Fiction meets Reality

Lester Dent—author of the famous pulp-fiction series Doc Savage—finished describing his favorite character for his next installment in the series, The Submarine Mystery, and leaned back in his chair. “Good old Doc!” Lester thought. “But I think you need to change. Just like I am growing old, my old friend, it’s time for you to grow older, also. No longer will you be completely infallible. You need to become more human—same weaknesses, same propensities.” Lester leaned forward and reached out to the page with Doc’s description: …giant of a man. Trained from birth to be an expert in multiple disciplines. Deductive reasoning of his mind trained to a razor’s edge, body trained beyond Olympic standards. His bronze skin stretched over perfectly proportionate muscles; Doc stands closer to seven feet than six. Close-napped hair a shade darker bronze than the skin framing golden flake eyes. An imposing, awe-inspiring giant of a man…

Lester began to pull the page from the typewriter, but as his fingers touched it, the words started to vibrate and bounce on the paper, bulging and pushing themselves off. With a definite popping sound, they jumped into the air and ignited. Slowly, the words began to swirl before Lester’s eyes, gradually picking up speed and scrambling themselves until the only thing visible to Lester was a miniature, fiery, multicolored tornado. As the tornado began to pick up speed, Lester stepped back in amazement, unsure what to do next. As the last syllable of his question disappeared from his mind, the tornado began to advance toward the bookshelf. Eventually, the tornado stopped before the bookshelf, causing the books and knick-knacks to rattle and jump where they had been carefully placed by Lester’s wife, Norma.

Lester stepped closer to the tornado to get a better view of what it was doing and realized it was whistling. But not just whistling; it sounded like he had always imagined Doc’s trademark trilling sound would sound like. Lester watched as the tornado began to pull books from the shelf, and, opening each one, the words were “peeled” from the pages. Faster and faster, the books started to fly from the shelf until volume after volume was suspended in the air while their words were stripped from the pages.

“Norma!” Lester called somewhat weakly. “Norma, come here, please! I need you to see this! Please hurry!”

Lester could hear Norma walking quickly down the hall as one final book came off the shelf, and he realized which books the tornado was pulling from the shelves. These were all the Doc Savage novels—his first editions. Lester could see that the words were gone. Each book was now empty! Every printed word of every first edition of his novels had been consumed and was now spinning in the ever-expanding kaleidoscope of a tornado right before his eyes.

Norma came around the corner from the kitchen, almost at a run, and nearly ran right into the tornado, which startled her so much that she screamed at the top of her lungs and slipped on the throw rug in front of the bookshelf. This caused the tornado to disappear, prompting Lester to act quickly to keep his wife from falling on her derrière.

Lester dragged his struggling wife over to his typing chair, set her securely upon it, and turned to look at the heap of blank books on the floor before the shelf. A sense of disbelief set in upon Lester, and he whispered to himself, “My books…”

The voices in his head were competing to be heard: Monk, Ham, Renny, Long Tom, Johnny… and a strange, low, guttural human growl. Vertigo kept Doc from distinguishing where the voices were coming from. His eyes were dazzled by the spinning colors, and judging from the vertigo, he realized he was caught in some form of whirlwind. The voices were there, but nothing else. After a few moments spent analyzing the sensation of spinning through the colorful whirlwind, Doc recognized that just beyond the colors was what appeared to be a countryside.

The brilliant colors and the speed of the whirlwind began to dissipate, and the Man of Bronze began to settle to the earth. Clark Savage, Jr., better known as Doc Savage, America’s most enigmatic and yet philanthropic crime fighter, realized that he was alive in the real world! These were his first thoughts! The recognition of his mortality, a fictional character taking on flesh! Doc knew who he was, and the flood of sensory input as a fictional body became a physical body was almost overwhelming. But Doc’s fictional training took over, and his mind gained control of this new experience. As Doc fell toward the ground, his heightened senses began to take in everything. Directly below and to the right was a row of houses facing a wide paved, tree-lined street. And, from the names on the businesses, Doc realized he was descending onto a British street.

Settling to the street, Doc looked to see if his powerful six-foot-five-inch frame—Doc was wearing his riding outfit: khaki breeches, immaculately shined calf-high riding boots, and a long-sleeved cotton shirt under a leather hunting vest—or his unorthodox arrival had attracted any attention. There was a scattering of people walking the street, but not one seemed to notice him… except for a rough-looking, horse-shaped face surrounded by a great black mane of hair staring from the window of the establishment directly in front of his landing spot. Doc looked up from the face and saw the name of the establishment: 'The Eagle and Child.' "Something about that name." Doc queried his cavernous memory and found a reference to a group of writers in Britain called the Inklings, who used this pub as their meeting hall. "But why am I here? And why is that man the only one to notice my arrival?" Doc thought.

Barely had the thought finished when the door to the Eagle and Child opened and out stepped the largest and oddest looking large—but-small—man Doc had ever seen.

The man reminded Doc of his friend and compatriot Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett “Monk” Mayfair, whose arms resembled those of an orangutan. But this specimen standing here was a darker and more sinister-looking individual. His head was larger than the average Homo sapiens specimen and had a remarkable resemblance to a horse: a long, prodigious nose, huge, penetrating, dark brown eyes, and a huge mouth that held a grin, as if deciding whether it wanted to be a smile or a grimace. His body was almost as wide as it was high, and again the jet-black hair cascaded over the monolith of a head.

“George Edward Challenger’s my name.” The mini mountain offered as he gave a short, quick bow and extended his hand. “Might you be the great philanthropist Clark Savage, Jr.? No need to answer that, my good man, I already know it’s you. Only one individual in this world would fit the description of the person standing before me. Considering you have arrived in this place in a manner similar to my own a few moments ago. I can only assume that some poor fellow or tribe needs the services of the world’s greatest minds.”

Doc looked Challenger up and down, smiled, and took the offered hand. “Yes, you would be correct, Mr. Challenger. I am indeed Clark Savage. And I would have to agree with you, if only on the point that this is a remarkable situation we find ourselves in. Because, if I am correct, you, sir, are an imaginary character straight from the imagination of one Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”

“Oh, we are going to match attitudes, are we, my rebellious Yank? You would be correct! Except that, as a juxtaposition to your observation, I seem to be as real as you. And I would remind you, my good man, that you also are a figment of the imagination of an author who writes a style of fiction that, if placed next to the achievements of my creator, yours would be considered of an inferior rank.”

Doc looked Challenger in the eyes, and a strange trilling sound rose up from the ground and enveloped the two men as they engaged in the time-honored tradition of a “stare down.” Dark brown eyes drilled into and were consumed by gold-flecked eyes, each the outlet of one of the greatest imaginary detectives written into fiction in the history of literature.

The stare down was only interrupted by another voice in close proximity, clearing its throat.

Doc and Challenger turned to see another man standing close by, his arms crossed over his chest. He was wearing an expensive, obviously tailored tweed wool suit under a tweed greatcoat, which he began to remove and casually gave a once-over. Satisfied as to the quality of the greatcoat, the man looked up at Doc Savage and George Edward Challenger with the same piercing gaze that the other two had been employing with each other.

The man stepped closer, and the other two detected an indifference to the trivial in the haphazard manner his clothes—although expensive and clean—hung on the incredibly thin frame. There before the two men stood a veritable scarecrow. Yet each could feel the charisma emanating from the man's visage. The man was wearing a soft cloth cap that barely touched his high forehead and seemed to form merely an exclamation point at the top of his long, thin nose. This man’s face was as thin as Challenger’s was broad, and held gray, sunken eyes of someone with a bird’s appetite.

The man raised his cigarette to his mouth, extended his hand, and said, “Sherlock Holmes at your service! I must say that I am more intrigued at this moment than I can recall being in my many adventures, considering I seem to have been granted the dubious pleasure of gaining a corporeal body and the opportunity to meet my alter ego, whom my creator has audaciously seen fit to bring to life. It escapes me, however, why both of our presences would be required when one of us should be sufficient for any situation that my mind could conceive.”

Holmes looked from Challenger to Doc and allowed a civil, if perfunctory, smile to transform his haughty features. “And you must be none other than the famous, if somewhat larger than imagined, Clark Savage, Jr. So, our mutual and momentary befuddlement aside, have either of you had a thought as to why we are outside the hauntings of that group of stuffy academics known as the Inklings? I have never found much use for fantasy writers. There are enough fantastical goings-on in this world without creating more to distract those of limited mental faculties.”

William Stephenson and C.S. Lewis stepped out of the Austin Cambridge Staff Car and walked over to the giant black man holding menacing-looking six-shooters. They noticed that the man was frozen as if he was afraid to move. But his eyes were watching every move the two made as they approached, and the two guns tracked where the eyes were focused.

“Hello, my good man, my name is William Stephenson of the British Government. You look as though you wish someone would tell you what is going on. Am I mistaken?” Stephenson and Jack were now standing directly in front of the man. “I think you can put those guns away, sir. We are most definitely not bandits, and you are quite safe here in Oxford. Might we have the honor of making your acquaintance?” Stephenson extended his hand in an offer to shake. That seemed to ignite a spark of life in the man, and he holstered the two peacemakers and absent-mindedly extended his hand as his attention wandered down the street.

“Name’s Marshall Bass Reeves of the U.S. Marshals. Oxford? Ya’say? Well, if that ain’t a fine kettle of fish! This really is Oxford?” Bass turned around again as if to make sure he was not dreaming. “Dang sure a long way from Okmulgee in the Indian Territories. Wouldn’t happen to be able to let a fella in on how I got here?” With that question, Bass turned and focused his eyes upon the two men. Then he reached out, grasped their hands, and shook them vigorously.

Jack offered an answer. “Well, Bass, unfortunately, we can’t explain that, other than to say that you are indeed in Oxford, England. And, you seem to be caught up in the same mess of…ah, a kettle of fish that we are. So I suggest that you come with us. We were heading just over there at that establishment. So I would be honored to walk next to an honest-to-God U.S. Marshall.”

Stephenson walked back to the Austin and found that Margaret had taken his place at the wheel. They drove the last few yards and parked near the Eagle and Child. As they passed Bass and Jack, they noticed a small group of distinctive individuals standing near the entrance of the pub, one of whom looked surprisingly like someone in a Sherlock Holmes costume.

Margaret looked at William and said, “Sir, it looks as if our little group has grown. And, if I am not mistaken, we seem to have three men who only exist on the pages of books. That looks like Sherlock Holmes. The other has got to be George Edward Challenger, Conan Doyle's other sleuth. And, if I am not mistaken about my American literature, that is Doc Savage!”

Stephenson looked at Margaret and exclaimed, “Doc who?”

“Doc Savage! Sir! He’s a character from a series of American pulp fiction novels. My young cousin Teddy reads them. He’s addicted to pulp fiction novels. He sends away for them from America. I have to admit that I have read a few of them, and they are surprisingly fun. But, if that is actually Doc Savage? He’s a good man to team up with Holmes and Challenger. Whoever is putting this all together seems to have a flair for excellence, Sir.”

“That’s just what I’m worried about, Margaret.” William sighed. “One, we have no idea why whoever it is who is bringing us all together. Secondly, the level of talent being brought together seems to suggest that something bad is about to happen. England doesn’t need one more thing right at the moment. What with that madman Hitler building his modern army over on the continent and Parliament dragging its feet to prepare for what can only be war. We don’t need an outbreak of fictional characters running around on the streets of Oxford or Bloody London, for that matter. I don’t care what quality of men they are. When the press finds out that Sherlock Holmes or Doc Savage, for that matter, are actual people, there will be a frenzy.”

William turned his attention from Margaret to the scene building momentum on the street in front of the Eagle and Child. He noticed that a number of the members of the Inklings were now emerging from the Pub. William recognized the ever-present pipe and the swept-back hair of J.R.R. Tolkien. There was the craggy-faced Owen Barfield, and there was balding and bulbous-nosed Hugo Dyson. Besides the Inklings, other people were emerging from buildings along the street. The amazing figures of Doc Savage and Bass Reeves were drawing people from their homes and businesses.

William, Margaret, and Joan of Arc disembarked from the Austin (Joan at Margaret’s encouragement), and walked over to the group, just as the sound of a supercharged V8 engine exploded from the alleyway next to the Eagle and Child. Everyone on the street turned in awe as a royal blue Cord Supercharged Phaeton convertible emerged behind the rumbling sound of automotive horsepower. The vehicle slowly maneuvered next to the Austin 10 staff car and parked.

The driver of the Cord stepped out, shut the door with a careful push, and turned to the group. He was dressed in a well-tailored dark brown cotton suit with a golden lapel pin illustrating a sword superimposed over the two letters “GC”. Under the suit, he wore a scarlet blouse and a matching cravat. His jet-black hair was long and braided, falling down his back, and his feet were covered in expertly crafted, matching brown leather shoes. The man appeared to be extremely wealthy and successful. He was equal in size to Doc Savage and Bass Reeves and of obvious Native American heritage. He slowly walked out into the street with his hands behind his back in the manner of a man examining his surroundings. He walked past the group – silent now in the presence of such a remarkable figure – as if he were a general reviewing his troops. Then he turned to the group and asked in perfect American English, “Well, are we all here?”

Jack recognized that this must be the one called Tecumseh from the character list and walked up to the man to introduce himself. As he walked up to the man, he thought, “A Lawman, a superhero, two detectives, a legendary woman of God, a female Army officer, Winston Churchill’s head of intelligence, and now Native America’s George Washington! Himmler and others who can only be our opposition! What more could possibly happen? And, when does Arthur show up?”