Uncle Nick

By Sarah O’Donoghue

This story originally appeared at The Unofficial Nicodemus Legend Homepage

The Legend characters are copyrighted by Paramount Television and by Gekko Film Corp. This story is in no way intended as an infringement upon those rights. This story is written solely for the entertainment of others.
Story copyright Sarah O'Donoghue 1998
Acknowledgments
A great deal of the timeline and background information for this story was extrapolated from the original UPN Legend character guide found on the Videot Legend webpage, which was sadly never fully exploited in the TV series.
The character of Nicholas Monihan was inspired by a comment made by John DeLancie in a 1995 Star Trek Official Fan Club Magazine article ("Much Ado About Q") where he said that Q was "the merchant marine uncle who comes to the holiday dinner to the absolute delight of the children. . . and the deep consternation of the parents." I thought that this was a wonderful description of Q and that it would be fun to imagine a similar character in Ernest Pratt's past that would have inspired, in turn, the creation of Nicodemus Legend. Not that I think Q could have been a relation of Ernest Pratt, but it's a fun thought. :)
Last, but certainly not least, a HUGE thank you to Mark Wright for typing this into Word for me. Sorry its so long, Mark! .

Part One

1877

"Mr. Pratt, it's time to go!"

"Zzzz. . . ."

"Mr. Pratt, we have arrived. Please wake up."

"Zzzz. . . ."

"MR. PRATT!!!"

"Huh?" said Pratt, waking with a start. Oh, boy, he felt groggy. His head was spinning and he could swear that his mouth had never felt quite this gross before. But it had been rather a wild night last night, what with the Landon sisters' birthday and all. Twice the celebration had meant, well, twice as much celebrating. Therefore, his head hurt twice as much. Bartok would be proud of his logic.

Pratt opened his eyes and found a rather annoyed Ramos standing over him. Pratt suddenly realized he was in the Legend Balloon. He must have been drunk the night before, as he certainly didn't remember embarking on a journey.

"Mr. Pratt," said Ramos wearily, speaking slowly and deliberately. "We have arrived. Unless you wish to spend the whole day here, will you please get up!" It was not a question.

"Where is 'here,' exactly, Ramos?" asked Pratt.

Ramos sighed. He had forgotten how truly irritating Mr. Pratt could be when he decided to lapse back into his old, unheroic ways. "Just outside of Pueblo. If you remember, your mother's friend, Mr. Weiss, is meeting us."

Pratt's brain was definitely fuzzy today. He still couldn't understand what was going on. But then. . . Weiss. . . he knew that name. . . his mothers' old British friend. . . she'd mentioned him on several occasions, but he didn't know anything about him except. . . .

Pratt sat up, and immediately regretted the movement. He considered himself an adept at mastering the hangover, but this one could take some time to get through. Ramos considerately lent him an arm and Pratt got to his feet and looked around. They must be some way outside of town because, although he could see the rooftops of Pueblo on the horizon, the land they were in was quite desolate. He slowly took in the majestic mid-West scenery that he never grew tired of as Ramos busied himself with unpacking various bags and gadgets.

A call came from Pratt's right: "Ernest! You're finally awake!" Pratt looked around and there was Janos Kristoff Bartok, his colleague and friend and, unfortunately, his conscience. Pratt smiled and started walking over to him. Bartok was over by a low barn and was engaged in deep conversation with a very elderly man who couldn't have been less than eighty years old. Nonetheless he was standing tall and confidently; his thin white hair being ruffled by the breeze driving across the plain. As Pratt got closer, he could see the man's features more clearly. Still, the face was unfamiliar, except. . . except for the faraway look in his eyes: what his mother used to call sailor's eyes. Eyes that were so used to scanning wide horizons and distant shores that they became almost haunted from the expansive beauty of the natural distances. Suddenly his train of thought, and the familiarity of the name, came together. Pratt remembered his mother mentioning an Edward Weiss: his Uncle Nicholas' friend. . . .

1844

"Happy birthday, Ernest!"

"Yes, happy birthday, son."

"Thanks, Mommy. Thanks, Daddy."

Eight-year-old Ernest Pratt smiled up at his fun loving mother and his serious, banker father. He was an only child, which for most kids was a distinct advantage. In Ernest's case, it was a mixed blessing. His mother, a graceful blonde-haired woman, was forever spoiling him and didn't mind at all when he got into the various scrapes most young boys did. His father, on the other hand, was fiercely opposed to this and, whenever possible, tried to encourage his young son to behave himself, do as he was told, and generally tried to mold him into a miniature version of himself. Their presents to their son reflected their conflicting attitudes: Ernest's father had given him an abacus, while his mother gave him a brightly colored spinning top and a storybook. Needless to say, Ernest loved his mother's gifts, as he was a voracious reader but interested in little else. The abacus would get very little use, no matter how much his father encouraged him.

As the young boy started to open his other presents in the family parlor (it was a special treat that he was allowed into the room), the door chime sounded through the roomy San Francisco house. The kindly housekeeper, Zarelda Tooms, got up from where she had been helping Ernest and walked smartly to the door, her diminutive frame radiating confidence and demanding respect. The Pratts heard her open the door and let out an exclamation of surprise.

"Mr. Monihan!"

Mrs. Pratt looked up sharply and raced to the door. Moments later she appeared in the parlor with her arm wrapped around the strangest man the young Ernest had ever seen. He was really old (at least to an eight-year-old) and was dressed scruffily in dark baggy pants, a navy sweater full of holes and with a once-white cap stuck at a jaunty angle on his head. He had a long, unkempt beard, and was carrying a huge kind of cloth bag over his shoulder. To Ernest, he looked like a cross between a wild explorer and Santa Claus with a huge white smile on his face.

"Oh, no," sighed Mr. Pratt. His wife ignored him and addressed her young son.

"Ernest, I want you to meet your Uncle Nicholas, my brother."

Ernest gaped. He'd heard all sorts of conflicting stories about this man. Stories which had turned him into a striding mythological figure within his imagination. Ernest's father used to tell him horrible stories about his uncle as cautionary tales; warning him that "if you don't finish your homework/clean your room/tidy your clothes you'll end up just like your Uncle Nicholas." Ernest's mother had told him all sorts of wild tales about his uncle, painting him as a brave sailor and adventurer who had returned to England when the Monihans/Pratts had journeyed west from Boston to California. She told him that her brother had been to all sorts of exotic places and fought in famous battles like Trafalgar: fantastic stories which Ernest desperately wanted to believe but that he knew in his heart to be just stories. Every so often his mother had shown him letters from her brother describing amazing places and experiences which had fired his imagination even more. And now, here, the real Uncle Nicholas was standing in front of him, as big as life.

Nicholas smiled down at his young nephew, and made a great show of digging through his bag. Finally, he produced a small package, wrapped in dirty material and tied with string.

"I couldn't miss my favorite nephew's birthday," he said with as he stooped down to the little boy and gave him a big wink. Ernest smiled back shyly and took the gift, ripping off the string and paper as only a child can. The object within almost took his breath away. It was a small, but beautiful and obviously hand carved, circular case made out of something white that Ernest later found out to be whalebone. When he flipped up the lid, he found a small but ornate compass. It was the most beautiful and exotic thing the young boy had ever seen.

Nicholas smiled at him. "That's to help you find your way home wherever you go, my boy," he said.

The next two weeks were wonderful for Ernest as he got to know his Uncle, much to his father's consternation. Nicholas was every bit as much a maverick as his sister. He told Ernest many strange and exciting stories about his days in the British Navy, the battles he had been in, and the bloodthirsty ways he had killed his enemies. And then he told Ernest about his exploits in Spain, where he had been traveling and fighting as a near mercenary until he had rejoined the Service for the Battle of Trafalgar, where his first hand knowledge of the enemy helped him to capture Spanish ships. Ernest was sure that his eccentric relative was a pirate, and became even more convinced when his Uncle told him about his treasure hunt in Spain for the legendary (or so he said) Caesar's Eye: a legendary diamond thought to have found its way to Spain over seven centuries ago. Apparently that was why Nicholas had spent so much time in Spain, and indeed why he had traveled to the West coast of America: to investigate the Spanish settlers whose history may give him some clues.

Once he knew the boy was interested, Nicholas began to tell him what he had already discovered and how he discovered it, breaking down as best he could the investigation process. Ernest listened with great attention, learning as much as he could from this adult who probably made more sense to a child than to a peer. By the time Nicholas had explained to his sister his real reason for being in San Francisco, even she became bemused. Then after a couple of weeks, and for no reason, Ernest came down to breakfast one morning to be told that his uncle had gone.

1877

Pratt sighed at the memories that had risen unbidden in his mind. He still had the little whalebone compass that he had been given for his eighth birthday wrapped up safely in his trunk back at the Silver King.

Of course, the sudden disappearance of his uncle had upset him, but it was not the last that he heard from Nicholas, or Uncle Nick, as he had taken to calling him. Ernest had hated school, and hated college until he discovered the wonders of the Romantic poets. The emotion and description of Shelley and Byron had fired and enhanced his imagination at college, but his secret love of adventure had been born a lot earlier. . . .

1850

Ernest Pratt breezed up the steps of the house and into the sitting room. As he neared the small carved table in the corner of the room, he deliberately slowed himself down and shut his eyes taking in a deep breath. He carefully took the last few steps to the table, turned his head so that he would be looking down, and then slowly opened his eyes. This was a ritual that the fourteen-year-old had been observing for months. Each day after school he would follow it in its minute detail, so that the "magic" would be favorable to the outcome that he always looked forward to. The small table in the corner of the sitting room was where Zarelda always placed the mail and everyday the young Ernest would approach the table with great excitement, hoping for a letter from his Uncle Nick.

Slowly, he opened his eyes. . . and there was a scruffy letter covered in marks and stains and promises of exotic lands. He picked it up and read the fine copperplate writing on the envelope which he knew to be his uncle's hand: "Master Ernest Pratt." Quickly, he slit open the envelope and inside found several sheets of paper covered in more of the copperplate writing interspersed with line drawing that his uncle frequently used to illustrate that tall tales he was relaying to his American nephew. These exciting letters were such a rare thing that Ernest savored every one of them, and they put him in a cheerful frame of mind for the whole week, brightening up his (he thought) dreary and boring existence. He quickly glanced through the contents of the letter, picked out key words and phrases which indicated that the letter described his uncle's ongoing quest for the Caesar's Eye and settled into his father's plush comfy chair to read. . . .

1877

Pratt covered the last few meters separating him from Janos and Edward Weiss. The elder man looked up and smiled as Ernest drew near. He extended his hand. "Ernest Pratt. It is so good to finally meet you." His voice was quite shaky with age, and his words were colored with a thick, plummy English accent that Ernest only rarely heard.

"And you, too, Sir," Pratt replied, shaking Weiss's hand. "I have heard so much about you, and it is a pleasure to finally meet you."

"Thank you for meeting me, Ernest. I apologize for arranging this meeting at such a remote spot, but I am trying to maintain a degree of secrecy. I would have contacted your mother, but I heard of the problems she had in San Francisco last year, and I didn't want to entangle her in more intrigue."

Pratt smiled slightly at the unusual level of formality in the elder man's words. He certainly didn't talk much like the other sailors he had met, but, Pratt mused, this gentleman was from something of a more formal culture and obviously hadn't been in the Navy for some years. His quick reporter's eye summed up the details of his appearance and concluded that Mr. Weiss had become something of a distinguished gentleman in his latter years.

Bartok obviously noticed his friend's unduly long silence, and prompted him back from his reverie. "Mr. Weiss was just telling me about his fascinating time with your uncle, and indeed they even visited my homeland during their campaigns."

Despite his reserved manner, Weiss was showing signs of impatience. Sweeping away the formalities, he said, "I really think that we should adjourn to the barn, gentlemen. We have important business to discuss." He turned and led the intrigued friends into the building behind them.

As soon as they entered the barn, Weiss crossed over to a low desk in the corner and beckoned the other men to join him. He gestured to two hardbacked chairs and the men sat down. With some difficulty, Weiss took a third chair on the far side of the desk and began his story.

"Firstly, Ernest, I am sure that you are intrigued as to why I should finally contact you after all of these years, and indeed why I should travel so far to see you. Well, to answer those questions: one, I obviously don't have too much time or health left, and two, the information that I have to give to you is being sought by some of the most dangerous criminals on both sides of the Atlantic." With that, he settled back in the chair and began to tell Pratt and Bartok why he had come.

Part Two

"Your Uncle was a good, but misunderstood man, Ernest," began Weiss.

"He saved my life many times and so I feel an indebtedness to him and his family. When he wanted to entrust me with his discoveries about the Caesar's Eye, I couldn't refuse. Ernest, I firmly believe that your uncle was only a few steps away from discovering it when he died."

Pratt asked the obvious question: "But Mr. Weiss, my uncle died almost a decade ago. Why didn't you try to find the Caesar's Eye yourself?"

"I was in prison, Ernest," the old man said ruefully. "Powerful men who were after the treasure themselves trumped up charges of forgery against me, and I was only released two months ago. It has taken me that long to find you." He picked up a large leather satchel from the desk in front of him and handed it to the author with shaky hands.

Pratt accepted it wide eyed. "Are these Uncle Nick's papers?" he asked.

"Oh, yes, Ernest. His papers, diagrams, maps, and lists of possible locations for the treasure. I got a chance to hide it before I was imprisoned, and it hasn't left my side since I got out. It's far too precious. I know your uncle told you what he was doing, and now that he's gone he would have wanted you to have this. It will give you the chance to finish what he started."

"Well, Ernest," Bartok whispered, "It looks as if we have the chance to complete a real treasure hunt!"

Soon afterwards the three men left the barn.

"Are you sure you will be all right, Mr. Weiss?" asked Pratt.

The old man smiled back at him, looking relieved. "Oh, yes, Ernest. They can't do anything to me now. I've got an associate meeting me here in thirty minutes, and then I'll be on my way back to England."

Pratt, Bartok and Ramos each warmly shook the frail man's hand. "Godspeed," mattered Bartok as he led the way back to the balloon.

Weiss watched the "Legend" balloon rise up into the skies, and walked back to the barn with the feeling that a huge burden had been taken away from him. It didn't last long.

As he closed the door, Weiss felt the cold metal of a gun barrel pressed against his head. His assailant said nothing and did nothing, except to calmly pull the trigger, let the body fall, and walk out into the sunshine.

"Your uncle must have been a very remarkable man, Mr. Pratt," said Ramos as he adjusted the rudder at the rear of the balloon.

"That he was, Ramos," said Pratt wistfully. "Y'know, my uncle taught me so much about life in the brief times I saw him. He taught me that you must always grab every chance you get, and that you shouldn't live, you should be alive."

"Good advice, Ernest," remarked Bartok. "And you should be proud of what you've achieved. Your books have given happiness to thousands, and through Nicodemus Legend, you are really getting the chance to make a difference. You're uncle would have been proud."

"I sure hope so," said Pratt. "He would have approved of my actions, but I'm not sure he would have approved of my motives for creating Legend. Legend was just an easy way for me to get the money for liquor and gambling."

"Mr. Pratt, you have come a long way in the last year. Don't discredit yourself," said Ramos. "For my people, honoring family is honor indeed. You have a chance to finish what your uncle began. He would be proud."

"All right, enough of the pep talk, already," grumbled Pratt as his wistfulness became bad humor once again. "How long before we reach base, fellas?"

Bartok peered through the telescope and made some rapid calculations. "Approximately two hours," he said. "We are level with Pike's Peak now, so we need to bear north. Sheridan should be within range just before nightfall." He swung the telescope down to the hilly plains below him and saw a group of riders who were obviously following them.

"Hullo, what have we here?" he said to himself. "Ernest, you'd better have a look at this." Pratt crossed the basket in two easy strides and took the telescope from his friend. He swung it around to the direction the Hungarian was pointing in.

"Looks like we've picked up some company," he remarked nonchalantly. "What's the plan fellas?"

Bartok rolled his eyes. "Ernest, this is not a light matter." He looked through the telescope again. "Those men are heavily armed. If they decide to. . . ."

PHZZZZZZZ!

A bullet came whistling through the air towards them. "Duck!" cried Bartok. The three men hit the deck, but not before two more rounds had been fired at them, one going right through Ramos' hat.

"I suggest we try to stop them, gentlemen," said Ramos impatiently.

"Quiet! I'm thinking," said Bartok impatiently. He scrabbled around the bottom of the basket while the bemused Pratt and Ramos looked on. "Ha, ha!" he cried. "I hoped this was here! Quick, Ramos! Help me set up the Bartok Expanding Violence Inhibitor!"

Pratt looked around at the equipment the two men were quickly assembling. "Professor! That's just the net from the Bartok Trojan Cow fitted to a harpoon gun! Why d'ya have to give everything such complicated names?"

Bartok glared at him. "I'll have you know that this device, although adapted from past technical achievements, is in itself a highly advanced piece of equipment."

Ramos and Bartok quickly finished packing the net into a kind of pouch which was fitted to the top of the harpoon gun. "Right," said Bartok, taking charge as three more bullets whizzed overhead. "Ramos, I need you to cover me with the Ball Lightning Generator while I fire the Bartok Expanding Violence Inhibitor onto those ruffians below us. While they are incapacitated, you, Ernest, will fly down and knock them out with a Fulminator."

Pratt looked smugly at the Professor. "Aha!" he smirked, "you didn't bring the Legend Wings, Bartok, so you can't push me out the balloon this time!"

"No," conceded Ramos, "but we did bring the Bartok Aerial Retardant Descendant Parasol that you designed last year."

"Oh, joy," said Pratt tonelessly, "Henrietta, your inspiration may be my downfall." Bartok and Ramos exchanged puzzled glances.

"Are we ready?" asked Bartok as Pratt strapped on the backpack with the Parasol packed inside. "Very well. Commence!"

Ramos got up quickly and fired up the Ball Lightning Generator. He squeezed off two shots before their pursuers knew what was happening. As soon as they were close enough together, Bartok fired the Harpoon and the weighted net flew out, spread, and incapacitated the men below.

"Now, Ernest!" shouted Bartok jubilantly.

"Here we go again," muttered Pratt as he leaped out of the balloon. He tugged at the cord and the huge white parasol unfurled, slowing his descent to a safe speed. He landed near the gang in a heap of material and rope which took him several seconds to get disentangled from. He stood, ran over to the men, and pulled out the Fulminator. "Now, gentlemen," he huffed, "let's have a little chat, shall we?"

By the time Bartok and Ramos had landed the balloon, Pratt was getting exasperated with his captives. No matter how much he questioned them, they refused to talk. When Bartok and Ramos joined him, the three men held a conference a short distance from the sullen group. By this time it was getting dark, and there was no way that they would get back to Sheridan before nightfall.

The three men sat on the hard ground and tried to make sense of the attack.

"This attack can hardly be a coincidence," said Bartok after some thought. "These men could well be connected with the opposition to Mr. Weiss and that satchel of your uncle's, Ernest."

"They must have been following us for some time," agreed Ramos, "but no horse would be able to keep pace with the balloon for long. Therefore, there may be more riders around, riding in a relay to keep pace with us."

"Oh, come on," snorted Pratt. "Who would know about our meeting with Weiss? Besides, no one believed Uncle Nick's story when he was alive, so why would anyone come after this now?"

"Do you deny that there could be a connection here?" asked Bartok. "I propose that we return to the Compound as quickly as possible with your uncle's papers. Your uncle may have been closer than he thought, Ernest. And, if the Caesar's Eye exists, it would be priceless. We need to analyze that information so that we can use it to our advantage.

Ramos was still pursuing his own line of thought. "If the riders are in a relay, they know where we are going. Not only that, but there could be another party nearby, to relieve these men. . . ." Realization dawned in his eyes. "Mr. Pratt! Professor! We should leave! Quickly!"

Suddenly Ramos was proven right as the sound of gunfire was heard coming out of the gathering darkness. Riders on horseback, getting closer and closer.

"They've come to free their friends! Let's go!" shouted Pratt as all three headed back to the balloon. Ramos and Bartok threw the sandbags out and got them all airborne just in time. As they sailed away, all three men were thinking the same thing. If these unnamed villains knew where the balloon was going, they would probably be waiting for them.

Ramos sighted Sheridan about three hours later, as they had to fly considerably slower than normal in the darkness. They set the balloon down near the Compound and quietly headed towards home. Every so often, Pratt caught a glimpse of metal, or heard a slight sound just off to the side. He tried to dismiss them, but couldn't help thinking that perhaps there was an ambush ahead of them. He suddenly thought of Mr. Weiss. He really hoped that he was still safe and even now heading back to England.

They finally reached the fencing that formed the perimeter of the Compound. Bartok ushered them all through the fence, and on towards the buildings. The crossed the ground without incident, and Ernest was just starting to breathe easily as Bartok swung open the door to his laboratory. The Professor located an oil lamp from just by the door, and lit it quickly, turning up the light until a golden glow punched into the darkness of the room. He quickly crossed over to his electrical generators and threw a switch, and suddenly the laboratory was filled with bright white blue light as the lightning equipment powered up. Pratt threw his hand up to protect his eyes from the glare, and was about to tell Bartok that he should cut out the dramatic effects when, from behind him, he heard a low, feminine laugh. He whipped around, and saw a tall, dark-haired woman, dressed all in black, sitting in one of the armchairs near the door. The three men looked at her in astonishment.

The woman returned the stare. A twisted smile formed on her lips. "Hello, boys," she said.

Part Three

Pratt gaped, hardly an unusual occurrence when a beautiful woman was in the vicinity. But it was something else: a vague familiarity in the woman's features which made him stare hard. . . .

Bartok nudged him hard in the ribs. "Stop leering," he hissed. "You'll make things worse."

The woman obviously heard the comment and laughed again, rising from the chair in one graceful, cat-like motion, and moved over to where the three colleagues were standing. She slowly looked each one up and down, assessing them with a cold eye and then turned away, remarking "Well, you are a rather pathetic threesome, aren't you. I would have thought my father could have done better."

Returning to the far side of the laboratory again, she snapped her fingers, signaling to a roughly dressed cowboy who was stationed behind her. The lackey quickly stepped forward. "Tell the men outside that they can relax," she said. "I have the situation under control." The man nodded and quickly exited the room.

Pratt was watching the scene unfold with astonishment. Obviously, the beauty of this strange woman was enough to rivet his gaze, but there was something else that he couldn't put his finger on. . . .

It was almost as if the woman could read his mind. She sighed and faced them, a bored expression on her face. "Oh, very well. I suppose some introductions are necessary, although I would have thought you would have figured it out by now. My name is Valerie Monihan, daughter of Catarina Santona. Your uncle, my dear Ernest, had a little fling with her, well nigh on thirty years ago, and I was the result. There you are. Potted history over."

Ernest looked at her in astonishment. "You're my cousin?" he asked. No wonder she looked familiar!

Valerie's face took on a look of shock. "Well, I never, Ernest. How did you figure that out?"

"Oh, enough of the sarcasm already," said Pratt. He was beginning to tire of this woman's attempts to patronize him. "Just tell us what you want, and why you sent men to kill us out there."

Valerie seemed to ignore his words, and moved across to the door where another sentry was stationed. "Patrick, darling, could I borrow your gun please?" The young man gladly gave her the weapon, totally in awe of his beautiful boss. "You can leave us now. Thank you, Patrick. I can handle these boys, don't you worry." The sentry nodded hesitantly and then left the doorway, closing the door behind him and going off to join his companions outside.

Valerie turned back towards them and smiled. "Well, now, isn't that better? Just the four of us. How cozy." She gestured toward the seating area in the laboratory. "Won't you all sit?"

Now that she was armed, Bartok, Ramos, and Pratt all decided that it was better to see how this little scenario was going to play out before making any sudden moves, and therefore did as they were told. Valerie joined them, casually putting the gun by the chair, and began to talk.

"My dear Ernest, I'm afraid I know all about your little meeting with the late Mr. Weiss."

"'Late' Mr. Weiss?" broke in Bartok. "You don't mean he's. . . ."

"Yes, Professor. He is dead. And yes, I had him killed. And yes, I know this makes me an appalling woman in your eyes, but frankly I don't care. Now please don't interrupt me again, or you might be joining him."

Bartok glared, inwardly shocked by this dreadful woman, but deciding that showing his reaction would be suicidal at this point. Pratt just looked at her with stony, cold eyes.

"Where was I? Oh, yes." Valerie turned to Pratt as she warmed to her subject.

"Weiss and my father went through a great deal together, as I'm sure you know," looking at Pratt, she couldn't resist adding, "dear cousin." Pratt visibly winced. "What Weiss didn't tell you was that he made my father leave my mother soon after I was born, thinking it was dangerous for an enemy Englishman to be with a Spanish woman. Weiss and my father left Spain, abandoning my mother and leaving her to the Spanish authorities. Of course, my mother was unmarried, and could be proven to have had an affair with an enemy. She was executed." Valerie's eyes became as cold as Pratt's. Two cousins facing each other down with a wall of hatred brewing between them.

Valerie appeared to shake herself out of her reverie and continued. "When I was grown, I decided to find out about my English father, and returned to the town where I was born. It soon became obvious that he was a flagrant womanizer with probably a string of illegitimate children like me. I know you were very close to him, Ernest. It's almost certain that he thought more of his nephew than his own child. Anyway," she continued, "I found out about this quest of his for the diamond and decided that following the trail of the diamond would probably lead me to him sooner or later. If I found him, great. I could make him pay for abandoning me. If not, at least I would be fabulously wealthy. A win-win situation, I'm sure you would agree. Anyway, to cut a very tedious story short, I had only been on the trail for five years when I discovered that Nicholas had died."

The image of Valerie swam before Pratt as his thoughts drifted back to that awful day when he heard that news. . . .

1870

". . .so in conclusion, if councilman Berry insists on carrying on in this fashion, San Francisco should probably find herself another representative. One who truly cares for the people."

Ernest Pratt, ace reporter for the San Francisco Chronicle, set down his pen with a flourish. If this exposé didn't get him the post of Senior Political Correspondent, nothing would. He'd been working on the story for over six months, and now had all the proof he needed on the Councilman and his money-making schemes. Perhaps now he wouldn't have to take Mark Twain's advice to try his hand at storytelling. He may yet make a dollar or two as a legitimate journalist.

Pratt looked around the hot, tiny office he shared at the paper with two other correspondents. The hot midday sun was streaming through the half-open window. Suddenly a fly came in through the gap and started buzzing around his head. Pratt swatted it away. He had to get out of this office. He just had to!

"I got two telegrams for you, Mr. Pratt!"

Pratt swung around, startled out of his reverie by Stevie, the office boy. Stevie passed him two slips of paper, for which Pratt threw him a coin. He opened the first:

To: E. Pratt.
Congratulations. We accept your manuscript Solitary Knight of the High Plains. Will arrange a meeting to discuss payment and royalties.
From: E. C. Allen

"Yes!!!" shouted Pratt, jumping up and dancing around the office. "Money!!!" He quickly started planning a celebratory evening at his favorite saloon. Wine, women, and a good game of poker to start with. . . . Who knows, if storytelling was this easy (he'd rushed out Solitary Knight of the High Plains in little over a month), maybe he could juggle being both a writer and a top class journalist.

Feeling pretty good about life, Ernest's gaze settled on the second telegram. He wasn't expecting any other mail, so he ripped it open out of curiosity:

To: Ernest Pratt
I regret to inform you that Nicholas Monihan passed away peacefully in his sleep on August 3rd. Please contact me if you wish to help with the arrangements.
From: Edward Weiss

The funeral was a quiet affair, not at all reflective of the larger than life personality of Uncle Nick. Nicholas Monihan had been dishonorably discharged from the British Navy, and so there were no military rituals to honor Ernest's uncle. Only Ernest, his mother, and the priest were present. Ernest had been surprised and upset that Weiss hadn't been there, especially since Weiss had been so desperate to talk to him about his uncle's crazy quest.

1877

". . .and so, Ernest, if you could just hand over the papers Mr. Weiss gave you, I will be on my way. I promise you won't hear from me, or any of my associates again." Valerie concluded her tirade and looked enquiringly at her cousin.

Pratt's thoughts drifted back to the situation he was presently in. He had heard most of Valerie's little speech, and found himself disliking her more and more every moment. He met her gaze. "My uncle was a good and decent man. He had his faults, yes, but he was no cold murderer. There is no way on this earth that I'm handing over what has been entrusted to me by him. I don't care if you are his daughter. No real daughter of Nicholas would behave the way you have. You could have come to me seven years ago and explained all of this to me, instead of cheating, lying, and murdering your way here. I'm sorry, Valerie, but the information is staying with me and my friends."

At Valerie's murderous gaze, Bartok jumped in to support his friend. "I believe the search for knowledge and understanding to be one of the highest callings on this earth, but it should be approached honorably and with humanity. Without these, knowledge has no value. It becomes merely a cold acquisition of items and facts. There is neither honor nor humanity in what you have done, Miss Monihan. I pity you for your loss of a father, but I pity you more for this loss of honor. If the Caesar's Eye truly exists, it could unlock mysteries that have been buried for millennia. You should not take up your father's quest merely for financial gain, but to honor him."

"You don't seem to understand," said Valerie, smiling coldly. "I don't need to leave you people alive in order to take the information from you and find the Caesar's Eye for myself. Your pretty speeches are no more than hot air." She casually picked up the gun that had been lying by the chair, and swung it around her finger. "Hand over the information now, or. . ." she pointed the gun at Ramos "I'll hand your little friend over to my associates outside. I'm sure they'd love a little target practice. Seeing as they missed your balloon earlier, they could use a little work on their aim."

Pratt's mind was racing. "Look," he said quickly. "I've got an idea. I'd say that we both have pretty good claims to the Caesar's Eye. You're his daughter. I'm his nephew. Why don't we try to find it together?" Valerie looked at him as if he'd just grown a second head. He quickly continued. "Look, this doesn't have to make us best buddies, but we do both want it to be found, right?"

The woman arched her eyebrow suspiciously. "I already told you. I don't need your help."

Pratt pressed his point. "But I think you do. Since you obviously knew about our meeting with Mr. Weiss, you could probably have stolen the information from him before he met up with us. Yet you waited until after we had it in our possession. I'm guessing that's because you know that we have the scientific know-how to find what you need. You have a small army out there. It seems to me that between us, we have all the resources we need to find this thing, but we need to work together. What do you say?"

Pratt could see the play of emotions over the woman's face. She was tempted. Very tempted, but her obvious contempt, distrust, and bitterness finally won out. "I've reconsidered. You and your companions are a little bit too tricky for my liking. Hand over the information."

While Pratt and Valerie had been speaking, Bartok had been surreptitiously fiddling with a small box on the table next to where he was seated. Or rather, he had tried to be surreptitious, but Pratt had spotted his efforts about five minutes previously, and had been trying to hold Valerie's attention ever since. Suddenly Bartok leaped up, the box in his hand. He pointed it threateningly at the woman. "Please put the gun down, Miss Monihan," he said warningly. "This is the Bartok Localized Brainwave Disrupter. If I push this button," he pointed at a small depression on the side of the box, "you will be rendered unconscious for at least thirty minutes and will wake up with the worst headache you've ever had."

Valerie glared at him, then smiled. "You'd never fire on a woman," she said knowingly. "Go ahead!" Bartok hesitated. She was right, and his bluff had been called. Suddenly, Pratt grabbed the box from Bartok, aimed and fired. Valerie crumpled to the floor, a shocked expression on her features.

"Aren't you glad there's a lot more Ernest Pratt in me than Nicodemus Legend?" said Pratt as his horrified companions looked on. Pratt quickly crossed the room to the unconscious woman and lifted her as gently as he could onto a couch. Bartok rushed to help him, relieved that Pratt was still concerned about her welfare. He quickly checked her pulse. "As I predicted," he declared, "the subject has been rendered unconscious relatively painlessly. Her pulse and respiration are strong, and she should begin to return to consciousness in approximately twenty-five minutes."

"As you predicted?" asked Pratt. "You mean you've never used this thing before?"

"Why, no, Ernest. I was going to try it out the next time we were threatened by a gang, but this test was as good as any, I suppose."

"Gentlemen," said Ramos impatiently, "can I suggest that we get out of here?"

"Quite right, Ramos," said Pratt. "I don't want to have shot that poor lady for nothing."

The three men quickly made good their escape through one of the many semi-hidden doors built into Bartok's purpose-built lab. Skirting around the edge of the Compound, Bartok and Ramos led Pratt around Valerie's accomplices and, more importantly, the perimeter alarms that the scientists had installed. As soon as they were clear, Bartok led them to a smaller barn, about a half a mile down the trail that led to Sheridan.

"Ernest," whispered Bartok, "this barn belongs to the Brulls, one of the Hungarian families that we helped when you first came to Sheridan. I know they keep horses here, and I'm sure that they wouldn't mind if we borrow a few."

"Horses!" shouted Pratt. "You know how horses feel about me!"

"SSSH!" hissed Ramos and Bartok in unison. Bartok glared at his associate and indicated that they should go inside. Ironically, while Nicodemus Legend was believed to be an expert horseman, Ernest Pratt turned out to be the least experienced horseman of the three. The two scientists swung themselves up easily onto two barebacked horses while Pratt was left languishing behind. "Hey, fellas! Wait for me!" he whispered as loudly as he dared.

The three men stuck out for Sheridan and arrived just before sunrise. They cantered into town with the sun coming up behind them over the plains. Heading over to the hotel, they left the horses with a very sleepy Skeeter, who promised to return them to the Brull farm once they had been rested.

"We don't have much time," remarked Ramos. "Miss Monihan will be awake by now, and her gunmen are probably hot on the trail by now."

"I know," said Pratt, a worried tone in his voice. "I'm open to suggestions for our course of action, gentlemen." Looking at Bartok, he could see that the scientist's mind was racing.

"Ok, Bartok, give. We're on the run and I can see that you've got a hare-brained scheme."

Bartok glared at him. "I'll have you know, Ernest, that my idea is neither hare-brained, nor is it a scheme. At least," he admitted, "not yet. I propose that we find somewhere safe to hide out for a while so that we can examine the documents Mr. Weiss entrusted to us, and then attempt to locate the Caesar's Eye, should it exist. I trust this idea strikes you as being sensible and based in scientific reasoning."

"Oh, yes, Professor. I could never have thought of that," jibed Pratt.

Ramos looked at his two friends with resignation. He knew that the verbal sparring between the two associates was well natured. Nonetheless, it did wear him down. Suddenly, inspiration dawned.

"Gentlemen," he said, a sly smile on his face, "I have an idea."

Part Four

"Here you go, Mr. Legend. Best cell in the house." Pratt glared at Ramos.

"When you said you knew of someplace safe, Ramos, I was thinking of some sweet little boarding house run by a charming señorita that I wasn't aware of, not Motes' dingy jailhouse!"

"You have to agree, Ernest," said Bartok, jumping to his colleague's defense, "no one will think of looking for us here. I think it was very good of the Sheriff to give us a cell."

Ramos couldn't resist a dig at Pratt, too. "I would think that by now, you should be able to write your prison scenes with a little more realism, Mr. Pratt."

The writer glared at them both. "I suggest we begin, don't you."

It was a long, hard day for all three men as they poured over the documents, maps, and memorabilia that had been in the satchel looking for any clues that would help them finish what Nicholas had started. Painstakingly, they reconstructed his time in Spain (including a reference to Valerie and her mother, validating their antagonist's claims) and his trail out to the New World. It appeared that he had been snooping around southern California a few months before his death, and that Weiss had apparently been helping him. Uncle Nick died of a heart attack in 1870, shortly after which Weiss had apparently been imprisoned until shortly before Pratt had met him.

"The trail has been cold for seven years. What do you think are our chances, Professor?" said Pratt as he looked up from the last entry in the final journal.

"Well, according to the papers we have been studying, I would say rather good," said Bartok. "Your uncle believed that the Caesar's Eye had been sunk in a Spanish shipwreck near the Mexican border a hundred and fifty years ago. According to his maps, the wreck is almost a kilometer out from shore, which would be about one hundred and eight meters deep. Of course, Nicholas would have had no way of getting to it, but I have some ideas that we could try."

"You're not thinking about the deep-sea helmet I put in one of my books," said Pratt warily.

"But of course!" said Bartok. "In conjunction with the Bartok Deep-Sea Life Preservation Pod that we have been working on, the expedition is quite feasible."

"What are you doing inventing deep sea equipment, Bartok? We're in the middle of Colorado!"

"Well, you never know when the unexpected will happen," said Bartok defensively.

"It's going to take time to get out to the coast," said Ramos. "You're going to have to take stagecoaches through a lot of Indian territory, and what about the equipment?"

"What about my lovely cousin?" put in Pratt.

The three men sat and discussed the possibilities for a while, and the day was just turning into dusk when one of Motes' deputies came in and told them that Valerie's gang was heading in their direction.

"I knew our luck wouldn't hold," said Ernest gloomily. It would have been nice to have the deputy arrest the gang and put them in prison, but the gang hadn't yet committed any crime that could be proven against them. "Let's head for the Compound and try to avoid getting shot by my dear coz."

It had been agreed that, rather than taking the public stagecoaches, Pratt and Bartok would take the Quadrovelocipede Carriage that had proven its worth in their most recent dealings with Flintridge Caine. It was bigger and faster than the standard vehicles and they would easily be able to pack everything in, only having to hire a boat of some kind when they arrived. Ramos had agreed to the dangerous role of creating a diversion to keep Valerie's thugs off the trail. He was going to take the Legend balloon northwest, about a thousand miles further up the Coast then where the other two were heading. Of course, the balloon made an easy target, and he was going to have to plot a long route around the Rocky Mountains, but Ramos was sure he was up to the challenge.

Thankfully, the Compound was all but deserted, with just a light guard kept on watch while the rest of Valerie's forces were looking for the Legend team in Sheridan. Bartok quickly picked off the guards with a Fulminator and the three set to work. With first light, Ramos took off, plotting a wide arc over Sheridan in order to make sure he was spotted by the opposition. After finishing up the loading of supplies and equipment, Bartok and Pratt headed off southwest.

Because both journeys were so long and unpredictable, the three men had decided to attempt to be back in Sheridan within ten weeks. Bartok estimated that they should be able to cover forty miles a day, making the journey about thirty days each way, with ten days spare in which to overcome any obstacles and to actually find the diamond, if it was actually there.

In actual fact, Pratt and Bartok arrived by the Pacific after a relatively uneventful journey in only twenty eight days.

Both men were exhausted and, though they wouldn't admit it, quite tired of each other's company. Bartok's excellent navigation had served them well, and they had remained on course and ahead of schedule. They had avoided major stretches of disputed territory and covered a lot of dangerous territory at night, thanks to Bartok's night vision equipment, the Carriage's headlights and, in Pratt's opinion, plain dumb luck. The time had passed slowly, but with the breathtaking scenery to inspire him, Pratt hadn't minded much. In fact, when it hadn't been his turn to drive he had drafted the plots for a trilogy of Legend books, something he hadn't attempted before.

Bartok had used his little spare time to tinker with the inventions he had constructed. When they did stop for a break and sleep, Bartok would run through the technical workings of the diving bell and deep sea suit he had constructed, warning Pratt that he would have to be thoroughly familiar with every detail of the construction.

"Your life could depend on any one of these valves or dials," he warned Pratt. "When you go on the dive I will not be able to communicate with you, so you must know how absolutely everything works."

Pratt had to admit to a grudging admiration of his colleague. As he learned about the technical marvels that were going to allow him to make this dive down to the shipwreck (if it was even there, his pessimistic side reminded him), he had to admit that Bartok really knew his stuff. I think I'll stick to writing,he thought. I'll do the easy part and imagine this stuff. Bartok can do the actual inventing.

After over a thousand miles of overland travel, Bartok finally pulled up the Carriage on a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. It was a beautiful evening, but both men were too exhausted to appreciate it, merely lighting a campfire and collapsing asleep on their bed rolls.

Pratt stirred and opened his eyes. It was a beautiful, cold, clear fall morning. The sun was just coming up over the mountains behind him. Rolling over, he could see the Pacific rolling over the horizon. He had always loved the ocean. The sheer majesty of the scale and the mystery that he knew it must hold, just past where his eye could see. Shaken from his reverie, he turned around and looked at the other side of the smoking remnants of the campfire. Bartok wasn't there!

He quickly got up and freshened up for the day ahead. He crossed over to the Carriage and saw that most of the equipment was gone. Puzzled, he crossed back over to the cliff edge and looked down. There was Bartok, on the beach below, looking as if he was in earnest conversation with another man.

Eventually, Pratt was able to find a safe path down to the beach. Bartok spotted him and waved. "Good morning, Ernest!" he shouted. Pratt just grinned. He really hated mornings.

Pratt made his way over to his friend. "How did you get the equipment down here, Janos?" he asked.

"Ropes, pulleys, and help from Mr. Zafra, here," he said.

Pratt looked at Bartok's companion. Mr. Zafra was quite tall and swarthy. Obviously accustomed to the outdoor life, mused Pratt. Despite the Spanish name, the man appeared to have native blood in him, as well. Zafra apparently read his mind. "I am a man of mixed blood but pure intentions, Mr. Pratt," he smiled. I work as a fisherman of sorts in these parts and I would be happy to rent my boat." He smiled, a little too widely, Pratt thought. "For the right price, of course."

After some negotiations, a deal was struck, and the equipment was hauled out onto Zafras modest boat. Bartok brought out a diagram that he had correlated from Nicholas' papers and, with the aid of a modified sextant and compass, was able to direct them to the most likely spot for the wreck. After they had anchored, Pratt began to struggle into the deep-sea suit. If all went according to plan, Pratt wouldn't even have to test this part of Bartok's invention, as he was going to be locked inside the Preservation Pod. Pratt had read about submarines before, but Bartok, as usual, had made improvements to the concept. The Pod itself could move under its own propulsion, and even had grappling lever that Pratt could operate from inside. The powerful (hopefully) waterproof lamps on the front of the Pod would allow Pratt to negotiate the wreck and, once he had found the Captain's chest where the gem was presumed to be, he could grapple it and head for the surface. If all did not go to plan, Pratt would have to eject from the Pod and pray that Bartok's Diving Suit was as miraculously safe as the Legend Wings had proved to be. Most of the time, anyway.

The two men ran through the plan once more to check all of the details. Once more, Bartok gave Pratt a run-through of all of the switches, levers, and procedures, as once Pratt was underwater, there was no way for the two men to communicate.

"All right, Ernest. Are you ready?" asked Bartok.

"No," admitted Pratt, "but let's do it anyway. If I don't come back, tell Skeeter that I wish him success, the ladies at the Buffalo Head that I wish I was with them, and the Mayor that I wish he would stop selling Legend coffins."

"Oh, come on, Ernest. This is a wondrous adventure!" He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Just think, you can actually improve on Jules Verne's writing now instead of just 'borrowing' his ideas!" Pratt glared at Bartok as he put on the diver's helmet. All other protestations were muffled through the diving equipment as Bartok helped him into the Pod that was perched on the side of the boat. With a final check, Pratt gave Bartok a wave through the small window at the front, and the scientist and the fisherman pushed the Pod off the side where it slowly sank beneath the waves.

Part Five

Once Pratt got used to the slight pitching and yawing of the Pod, he had to admit that Bartok had built a very useful submersible vehicle. The deep-sea suit kept out the worst of the cold and, once he got used to the new light level provided by the lamps, he found that he was beginning to rather enjoy himself. He pushed down gently on the "forward" and "down" levers as Bartok had showed him and, slowly, he sunk deeper and deeper into the Pacific.

The water was fairly clear. Every so often a startled looking fish would dart into the lamp beams, stare at him, and shoot off back into the darkness. Pratt consulted the compass: the little whalebone compass Nicholas had given him all those years ago and which he had asked Bartok to install in a rare fit of sentimentality. He pushed the "down" lever a little harder. Suddenly he was plunging down at a near ninety-degree angle. "Darn, darn, DARN!" he shouted as he yanked the lever back with such force that he began to spin. The little pod began to protest; metal grating and screaming as Pratt fought for control. "Wondrous adventure, indeed! . . ." he grumbled.

Meanwhile, on the surface, Bartok was having problems of his own. As soon as the Pod had sunk from view, the Professor felt the cold metal of a gun being pushed against his neck. He quickly put his hands up. "Don't shoot! I'm sure we can talk about this amicably."

"I'm sure that we could, Bartok, but my boss really isn't interested in what you have to say. She just wants the Caesar's Eye."

Bartok turned around, slowly, to face Zafras. "You work for Valerie Monihan?" he said. It was more of a statement than a question: Ernest's cousin had proved that she had associates everywhere, so Bartok wasn't that surprised.

"I'm more of a freelancer, Professor," said the "fisherman." "I work for the highest bidder and, frankly, she paid me far more money than you did." He half smiled. "Now, I can either throw you over the side, or you can help me and I'll let you live. The choice is yours, but I do suggest that you cooperate."

Bartok sighed. "What do you want me to do?" he asked.

After five minutes of wrestling with the controls, Pratt had finally gotten the little Pod under control. He consulted the built-in compass and adjusted his trajectory, all the time looking out of the portholes for any sign of the shipwreck. He was parallel to the ocean floor now, the lamps carving a huge swathe of light against the darkness all around. Pratt gently, very gently, pushed the lever to go up so that he could clear a pile of rocks that were in his path. As the pod skimmed over them, Pratt suddenly caught his breath at the ghostly sight before him. A huge, well preserved Spanish galleon, glowing with an ethereal light as the lamps played over its surface. Uncle Nick's treasure hunt was almost over!

For the thirtieth time, Bartok chided himself for being so stupid. He was trussed up like a Christmas turkey at the back of the boat, staring at the water and hoping that he could warn Pratt before he reached the boat. Zafras was sitting quietly at the center of the boat, calmly whittling an old piece of driftwood.

"It's nothing personal, Professor," Zafras said suddenly, looking up from his carving, "but I can't have you throwing me over the side of the boat and getting away. As soon as your underwater boat gets back to the surface, I'll untie you, you give me the Caesar's Eye, and then I'll take you both to shore."

"Of course you will," said Bartok, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Personally, I'll wager that there will be two new corpses on the ocean bottom before the end of the day."

"Oh, no, you're wrong," said Zafras softly. "My boss wants the pleasure of killing you two personally. I just have to deliver you, him, and the Eye."

"Oh, well," thought Bartok. "At least they're going to kill me later rather than sooner."

Pratt was mesmerized by the shipwreck. He gently steered the little craft through the barnacle-covered masts, drinking in the beauty of a sight no living human had seen. He slowly circled the wreck, looking for the Captain's cabin, where Nick had deduced the Caesar's Eye would be. Suddenly he saw a gaping hole in the side of the craft and made for it, realizing too late that the Pod was slightly too big for the gap.

"Oh, NO!" he shouted as the Pod shuddered and began to buckle as it wedged tightly into the gap. Pratt tried to reverse the Pod to wiggle it free, but nothing he tried seemed to work. Suddenly he looked at his air gauge. He had nearly run out of air!

Time to evacuate, he thought to himself as he strapped on the emergency airbags that Bartok had stowed in the Pod for just such an occasion, fastened the mask around his face and screwed on the helmet of the deep-sea suit. He was just about to leave when, as an afterthought, he tugged the whalebone compass from its moorings.For Uncle Nick. I'm doing this for him, after all, he thought as he tucked it into the suit.

Oh, well, Professor. Let's just hope that you're as good at adapting Jules Verne's inventions to real life as you are Ernie Pratt's, he thought as he unscrewed the hatch at the top of the Pod and swam out into the darkness.

First Pratt swam around to the front of the Pod and detached one of the lamps. Luckily, Bartok had given the lamps independent electrical supplies and had showed Pratt how to remove them. Pratt quickly checked the gauge on his airbags. He had just fifteen minutes of breathable air left, so he quickly made his way towards the stern of the ship, where the Captain's cabin would have been located. The atmosphere around the wreck was beginning to give Pratt chills, and not just from the cold. He kept reminding himself that he was doing this for Uncle Nick, the mad, bad, inspirational man who had sparked his imagination so long ago.

Suddenly, Pratt saw a small opening and was able to slip inside. He lifted the lamp up and saw a narrow, rotten doorway ahead. Struggling over the debris and the small crabs and fish that moved around his feet, Pratt found himself in a large cabin dominated by a huge oak table that was remarkably well preserved. This must be the Captain's cabin! Faded and torn drapes wafted in the currents as he moved forward towards a chest that he could see tucked into the far corner of the room. Pratt realized that this could well contain what he was looking for and with trembling hands he easily broke the rusted padlock on the front and opened it.

The chest was full of rotting papers and heavy manuscripts that fell apart as he picked them up, floating in scraps to the deck below his feet. He carefully took them all out and there, in the very bottom of the trunk was a black velvet pouch. Eagerly, he picked it up and looked inside to find a large, perfectly spherical diamond with a diameter even larger than a silver dollar: the Caesar's Eye!

Eventually Pratt lifted the jewel up to his face and stood fascinated as the jewel caught the yellowish light from his lamp. He took a deep breath of admiration. . . and realized that he couldn't. Quickly looking at is air dial, he saw that his air bags were empty. Inside the helmet, sweat began to pour down his face. I think I'm in trouble! he thought. I've got to get to the surface, and fast!

Pratt swam as fast as he could through the wreck. Ethereal beauty gave way to ominous shadows. Please don't let there be sharks in here! he prayed to Whoever was listening. Suddenly he was free of the wreck and kicking for the surface with all that he was worth.

Zafras looked up as he heard splashing. "There's your friend, Professor," he said. He quickly crossed over to Bartok and cut him loose, but being sure to let the Professor see that he still had his gun.

"It's all right," grumbled Janos. "I won't upset your little scheme." At least, not yet, he mentally added.

The two men could see Pratt swimming towards them as fast as he could. Despite the trouble that he was in, Bartok couldn't help but notice that Pratt was not in the Pod, and that his most expensive piece of equipment was probably lost on the ocean floor for all time. He sighed.

Pratt swam as quickly as he could with a dozen imaginary sharks snapping at his heels. The air in his helmet was getting thin and Pratt was beginning to feel lightheaded. He had to hurry.

Pratt could see the boat ahead of him, and he could also see his friend, but Bartok seemed less than pleased to see him. In fact, it was the fisherman who was waving him on. Suddenly, Pratt felt the hairs on his neck stand up. Something was wrong.

Bartok breathed a sigh of relief as Pratt reached the side of the boat. Because of the helmet, Pratt couldn't say anything, but mimed for someone to give him a hand getting into the boat. Zafras warily waved the Professor to give him a hand, carefully concealing the gun from Pratt's field of vision. Bartok crossed carefully to the side of the boat and hoisted his friend over the side.

Standing shakily, Pratt unscrewed his helmet, threw it on the floor (causing Bartok to drop to the ground in fear that this new invention had been damaged, as well), and took a deep lungfull of clean air. "I'm glad to see you guys," he said, a relieved smile on his face. "It's a beautiful sight down there," he added. "You'll have to see it yourselves sometime."

Without warning, Zafras swung the gun up into Pratt's face. Pratt immediately backed up and raised his hands. "No more fooling, Mr. Pratt. Give me the Eye. I know you have it."

"You know, it's impossible to keep a secret these days, don't you agree?" said Pratt lightly. "We try as hard as we can and people still seem to find out about the Eye. I blame my old colleagues in journalism. When I was a reporter we knew how to knock rumors on the head!" While Pratt had been talking, Bartok had taken advantage of his drop to the ground to slowly maneuver himself behind Zafras and, on cue, he whacked the fisherman over the head with the diving helmet that Pratt had thrown on the deck. Zafras' head and the helmet made a satisfying clang as they connected and Zafras slid to the deck unconscious.

"Nice work, Professor," beamed Pratt. "Sorry about your helmet."

"That was quick thinking, worthy of Nicodemus Legend," said Bartok, smiling.

"Let's get back to shore before sleeping beauty wakes up," suggested Pratt. "I suppose he was working for Valerie?"

"Yes, but how did you know?" asked the professor.

"Well, I didn't like him when I first saw him on the beach," admitted Pratt. "He was smiling too much, and he's got beady little eyes. Always makes someone look suspicious." Bartok smirked, remembering the comments that had been made about Pratt having beady little eyes himself. "On top of that," continued Pratt, oblivious, "you weren't looking very happy when I broke the surface. Zafras was waving, but not you. Besides, you didn't start asking where the Pod was, and since you are always so protective of your inventions, I knew that something must be wrong."

"A nice piece of reasoning," said Bartok, as he unfurled the sail and hoisted the anchor. "But I was wondering where the Bartok Deep-Sea Life Preservation Pod was. That was a very complex and expensive piece of scientific equipment. So, what happened?"

Pratt attempted to change the subject. "Well, don't you want to see it?" he said, grinning.

"Of course I want to see it. Ramos and I spent months perfecting the complex electrical systems within the Pod and I would like it back!"

Pratt swallowed. "I'm sorry Janos. It's gone but," he changed the subject back, "here it is! Uncle Nick's Caesar's Eye! With this you can buy ten of your Pods!"

"The technology within the Bartok Deep-Sea Life Preservation Pod was irreplaceable," sniffed Bartok. He then managed a smile. "But I haven't worked with you for nearly two years without learning that some casualties amongst my inventions are unavoidable with Ernest Pratt around. Please, I would like to see the diamond."

Pratt returned the smile and carefully took the jewel out from its pouch, its home for at least the last one hundred years. Bartok caught his breath when he saw the jewel, and handled it with some awe, sadly considering the blood that had been spilled for this one carbon-based gem. He returned it to its pouch and, between them, the two colleagues got Zafras' boat back to shore, its unconscious owner laid in the bow.

Pratt looked back at their would-be captor. "Will we need to be on the lookout for Valerie when we get to shore?"

"I don't think so. Zafras commented that he was to deliver us to her. I think she's still back east. However, I do wonder how she knew to leave a message for him to kidnap us here in California."

"Well, I guess the only way to find out is to head back home," Pratt replied, as they made preparations to release Zafras to the authorities, and readied the Carriage for the journey home, the whalebone compass guiding their path.

"Thank you, Ernest. Take care and come back soon!" The woman planted a big kiss on his cheek.

Pratt cringed. "Bye, Mom." He walked down the steps of his mother's home in San Francisco to where Ramos and Bartok were waiting. Before they could say anything to further his embarrassment at his mother's affection, Pratt said, "Let's go home, fellas."

It had been six eventful weeks since Pratt's dive into the shipwreck. Pratt and Bartok had arrived in Colorado only to find that Ramos had beaten them back, in the company of Valerie Monihan's thugs. Unfortunately, they had caught up with him and permanently damaged the balloon after just ten days (Valerie's insistence on target practice for them had obviously paid off). Thankfully, Ramos was able to land relatively unhurt, but he had been caught by Valerie's gang. Valerie was able to learn of Pratt and Bartok's plan, and made preparations through Zafras by telegraph. Once Pratt and Bartok discovered what had happened to Ramos, they were able to ambush the ambushers with a little help from Skeeter, sending the thugs to Motes' jail and turning Valerie over to the higher state authorities. Since no-one but Bartok, Pratt, and the hapless fisherman had known for certain that they had found the Caesar's Eye (Indeed, Zafras didn't even know for certain, since he'd never seen it.), the three friends had decided to keep the conclusion of Uncle Nick's treasure hunt secret.

Although it seemed a pity to cut such a wondrous diamond, it was agreed that the best way to protect the secret of the Caesar's Eye's identity was to split it. Bartok and Ramos concocted a rather elaborate method of splitting the diamond, The Bartok Amplified Light Matter Separator, and cut it into several smaller gems which could be sold. The money was split four ways. One quarter of it went to Ernest's mother, Uncle Nick's sister, who was still having to struggle with debts on the house (largely due to Pratt's outstanding gambling markers). One quarter was placed into a bank account to be released to Valerie Monihan in the unlikely event that she ever got out of jail. (Pratt used some of his old newspaper connections to orchestrate this so that it would appear to have come from a long lost bank account belonging to Nicholas. Despite the great crimes she had committed, the men unanimously agreed that she had been treated badly by Nicholas, and deserved some of the money.) One quarter was given to Bartok and Ramos, giving them suitable compensation for the equipment that had been lost or damaged. Already the scientists were discussing ideas and improvements for the new Legend balloon that they were planning to build. The final quarter was given to Pratt, giving him enough money to guarantee his standard of living for quite some time.

"Are you going to do anything special with the money to honor your uncle?" asked Bartok.

Pratt took out his whalebone compass which he had recently attached to his watch chain. He looked at it thoughtfully, then smiled. "I am indeed, Janos. I'm going to throw a huge party down at the Buffalo Head Saloon with enough free whisky for everyone. That's just what Uncle Nick would have wanted!"

Fin

This story copyright 1998 Sarah O’Donoghue. As with everything else on the Steampunk Central Website no profit is derived from this work, and all contents are for entertainment and educational purposes only. See main index page for full disclaimer.

Back to the Platforms Back to the Ticket Office

Hosted by www.Geocities.ws