed, giving
him a strange ginger halo. His cravat was askew and on his vest and pants Kingston saw several smudges, probably traces of
chemicals or maybe the remnants of hastily eaten meals in the laboratory.
Mrs. Challenger had been gone three weeks now. She had not returned immediately
after the memorial, since her sister-in-law wasn’t doing well. The death of her only son had put her into a deep depression.
Jessie’s brother—himself struggling with the bereavement—had been unable to console her.
“A woman is better at this, Jessie,” he had said, pleading
with her to extend her stay.
She had agreed, although she was worried about her husband.
Challenger had been in the middle of his experiments, sure he was on the
verge of a scientific breakthrough. He had ignored the stack of mail that the housekeeper had laid on the table in his library.
Jessie’s letter had waited four days before he'd found time to read it.
For a moment he had paused, telling himself that he should go up to Manchester
to be with his wife and offer his help to the family. But that thought disappeared quickly. Men weren’t good at this
anyway. Let the women take care of each other. His job was to help end the war. He wrote a hasty note, telling Jessie to take
as much time as she needed. He was doing well on his own.
Delving back into his work, the scientist hardly slept or ate. His excitement
seemed to give him unlimited strength.
The same couldn’t be said for his poor assistant. Edmund Kingston
had cursed his employer numerous times the past few days. The man was crazy, inconsiderate, and absolutely incapable of showing
the slightest bit of compassion for his fellow man. Kingston hadn’t been home for two days in a row. He missed his wife
and children, not to mention a good night’s sleep in his own bed, instead of the short naps on the couch in the laboratory.
Professor Challenger might think that eating, sleeping, and companionship
were unnecessary luxuries, but Edmund Kingston had other ideas.
He had sneaked out of the laboratory and was nearly out the door, when
a courier arrived.
“Letter for Professor Challenger,” a young man had declared,
with a look of self-importance on his face. “Are you Professor Challenger?”
Kingston shook his head. “Give me the letter. I’m his assistant,
I can take it.”
“No, can’t give it to you. I was told to deliver it in person.”
“KINGSTON! Where the hell are you?”
Challenger ran out of his lab, exuding a strong chemical smell. The deliveryman
frowned. What a strange household this was!
“Who are you?” Challenger inquired frostily, when he saw the
stranger.
“Are you Professor Challenger?”
An imperious nod was the answer.
“Letter for you. Sign here.”
Challenger signed. The deliver man looked at him expectantly. “Well,
leave, man, you have no more business here.”
The young man left, muttering something under his breath that to Kingston
sounded very much like ‘cheap bastard’.
“Sir, if you don’t mind, it’s already pretty late. I
would like to go home for tonight, see my wife, then come back tomorrow morning, I can be here by 6 AM, if you want—”
Challenger wasn’t listening, he was preoccupied with reading the
letter.
“Damn it! Those useless bean counters!!”
Kingston was worried. “What is it, Professor?”
Challenger stared at the letter with disgust. Obviously the news wasn’t
good.
“One of the foundations that is funding our experiments wants a detailed
report of our current status. When did we send our last report?” The assistant pondered this question for a moment.
“About six months ago. That was for the grant from Oxford, I believe.
Although it was an address in London that we sent the report to.”
“Well, they want another report. So get to work, Kingston. Take the
notes from the lab and write up the report. The letter has specifics as to what they want to see.”
Kingston gazed longingly at the door. He was exhausted. He didn’t
want to go over formulas and processes. All he wanted was the presence of his loved ones and some sleep.
“What are you waiting for?” The harsh voice left no doubt that
this was no time for a break.
“They need the report by tomorrow morning. I will continue the experiment
in the lab. You get the notes and write the report. You can use the typewriter in my study.”
He shoved the letter into the younger man's unwilling hands. In quiet desperation
Kingston collected the notes and the old progress report and went into Challenger’s study. He started reading through
the notes. His eyes burned from exhaustion. The handwriting seemed like a meaningless scrawl. He looked at the old report,
then at the notes, trying to determine what important progress they needed to present. He rested his head on his hand.
I’m going to close my eyes… Just for a few moments.
He opened his eyes again, trying to concentrate. His tired mind refused
to cooperate. He closed his eyes again.
Another moment… I’ll feel better soon.
“KINGSTON!”
He jumped up, his heart racing. He was disoriented for a moment. Where
was he? Not in the lab… Of course. The library… Challenger burst into the study.
“The courier will be here in half an hour. Is the report ready?”
Kingston was confused. He had just started, why was Challenger so impatient?
Then he noticed that daylight illuminated the room. He had fallen asleep.
“Yes, nearly ready. Only a few more minutes.”
The lie had just slipped out. Kingston swallowed hard.
“Good. You spent enough time on it.”
Challenger left the study.
The tiredness had left Kingston. Panic replaced it. He had to go back to
Challenger and tell him that he hadn’t even started yet. But what if Challenger lost his funding and it was his fault?
He would probably get fired… How would he be able to provide for his wife and children? All because of a few hours of
sleep… Maybe Challenger would understand.
Kingston laughed bitterly at this thought. His employer had no patience
for weakness. Professor Challenger wasn’t like mere mortals. He despised those who weren’t like him.
I’ll just write a quick summary and then I’ll provide another
report. I’ll work day and night and we will make so much progress that we’ll need to send them another report
soon anyway. And now that we’re getting the iridium… This isn’t such an important stage anyway. The iridium
experiments are the most important part.
Kingston knew that Challenger wouldn’t read the report. He trusted
him. Challenger may not have much respect for him, but he considered him an honest employee.
Kingston started to type.
No significant progress has been made in the past six months…
***
The commission members had spent three days reevaluating and ranking all
projects. Only Summerlee knew what this session would mean to one of them
“Thank you, gentlemen, I appreciate your hard work,” he said,
dismissing the committee members.
He was left alone in the room. His was the final task—deciding on
the three projects. One of which would become the sacrificial lamb.
He went through the stack of files twice. Then he took three folders and
put them into his old briefcase. It was already a bit shabby, but he couldn’t bring himself to replace it, as it had
been a present from his late wife.
The carriage ride to MI-5 was short. Today only Mercer was there to receive
him. “The decision has been made?” Mercer inquired.He took the three folders and looked through them quickly.
“So Challenger’s project is one of them. Not surprised about
that, I must say. I hear they call him the madman of Edinburgh.”
Summerlee nodded stiffly. “Yes, his is among the chosen projects,
solely based on his lack of progress at this point. It is highly unlikely that he can finish in a timeframe that will make
it significant for the war effort. That notwithstanding I believe that his work is important. I suggest therefore that you
delay the delivery of the iridium that he needs for the next stage of his experiments. Give the enemy some information, force
him to slow down the project by withholding the iridium, but make sure that Challenger can continue the project at a later
stage. All our experts agreed—the man is definitely on to something. It’s just highly experimental at this stage,
few concrete uses at this point.”
Summerlee paused, unsure whether the MI-5 man had listened or cared about
what he said. The one lamp that illuminated the room threw a half shadow on Mercer’s face. It was impossible to read
his expression.
“I understand, Professor. You don’t need to justify your actions
to me. We’ll take it from here. We’ll let you know when we need you next time.”
Summerlee left the room. His heart was heavy. Betraying fellow scientists
was nothing he could be proud of.
The theft of the iridium wasn’t common knowledge, but Summerlee had
enough contacts by now to find out about it. It was clear that whoever had the final say had chosen Challenger’s project.
Summerlee had never expected that doing one’s duty could leave such a bitter aftertaste.
He hoped the war would be over soon. He hoped that he would never see Challenger
again.
But of course he did see him again. Their paths often crossed, but they
rarely exchanged more than pleasantries.
Summerlee was sure that he had made his decision based on facts only. Challenger
exhibited more and more erratic behavior; his theories became wilder. Summerlee consoled himself with the thought that maybe
these were indications that the man wasn’t as solid a scientist as he should have and could have been.
The war finally ended and the Summerlee Commission was disbanded. The old
botanist knew that Challenger had abandoned his project eventually, since he was never able to procure a sufficient amount
of iridium to begin the central stage of his experiments.
Mercer and Sykes-Plimpton didn’t answer Summerlee when he inquired
why Challenger had never received the Royal Navy iridium after the war.
“You should know by now, Professor, that we give out information
only on a need-to-know basis. And you don’t need to know.”
Summerlee had been angry at Sykes-Plimpton’s attitude, thinking he
had deserved a bit more respect from MI-5 after all his work. But spies had their own set of rules. He was happy to go back
to his quiet life of scientific study and teaching. The past was a closed book.
***
The Plateau - 1920
He knew immediately what Challenger was talking about, even though he didn’t
give many specifics. But he didn’t have to. The war. A project that could have ended it. The iridium.
The two men were on their own in the Treehouse for a few days. The young
members of the expedition and their blonde hostess had gone off on a trading trip. Challenger’s arthritis had acted
up and he decided to stay behind. He asked Summerlee to stay back as well, so they could work together on a few experiments.
Summerlee had readily agreed.
After a long day in the lab, they enjoyed one of Arthur’s home-cooked
meals.
“You truly are a fabulous cook, Arthur,” Challenger praised
him jovially.
Afterwards they had sipped brandy while engaging in conversation.
The Great War had come up, like random topics sometimes do between men
who know each other fairly well, but whose life experiences still hold much potential for surprises.
Challenger talked about his disappointment when his project was stalled
by the theft of the iridium. He also mentioned a lab assistant named Edmund Kingston who had worked for him for many years.
The man had been a faithful soul, although Challenger had to admit in hindsight that he abused him quite a bit.
“Shortly before we left for the Plateau, my wife and I were invited
to the wedding of his daughter. I didn’t want to go, but Jessie insisted. We arrived late to the party, as I had to
finish an experiment, and Kingston was quite drunk at that point. He thanked us profusely for the generous wedding present—needless
to say that it was all my wife’s doing, I didn’t even know we had given them a present—and then he dragged
me into a corner of the room. He was close to tears and told me that he had to make a confession.”
“He was moonlighting for Professor Halston?”
“Of course not! No assistant of mine would work for such a charlatan—”
He noticed Summerlee’s grin and stopped his diatribe.
“You got me there, Arthur.” He smiled at his friend’s
little joke.
“Sorry, George, couldn’t resist. Go on.”
Challenger took another sip of his brandy.
“He told me that he sent a false report to one of the grant commissions
that funded my project. A project I was working on during the Great War. He had fallen asleep the night he was supposed to
write the report. Instead of asking for an extension of the deadline, he had written a short summary that we hadn’t
made any progress and added a few pages from the old report. He knew the project wasn’t denied funding based on that,
but he felt badly that he had betrayed my confidence. In actuality the project had been put on hold because a key element
for my experiments had been stolen.”
Iridium, Summerlee thought, coldness gripping his heart.
“What was stolen?” Challenger hesitated for a moment.
“George, the Great War is over, we are stuck on this godforsaken
Plateau, and you should know me well enough by now to know that I can keep a secret or two.”
Challenger shrugged.
“I guess you’re right, it doesn’t matter that much now.
Iridium, a rare element, was stolen. If I had been able to complete my experiments, the Great War might have ended sooner.”
Summerlee closed his eyes. A wave of nausea washed over him. The facts.
He had relied on the facts. But the facts had been utterly incorrect because a lab assistant had fallen asleep at the wrong
time. What if? What if Challenger’s project hadn’t been chosen by him? How many lives might they have saved?
“Arthur, are you all right? You’ve gone white as a sheet.”
Challenger’s concerned voice drew him back to the reality of the
Plateau.
“I’m all right, George. I was just thinking about the Great
War. So many men died…”
“Yes, too many.”
A breeze rustled the jungle canopy above them. The two men fell silent.
Memories burdened them.
“George, I—I have to tell you something.”
Challenger looked at the botanist, who had become the closest friend he
had ever had. There was a pain in his eyes that he had only seen once before, in those nights when Summerlee had nearly died
from the bee sting. He had talked about the death of his wife and his regrets about not being there for her in her last moments.
Had the conversation about the war reminded him of that?
“What is it?”
“During the Great War I was—”
The rattling of the elevator interrupted their conversation. Roxton, Malone,
Marguerite, and Veronica had returned. They were dirty, sweaty, and in dire need of a good meal and some refreshments. They
talked excitedly about a nomadic tribe they had encountered. Thanks to Marguerite’s language skills they had been able
to communicate with them and assure them that they meant no harm to them.
“They weren’t very friendly at first,” Malone told the
two older men.
“I had never heard about them before,” Veronica added, “but
they are very interesting. They’re healers. We traded a few items for some of their medicines.”
Challenger and Summerlee studied the contents of Veronica’s bag with
great interest.
Marguerite turned to Summerlee. “Arthur, what did you cook for dinner
tonight? I’m starving! I’ve only eaten dried raptor meat today. I deserve a good meal.”
“We got a few chickens from the Zanga and I made chicken soup. There
is enough left for all of you. I also baked fresh bread.”
“You truly are the most important expedition member, Arthur,”
Marguerite praised him only half-jokingly.
They all sat down at the dinner table, eating and talking about the events
that had occurred.
Challenger remembered only the next day that Summerlee had been about to
tell him something when they were interrupted by the arrival of the others.
He looked for the old botanist and finally found him at the base of the
treehouse, studying a few of the plant samples that Veronica had brought with her from the trading trip.
“Ah, there you are, I was looking for you. Arthur, you wanted to
tell me something last night. Something about the Great War, I believe. What was it?”
Summerlee turned to his friend. He had spent a sleepless night, wondering
whether confiding in Challenger and telling him that he was responsible for the sabotage of his war project was the right
decision. His first instinct had been to tell him, be truthful and let him know that he had made a mistake. But then he had
begun to wonder. How would Challenger react? Would it poison the atmosphere in the Treehouse? They lived on top of each other;
a rift between the two men would affect all of them. What would it change if Challenger knew the truth? It would open old
wounds and cause unnecessary pain. No, he couldn’t tell him. Not here. Not now.
“You know, George, I don’t remember. Can’t have been
too important then, right?” His little chuckle sounded insincere to his own ears, but Challenger didn’t seem to
be suspicious.
“Probably not. Well, I’ll be up in the lab. I want to analyze
the medicines that the others brought from the tribe. And then I want to put the final touches on the balloon material. Care
to join me?”
“Absolutely. If things progress as well as they have the past few
weeks, we will soon have a functioning balloon again. And then we can fly back to London.”
And there I will tell him the truth, Summerlee thought.
He followed his friend into the elevator.
