Sir Arthur commenced his story.
"It was amazing," Sir Arthur said. "Absolutely amazing. I saw the lights, and it was as if I were mesmerized. I felt drawn to them. I hurried through the woods. I saw the ring of illumination, just as Robert described it. Brighter than anything we can manufacture, I'd warrant-- never mind that it floated in the sky! I saw the coracle. A flying vehicle, turning slowly above me, and windows-- and faces! Faces peering down at me."
Holmes shifted and frowned, but said nothing.
"Then I saw a flash of light-- "
"We saw it, too," said I. "We feared you'd been injured."
"Far from it!" Conan Doyle said. "Uplifted, rather! Enlightened! I swooned with the shock, and when I awoke-- I was inside the coracle!"
"How did you know where you were?" Holmes demanded. "Could you see out the windows? Were you high above the ground?"
"I was in a round room, the size of the coracle, and I could feel the wafting of the winds-- "
It occurred to me that the previous night had been nearly windless. But perhaps the flying coracle had risen higher and the wind aloft had freshened.
"What of the portholes?" Holmes asked.
"There were no portholes," Sir Arthur said, still speaking in a dreamy voice. "The walls were smooth black, like satin. The portholes had closed over, without leaving a trace!"
"Sir Arthur-- " Holmes protested.
"Hush, Mr. Holmes, please," Lady Conan Doyle said, leaning forward, her face alight with concentration. "Let my husband finish his story."
"I was not at all frightened, strangely content, and immobile," Sir Arthur said. "Then... the people came in and spoke to me. They looked like-- like nothing on this Earth! They were very pale, and their eyes were huge and bright, shining with otherworldly intelligence. They told me-- they told me, without speaking, they spoke in my mind, without moving their lips!"
"Ah," Holmes murmured, "so at least they had lips."
"Shh!" Lady Conan Doyle said, dispensing with courtesy.
"What did they tell you, Sir Arthur?" I asked.
"They wished to examine me, to determine if their people and ours are compatible, to determine if we can live together in peace."
"Live together!" I ejaculated.
"Yes. They did examine me-- I cannot describe the process in polite company, except to say that it was... quite thorough. Strangely enough, I felt no fear, and very little discomfort, even when they used the needles."
"Ah, yes," Holmes murmured. "The needles."
"Who were these people?" I asked, amazed. "Where are they from?"
"They are," Sir Arthur said softly, "from Mars."
I felt dazed, not only because of my exhaustion. Lady Conan Doyle made a sound of wonder, and Holmes-- Holmes growled low in his throat.
"From Mars?" he said dryly. "Not from the spirit realm?"
Sir Arthur drew himself up, bristling at the implied insult.
"I'll not have it said I cannot admit I was wrong! The new evidence is overwhelming!"
Before Holmes could reply, Sir Arthur's butler appeared in the doorway.
"Sir Arthur," he said.
"Tell Robert," Holmes said without explanation, "that we have no need to examine any new field theorems. Tell him he may notify the constabulary, the journalists, and the king if he wishes."
The butler hesitated.
"And tell him," Holmes added, "that he may charge what he likes to guide them."
The butler bowed and disappeared.
"They'll trample the theorem!" Sir Arthur objected, rising from his chair. "We won't know-- "
"But you already know, Sir Arthur," Holmes said. "The creators of the field theorem have spoken to you."
Sir Arthur relaxed. "That is true," he said. He smiled. "To think that I've been singled out this way-- to introduce them to the world!" He leaned forward, spreading his hands in entreaty. "They're nothing like the Martians of Mr. Wells," he said. "Not evil, not invaders. They wish only to be our friends. There's no need for panic."
"We're hardly in danger of panic," Holmes said. "I have done as you asked. I have solved your mystery." He nodded to me. "Thanks to my friend Dr. Watson."
"There is no mystery, Mr. Holmes," Sir Arthur said.
Holmes drew from his pocket the wooden stake, the metal spring, and the scrap of black silk. He placed them on the table before us. Dust drifted from the silk, emitting a burned, metallic scent and marring the polished table with a film of gray.
"You are correct. There is, indeed, no mystery." He picked up the stake, and I noticed that a few green stalks remained wrapped tightly around it. "I found this in the center of the new field theorem, the one that so conveniently appeared after I expressed a desire to see a fresh one. Unfortunately, its creators were unduly hurried, and could not work with their usual care. They left the center marker, to which they tied a rope, to use as a compass to form their circles."
Holmes moved his long forefinger around the stake, showing how a loop of rope had scuffed the corners of the wood, how the circular motion had pulled crop stalks into a tight coil.
"But that isn't what happened," Sir Arthur said. "The Martians explained all. They were trying to communicate with me, but the theorems are beyond our mental reach. So they risked everything to speak to me directly."
Holmes picked up the spring.
"Metal expands when it heats," he said. "This was cunningly placed so its expansion disarranged a connection in your motor. Whenever the temperature rose, the motor would stop. Naturally, you drove rapidly when you went to investigate each new field theorem. Of course your motorcar would overheat--and, consequently, misbehave-- under those circumstances."
"The Martians disrupted the electrical flux of my motorcar-- it's an inevitable result of the energy field that supports their coracle. It can fly through space, Mr. Holmes, from Mars to Earth and back again!"
Holmes sighed, and picked up the bit of black silk.
"This is all that is left of the flying coracle," he said. "The hot-air balloon, rather. Candles at its base heated the air, kept the balloon aloft, and produced the lights."
"The lights were too bright for candles, Mr. Holmes," Sir Arthur said.
Holmes continued undaunted. "Add to the balloon a handful of flash powder." He shook the bit of black silk. Gray dust floated from it, and a faint scent of sulfur wafted into the air. "It ignites, you are dazzled. The silk ignites! The candles, the balloon, the straw framework-- all destroyed! Leaving nothing but dust... a dust of magnesium oxide." He stroked his fingertip through the gray powder.
"It did not burn me," Sir Arthur pointed out.
"It was not meant to burn you. It was meant to amaze you. Your abductors are neither malicious nor stupid." Holmes brushed the dust from his hands. "We were meant to imagine a craft that could fall from the sky, balance on its legs, and depart again, powered on flame, like a Chinese rocket! But it left the tracks of four legs, awkwardly spaced. I found this suspicious. Three legs, spaced regularly, would lead to more stability."
"Very inventive, Mr. Holmes, but you fail to explain how the Martians transported me to their coracle, how the portholes sealed without a trace, how they spoke to me in my mind."
"Sir Arthur," Holmes said, "are you familiar with the effects of cocaine?"
"In theory, of course," said Sir Arthur. "I'm a medical doctor, after all."
"Personally familiar," Holmes said.
"I've never had occasion to use it myself, nor to prescribe it," Sir Arthur said. "So, no, I am not personally familiar with the effects of cocaine."
"I am," Holmes said quietly. "And you show every sign of having recently succumbed to its influence. Your eyes are glassy. Your imagination is heightened-- "
"Are you saying," Sir Arthur said with disbelief, "that the Martians drugged me with cocaine?"