The wagon clattered against the dirt road, jostling him and his uneager cargo. John pulled the pieces of his ill-fit, English clothes tighter around him to stave off the mid-November chill that sapped at his strength as much as his failure… a failure he would have to explain to the General himself. John searched his soul for some words to tell his commander that he had been worthy of his charge, and of the rank granted him in the army John forsook. John knew the General chose him on Major Lee's recommendation. The major said he had faith in John's ability.

John scoffed. My ability had nothing to do with it. All was decided by this damnable coat!

Ragged clouds of vapor blew before him in the moonlight, and his nose ran in the cold air. All around the smells of fires and the odors of poor soldiers long-confined to the encampment assaulted his senses. He knew these men, their hardships, and their loves. He knew their friendship, too, until he deserted them.

Torches lit the night at the river's edge. "Here! The traitor is here!"

They found me again! Damn Middleton's men! They've spoiled it all!

John threw his coat and musket aside, and dove headlong into the water. Cold burned him from the length of his submerged body, and it was hard to keep afloat. The men in the longboat stroked hard against the swift current, and at the bow, a man held aloft a lantern, searching.

"Over here! For the love of the King, save me!"

Shot peppered the water around John as he reached the sailors. Strong hands pulled him into the boat as cannon from one of the galleys anchored there began to support them, firing at the Rebel force on the shore. A puggish fellow on the tiller growled at him. "Ye bring musket fire on us like rain. Why do ye bring us out into harm's way this night? Speak, damn ye!"

John swallowed his first answer. "I hear Sir Henry Clinton is in charge at New York. If your Captain will send me there, I shall prove to his lordship my desire to serve the King's army in the company of Loyalists such as myself."

"Sir?" John called quietly. It took great effort to keep calm. This night had been over a month in the making.

The fellow stood upright in the dark of the garden. "Who's there?"

"Sergeant Champe, sir," he whispered. "On the road. Sorry, sir. Didn't want to wake everyone."

The Renegade's stride was cautious across the wet grass but quick to the fence. Quietly, he asked, "What is the meaning of this late-night intrusion?"

John saluted. "Begging your pardon, sir, but as I was patrolling down the road, I saw your fence here has been tampered with, no doubt for criminal purposes."

"What? Where?"

"Here, sir." John bent low and knocked a paling from its mount with a touch. "And these others, too." He pulled six more pickets and laid them carefully in the grass. "I presume this would allow access to your garden, sir. And here, if you'll look close, there's something else."

John knelt. The Judas's face leaned in, only to see John's pistol before him and to hear the hammer cock. His visage filled with confusion, then his eyes locked with John's. John whispered, "You have no sword on you, so don't say a word, or you'll meet your life's end on this spot. You're to come with me. At the shore at the end of the road is a boat to take us to the other side of the river. Come through the fence, and walk in front of me as an officer should. Make no calls or attempts to escape or it will be the last thing you'll ever do. I have both my pistol and my sword, and none in this army would be my equal with either. Move yourself!"

Firelight flickered against the General's tent as John waited. When the General did come out, his countenance was dark as the night and John feared to look at it. The General's voice, however, was steady as a rock. "Sergeant Major, does he not live?"

John swallowed. "Your pardon, sir. He does not."

The General stepped to the wagon and lifted the blanket. He gazed coldly at the remains by torchlight, and said, "I made plain my intent that he be alive, did I not? Yet here he lies without his mortal essence."

John's heart was in his throat. "I failed you, sir. It was my weakness to the elements that was responsible. My cloak was cast aside to join the boats at Bergen and evade the pursuit of Lieutenant Middleton. After I had the traitor, I could not stand against the autumn cold without the overcoat the British gave me." His voice faltered. "When we came upon the encampment, the sentry did not call out, but instead fired upon the color of the coats. I took cover, but bound, the prisoner was dead at the first shot."

A long sigh escaped General Washington's lips, but then he turned to his aide. "Inform all commands that the renegade is no more. Then give the sentry who fired the fatal shot double rations for the week. His ball saved me from hanging a man I once called friend." The General turned back to John. "I thank you for your commitment to this nation. I shall make sure all know it was Sergeant Major John Champe that brought an end to the traitor." With that, Washington saluted John and returned to his quarters.

John stood in the dark beside the body for a long time, pondering. For this, I became a deserter and a spy. I stole upon him like a thief and he died in my charge.

Slowly, he took the horse's lead and began the march to the graveyard to bury Benedict Arnold… with John's own honor alongside.

In the real Revolutionary War, Sergeant Major John Champe's kidnapping attempt failed because Benedict Arnold moved out of the cottage the very day Champe was to spring his plot. General Arnold successfully commanded some British forces against American positions, survived the war, and moved to Britain. Champe, his outfit dispatched to another location, had to serve under British command for several months before he could escape and report back to General Washington, who had himself planned the plot to capture Arnold. Most details from The pictorial field-book of the revolution; or, Illustrations, by pen and pencil, of the history, biography, scenery, relics, and traditions of the war for independence. Lossing, Benson John, 1813-1891, pages 206-210.

—Historical perspective provided for reference fun only.

"Caesar is dead."

The rumour spread through Rome like fire.

"Caesar is dead."

Men discussed it in hushed tones, behind closed doors and only in the company of their closest and most trusted friends.

"Julius Caesar is dead! But how, who killed him, what happened?"

To that question, rumour had a thousand answers.

"He killed himself, ashamed of what he had become."

"Marcus Auriunus, head of his secret police, slipped a dagger between his ribs."

"He choked on a fish bone."

"The ghost of Brutus raised itself from its grave and visited him, killing him in the night."

"The gods themselves, angered at the dissolution of the Senate, cursed him with death."

None of these were perfectly right, though some were close. I should know. I'm the one who slipped the poison into his goblet, and killed him.

It took a long, long time to set up. But it was necessary. After that dark night on the Ides of March, when the Senate turned their daggers upon the person of Caesar, and Brutus alone stood up in Caesar's defense and lost his life in the effort, Caesar fell ino the twin traps of fear and paranoia. He had not seen the plot that the senate was hatching, even when it was there; now he saw a hundred plots that were not there, and feared for his life in every moment of every day.

Within a month, that which the Senate had feared had come to pass; Caesar was a dictator, and the members of the Senate condemned to death. And within a year, the Senate's worst nightmares had been surpassed. A force of secret police, invented by Caesar to seek out any evidence of plots, had insinuated itself throughout Rome. Brother was turned against brother, and cousin against cousin, for none knew who might betray them to Caesar's men; the mere mention of a name in the right ear was enough to have that man sent to the Circus, and of late it was said that the winners of the Games were quietly executed as well. Fear laid its cold, dreaded hand upon the very heart of Rome, and the gods cursed the city.

Hunger there was, and famine; yet Caesar ate well. Drought, yet Caesar had plenty to drink. And thus it was that our small group was formed. It was obvious that the curse laid upon the city was the result of the heresy of the Caesar; to end the curse, therefore, the heresy must be ended.

It took three months for one of our number - myself - to be hired in a menial position in Caesar's kitchens. Four years, and three subtle murders of previous chefs, for me to rise to the position of Caesar's personal chef. And six months before I was left unobserved for the few seconds that it took to slip the contents of a small vial into Caesar's wine.

I make no apologies. I did what I did for Rome. But, as I look up from the sands of the arena at the Dictator's balcony, and as I see there, enthroned, Marcus Auriunus of the secret police, I ask myself… was it worth it?

Caesar has fallen, but will Auriunus continue Caesar's heresy? Will Rome rise once again to the greatness it once possessed?

I hear the lion roar, and I know this; that I will not live to see the answer to my question.

London Daily Times - November 1, 1868
"Swinburne Lost At Sea"
by A. N. E. Moss, Correspondent

Last week London lost an exciting poetic voice at the premature age of 31 when poet Algernon Charles Swinburne drowned while swimming in his beloved Sea. Swinburne ravished the sensibilities and decorum of the Young Lads upon the publication of his volume Poems and Ballads. Many of his poems featured an affection for the Sea. However, the Sea is not to be trifled with, and when Swinburne met Nature in direct confrontation of Will, the old Mother grew scornful and dashed his hopes upon her rocks. In all fairness, there is a modicum of dignity in the manner of his demise, and so, Algernon will join the other leading poetic voices to have been silenced before his Time was Due.

Henri Rene Albert Guy de Maupassant folded the item forwarded to him by an acquaintance and sipped some of his foul black coffee.

"Merde. Swinburne and his Sea. It damned killed him. And I, and I, a weak man, was no match for the fate thrust upon me."

Henri had taken some leisure at a beach off the coast of Normandy, where he had chanced upon the gifted poet swimming. Unfortunately, a foul surge of water broke the poet's intended timing of breath, and he mistakenly breathed in a frightful portion of sea water. Henri swam out furiously to attempt to save the red haired muse, but it was not enough. He succeeded in dragging the lifeless body ashore, but no more. After some words with the authorities, he was allowed to leave and the press granted his desire to be left out of the news coverage.

A few years later, the Franco-Prussian war broke out, but Henri drew ill of disturbed humors, and was unable to serve. After some time recovering, he moved to Paris and found work as a clerk in the French Navy. One night he sat at his dining table in a foul mood.

"Something is wrong with me. Nature gave me too much talent to be content, but God gave me not the grace to ignore it," he muttered. To ease his mind, he went out upon the town.

Henri knew of, and knew with, the Ladies of Evening who offered solace for a night against the hard moonlight of France. His tastes ran to the Reubenesque - full figured, mature women, from whom he could symbolically fill the void of his soul without fear of taking the sustenance necessary for life. At the BoisVert House on Rue de la Machette, his favorite Lady was available. Her name was Boule de Suif, or "Butterball", and she did posses a dash of class above her station.

"The Contrast," he exclaimed, brightening a little, "Yes the Contrast! Of Station Fallen, yet mixed with the Grace that only God could bestow upon an Imperfect Fallen woman!" So excited was he, that he paid for two whole nights of service fee, yet only stayed for one. The following morning he set sail for the country which mixed hope upon the station fallen out of favor - America.

Henri became employed at the Ohio Penitentiary as a guard. He desired to study men who "were of Station Low, but possessed the buried spark of God". He eventually became friends with Prisoner 30664, a fellow by the name of Billy Porter.

"Billy, you are in here because you have reaped what you have sown, but you are too good for these walls! You must reform your ways!"

"Oh Henri, how can I do that? I cannot resist the lure of some good excitement!"

"You must! You must! Promise me you will contribute to society when you leave here!"

"Oh Henri, I promise, I promise!"

Billy Porter was true to his word. Adopting the pseudonym of Henri, he worked from within bands of criminal to effect important prison reforms. In the process, he saved many lives, and had no time to waste upon trifles such as words, when the souls of men were tossing in the waves of indecision between God and the Devil.

Henri's health suffered from eating the poor quality food of the institution, but he would not treat himself to anything better than his Penitent charges received. He died on October 25, 1908, with the Sea of Souls on his mind to the very last, 40 years after he first failed to save a soul from the Sea.

Captain Fitzroy sat at the rectory table, leaning back in his chair a little. "That was indeed a fine meal, pastor," he said, giving a nod to the preacher's wife.

"It sounds as if meals onboard ship are a little less extravagant," mused Josiah Wedgewood II.

"The meals on the open water may be less ample, but certainly more varied, especially those after rounding the tip of The Americas," the Captain told the others at table.

"Now if you men are going to be talking about all that ship stuff, perhaps you should take your tea in the parlor" said the pastor's wife, as though shooing the men from the table. "We women need to clear the table." She stood up, and began picking up plates and saucers, the other wives following suit.

"An excellent idea, Miranda," the pastor answered, giving his young bride a peck on the top of her head.

"I'll have Mary bring it in directly, Charles" she told him, smiling, as the men left the room.

The coals in the parlor's fireplace were a luminous red, and blazed up as the Man of the Cloth stoked the hearth.

"Are you enjoying married life then, Charles?" asked Mr. Wedgewood.

"I am very content," he answered, taking a seat in a wing-chair beside his brother-in-law and the Captain. "Since I graduated Seminary six years ago, life has been a steady climb for me. Each day I'm here, I grow more and more confused about the wanderlust of my early years."

"Really Charles? I never would have pictured you as an outdoorsman."

Josiah looked at the pastor with concern as he picked up a china teacup off the silver platter before them.

"Early on, when I was perhaps 16 or 17, I thought about seeing the world, just out of curiosity, much as you have been able to do Captain."

Captain FitzRoy rose and crossed the room to lean upon the mantle. He knew his friends were eager to hear more about his travels. "I did enjoy the Americas. One incident comes to mind which was a little humorous."

"Do go on," begged the pastor and his relative.

"Well now, it seems the Beagle had just docked in a bay at the southern tip of the Americas, when natives boarded the ship and stole a lifeboat, among other things." Captain FitzRoy chuckled to himself. "We were beside ourselves, trying to discover what to do to get back our belongings."

"I'm sure you didn't want to start a war over a lifeboat," piped in the pastor.

"Exactly right, my friend. So a plan was raised to take hostage four of the men responsible for the deed and bargain them back to their families, in exchange for the lifeboat and other sundries."

Josiah Wedgewood thought it over for a moment. "Definitely a good move."

"So we also thought. But when given the opportunity to choose between the men or the goods, the natives chose to keep the things they had stolen!"

"How absurd, Captain," laughed Charles. "Imagine choosing the goods over their own flesh and blood."

"We were surprised as well! After three days with them aboard our ship, we were wondering what to do with them, in the long run and all. I had even proposed we take them back with us to Great Britain, teach them the ways of God, and then bring them back to their families, as missionaries. It would have taken a second voyage, but it seemed we had no other options."

"I do like that, of course," echoed Pastor Charles. "They would have been excellent messengers of God to their heathen families. Is that what happened then?"

Captain Fitzroy laughed at the thought. "Of course not! You see me sitting here, don't you?"

All three friends were now laughing at the question. "Well what did happen?" asked Josiah, finally.

"We just pulled up anchor on the fourth morning and left the men on the beach. Ultimately, we were content to leave the lifeboat as a gift from her Majesty the Queen. We swore to warn other ships heading that direction about the thieving tactics of the natives however."

"I dare say, Captain. I dare say!"

The three men were silent a moment, gazing into the fading light of the fireplace. The pastor was the first to break the silence. "Will you be heading back to sea then – making a return to the Americas as it were?"

"I cannot picture that, Pastor Darwin. I fear I'm just as pleased to sit here fireside and drink tea from a china cup, as to be out there somewhere, thrown about upon the high seas."

"And I'm content to putter about my gardens as well," answered Charles Darwin, picking up a tea biscuit and dunking it into his cup.

Although Benjamin West, an American artist, is known to have been an early wearer of 'divided glasses' or bifocals in our world, possibly before 1800, surely he didn't use them before Mr. Benjamin Franklin, the credited inventor of such an useful discovery. Actually, some historical articles from Mr. George Whatley, am English philanthropist, and John Fenno, editor of The Gazette of the United States, well documented that Franklin surely invented bifocals… so, Benjamin West's claims were not accepted. But the facts which occurred in the early 1760s in North America (it could have been our own world or not… maybe a parallel dimension in a way) took World History in a completely new direction. And, in the end, Mr. West became well known as the "only" real inventor of them in the following years in that timeline…

Anyway, believe it or not, in 1762 things went this way…

One day, early in the morning, Mr. Franklin was in his lab, working on the new accomplishment of his, testing the wondrous properties of a new kind of spectacles he had invented. The first bifocals he had designed possessed the most convex lenses in the lower half of the frame and the least convex ones on the upper. To make them he had two separate lenses cut in half and combined together within the frame. As a result, the mounting of two half lenses into a single frame generated some complications, as such spectacles were too fragile as a matter of fact. So, in a way, this invention had to be perfected to make it really functional. Other than that, bifocals could cause at times slight headaches in some users… In an attempt to achieve something better, with the passing of time Mr. Franklin tried several shapes, sizes and new materials, too.

The present invention was a new sort of glasses with trifocal lenses. They were made in similar styles to bifocals but on the other hand there was an additional segment for intermediate vision above the reading section. He had put together many different substances to get the new segment and now he could say he was really satisfied about the way it functioned.

Anyway, even if he hadn't yet found it out, in an unpredictable way, the upper part of the new lenses took a very amusing and incredible kind of shape and it was given a very peculiar feature which made that unique and unbelievable! The new glasses gave really a good vision, of course, but there was some unwelcome haze sideways he had not been able to fix yet. So he had made some adjustment and finally he was ready to try the new frame. He put his glasses on and began looking around the room which represented his lab at that time. And then it all happened!

The short figure - almost half the size of a common person - just came out of the darkness all in a sudden. A moment before that was not there - Mr. Franklin was sure…- and now he could see it directly. How was it ever possible? How had he entered his lab without invitation? He didn't hear anyone coming in…

"Who are you…?And what are you doing there?" he asked, finally. "Who let you in…?Please introduce yourself at once…!"

The figure in the camouflage suit showed off in plain sight, looking as a sort of boy, but with big eyes, a grey skin and very long arms. He took a strange metallic device held at waist height and immediately pointed it to Mr. Franklin. The individual said only a few unearthly words "THTYDYDIRJRIFHK TKGHJHJ…THTFYTG THFY TKGHJHJ THTYDYDIRJRIFHK TKGHJHJ…" (Translation from Grey Alien Species language, courtesy of the editor: "You discovered too much. You were not supposed to ever know I was here… so I'm sorry, but your invention must not be developed any further… otherwise, it would put at danger our mission of exploration and study of the human species on this planet, which is supposed to continue unseen and in disguise for a very long time…Sorry again about that! You were really looking to become a very promising guy in Mankind's History…"

Then the strange figure activated the device and a blackish ray erupted from it. And soon after Mr Benjamin fell to the ground, dead. Cause of heart attack, at least according the official accounts, anyway.

And unfortunately that fact changed in an unpredictable way many and many things and important events in the years to come…

I am Yusef Levi-Maduro a third and final year student at DARIUS , The Great Father of Xerxes, Persian War College. I along with various other students from all over the Persian world are picked because of a skill or skills recognized by the leaders of our various homes. Our dominion stretches from the Pillars of Hercules north to the Anglo-Germanic Federation, and east to the great Chinese Empires and includes the eastern and northern sections of the Indian Subcontinent.

Religion plays no part in our political life and successes. One's mythological under- pinning is ones own business, as long as they don't interfere with the state.

That's an odd ancient Greek term, the state. I inculcated the Greek concept along with my studies. We are all one, under the great Persian leadership. Our vast territories are controlled by our civilian councils and military leaders. The leadership is drawn from the universities and the war colleges. Skill and intelligence are the hallmark of our elite.

DARIUS War College has the best reputation. It has the toughest curriculum. This is the path that will become available to me. Status and family are the reward for proper and brave behavior and, as just important, so is intelligent service.

For our final assignment in Speculative Studies we have been ordered to consider a possible alteration in history that may have had a major impact on our lives today. The object of this lesson is to think outside the sphere. The sphere is finite but unbounded. Since we will be out in the world, in unorthodox positions vis-à-vis our combat training, being able to evaluate the situation and develop new strategies, it is important to train our minds, to open them to even the improbable. This is an exercise.

Our History is glorious. I am including an introduction to Our History as an anchor to the speculation I will present in outline form. I will also include a brief statement regarding our current state of affairs. This will illustrate that I do know our history from which my speculative story will derive and divert.

In summary Under Darius and Xerxes, all we had intended and initiated, we accomplished to a degree unprecedented in history.

I have chosen to alter the final result of the combat with the Greeks. Our great leader Xerxes, offered to overlook their foolish quarreling political ways, and had given them the chance to be good subjects, in an ordered society. They refused rather being dead free men then live slaves. They instead offered resistance that was soon crushed, as was proclaimed by the oracles. We left their lands a burning cinder.

As history shows, the Greek city states failed to organize as was their habit. When they finally did mount a defense of their republic-states their efforts were at the most brave and the least foolish given the numbers of troops we had at our disposal.

The Spartan and Theban armies took a stand at a point in our army's travel that could have held up our great War Machine. The location was called Hot Gates. We had those who showed us other ways around this minor obstruction. We surrounded them, initiated a siege, and starved them in place. Few if any soldiers were lost on this minor skirmish. After they perished our Army of millions moved throughout the Greek City-States freely. We conquered all of the Greek lands.

Themistoclis and the Athenian navy were decimated. Admiral Artemisia didn't fall for their faints. Our navy boarded their ships taking great prizes and slaves and sinking the Athenian threat. By sea, the gods being in our favor, granted us fair winds and calm waters. We moved to Athens and burned the city to the ground, killed all remaining men, women, and children were sold into slavery. Greek women were going for a good price except for the Spartan women who like their men were ferocious fighters and free thinkers. They died by the sword every last one.

Xerxes' was upset about the Spartans. He had great plans for them. They would have made the best shock troops in his great army. He considered them to be almost equal to the Immortals.

With that being accomplished, the rest of the Greek City-states sued for peace. And that is our history as it is regarding the Greek incidents.

I hereby submit my outline, for approval, to our great teacher, Commander Apranik. She will decide if it is worthy of our great military traditions. The outline is as follows:

The Greeks at Hot Gates arrived in time to establish themselves in good order. There were approximately 1000 elite soldiers. 300 to 400 being the Spartan expeditionary force sent to hold the massive Persian Army. The rest were made up from Thebes. It was a recognized suicide mission. Their success holding back the Persian army gave the city- states ample time to mobilize a defense. They mounted a counter offensive that was coupled with their naval actions.

The huge Athenian fleet, used tactics that were unexpected. In fact Xerxes had been lead to believe that they were ready to revolt. Instead the Athenians and allies managed to decimate the Persian navy. Supply lines were cut off and a destruction of the Persian Army appeared a possible outcome. Xerxes ordered retreat.

The Persian army retreated to reorganize. We never managed to mount an invasion of such size again. The Greek City states were left to their own evil depraved ideas and republican manners. Their philosophy regarding democracy, an evil concept that goes against the laws of nations, spread and infected the thinking of the known world. The end result being so chaotic and alien, I can't even begin to imagine a world like that.

Submitted, with all due respect and adherence to the laws of our great Persian empire, I am Yusef Levi-Maduro, Sergeant Major, Persian Army Reserve.

The author's face was pale. He held a cloth to his mouth. …blood in sputum on white linen, drying and blackening…

…dying…

"I am dying," he said, smiling.

"But do not pity me; it is a good death, the mal du siècle, a slow mortification that has given me time to reflect and to repent my life's transgressions. It is the disease of an artist, but the death is that of…"

He coughed.

"…a man."

"I will admit, as I have before, that the idea, the crucial concept of my book, The Omen from Under the Sea, was not, in fact, entirely…mine. ‘The Alligator' was the name of the U.S. Navy's first submarine. It was built in 1861 and served during the Civil War, though not particularly well, and was lost at sea in a storm." …cut from its tether because of the weather…

"And that was the inspiration for the name of that fantastic invention, the main set piece of my novel, but still not the concept. My Alligator was electric, powered by sodium mercury batteries, a top speed of 50 knots, something unheard of even today. The truth is the idea for the voyage which the French professor and his companions take with my brooding Captain Nusquam aboard the Alligator was the dream of another man, a French stockbroker." …M. Verne…

He coughed again.

"Unfortunately, I do not remember his name."

"It was nine years ago, the Exposition Universelle of 1900, a sight to behold, for me at least, a young American correspondent." He smiled. …women in paletots, beneath black parasols, prancing by… men in straw boaters, canes clicking on cobblestones…

"In the Palais de l'Optique near the Eiffel Tower was the Great Exposition Refractor, the largest refracting telescope ever constructed. That is where I found him."

"He was well dressed, with kindly blue eyes and a silvery beard. He stood at some distance from the others, slightly leaning on his cane." …lonely… "He had the air of an elder statesman, and I had, in fact, wrongly assumed he was a man of importance, perhaps overseeing the operation of the telescope. He was not; but he had taken it upon himself to study the telescope in detail, and as I approached, unbidden, he began to share what he had learned."

"Twenty-four 1.5 meter diameter cylinders make up the 60 meter long steel tube, running north and south and raised in the air on seven columns of stone and steel," the stockbroker said pointing down the length of the telescope with his cane. "Light is brought into the tube by way of a Foucault siderostat in a dome at the end. A pity it is all but useless."

"He was referring to the fact that the telescope was little more than a show piece and not designed for scientific use."

"Still, it is an interesting bit of construction, don't you think?" the stockbroker asked.

"I couldn't help but agree and the two of us struck up a lengthy discussion about astronomy. Before long we were discussing the other innovations that were being presented at the Exposition: Diesel's engine, moving sidewalks and the wireless telegraph. In the end we got on so well, that we decided to investigate some of the other venues together."

"As we walked he asked all about me." …sad old man, no family, no son… "He was well read; we discussed the politics of the day and my life as a correspondent."

"I have been a writer myself," the stockbroker said. "I have even had a bit of success in the theatre here. But that was long ago, very long ago. I finished a novel once," he admitted. "It was titled Cinq semaines en ballon; it was about a balloon voyage across Africa."

"He explained in intricate detail the mechanism he had devised by which his characters would be able to control the balloon's altitude without having to release any gas."

"Unfortunately, I could not find a publisher and, eventually, frustrated, I tossed it in the fire," the stockbroker said. Regret clouded his face.

"Then prompted by the stockbroker's story, I mentioned my own plans to stay in Paris and become a novelist." …hadn't decided until then…

"I asked if he'd written anything else. He reflected for a moment."

"It was at the 1867 Exposition that I first saw the Plongeur," the stockbroker said. "She was the first submarine to be powered by mechanical means. French design, of course." He chuckled. "For a long time I wondered about this, moving under the sea, moving through a moving element, so to speak. The sea is everything. It covers seven tenths of the terrestrial globe. Its breath is pure and healthy. It is an immense desert, where man is never lonely, for he feels life stirring on all sides."

…his words…

…his words…

The author folded the cloth and dabbed at the sweat on his forehead.

"And that is where the germ of the first of my extraordinary voyages originated from, the words of a stockbroker I met in the streets of Paris. It was a brilliant idea, his idea, but in the end, the words were mine." He chuckled nervously and seemed to search for something to rest his eyes on.

…it was nearly finished… his manuscript… Captain Nemo… the Nautilus… take it, humor the old man, give him a professional opinion… it was all there… it was all his… every word.

The author coughed.

Jules Verne could not find a publisher for his first novel Five Weeks in a Balloon. After numerous rejections, he tossed the manuscript in the fire. His wife, Honorine, pulled it from the flames and encouraged him to meet with Pierre-Jules Hetzel who went on to publish the book in 1863. Verne's biographer I.O. Evans summed it up: "Had Verne been alone when he committed his manuscript to the flames, the whole course of the world's literature, and indeed of the world's history, would have been very different."

"Thank you, your Honor. If I may continue? On the morning of April eleventh, at the hour of ten-and-a-quarter, I observed that the suspect had coal ash, the same as found at the murder scene, on his left shoe and a small smudge on the right shoulder of his waistcoat. I then followed him to the foundry, where I observed him removing a small bundle from his ditty, and attempting to throw it into the furnace. At this point, I apprehended him and charged him with the crime."

"And how were you dressed, when you apprehended Alderman Peters, Detective?"

"Your Honor?"

"Were you, in fact, dressed as a common ragamuffin, and in shirtsleeves, no less, when you placed the honorable Alderman under arrest?"

"Why yes, your Honor, I was. In that part of town, my disguise allowed me to move about without drawing undue attention. The suspect turned on several occasions to see if he was being shadowed, and looked right past me, every time."

"This is most improper behavior for a New York City Police Department Detective, I must say. Propriety, when dealing with an elected official of this great city, should be observed at all times. I assure you that Commissioner Roosevelt will hear of this outlandish breach of etiquette. Teddy and I will be dining together, this evening, as a matter of fact."

"I understand, your Honor, but it was the only way to catch him before he destroyed the evidence."

"I note a slight accent, Detective, were you born here, in this country?"

"Your Honor, with all due respect, I can't see at all how my circumstances are relevant to this case."

"Your ignorance is of no concern to me, Detective. You will answer the question, or be charged with contempt."

"Your Honor, my parents moved me to this country in 1860, when I was one year of age, from Scotland. That was two years before The Plague became rampant, and all emigration from what used to be called the British Empire, was blocked. My mother was an avid reader of history, and suspected that the London and Paris outbreaks of 1858, would spread."

"Quite right, Detective. Perhaps your foreign background will explain your unfamiliarity with our basic tenants. In this great Republic, a man has a right to destroy his own property—and the revolver you recovered is clearly Alderman Peters' private property—at any time he chooses. The ownership of a weapon, by a responsible gentleman is a Constitutionally guaranteed, absolute Right."

"That it is clearly the same caliber used to murder this poor woman, is irrelevant. There are thousands of these in the city, since The War. And yes, before you interrupt, I read your treatise on matching a bullet to a specific gun, but this nonsense of ‘ballistics' is not an accepted, scientific technique, so I cannot take it into consideration. Because the Alderman was about to destroy the test bullet you fired, I will not charge you with theft for firing his revolver without his consent. That bullet was not yours to use, Detective, and you would be well advised to keep your pet theories out of your official investigations."

"But the letters, your Honor. He was about to throw those into the furnace, as well."

"Detective, I have already ruled that the correspondence between the good Alderman and this unfortunate woman are a private matter, and though they show a shameful lack of regard for public decency on the Alderman's behalf, this Court does not engage in malicious scandalmongering. And furthermore, since the poor woman is not here to contradict the Alderman's claim that she returned them to him, we simply must accept his account. You have no witnesses of any kind to suggest that merely because the door to her tenement flat was forced, means that the letters were—in fact—stolen and not returned to him prior to her demise, as he claims."

"Your Honor, the cut on the suspect's left hand is precisely the type of wound that whomever forced that door received. I found fresh blood and a small amount of flesh on the splintered shards of the door jamb."

"Detective, I have a small cut on my thigh, am I to be charged next?"

"But, your Honor!"

"I have had enough of this insolence, Detective. Unless you have more compelling evidence than you have presented here, today, I will dismiss the charges against Alderman Peters, forthwith."

"Nothing else, your Honor."

"One more thing, Detective. You have made quite a name for yourself for your handling of the Vanderbilt diamond theft, and Mrs. Astor's opinion of your talents is unshakable. But you mark my words, young fellow, no amount of social support will save you if you ever again try to bring charges against a gentleman of Alderman Peters' standing with such shoddy, irrelevant or circumstantial evidence. Tammany Hall is a thing of the past, but there are still ways to deal with public servants who forget their station. Mayor Strong will not be in office, forever."

"Detective Arthur Ignatius Conan Doyle, the Court thanks you for your testimony and your service to the great city of New York. You may step down."