by Andrew May

Wednesday 8.45 am. Holywell Street.

As I left the house I was nearly bowled over by a petite young woman running up the steps. She looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place her. She was dressed in a businesslike way, but looking distinctly harassed.

"Is Professor Stormson in? I need to see him urgently." She brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes.

I consulted my watch doubtfully. "You're a bit early. He's like Sherlock Holmes, you know. When he's not on a case, he doesn't bother to get out of bed."

I led her back into the house and knocked cautiously on the door of the professor's sitting room.

To my surprise, Stormson's voice came from within, inviting us to enter.

We went in. Pierce Stormson was sitting in his dressing gown, reading the morning's newspaper. He looked up.

"Ah, Miss Moletsky! I take it you have mislaid another visiting academic. It's a very careless habit, you know."

She looked sheepish. "You're right, Professor -- as always. Yes, I've lost another one. I'm at my wit's end."

It dawned on me who she was: Anna Moletsky, the conference manager at Wolfsbane College. Wolfsbane is one of the newer colleges, with a profitable sideline hosting academic conferences during the summer vacation when the undergraduates are away.

It was a year or two back that Anna had called in SOLVED -- the Secret Oxford League of Volunteer Extracurricular Detectives -- over the Case of the Missing Mathematician. I remembered it now: the trail of clues leading to the discovery of Professor Krumholtz tied up in a back room at Madame Anastasia's establishment in Headington. But that's another story.

At Stormson's invitation, Anna sat down and began to recount the latest mishap. "This week's conference is on a new subject for us -- Astrobiology."

"Ah, yes," Stormson nodded. "The study of extraterrestrial life."

My ears perked up. "That's a subject I'm interested in myself. Aliens... UFOs... shadowy government conspiracies...."

Stormson glanced at me disdainfully. "I think not. I believe modern astrobiology is more a matter of analysing stellar spectra and other imagery for traces of organic molecules and such like."

Anna nodded. "Yes, the talks all have titles like that. The conference is organised by Lionel Adams, who is a Professor at the Astronomy department here in Oxford. The keynote speaker is the world-famous Dr Haakon Asgard from Oslo University. He's scheduled to give a big presentation this afternoon. But he's gone missing! He didn't appear at breakfast this morning, and there was no answer when I knocked on his room door. I got a master key from the porter but when we went in the room was empty. The bed had been slept in, but there was no sign of Dr Asgard."

"Abducted!" I said. "He must have got too close to the truth and the aliens came for him. Obviously they had to silence him before he could spill the beans."

Stormson sighed. "As always, Melvin, you jump straight to the most sensational and least likely explanation. However, on this occasion you may be slightly less wide of the mark than usual."

"You agree that he was taken by aliens?" I asked.

"I doubt that very much. But there may be some truth in your idea that someone is trying to silence him. Not one of your mythical government cover-ups, of course, but a simple matter of academic rivalry." He turned to Anna. "Tell me, was Asgard's presentation going to be a routine affair, or something more dramatic?"

"Quite dramatic, I think. I don't know the details, but when I spoke to him yesterday I got the impression he expected to create quite a stir today."

Stormson nodded. "Yes, things begin to fit together. I imagine someone was aware of Asgard's intentions and didn't want a stir. Someone with an interest in preserving the status quo, for example." He stood up. "I must get properly dressed. But be assured we shall be only too happy to take on the case for you. The Case of the Abducted Astrobiologist!"

* * *

Wednesday 10 am. Wolfsbane College.

We arrived at the college just as the day's proceedings were getting started. On our way there, we had detoured via the Psychology Department to pick up the larger-than-life Crystal Fanshawe. That was my suggestion. Crystal is Oxford University's Professor of Parapsychology, and a talented Psychic Detective (I think she's talented, anyway -- Professor Stormson says she's a muddle-headed neo-hippie).

Wolfsbane is more like a five-star hotel than a traditional Oxford college. We went through the plush foyer into a busy atrium filled with display stands and posters illustrating (I presumed) all the latest findings in the world of Astrobiology. People were milling around, some grouped around poster displays and others drifting slowly into the main auditorium.

Through the open doors, we could see a small grey man of sixty-odd standing on the podium and muttering into his beard.

"That's Professor Adams," Anna informed us. "He's introducing the first speaker. There's a series of half-hour presentations this morning, followed by the big event at three o'clock. That will be Dr Asgard's keynote speech... but only if we can find him in time!"

She led us over to the lifts and pressed the button. We got in and went up to the third floor.

The clean-smelling corridor maintained the illusion that we were in a luxury hotel rather than a university college.

"Here we are." Anna stopped in front of one of the doors. "Room 312. This is where Dr Asgard was staying." She took out a plastic card and slipped it into a slot on the door.

"A card key," Stormson observed. "The locks are all electronic?"

Anna nodded. "Yes. We used to use ordinary keys, but the undergraduates kept 'forgetting' to return them when they moved on. These card keys are much more practical. We can reprogram the locks when a student leaves."

Stormson stroked his chin. "Indeed. But there are disadvantages too. A lock such as this would not present much of a barrier to one proficient in electronics."

I nodded, thinking of Sanyo Fujitsu -- the cute Japanese girl from Electronic Engineering who had helped me out on the Case of the Shakespearean Super-Chimp. I was sure she'd get through the door with one of her nifty gadgets in no time at all. It was a good thing she was on our side. The same went for Miss Bateman, SOLVED's computer wizard.

Inside, Asgard's spacious room presented no obvious clues. The blinds were up, the air-conditioning was set to a comfortable 21 degrees. The bed was made, but in a hasty and amateurish fashion -- apparently the work of Asgard himself rather than the maid. There were no signs of violent abduction or ransacking. The room safe -- one of those keypad affairs you find in hotel rooms -- was securely locked and showed no signs of tampering.

Stormson was looking around the room thoughtfully. So was Crystal. After a few minutes her eyes lighted on a dropped cufflink.

"A personal possession!" she cried triumphantly. "Just what I need to form a channel to the deceased... I mean to the missing person."

With a swirl of her long velvet dress she sat down cross-legged on the floor. She closed her eyes and clasped the cufflink to her large, jewellery-adorned chest. Then she appeared to go into a trance.

Stormson had found something too. Next to the phone there was a memo-pad, which he was scrutinising intently. The top sheet was blank, but it bore the faint imprint of the torn-off sheet above it. Stormson took a pencil and shaded the page carefully. After a few moments he held up the result:

Mr Smith
M.I.B.
Room 1001

"M.I.B.!" I exclaimed. "Men in Black! The secretive government agency that exists to destroy all evidence of alien contact! They must be the ones who abducted Asgard! Just what devilry are we up against?"

"Do calm down, Melvin. There is no such thing as the Men in Black -- just an urban myth originating in the paranoia of the Cold War." Stormson pondered for a few moments. "And if Asgard really was abducted, why should he so conveniently write down his abductor's contact details?" He turned to Anna, who was pacing up and down the room biting her nails. "Miss Molestsky -- do you have a Mr Smith staying in Room 1001?"

She looked at him blankly. "1001? We haven't got a room 1001. The building only has six floors. The highest room number is 625."

Stormson considered her answer. "Then the mysterious Mr Smith is to be found in room 1001 in another building. Some building that was so memorable to Dr Asgard he didn't need to write it down. A building which purports to harbour an equally mysterious organisation called M.I.B."

I rolled my eyes to the ceiling. "Men in Black. I keep telling you!"

Stormson sighed. "All right, Melvin -- whatever you say. It really makes no difference. The plain fact is that Dr Asgard has been sent on a Wild Goose Chase. I'm sure there is no such organisation as M.I.B, and no such person as Mr Smith. The aim was simply to prevent Dr Asgard from giving his keynote presentation this afternoon. They might have abducted him, but why go to the trouble? They have successfully duped the man into abducting himself."

I looked at him. "How can you be so sure?"

Before Stormson could answer, there was a swish of velvet and a rattling of jewellery as the statuesque Crystal Fanshawe rose to her feet. She waved the cufflink in the air.

"I have made contact!" she announced. "The man we seek is... there!" She pointed triumphantly in the direction of the door.

A second later there was a click from the lock and the door swung open. A strikingly tall, slender man with long golden hair stood looking at us in open-mouthed amazement.

"What are you all doing in my room?"

Stormson was the first to regain his poise. "Dr Asgard, I presume?" He held out his hand. "Pleased to meet you. I'm Pierce Stormson, of the Secret Oxford League of Volunteer Extracurricular Detectives. We've been investigating your, ah, abduction."

* * *

Wednesday 10.45 am. Wolfsbane College.

Asgard's reaction was unexpected to say the least. He looked like he would quite willingly strangle Stormson. "Abduction? Always it is abduction! This morning I am woken at six by a phone call. It is your British government office in Whitehall. They tell me they have reason to believe my work puts me in imminent danger of abduction. For my own protection I must report to the Military Investigation Bureau immediately. I take this seriously. I catch the train to London. I get to the office as I am instructed at eight-thirty. I ask for Mr Smith. They say there is no Mr Smith. There is no Military Investigation Bureau. Ach... I have been chasing the wild geese!"

"Quite," Stormson concurred. "I had already come to the same conclusion. It's obvious that someone wanted to get you away from here. But I'm puzzled. I had assumed the aim was to prevent you from delivering your keynote presentation. But that is not until this afternoon. It appears the wild goose chase has taken place several hours too early to be effective. Or is there some other reason for luring you away?"

Asgard glared at him. He still looked like thunder. "I really have no idea. Now, please... let me get on with my work."

The scientist went over to the safe and tapped some numbers into the keypad. The safe swung open and he took out a laptop computer, which he proceeded to switch on. He pointedly ignored the rest of us, although we made no move to leave the room.

After a few minutes, Asgard emitted a strangled noise. "Ach... what is this?"

"Is something wrong?" Stormson enquired.

Asgard rounded on him. "More tricks! My work... all the material for my presentation... it is gone. Erased from the disk! What have you been doing with my computer?"

"Really, we haven't touched your computer. Remember, it was locked away in the safe."

Asgard was furious. "Then the safe was broken into. It is an electronic lock... they can be opened with the right expertise."

"That is true," Stormson agreed. "We were saying the same thing about the lock on the room door. Tell me... do you have any enemies, or perhaps rivals would be a better word, who know something about electronics?"

Asgard's reply came without hesitation. "Ach... that fool Lionel Adams! I should have realised it sooner! He calls himself a professor of astronomy but he is really just a back-room tinkerer! He started out in the 1960s changing vacuum tubes on the Jodrell Bank radio telescope. He had a few lucky breaks and now he is a professor at Oxford. Pah! As a scientist he is incompetent. He cannot stand to see the success of others, so he tries to discredit me. I see it all now!"

Stormson looked doubtful. "The motive doesn't seem strong enough, but you may be right. It would explain why you were sent on the wild goose chase this morning -- to allow the perpetrator to gain access to your computer. But whoever that perpetrator is, I believe we can reverse the damage he has done. Your keynote presentation will go ahead this afternoon as planned... you can count on SOLVED for that!"

Stormson looked around the room. Besides Asgard and himself, there were three other people present -- an increasingly relieved-looking Anna Moletsky, the imposing figure of Crystal Fanshawe, and your humble narrator.

"Crystal, my dear..." Stormson put on his most ingratiating manner. "It seems we are leaving the realms of, ahem, psychology, and entering that of computer bits and bytes. I don't believe we need your services any more, so you may return to work. But perhaps on your way you would be kind enough to drop into the Computing Centre and summon the redoubtable Miss Bateman. We have need of her unique talents."

Crystal sniffed haughtily. "I know when I'm not wanted. I was getting bored anyway." She swept out of the room, then turned and glanced back at me. "And you, Melvin Root, when you write up this little adventure just remember who it was who pointed to the door just before the Abducted Astrobiologist walked through it."

* * *

Wednesday 11.30 am. Wolfsbane College.

We didn't have long to wait before there was a thump on the door and the squat, rounded form of Miss Bateman waddled into the room. She was dressed like a marine ready for battle, with haircut and tattoos to match.

"Lots of excitement downstairs," she observed, glancing at a slip of paper in her hand. "Someone handed me a flyer about a change in the programme. As if I would be interested. Do I look like an Astrobiologist?"

"You look like an undefeated world champion arm-wrestler," I said (but not out loud).

Miss Bateman looked at the laptop with interest. "This is the baby, I take it. What's the problem?"

"Some important data has been erased," Stormson explained. "We need you to recover it."

She blinked at him through thick lenses. "Is that all? Give me five minutes."

"You can do it, then?" I asked.

"Don't insult me, sonny. It's a piece of cake. Nothing's ever completely erased, you know... Gutmann's theorem and all that." She sat down on the edge of the bed and got to work.

"The laptop was taken from the safe over there," Stormson pointed out. "It was locked."

Miss Bateman glanced over at it. "So what? You see the little jack socket in the corner? If you plug the right gadget into that you can have it open in two minutes."

"What about the room door?" I asked. "Could you open that?"

"Without a plastic card? No, I couldn't. But with a plastic card... of course I could open it."

"Yes," I said patiently. "I know you can open it with the card key. Even I could do that."

"I didn't say THE card key, sonny. I said A plastic card. ANY plastic card. They're reprogrammable, if you know how."

I decided to shut up. Miss Bateman typed away in silence. Stormson and Asgard watched her closely. Anna Moletsky paced up and down, looking at her watch occasionally.

After a few minutes, Miss Bateman looked up with a frown on her face. "This is very odd. I've restored all the data. But it's not your presentation, Dr Asgard."

Asgard looked at her sharply. "What do you mean?"

"The title of the presentation. It says 'A New Analysis of Certain Frames of Mars Rover Imagery and their Implications for Early Life on the Red Planet.' That's not your presentation, is it?"

"It certainly is," Asgard stated. "And that's what I've done. I've reanalysed some NASA pictures that have been overlooked by previous workers, and discovered evidence of..."

"Canals?" I guessed. "Major civil engineering works? Pyramids?"

"...Fossilised bacteria," Asgard finished.

"Oh," I said, stifling a yawn.

"But it can't be your presentation," Miss Bateman persisted. "Look... it 's the title of the new talk by Professor Adams at 12 o'clock." She showed him the flyer she had brought in with her.

"Let me see that." Stormson snatched the flyer from her and studied it carefully. "You're quite right: 'A New Analysis of Certain Frames of Mars Rover Imagery and their Implications for Early Life on the Red Planet'. Even the grammatical error is the same."

"What do you mean, grammatical error?" Asgard demanded.

"The possessive pronoun 'their' in 'their implications' is plural but it should be singular: 'its'. I grant there is a plural noun in the first part of the sentence -- 'frames', but the 'implications' do not belong to the 'frames', they belong to the 'analysis'. And 'analysis' is a singular noun."

Asgard looked utterly scornful. "Me, I am a great scientist. You are a worthless pedant. Of what use is all this grammatical quibbling? It proves nothing."

"On the contrary, it proves everything. It is the key to the whole mystery. It proves, to put it bluntly, that Professor Adams has plagiarised your presentation and is intending to pass it off as his own. He did not simply erase your presentation, he made a copy of it for himself."

"But why?" I asked. "How could Adams expect to get away with it? Even if he gives the presentation, surely Dr Asgard can prove he did the work that went into it."

"I'm afraid it's not that simple," Asgard sighed. "My work is based on imagery that is freely available and in the public domain. Anyone could do the analysis. The accepted rule in science is that whoever announces the result first is the rightful owner of the intellectual property."

"Then we're sunk," I said glumly.

"Not necessarily, son." Miss Bateman looked at her watch. "We've got a few minutes before Professor Adams is due to start his talk. We can still win the day, thanks to the wonders of the internet, wireless networking, security loopholes and the genius that is known to the world as Miss Bateman." She picked up the laptop and started typing rapidly. "I just need to do a quick Google image search, then we'll go down to the auditorium in time for the fireworks."

* * *

Wednesday 12 noon. Main auditorium.

We were all crammed into the back row, huddled around Miss Bateman with the all-important laptop.

Professor Adams was on the podium. He reminded the audience that there had been a last-minute change in the programme, and then plugged his own laptop into the projector. The introductory slide of his presentation appeared on the screen:

A New Analysis of Certain Frames of Mars Rover Imagery
and their Implications for Early Life on the Red Planet
by
Professor Lionel Adams
Oxford University

Then he clicked on to the next slide, and the next, and the next. But they weren't the slides he was expecting to see. Adams became increasingly befuddled and embarrassed, as the audience dissolved into riotous laughter.

Miss Bateman had excelled herself with her Google image search. I recognised an illustration from 'A Princess of Mars' by Edgar Rice Burroughs, showing the six limbed, green-skinned Tars Tarkas. Then there was a fan drawing of the comic-book hero Martian Manhunter in a distinctly adults-only pose. This was followed by several images from the notorious 'Mars Attacks' trading card series from the early 60s. And a lot more in the same vein.

"Well, that's Adams' credibility gone for good," Stormson observed. "It's poetic justice."

Anna Moletsky smiled happily. "And everything's back on course for Dr Asgard's presentation this afternoon."

"That's right," I nodded. "Everything worked out in the end. The Case of the Abducted Astrobiologist: SOLVED."

THE END

Copyright © 2009 Andrew May