Robert J. Sawyer - You See But You Do Not Observe

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You See But You Do Not Observe

by Robert J. Sawyer

First published in the anthology Sherlock Holmes in Orbit, edited by Mike

Resnick and Martin H. Greenberg (DAW, 1995); authorized by Dame Jean Conan

Doyle.

Winner of both the CompuServe Science Fiction and Fantasy Forum's Sixth

Annual HOMer Award for Best Short Story of the Year and Le Grand Prix de

l'Imaginaire, France's top SF award, for Best Foreign Short Story of the

Year.

I had been pulled into the future first, ahead of my companion.

There was no sensation associated with the chronotransference, except for a

popping of my ears which I was later told had to do with a change in air

pressure. Once in the 21st century, my brain was scanned in order to produce

from my memories a perfect reconstruction of our rooms at 221B Baker Street.

Details that I could not consciously remember or articulate were nonetheless

reproduced exactly: the flock-papered walls, the bearskin hearthrug, the basket

chair and the armchair, the coal-scuttle, even the view through the window --

all were correct to the smallest detail.

I was met in the future by a man who called himself Mycroft Holmes.

He claimed, however, to be no relation to my companion, and protested that his

name was mere coincidence, although he allowed that the fact of it was likely

what had made a study of my partner's methods his chief avocation. I asked him

if he had a brother called Sherlock, but his reply made little sense to me: "My

parents weren't that cruel."

In any event, this Mycroft Holmes -- who was a small man with

reddish hair, quite unlike the stout and dark ale of a fellow with the same name

I had known two hundred years before -- wanted all details to be correct before

he whisked Holmes here from the past. Genius, he said, was but a step from

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madness, and although I had taken to the future well, my companion might be

quite rocked by the experience.

When Mycroft did bring Holmes forth, he did so with great stealth,

transferring him precisely as he stepped through the front exterior door of the

real 221 Baker Street and into the simulation that had been created here. I

heard my good friend's voice down the stairs, giving his usual glad tidings to a

simulation of Mrs. Hudson. His long legs, as they always did, brought him up to

our humble quarters at a rapid pace.

I had expected a hearty greeting, consisting perhaps of an ebullient

cry of "My Dear Watson," and possibly even a firm clasping of hands or some

other display of bonhomie. But there was none of that, of course. This was not

like the time Holmes had returned after an absence of three years during which I

had believed him to be dead. No, my companion, whose exploits it has been my

honor to chronicle over the years, was unaware of just how long we had been

separated, and so my reward for my vigil was nothing more than a distracted

nodding of his drawn-out face. He took a seat and settled in with the evening

paper, but after a few moments, he slapped the newsprint sheets down. "Confound

it, Watson! I have already read this edition. Have we not today's paper?"

And, at that turn, there was nothing for it but for me to adopt the

unfamiliar role that queer fate had dictated I must now take: our traditional

positions were now reversed, and I would have to explain the truth to Holmes.

"Holmes, my good fellow, I am afraid they do not publish newspapers

anymore."

He pinched his long face into a scowl, and his clear, gray eyes

glimmered. "I would have thought that any man who had spent as much time in

Afghanistan as you had, Watson, would be immune to the ravages of the sun. I

grant that today was unbearably hot, but surely your brain should not have

addled so easily."

"Not a bit of it, Holmes, I assure you," said I. "What I say is

true, although I confess my reaction was the same as yours when I was first

told. There have not been any newspapers for seventy-five years now."

"Seventy-five years? Watson, this copy of The Times is dated August

the fourteenth, 1899 -- yesterday."

"I am afraid that is not true, Holmes. Today is June the fifth, anno

Domini two thousand and ninety-six."

"Two thou -- "

"It sounds preposterous, I know -- "

"It is preposterous, Watson. I call you `old man' now and again out

of affection, but you are in fact nowhere near two hundred and fifty years of

age."

"Perhaps I am not the best man to explain all this," I said.

"No," said a voice from the doorway. "Allow me."

Holmes surged to his feet. "And who are you?"

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