By then it was night. Holmes was outside somewhere, bustling around and talking to the villagers, and Lestrade went directly to bed; but Alex and Geoffrey came back downstairs to the taproom. It was full of a noisy crowd of Hoka farmers and tradesmen, some talking in their squeaky voices, some playing darts, some clustering around the two humans. A square, elderly native introduced as Farmer Toowey joined them at their table.

  “Ah, lad,” he said, “it be terrible what yeou zee on the moor o’ nights.” And he buried his nose in the pint mug which should have held beer but, true to an older tradition, brimmed with the fiery liquor this high-capacity race had drunk from time immemorial. Alex, warned by past experience, sipped more cautiously at his pint; but Geoffrey was sitting with a half-empty mug and a somewhat wild look in his eyes.

  “You mean the Hound?” asked Alex.

  “I du,” said Farmer Toowey. “Black, ’tis, an’ bigger nor any bullock. And they girt teeth! One chomp and yeou’m gone.”

  “Is that what happened to Sir Henry Baskerville?” queried Alex. “Nobody seems to know where he’s been for a long time.”

  “Swall’d um whole,” said Toowey, darkly, finishing his pint and calling for another one. “Ah, poor Sir Henry! He was a good man, he was. When we were giving out new names, like the human book taught us, he screamed and fought, for he knew there was a curse on the Baskervilles, but—”

  “The dialect’s slipping, Toowey,” said another Hoka.

  “I be zorry,” said Toowey. “I be oold, and times I forget masel’.”

  Privately, Alex wondered what the real Devonshire had been like. The Hokas must have made this one up out of whole cloth.

  Sherlock Holmes entered in high spirits and sat down with them. His beady black eyes glittered. “The game is afoot, Watson!” he said. “The Hound has been doing business as usual. Strange forms seen on the moors of late— I daresay it’s our criminal, and we shall soon lay him by the heels.”

  “Ridic’lous,” mumbled Geoffrey. “Ain’t—isn’t any Hound. We’re affer dope smuggler, not some son of—YOWP!” A badly thrown dart whizzed by his ear.

  “Do you have to do that?” he quavered.

  “Ah, they William,” chuckled Toowey. “Ee’s a fair killer, un is.”

  Another dart zoomed over Geoffrey’s head and stuck in the wall. The IBI man choked and slid under the table—whether for refuge or sleep, Alex didn’t know.

  “Tomorrow,” said Holmes, “I shall measure this tavern. I always measure,” he added in explanation. “Even when there seems to be no point in it.”

  The landlord’s voice boomed over the racket. “Closing time, gentlemen. It is time!”

  The door flew open and banged to again. A Hoka stood there, breathing hard. He was unusually fat, and completely muffled in a long black coat; his face seemed curiously expressionless, though his voice was shrill with panic.

  “Sir Henry!” cried the landlord. “Yeou’m back, squire!”

  “The Hound,” wailed Baskerville. “The Hound is after me!”

  “Yeou’ve na cause tu fee-ar naow, Sir Henry,” said Farmer Toowey. “ ’Tis Sheerlock Holmes unself coom own to track yan brute.”

  Baskerville shrank against the wall. “Holmes?” he whispered.

  “And a man from the IBI,” said Alex. “But we’re really after a criminal lurking on the moors—”

  Geoffrey lifted a tousled head over the table. “Isn’t no Hound,” he said. “I’m affer uh dirty ppussjan, I am. Isn’t no Hound nowheres.”

  Baskerville leaped. “It’s at the door!” he shrieked, wildly. Plunging across the room, he went through the window in a crash of glass.

  “Quick, Watson!” Holmes sprang up, pulling out his archaic revolver. “We’ll see if there is a Hound or not!” He shoved through the panicky crowd and flung the door open.

  The thing that crouched there, dimly seen by the firelight spilling out into darkness, was long and low and black, the body a vague shadow, a fearsome head dripping cold fire and snarling stiffly. It growled and took a step forward.

  “Here naow!” The landlord plunged ahead, too outraged to be frightened. “Yeou can’t coom in here. ’Tis closing time!” He thrust the Hound back with his foot and slammed the door.

  “After him, Watson!” yelled Holmes. “Quick, Gregson!”

  “Eek,” said Geoffrey.

  He must be too drunk to move, Alex thought. Alex himself had consumed just enough to dash after Holmes. They stood in the entrance, peering into darkness.

  “Gone,” said the human.

  “We’ll track him down!” Holmes paused to light his bull’s-eye lantern, button his long coat, and jam his deerstalker cap more firmly down over his ears. “Follow me.”

  No one else stirred as Holmes and Alex went out into the night. It was pitchy outside. The Hokas had better night vision than humans and Holmes’ furry hand closed on Alex’s to lead him. “Confound these cobblestones!” said the detective. “No tracks whatsoever. Well, come along.” They trotted from the village.

  “Where are we going?” asked Alex.

  “Out by the path to Baskerville Hall,” replied Holmes sharply. “You would hardly expect to find the Hound anyplace else, would you, Watson?”

  Properly rebuked, Alex lapsed into silence, which he didn’t have the courage to break until, after what seemed an endless time, they came to a halt. “Where are we now?” he inquired of the night.

  “About midway between the village and the Hall,” replied the voice of Holmes, from near the level of Alex’s waist. “Compose yourself, Watson, and wait while I examine the area for clues.” Alex felt his hand released and heard the sound of Holmes moving away and rustling about on the ground. “Aha!”

  “Find something?” asked the human, looking nervously around him.

  “Indeed I have, Watson,” answered Holmes. “A seafaring man with red hair and a peg leg has recently passed by here on his way to drown a sackful of kittens.”

  Alex blinked. “What?”

  “A seafaring man—” Holmes began again, patiently.

  “But—” stammered Alex. “But how can you tell that?”

  “Childishly simple, my dear Watson,” said Holmes. The light pointed to the ground. “Do you see this small chip of wood?”

  “Y-yes, I guess so.”

  “By its grain and seasoning, and the type of wear it has had, it is obviously a piece which has broken off a peg leg. A touch of tar upon it shows that it belongs to a seafaring man. But what would a seafaring man be doing on the moors at night?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know,” said Alex.

  “We may take it,” Holmes went on, “that only some unusual reason could force him out with the Hound running loose. But when we realize that he is a redheaded man with a terrific temper and a sackful of kittens with which he is totally unable to put up for another minute, it becomes obvious that he has sallied forth in a fit of exasperation to drown them.”

  Alex’s brain, already spinning somewhat dizzily under the effect of the Hoka liquor, clutched frantically at this explanation, in an attempt to sort it out. But it seemed to slip through his fingers.

  “What’s all that got to do with the Hound, or the criminal we’re after?” he asked weakly.

  “Nothing, Watson,” reproved Holmes sternly. “Why should it have?”

  Baffled, Alex gave up.

  Holmes poked around for a few more minutes, then spoke again. “If the Hound is truly dangerous, it should be sidling around to overwhelm us in the darkness. It should be along very shortly. Hah!” he rubbed his hands together. “Excellent!”

  “I suppose it is,” said Alex, feebly.

  “You stay here, Watson,” said Holmes, “and I will move on down the path a ways. If you see the creature, whistle.” His lantern went out and the sound of his footsteps moved away.

  Time seemed to stretch on interminably. Alex stood alone in the darkness, with the chill of the moor creeping into his bones as the liquor died within him, and wondered why he had ever let himself in for this in the first place. What would Tanni say? What earthly use would he be even if the Hound should appear? With his merely human night vision, he could let the beast stroll past within arm’s reach and never know it. Of course, he could probably hear it…

  Come to think of it, what kind of noise would a monster make when walking? Would it be a pad-pad, or a sort of shuffle-shuffle-shuffle like the sound on the path to his left?

  The sound—Yipe!

  The night was suddenly shattered. An enormous section of the blackness reared up and smashed into him with the solidity and impact of a brick wall. He went spinning down into the star-streaked oblivion of unconsciousness.

  When he opened his eyes again, it was to sunlight streaming through the leaded windows of his room. His head was pounding, and he remembered some fantastic nightmare in which—hah!

  Relief washing over him, he sank back into bed. Of course. He must have gotten roaring drunk last night and dreamt the whole weird business. His head was splitting. He put his hands up to it.

  They touched a thick bandage.

  Alex sat up as if pulled on a string. The two chairs which had been arranged to extend the bed for him went clattering to the floor. “Holmes!” he shouted. “Geoffrey!”

  His door opened and the individuals in question entered, followed by Farmer Toowey. Holmes was fully dressed, fuming away on his pipe; Geoffrey looked red-eyed and haggard. “What happened?” asked Alex, wildly.

  “You didn’t whistle,” said Holmes reproachfully.

  “Aye, that yeou di’n’t,” put in the farmer. “When they boor yeou in, tha face were white nor a sheet, laike. Fair horrible it were, the look on tha face, lad.”

  “Then it wasn’t a dream!” said Alex, shuddering.

  “I—er—I saw you go out after the monster,” said Geoffrey, looking guilty. “I tried to follow you, but I couldn’t get moving for some reason.” He felt gingerly of his own head.

  “I saw a black shape attack you, Watson,” added Holmes. “I think it was the Hound, even though that luminous face wasn’t there. I shot at it but missed, and it fled over the moors. I couldn’t pursue it with you lying there, so I carried you back. It’s late afternoon now—you slept well, Watson!”

  “It must have been the ppussjan,” said Geoffrey with something of his old manner. “We’re going to scour the moors for him today.”

  “No, Gregson,” said Holmes. “I am convinced it was the Hound.”

  “Bah!” said Geoffrey. “That thing last night was only—was only—well, it was not a ppussjan. Some local animal, no doubt.”

  “Aye,” nodded Farmer Toowey. “The Hound un were, that.”

  “Not the Hound!” yelled Geoffrey. “The ppussjan, do you hear? The Hound is pure superstition. There isn’t any such animal.”

  Holmes wagged his finger. “Temper, temper, Gregson,” he said.

  “And stop calling me Gregson!” Geoffrey clutched his temples. “Oh, my head—!”

  “My dear young friend,” said Holmes patiently, “it will repay you to study my methods if you wish to advance in your profession. While you and Lestrade were out organizing a futile search party, I was studying the terrain and gathering clues. A clue is the detective’s best friend, Gregson. I have five hundred measurements, six plaster casts of footprints, several threads torn from Sir Henry’s coat by a splinter last night, and numerous other items. At a conservative estimate, I have gathered five pounds of clues.”

  “Listen.” Geoffrey spoke with dreadful preciseness. “We’re here to track down a dope smuggler, Holmes. A desperate criminal. We are not interested in country superstitions.”

  “I am, Gregson,” smiled Holmes.

  With an inarticulate snarl, Geoffrey turned and whirled out of the room. He was shaking. Holmes looked after him and tut-tutted. Then, turning: “Well, Watson, how do you feel now?”

  Alex got carefully out of bed. “Not too bad,” he admitted. “I’ve got a thumping headache, but an athetrine tablet will take care of it.”

  “Oh, that reminds me—” While Alex dressed, Holmes took a small flat case out of his pocket. When Alex looked that way again, Holmes was injecting himself with a hypodermic syringe.

  “Hey!” cried the human. “What’s that?”

  “Morphine, Watson,” said Holmes. “A seven percent solution. It stimulates the mind, I’ve found.”

  “Morphine!” Alex cried. Here was an IBI man currently present for the purpose of running down a dope smuggler and one of his Hokas had just produced— “OH, NO!”

  Holmes leaned over and whispered in some embarrassment: “Well, actually, Watson, you’re right. It’s really just distilled water. I’ve written off for morphine several times, but they never send me any. So—well, one has one’s position to keep up, you know.”

  “Oh,” Alex feebly mopped his brow. “Of course.” While he stowed away a man-sized dinner, Holmes climbed up on the roof and lowered himself down the chimney in search of possible clues. He emerged black but cheerful. “Nothing, Watson,” he reported. “But we must be thorough.” Then, briskly: “Now come. We’ve work to do.”

  “Where?” asked Alex. “With the search party?’

  “Oh, no. They will only alarm some harmless wild animals, I fear. We are going exploring elsewhere. Farmer Toowey here has kindly agreed to assist us.”

  “S’archin’, laike,” nodded the old Hoka.

  As they emerged into the sunlight, Alex saw the search party, a hundred or so local yokels who had gathered under Lestrade’s direction with clubs, pitchforks and flails to beat the bush for the Hound—or for the ppussjan, if it came to that. One enthusiastic farmer drove a huge “horse”-drawn reaping machine.

  Geoffrey was scurrying up and down the line, screaming as he tried to bring some order into it. Alex felt sorry for him.

  They struck out down the path across the moor. “First we’re off to Baskerville Hall,” said Holmes. “There’s something deucedly odd about Sir Henry Baskerville. He disappears for weeks, and then reappears last night, terrified by his ancestral curse, only to dash out onto the very moor which it is prowling. Where has he been in the interim, Watson? Where is he now?”

  “Hm—yes,” agreed Alex. “This Hound business and the ppussjan—do you think that there could be some connection between the two?”

  “Never reason before you have all the facts, Watson,” said Holmes. “It is the cardinal sin of all young police officers such as our impetuous friend Gregson.”

  Alex couldn’t help agreeing. Geoffrey was so intent on his main assignment that he just didn’t take time to consider the environment; to him, this planet was only a backdrop for his search. Of course, he was probably a cool head ordinarily, but Sherlock Holmes could unseat anyone’s sanity.

  Alex remembered that he was unarmed. Geoffrey had a raythrower, but this party only had Holmes’ revolver and Toowey’s gnarled staff. He gulped and tried to dismiss thoughts of the thing that had slugged him last night. “A nice day,” he remarked to Holmes.

  “It is, is it not? However,” said Holmes, brightening up, “some of the most bloodcurdling crimes have been committed on fine days. There was, for example, the Case of the Dismembered Bishop—I don’t believe I have ever told you about it, Watson. Do you have your notebook to hand?”

  “Why, no,” said Alex, somewhat startled.

  “A pity,” said Holmes. “I could have told you not only about the Dismembered Bishop, but about the Leaping Caterpillar, the Strange Case of the Case of Scotch, and the Great Ghastly Case—all very interesting problems. How is your memory?” he asked suddenly.

  “Why—good, I guess,” said Alex.

  “Then I will tell you about the Case of the Leaping Caterpillar, which is the shortest of the lot,” commenced Holmes. “It was considerably before your time, Watson. I was just beginning to attract attention with my work; and one day there was a knock on the door and in came the strangest—”

  “Here be Baskerville Hall, laike,” said Farmer Toowey.

  An imposing Tudoresque pile loomed behind its screen of trees. They went up to the door and knocked. It opened and a corpulent Hoka in butler’s black regarded them with frosty eyes. “Tradesmen’s entrance in the rear,” he said.

  “Hey!” cried Alex.

  The butler took cognizance of his humanness and became respectful. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said. “I am somewhat near-sighted and— I am sorry, sir, but Sir Henry is not at home.”

  “Where is he, then?” asked Holmes, sharply.

  “In his grave, sir,” said the butler, sepulchrally.

  “Huh?” said Alex.

  “His grave?” barked Holmes. “Quick, man! Where is he buried?”

  “In the belly of the Hound, sir. If you will pardon the expression.”

  “Aye, aye,” nodded Farmer Toowey. “Yan Hound, ee be a hungry un, ee be.”

  A few questions elicited the information that Sir Henry, a bachelor, had disappeared one day several weeks ago while walking on the moors, and had not been heard from since. The butler was surprised to learn that he had been seen only last night, and brightened visibly. “I hope he comes back soon, sir,” he said. “I wish to give notice. Much as I admire Sir Henry, I cannot continue to serve an employer who may at any moment be devoured by monsters.”

  “Well,” said Holmes, pulling out a tape measure, “to work, Watson.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t!” This time Alex asserted himself. He couldn’t see waiting around all night while Holmes measured this monstrosity of a mansion. “We’ve got a ppussjan to catch, remember?”

  “Just a little measurement,” begged Holmes.

  “No!”

  “Not even one?”

  “All right.” Jones relented at the wistful tone. “Just one.”

  Holmes beamed and, with a few deft motions, measured the butler.