h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

< Hello? >

With surprising simplicity Arthur, X and the mysterious blonde woman went down the hole.

*ignore the name-change, I'm posting from my girlfriend's computer and can't be bothered to logout and login again*

I left a warning I'd be away for a couple of days - had to go home for the dentists, go down to london to join in the anti-bush protests and now I'm here. :D

I'll resume regular posting next week, meanwhile yeah try and keep time and space in their folded and upright positions...we screwed with the universe last time try and keep it all in order for once

Clive.

Sreka let out some noise between a laugh and a bark.
"Oh yes. Veery impressive. In my time, Herr von Trapp, I have infiltrated many places. I have penetrated the defences of ICBM silos, palaces, museums, fortresses, oil rigs, fortified trains, archives, mansions and military bases - y'know, those ones where you have to sneak around and break the guards' necks... I have personally broken into the White House twice, on the second occasion leaving a horses' head and a short note. Now what makes you think, aha, that I should condescend to *robbing a bank*? Sakry Kolyma, I thought I was being employed by people of caliber..."

von Trapp scratched his lower lip, and said quietly:
"Our target is the Turquoise Moon."
Vanderveer made a little squeaky noise which didn't sit well with his villainous persona.

"What did he say?" hissed X. "A turquoise...?"
Then he stopped because Arthur had his lips in a pincer grip.
The two Agents (and their eternally mysterious blonde companion) huddled close around the ceiling grille.

The Russian was unimpressed.
"It sounds like some kind of herbal tea. What...?"
"I see by your superior's reaction that he has heard of it. Perhaps I could enlighten you with this, the..."
von Trapp was rooting around in the briefcase again.
"...the last reference we have been able to find to the Moon's location, over one hundred years ago. It only came into our possession last week...aha..."
Sreka took the yellowing manuscript and squinted.
"'From the personal effects of Dr John Watson, M.D.' What is this tripe, Herr von Trapp? I am a practical man..."

>The Adventure of the Turquoise Moon

On consulting my notes for the baking summer of 1890 I find one case which, in respect of the queer nature of its particulars, may be of interest to the public. It happened that one evening I was in the sitting-room of my friend Sherlock Holmes at 221b Baker Street. Holmes, as was his custom on summer evenings, was methodically going through the newspaper, no doubt sifting it for pertinent information with his great computational brain, as a prelude to his nine o' clock injection of that demon-drug which I had tried so fruitlessly to wean him from.

The racket of a cab pulling to outside announced the arrival of a visitor, and Holmes looked up with half-lidded eyes.

"In this weather, Watson, all active diversions are welcome. And what diversion could be more worthwhile than the assistance of some wronged party? Ah, from our man's step you may of course infer that he is of late middle-age, of military background, officer class; that he wears black leather shoes, favours a monocle, has travelled far to reach us here, has at some point in his life visited Bruges, has a tidily-trimmed moustache, invests largely in cotton and pork-bellies, keeps a substantial staff of servants, one of whom is called 'Douglas', and, most obviously, that he is coming to our door."

As a rule, I tried to follow my friend's deductive reasoning. But in the dead heat my Afghan wound was troubling me, so that, I must confess, I merely nodded, fanned my head with the War supplement and evinced no surprise when a figure matching Holmes' description in every instance entered our rooms. It was the renowned member of the House of Lords, Lord B___.

"Mr Holmes!" he bellowed. "I am a desperate man! It has been stolen - the Turquoise Moon has been stolen!"

I may at this point have made some interrogatory noises, for Holmes turned to me with that didactic air he was apt to take on matters of insignificance.

"The Turquoise Moon is a large, multi-faceted, flawless diamond, my dear Watson, a perfect sphere, of incalculable value, which is, I understand, the chief heirloom of the B___ fortune. Which is more, it is said to be more cursed than the sum total of the other cursed diamonds in the entire world, more unlucky to its owners than a thousand Koh-i-Noors. It has, according to legend, left a trail of crime, murder, betrayal and madness behind it from its shadowy origins among the tribes of Darkest Africa through Palestine, Asia, the Indian sub-continent and now, it seems, the heart of civilised England. Any details you could furnish us with would be appreciated, Lord B___."

Holmes leaned forward, his face aglow with that energy I marked in him upon the commencement of any case which promised to test his deductive skills.

The details of the theft were such as to excite even the most jaded imagination, and I found myself sitting up to hear more clearly. Lord B___'s seat was the grand old house of Cholmondley-Warner in Surrey, and the Turquoise Moon, as befitted its immense value and reputation, was kept in a triple-locked trunk amidst the heraldic decorations of Lord B___'s study. The trouble seems to have begun with the visit of a certain strange party to the house, enquiring after the diamond.

"A rum little lizard of a man," said the peer. "He had rather odd grey eyes, and a little bobbing head, and he told me he represented a firm - a firm! I say, as in Trade! - that could give a reasonable sum for the Turquoise Moon. As any self-respecting Christian would have done, I set the hounds upon him. That pleased him less than fully, I may tell you!"

The following morning, the case was found by Lady B___ broken open, seemingly by brute strength, and empty. Several suggestive details emerged upon Holmes' close questioning. The carpet around the trunk had been scuffed and muddied, as by several feet. One of the panels of the French windows were found to be broken - this seemed the point of ingress. A black handkerchief lay nearby on the floor. Lord B___'s gamekeeper swore that he could detect a lingering odour of cloves.

Holmes sat back at the end of this interrogation with that satisfied air which, in my experience, presaged a revelation.

"The case is quite simple, my Lord. I need not even leave the comforts of London to point out the culprit. Tell me what the details suggest to you - the crude entry, the dirty floor, the praeter-human animal strength, the black bandana, the smell of spices..."
"Gypsies!" I cried.
"Precisely!" said Holmes, his face flushed with excitement.
"Swarthy foreign devils!" growled Lord B___. "Yes, I have no doubt that we have several encampments near Cholmondley-Warner."
"I would advise you to consult them on the matter of your missing heirloom, my Lord," said Holmes, striking a match for his pipe.
The peer's face was as dark as night. "Consult them! Yes, ha. Your reputation is well deserved, Mr Holmes - you have the thanks of Her Majesty's government for your assistance in this matter. If you will excuse me, I have some 'consultation' to do..."
With that, he made his farewells and was on his way.

"Well Holmes," I cried, attempting to delay the inevitable 'fix' I knew him to be contemplating. "A very worthwhile evening's work, indeed. Your appetite for deduction is satisfied, and Lord B___ shall have his diamond back."
"On the contrary, Watson," he replied with a Sphinx-like smile. "The good Lord will never see the Turquoise Moon again."
My surprise may be imagined. "Why the d___l not?" I demanded.
"Why - because I have it here!"
With a flourish he drew a glittering orb from his dressing-gown sleeve and set it upon the coffee-table.

"Let me anticipate your objections, stout Watson," he said, eyes bright with mischief. "Yes, it was I who, two nights ago, entered the study at Cholmondley-Warner, opened, through several scientific methods I am not inclined to delve into, the trunk, planted the clues and made off with the diamond. I often thought that I might have a flair for the criminal, you know."
"But in God's name, Holmes, why?" I pleaded. "Do you need money? Is it that d__n three per cent solution you insist on sticking in your arm? I could have given you money..."

He laughed loud and long. "Watson, did you not recognise in Lord B___'s lizard-like visitor my illustrious nemesis Professor Moriarty? For it was he, I tell you. Now," His manner became more sober.

"Moriarty, as well as being the Napoleon of crime here in England, is a representative here of a certain massive criminal enterprise which I have only been able to identify as the 'Cult'. A nefarious enterprise, to be sure, with its base somewhere in central Europe, it boasts many great names among its members including, I believe, the former German Chancellor Bismarck. It is this Cult which has earned the Turquoise Moon its cursed reputation, as they have pursued it across centuries and continents, killing and ruining the owners. Yet somehow it slips away from them, again and again...it is most curious."

I detected the onset of that headache which comes upon me when too much exposition is consigned to one paragraph. Holmes took a puff from his pipe and, his breath regained, continued with his strange declamation.

"I represent and advise, on a part-time basis, a certain Agency of the British government which involves itself in matters of this stripe. I was alerted by the head of this organisation - aptly named, as a matter of fact, as it is led by the formaldehyde-preserved cranium of the Duke of Wellington - that Moriarty was moving in on the diamond and, as it is our policy to foil them at every turn, I took steps to remove it from danger."

My bafflement was scarcely alleviated by Holmes' explanation, yet I nodded in comprehension in the hope that he might return to his newspaper. I was not so fortunate.

"And now the Turquoise Moon will go to a very reliable Swiss banking firm of my acquaintance, the family Pfennigstohler. I have often thought I should like to visit Switzerland, to see the singular mountains and waterfalls..."
He picked up the priceless gewgaw and held it up to the light. A reflective look came upon his poetic features.
"Why do they want it, eh Watson? What is so unique about it? I have been unable to deduce this, and it is infuriating. Well, well."
He returned the diamond to his pocket.
"To Switzerland it will go, there to remain until the end of the world."
Holmes turned to me with eyes again bright with anticipation.
"Now my good man, could you hand me my medical case?"

<

Sreka read the comments pencilled in the margins.
"Needs revision before publication. Too obtuse. Rather implausible. Sher was probably tripping that day. Take out cult rubbish, make diamond bigger, turn Lord B___ into a breathless, beautiful young bit-o'-fancy, add murder or two. J Watson MD."
The Russian handed the manuscript back to von Trapp, and knuckled his red eyes.

"So, basically it's a diamond."
von Trapp grimaced.
"Yes. Well. Basically."

< What's with the Lord B___, Mr. Cholmondley-Warner? >

<(In a high-toned voice) Thank you for asking, Mr HPB. (Dammit, I can't think of the other guys name!) Anyway. I've seen it in some of the stories. Guess it works so as to obscure the identity of Eminent Persons who wouldn't want to be associated with any kind of scandal, or that's how Conan Doyle presented it.

Eg. Prince C______ showed his manservant his manservant. >

< Oh that's very subtle!>

Tonnajobb began to strain with standing to attention for many minutes...

< I agree... >

<*Squints at Clive's essay title. Tongue emerges from edge of mouth in concentration. Reads it again. Frowns. Begins to read it a third time. Head explodes messily like an egg struck with a hammer*>

< 10,000? You should get the copy back and publish! >

Arthur asked the blonde woman her name.

"Anna", replied the beautiful woman, as she scratched her behind.

Arthur sat back of the svelte greenway of the golf-club turf.

'What does Von Trapp want with a diamond?' He thought.

A muffled scream and the unmistakable sound of a hammer being cocked into the chamber of a revolver, drew Arthur back from his deliberations.

"Dear Boy, you *are* getting sloppy. Old routine - move and the girl dies." Said Daltmooreby.

Arthur slowly raised his arms behind his head and interlinked the fingers. "Curse you Sean! Damn! X?"

"We caught him about 5 minutes ago...he was snooping around hole 17 and discovered our secret entrance. One of the lackeys knocked him out and too him downstairs...and now...stand up - slowly."

Arthur uncrossed his legs and unfurled.

Good. Now move - You to miss! He said yanking Anna's hair and, pressing the nuzzle of the gun into her back, shoved her forward roughly.

He marched Arthur to Hole 17, and asked him to collect the Number One Dunlop that was lying idley nearby.

"Don't show off!" Arthur chided.

"Just do it!" Daltmooreby snapped back.

Arthur bent down to pick up the ball but found he could not lift it, suddenly it gave a twist and a section of turf off toward to rough lifted out of the ground.

"Another lift?" and risking immanent death turned to face Daltmooreby

Dalotmooreby leveled the gun and lock eyes with arhtur down the sight of the barrel.

Daltmooreby blinked.

"Vandeveer....he is forgetful, you know...so he built himself a back-door."

"To his Secret Base?" asked Arthur looking unimpressed.

"I know. We've both been here before: sneaking in through the backdoor of the hideout of maniacs." he smiled at the memory and quickly resumed his studied frown. "If it was me, I certainly wouldn't have incuded such an obvious flaw and you are right to scorn. However I am not a megalomainiac, I am a very well paid traitor and you and your friend are in a lot of trouble so - " he guestured with the gun to the lift - "If you and would be so kind."

"Right." said Arthur and walked with dignified and sad air to the lift.

"Button's on your left." Daltmooreby indicated.

"What about the girl?"

"We'll follow you down."

Arthur stood still and tensed as the soil slid past transferring swiftly into steel and concrete, finally strip lights The office of Vandeveer.

Arhtur stepped out.

"Vell look who it is." gloated Von Trapp.

"Lets just get this over with." said Arthur momentarily allowing his frustration at having been out-manouvered so easiy, get the better of him.

Von Trapps eyes squinted in the harsh glare of the flourescant tubes.
and his demeanour dropped from an insincere welcome to abject loathing.

"Lets. Andre - put him in the cell with the Others."

"What about Sfret? What if they talk?" asked Sreka leaning in.

"Well then see that they don't!"

That was as much insentive as Sreka needed he reached over and grabbed Arthur by the collar jerking him forward and off balence. Andre for his frame moved fast and Arthur was dragged along a small corridor unable to gain purchase and with Andre's balled sweaty fist pressed into his face Arthur resorted to one of many last resorts, he grabbed hold of the Russian's trunk like wrist and took a health bite out of his knuckles.

Andre stopped and looked down at Arthur. He continued to lock eyes with him as some unspoken message passed between them, and with his other hand unlocked the door to the cell.
Then with immense strength, he lifted Arthur up and closer to him.

"That... hurt"

and he threw Arthur into the cell. Arthur head collided painfully with the stone and he was knocked unconscious and slid into a neat heap at the bottom.



.....




Arthur again opened his eyes to see X and someone he did't recognise staring down intently at him.

"..........oww." he managed weakly.

"See I told you he wasn't dead." said X cheerfully in the manner of one who has just won a bet.

The other figure, nodded sagely.

He was dressed in a grey cardigan, had thin dark hair that was becoming highlighted with flecks of grey and wore overly large spectacles.
"You were right...if we ever get out of this I'll owe you a drink."

Arthur was stil trying to arrange the jelly-like sensation of all of his muscles, in his head into an ability to get up and move.

When he discovered smoething quite disturbing.

"....X...I...I...can't feel my legs."

"Hmm?" said X looking back down at Arthur.

"I said...I can't feel my legs...Sreka...he."

"Oh no said X - that's just Anna we ran out of chairs."

Arthur propped himself up on his arms and looked down towards his ankles bleary-eyed and a bit unfocussed.

Anna was sat on his shins, arms folded, looking mad as hell.

"This is all YOUR fault!" she crescendoed.

"eh?" Arthur squeeaked.

'Urgh, men!' Anna whipped her head around to face away from Arthur. Her blonde highlights cracking across the spy's face.

A rumbling noise began from above. The four captives looked around nervously.

A small golf ball rolled out a tiny hole in the wall, passed between the prisoners' legs and disappeared into a similar hole opposite.

Light celebration occured followed by a muffled broken voice:

'Told you I'd get a hole in one Diedre!' it said.