You See But You Do Not Observe
by Robert J. Sawyer
Copyright © 1995 by Robert J. Sawyer
All Rights Reserved

    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 
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?" 
            "My name is Mycroft Holmes." 
            "Impostor!" declared my companion. 
            "I assure you that that is not the case," said Mycroft. "I grant I'm 
not your brother, nor a habitué of the Diogenes Club, but I do share his name. I 
am a scientist -- and I have used certain scientific principles to pluck you 
from your past and bring you into my present." 
            For the first time in all the years I had known him, I saw 
befuddlement on my companion's face. "It is quite true," I said to him. 
            "But why?" said Holmes, spreading his long arms. "Assuming this mad 
fantasy is true -- and I do not grant for an instant that it is -- why would you 
thus kidnap myself and my good friend, Dr. Watson?" 
            "Because, Holmes, the game, as you used to be so fond of saying, is 
afoot." 
            "Murder, is it?" asked I, grateful at last to get to the reason for 
which we had been brought forward. 
            "More than simple murder," said Mycroft. "Much more. Indeed, the 
biggest puzzle to have ever faced the human race. Not just one body is missing. 
Trillions are. Trillions." 
            "Watson," said Holmes, "surely you recognize the signs of madness in 
the man? Have you nothing in your bag that can help him? The whole population of 
the Earth is less than two thousand millions." 
            "In your time, yes," said Mycroft. "Today, it's about eight thousand 
million. But I say again, there are trillions more who are missing." 
            "Ah, I perceive at last," said Holmes, a twinkle in his eye as he 
came to believe that reason was once again holding sway. "I have read in The 
Illustrated London News of these dinosauria, as Professor Owen called them -- 
great creatures from the past, all now deceased. It is their demise you wish me 
to unravel." 
            Mycroft shook his head. "You should have read Professor Moriarty's 
monograph called The Dynamics of an Asteroid," he said. 
            "I keep my mind clear of useless knowledge," replied Holmes curtly. 
            Mycroft shrugged. "Well, in that paper Moriarty quite cleverly 
guessed the cause of the demise of the dinosaurs: an asteroid crashing into 
earth kicked up enough dust to block the sun for months on end. Close to a 
century after he had reasoned out this hypothesis, solid evidence for its truth 
was found in a layer of clay. No, that mystery is long since solved. This one is 
much greater." 
            "And what, pray, is it?" said Holmes, irritation in his voice. 
            Mycroft motioned for Holmes to have a seat, and, after a moment's 
defiance, my friend did just that. "It is called the Fermi paradox," said 
Mycroft, "after Enrico Fermi, an Italian physicist who lived in the twentieth 
century. You see, we know now that this universe of ours should have given rise 
to countless planets, and that many of those planets should have produced 
intelligent civilizations. We can demonstrate the likelihood of this 
mathematically, using something called the Drake equation. For a century and a 
half now, we have been using radio -- wireless, that is -- to look for signs of 
these other intelligences. And we have found nothing -- nothing! Hence the 
paradox Fermi posed: if the universe is supposed to be full of life, then where 
are the aliens?" 
            "Aliens?" said I. "Surely they are mostly still in their respective 
foreign countries." 
            Mycroft smiled. "The word has gathered additional uses since your 
day, good doctor. By aliens, I mean extraterrestrials -- creatures who live on 
other worlds." 
            "Like in the stories of Verne and Wells?" asked I, quite sure that 
my expression was agog. 
            "And even in worlds beyond the family of our sun," said Mycroft. 
            Holmes rose to his feet. "I know nothing of universes and other 
worlds," he said angrily. "Such knowledge could be of no practical use in my 
profession." 
            I nodded. "When I first met Holmes, he had no idea that the Earth 
revolved around the sun." I treated myself to a slight chuckle. "He thought the 
reverse to be true." 
            Mycroft smiled. "I know of your current limitations, Sherlock." My 
friend cringed slightly at the overly familiar address. "But these are mere gaps 
in knowledge; we can rectify that easily enough." 
            "I will not crowd my brain with useless irrelevancies," said Holmes. 
"I carry only information that can be of help in my work. For instance, I can 
identify one hundred and forty different varieties of tobacco ash -- " 
            "Ah, well, you can let that information go, Holmes," said Mycroft. 
"No one smokes anymore. It's been proven ruinous to one's health." I shot a look 
at Holmes, whom I had always warned of being a self-poisoner. "Besides, we've 
also learned much about the structure of the brain in the intervening years. 
Your fear that memorizing information related to fields such as literature, 
astronomy, and philosophy would force out other, more relevant data, is 
unfounded. The capacity for the human brain to store and retrieve information is 
almost infinite." 
            "It is?" said Holmes, clearly shocked. 
            "It is." 
            "And so you wish me to immerse myself in physics and astronomy and 
such all?" 
            "Yes," said Mycroft. 
            "To solve this paradox of Fermi?" 
            "Precisely!" 
            "But why me?" 
            "Because it is a puzzle, and you, my good fellow, are the greatest 
solver of puzzles this world has ever seen. It is now two hundred years after 
your time, and no one with a facility to rival yours has yet appeared." 
            Mycroft probably could not see it, but the tiny hint of pride on my 
longtime companion's face was plain to me. But then Holmes frowned. "It would 
take years to amass the knowledge I would need to address this problem." 
            "No, it will not." Mycroft waved his hand, and amidst the homely 
untidiness of Holmes's desk appeared a small sheet of glass standing vertically. 
Next to it lay a strange metal bowl. "We have made great strides in the 
technology of learning since your day. We can directly program new information 
into your brain." Mycroft walked over to the desk. "This glass panel is what we 
call a monitor. It is activated by the sound of your voice. Simply ask it 
questions, and it will display information on any topic you wish. If you find a 
topic that you think will be useful in your studies, simply place this helmet on 
your head" (he indicated the metal bowl), "say the say the words 'load topic,' 
and the information will be seamlessly integrated into the neural nets of your 
very own brain. It will at once seem as if you know, and have always known, all 
the details of that field of endeavor." 
            "Incredible!" said Holmes. "And from there?" 
            "From there, my dear Holmes, I hope that your powers of deduction 
will lead you to resolve the paradox -- and reveal at last what has happened to 
the aliens!" 

            "Watson! Watson!" 
            I awoke with a start. Holmes had found this new ability to 
effortlessly absorb information irresistible and he had pressed on long into the 
night, but I had evidently fallen asleep in a chair. I perceived that Holmes had 
at last found a substitute for the sleeping fiend of his cocaine mania: with all 
of creation at his fingertips, he would never again feel that emptiness that so 
destroyed him between assignments. 
            "Eh?" I said. My throat was dry. I had evidently been sleeping with 
my mouth open. "What is it?" 
            "Watson, this physics is more fascinating than I had ever imagined. 
Listen to this, and see if you do not find it as compelling as any of the cases 
we have faced to date." 
            I rose from my chair and poured myself a little sherry -- it was, 
after all, still night and not yet morning. "I am listening." 
            "Remember the locked and sealed room that figured so significantly 
in that terrible case of the Giant Rat of Sumatra?" 
            "How could I forget?" said I, a shiver traversing my spine. "If not 
for your keen shooting, my left leg would have ended up as gamy as my right." 
            "Quite," said Holmes. "Well, consider a different type of 
locked-room mystery, this one devised by an Austrian physicist named Erwin 
Schrödinger. Image a cat sealed in a box. The box is of such opaque material, 
and its walls are so well insulated, and the seal is so profound, that there is 
no way anyone can observe the cat once the box is closed." 
            "Hardly seems cricket," I said, "locking a poor cat in a box." 
            "Watson, your delicate sensibilities are laudable, but please, man, 
attend to my point. Imagine further that inside this box is a triggering device 
that has exactly a fifty-fifty chance of being set off, and that this 
aforementioned trigger is rigged up to a cylinder of poison gas. If the trigger 
is tripped, the gas is released, and the cat dies." 
            "Goodness!" said I. "How nefarious." 
            "Now, Watson, tell me this: without opening the box, can you say 
whether the cat is alive or dead?" 
            "Well, if I understand you correctly, it depends on whether the 
trigger was tripped." 
            "Precisely!" 
            "And so the cat is perhaps alive, and, yet again, perhaps it is 
dead." 
            "Ah, my friend, I knew you would not fail me: the blindingly obvious 
interpretation. But it is wrong, dear Watson, totally wrong." 
            "How do you mean?" 
            "I mean the cat is neither alive nor is it dead. It is a potential 
cat, an unresolved cat, a cat whose existence is nothing but a question of 
possibilities. It is neither alive nor dead, Watson -- neither! Until some 
intelligent person opens the box and looks, the cat is unresolved. Only the act 
of looking forces a resolution of the possibilities. Once you crack the seal and 
peer within, the potential cat collapses into an actual cat. Its reality is a 
result of having been observed." 
            "That is worse gibberish than anything this namesake of your brother 
has spouted." 
            "No, it is not," said Holmes. "It is the way the world works. They 
have learned so much since our time, Watson -- so very much! But as Alphonse 
Karr has observed, Plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose. Even in this 
esoteric field of advanced physics, it is the power of the qualified observer 
that is most important of all!" 

            I awoke again hearing Holmes crying out, "Mycroft! Mycroft!" 
            I had occasionally heard such shouts from him in the past, either 
when his iron constitution had failed him and he was feverish, or when under the 
influence of his accursed needle. But after a moment I realized he was not 
calling for his real brother but rather was shouting into the air to summon the 
Mycroft Holmes who was the 21st-century savant. Moments later, he was rewarded: 
the door to our rooms opened and in came the red-haired fellow. 
            "Hello, Sherlock," said Mycroft. "You wanted me?" 
            "Indeed I do," said Holmes. "I have absorbed much now on not just 
physics but also the technology by which you have recreated these rooms for me 
and the good Dr. Watson." 
            Mycroft nodded. "I've been keeping track of what you've been 
accessing. Surprising choices, I must say." 
            "So they might seem," said Holmes, "but my method is based on the 
pursuit of trifles. Tell me if I understand correctly that you reconstructed 
these rooms by scanning Watson's memories, then using, if I understand the 
terms, holography and micro-manipulated force fields to simulate the appearance 
and form of what he had seen." 
            "That's right." 
            "So your ability to reconstruct is not just limited to rebuilding 
these rooms of ours, but, rather, you could simulate anything either of us had 
ever seen." 
            "That's correct. In fact, I could even put you into a simulation of 
someone else's memories. Indeed, I thought perhaps you might like to see the 
Very Large Array of radio telescopes, where most of our listening for alien 
messages -- " 
            "Yes, yes, I'm sure that's fascinating," said Holmes, dismissively. 
"But can you reconstruct the venue of what Watson so appropriately dubbed 'The 
Final Problem'?" 
            "You mean the Falls of Reichenbach?" Mycroft looked shocked. "My 
God, yes, but I should think that's the last thing you'd want to relive." 
            "Aptly said!" declared Holmes. "Can you do it?" 
            "Of course." 
            "Then do so!" 

            And so Holmes and my brains were scanned and in short order we found 
ourselves inside a superlative recreation of the Switzerland of May, 1891, to 
which we had originally fled to escape Professor Moriarty's assassins. Our 
re-enactment of events began at the charming Englischer Hof in the village of 
Meiringen. Just as the original innkeeper had done all those years ago, the 
reconstruction of him exacted a promise from us that we would not miss the 
spectacle of the falls of Reichenbach. Holmes and I set out for the Falls, him 
walking with the aid of an Alpine stock. Mycroft, I was given to understand, was 
somehow observing all this from afar. 
            "I do not like this," I said to my companion. "'Twas bad enough to 
live through this horrible day once, but I had hoped I would never have to 
relive it again except in nightmares." 
            "Watson, recall that I have fonder memories of all this. Vanquishing 
Moriarty was the high point of my career. I said to you then, and say again now, 
that putting an end to the very Napoleon of crime would easily be worth the 
price of my own life." 
            There was a little dirt path cut out of the vegetation running 
halfway round the falls so as to afford a complete view of the spectacle. The 
icy green water, fed by the melting snows, flowed with phenomenal rapidity and 
violence, then plunged into a great, bottomless chasm of rock black as the 
darkest night. Spray shot up in vast gouts, and the shriek made by the plunging 
water was almost like a human cry. 
            We stood for a moment looking down at the waterfall, Holmes's face 
in its most contemplative repose. He then pointed further ahead along the dirt 
path. "Note, dear Watson," he said, shouting to be heard above the torrent, 
"that the dirt path comes to an end against a rock wall there." I nodded. He 
turned in the other direction. "And see that backtracking out the way we came is 
the only way to leave alive: there is but one exit, and it is coincident with 
the single entrance." 
            Again I nodded. But, just as had happened the first time we had been 
at this fateful spot, a Swiss boy came running along the path, carrying in his 
hand a letter addressed to me which bore the mark of the Englischer Hof. I knew 
what the note said, of course: that an Englishwoman, staying at that inn, had 
been overtaken by a hemorrhage. She had but a few hours to live, but doubtless 
would take great comfort in being ministered to by an English doctor, and would 
I come at once? 
            "But the note is a pretext," said I, turning to Holmes. "Granted, I 
was fooled originally by it, but, as you later admitted in that letter you left 
for me, you had suspected all along that it was a sham on the part of Moriarty." 
Throughout this commentary, the Swiss boy stood frozen, immobile, as if somehow 
Mycroft, overseeing all this, had locked the boy in time so that Holmes and I 
might consult. "I will not leave you again, Holmes, to plunge to your death." 
            Holmes raised a hand. "Watson, as always, your sentiments are 
laudable, but recall that this is a mere simulation. You will be of material 
assistance to me if you do exactly as you did before. There is no need, though, 
for you to undertake the entire arduous hike to the Englischer Hof and back. 
Instead, simply head back to the point at which you pass the figure in black, 
wait an additional quarter of an hour, then return to here." 
            "Thank you for simplifying it," said I. "I am eight years older than 
I was then; a three-hour round trip would take a goodly bit out of me today." 
            "Indeed," said Holmes. "All of us may have outlived our most useful 
days. Now, please, do as I ask." 
            "I will, of course," said I, "but I freely confess that I do not 
understand what this is all about. You were engaged by this twenty-first-century 
Mycroft to explore a problem in natural philosophy -- the missing aliens. Why 
are we even here?" 
            "We are here," said Holmes, "because I have solved that problem! 
Trust me, Watson. Trust me, and play out the scenario again of that portentous 
day of May 4th, 1891." 

            And so I left my companion, not knowing what he had in mind. As I 
made my way back to the Englischer Hof, I passed a man going hurriedly the other 
way. The first time I had lived through these terrible events I did not know 
him, but this time I recognized him for Professor Moriarty: tall, clad all in 
black, his forehead bulging out, his lean form outlined sharply against the 
green backdrop of the vegetation. I let the simulation pass, waited fifteen 
minutes as Holmes had asked, then returned to the falls. 
            Upon my arrival, I saw Holmes's Alpine stock leaning against a rock. 
The black soil of the path to the torrent was constantly re-moistened by the 
spray from the roiling falls. In the soil I could see two sets of footprints 
leading down the path to the cascade, and none returning. It was precisely the 
same terrible sight that greeted me all those years ago. 
            "Welcome back, Watson!" 
            I wheeled around. Holmes stood leaning against a tree, grinning 
widely. 
            "Holmes!" I exclaimed. "How did you manage to get away from the 
falls without leaving footprints?" 
            "Recall, my dear Watson, that except for the flesh-and-blood you and 
me, all this is but a simulation. I simply asked Mycroft to prevent my feet from 
leaving tracks." He demonstrated this by walking back and forth. No impression 
was left by his shoes, and no vegetation was trampled down by his passage. "And, 
of course, I asked him to freeze Moriarty, as earlier he had frozen the Swiss 
lad, before he and I could become locked in mortal combat." 
            "Fascinating," said I. 
            "Indeed. Now, consider the spectacle before you. What do you see?" 
            "Just what I saw that horrid day on which I had thought you had 
died: two sets of tracks leading to the falls, and none returning." 
            Holmes's crow of "Precisely!" rivaled the roar of the falls. "One 
set of tracks you knew to be my own, and the others you took to be that of the 
black-clad Englishman -- the very Napoleon of crime!" 
            "Yes." 
            "Having seen these two sets approaching the falls, and none 
returning, you then rushed to the very brink of the falls and found -- what?" 
            "Signs of a struggle at the lip of the precipice leading to the 
great torrent itself." 
            "And what did you conclude from this?" 
            "That you and Moriarty had plunged to your deaths, locked in mortal 
combat." 
            "Exactly so, Watson! The very same conclusion I myself would have 
drawn based on those observations!" 
            "Thankfully, though, I turned out to be incorrect." 
            "Did you, now?" 
            "Why, yes. Your presence here attests to that." 
            "Perhaps," said Holmes. "But I think otherwise. Consider, Watson! 
You were on the scene, you saw what happened, and for three years -- three 
years, man! -- you believed me to be dead. We had been friends and colleagues 
for a decade at that point. Would the Holmes you knew have let you mourn him for 
so long without getting word to you? Surely you must know that I trust you at 
least as much as I do my brother Mycroft, whom I later told you was the only one 
I had made had privy to the secret that I still lived." 
            "Well," I said, "since you bring it up, I was slightly hurt by that. 
But you explained your reasons to me when you returned." 
            "It is a comfort to me, Watson, that your ill-feelings were 
assuaged. But I wonder, perchance, if it was more you than I who assuaged them." 

            "Eh?" 
            "You had seen clear evidence of my death, and had faithfully if 
floridly recorded the same in the chronicle you so appropriately dubbed 'The 
Final Problem.'" 
            "Yes, indeed. Those were the hardest words I had ever written." 
            "And what was the reaction of your readers once this account was 
published in the Strand?" 
            I shook my head, recalling. "It was completely unexpected," said I. 
"I had anticipated a few polite notes from strangers mourning your passing, 
since the stories of your exploits had been so warmly received in the past. But 
what I got instead was mostly anger and outrage -- people demanding to hear 
further adventures of yours." 
            "Which of course you believed to be impossible, seeing as how I was 
dead." 
            "Exactly. The whole thing left a rather bad taste, I must say. 
Seemed very peculiar behavior." 
            "But doubtless it died down quickly," said Holmes. 
            "You know full well it did not. I have told you before that the 
onslaught of letters, as well as personal exhortations wherever I would travel, 
continued unabated for years. In fact, I was virtually at the point of going 
back and writing up one of your lesser cases I had previously ignored as being 
of no general interest simply to get the demands to cease, when, much to my 
surprise and delight -- " 
            "Much to your surprise and delight, after an absence of three years 
less a month, I turned up in your consulting rooms, disguised, if I recall 
correctly, as a shabby book collector. And soon you had fresh adventures to 
chronicle, beginning with that case of the infamous Colonel Sebastian Moran and 
his victim, the Honorable Ronald Adair." 
            "Yes," said I. "Wondrous it was." 
            "But Watson, let us consider the facts surrounding my apparent death 
at the falls of Reichenbach on May 4th, 1891. You, the observer on the scene, 
saw the evidence, and, as you wrote in 'The Final Problem,' many experts scoured 
the lip of the falls and came to precisely the same conclusion you had -- that 
Moriarty and I had plunged to our deaths." 
            "But that conclusion turned out to be wrong." 
            Holmes beamed intently. "No, my Good Watson, it turned out to be 
unacceptable -- unacceptable to your faithful readers. And that is where all the 
problems stem from. Remember Schrödinger's cat in the sealed box? Moriarty and I 
at the falls present a very similar scenario: he and I went down the path into 
the cul-de-sac, our footprints leaving impressions in the soft earth. There were 
only two possible outcomes at that point: either I would exit alive, or I would 
not. There was no way out, except to take that same path back away from the 
falls. Until someone came and looked to see whether I had re-emerged from the 
path, the outcome was unresolved. I was both alive and dead -- a collection of 
possibilities. But when you arrived, those possibilities had to collapse into a 
single reality. You saw that there were no footprints returning from the falls 
-- meaning that Moriarty and I had struggled until at last we had both plunged 
over the edge into the icy torrent. It was your act of seeing the results that 
forced the possibilities to be resolved. In a very real sense, my good, dear 
friend, you killed me." 
            My heart was pounding in my chest. "I tell you, Holmes, nothing 
would have made me more happy than to have seen you alive!" 
            "I do not doubt that, Watson -- but you had to see one thing or the 
other. You could not see both. And, having seen what you saw, you reported your 
findings: first to the Swiss police, and then to the reporter for the Journal de 
Geneve, and lastly in your full account in the pages of the Strand." 
            I nodded. 
            "But here is the part that was not considered by Schrödinger when he 
devised the thought experiment of the cat in the box. Suppose you open the box 
and find the cat dead, and later you tell your neighbor about the dead cat -- 
and your neighbor refuses to believe you when you say that the cat is dead. What 
happens if you go and look in the box a second time?" 
            "Well, the cat is surely still dead." 
            "Perhaps. But what if thousands -- nay, millions! -- refuse to 
believe the account of the original observer? What if they deny the evidence? 
What then, Watson?" 
            "I -- I do not know." 
            "Through the sheer stubbornness of their will, they reshape reality, 
Watson! Truth is replaced with fiction! They will the cat back to life. More 
than that, they attempt to believe that the cat never died in the first place!" 
            "And so?" 
            "And so the world, which should have one concrete reality, is 
rendered unresolved, uncertain, adrift. As the first observer on the scene at 
Reichenbach, your interpretation should take precedence. But the stubbornness of 
the human race is legendary, Watson, and through that sheer cussedness, that 
refusal to believe what they have been plainly told, the world gets plunged back 
into being a wavefront of unresolved possibilities. We exist in flux -- to this 
day, the whole world exists in flux -- because of the conflict between the 
observation you really made at Reichenbach, and the observation the world wishes 
you had made." 
            "But this is all too fantastic, Holmes!" 
            "Eliminate the impossible, Watson, and whatever remains, however 
improbable, must be the truth. Which brings me now to the question we were 
engaged by this avatar of Mycroft to solve: this paradox of Fermi. Where are the 
alien beings?" 
            "And you say you have solved that?" 
            "Indeed I have. Consider the method by which mankind has been 
searching for these aliens." 
            "By wireless, I gather -- trying to overhear their chatter on the 
ether." 
            "Precisely! And when did I return from the dead, Watson?" 
            "April of 1894." 
            "And when did that gifted Italian, Guglielmo Marconi, invent the 
wireless?" 
            "I have no idea." 
            "In eighteen hundred and ninety-five, my good Watson. The following 
year! In all the time that mankind has used radio, our entire world has been an 
unresolved quandary! An uncollapsed wavefront of possibilities!" 
            "Meaning?" 
            "Meaning the aliens are there, Watson -- it is not they who are 
missing, it is us! Our world is out of synch with the rest of the universe. 
Through our failure to accept the unpleasant truth, we have rendered ourselves 
potential rather than actual." 
            I had always thought my companion a man with a generous regard for 
his own stature, but surely this was too much. "You are suggesting, Holmes, that 
the current unresolved state of the world hinges on the fate of you yourself?" 
            "Indeed! Your readers would not allow me to fall to my death, even 
if it meant attaining the very thing I desired most, namely the elimination of 
Moriarty. In this mad world, the observer has lost control of his observations! 
If there is one thing my life stood for -- my life prior to that ridiculous 
resurrection of me you recounted in your chronicle of 'The Empty House' -- it 
was reason! Logic! A devotion to observable fact! But humanity has abjured that. 
This whole world is out of whack, Watson -- so out of whack that we are cut off 
from the civilizations that exist elsewhere. You tell me you were festooned with 
demands for my return, but if people had really understood me, understood what 
my life represented, they would have known that the only real tribute to me 
possible would have been to accept the facts! The only real answer would have 
been to leave me dead!" 

            Mycroft sent us back in time, but rather than returning us to 1899, 
whence he had plucked us, at Holmes's request he put us back eight years earlier 
in May of 1891. Of course, there were younger versions of ourselves already 
living then, but Mycroft swapped us for them, bringing the young ones to the 
future, where they could live out the rest of their lives in simulated scenarios 
taken from Holmes's and my minds. Granted, we were each eight years older than 
we had been when we had fled Moriarty the first time, but no one in Switzerland 
knew us and so the aging of our faces went unnoticed. 
            I found myself for a third time living that fateful day at the Falls 
of Reichenbach, but this time, like the first and unlike the second, it was 
real. 
            I saw the page boy coming, and my heart raced. I turned to Holmes, 
and said, "I can't possibly leave you." 
            "Yes, you can, Watson. And you will, for you have never failed to 
play the game. I am sure you will play it to the end." He paused for a moment, 
then said, perhaps just a wee bit sadly, "I can discover facts, Watson, but I 
cannot change them." And then, quite solemnly, he extended his hand. I clasped 
it firmly in both of mine. And then the boy, who was in Moriarty's employ, was 
upon us. I allowed myself to be duped, leaving Holmes alone at the Falls, 
fighting with all my might to keep from looking back as I hiked onward to treat 
the nonexistent patient at the Englischer Hof. On my way, I passed Moriarty 
going in the other direction. It was all I could do to keep from drawing my 
pistol and putting an end to the blackguard, but I knew Holmes would consider 
robbing him of his own chance at Moriarty an unforgivable betrayal. 
            It was an hour's hike down to the Englischer Hof. There I played out 
the scene in which I inquired about the ailing Englishwoman, and Steiler the 
Elder, the innkeeper, reacted, as I knew he must, with surprise. My performance 
was probably half-hearted, having played the role once before, but soon I was on 
my way back. The uphill hike took over two hours, and I confess plainly to being 
exhausted upon my arrival, although I could barely hear my own panting over the 
roar of the torrent. 
            Once again, I found two sets of footprints leading to the precipice, 
and none returning. I also found Holmes's alpine stock, and, just as I had the 
first time, a note from him to me that he had left with it. The note read just 
as the original had, explaining that he and Moriarty were about to have their 
final confrontation, but that Moriarty had allowed him to leave a few last words 
behind. But it ended with a postscript that had not been in the original: 
            My dear Watson [it said], you will honour my passing most of all if 
you stick fast to the powers of observation. No matter what the world wants, 
leave me dead. 
            I returned to London, and was able to briefly counterbalance my loss 
of Holmes by reliving the joy and sorrow of the last few months of my wife 
Mary's life, explaining my somewhat older face to her and others as the result 
of shock at the death of Holmes. The next year, right on schedule, Marconi did 
indeed invent the wireless. Exhortations for more Holmes adventures continued to 
pour in, but I ignored them all, although the lack of him in my life was so 
profound that I was sorely tempted to relent, recanting my observations made at 
Reichenbach. Nothing would have pleased me more than to hear again the voice of 
the best and wisest man I had ever known. 
            In late June of 1907, I read in The Times about the detection of 
intelligent wireless signals coming from the direction of the star Altair. On 
that day, the rest of the world celebrated, but I do confess I shed a tear and 
drank a special toast to my good friend, the late Mr. Sherlock Holmes.           

THE END

A brief essay about this story
Other short stories by Robert J. Sawyer

A profile of Rob from Tangent concentrating on his short-fiction career 
Back to the Robert J. Sawyer main page (www.sfwriter.com)