02x12 - Werewolves

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Who's there?!

Answer me, or I'm setting the dogs on you!

God help you! Go!

Look at the moon. It's so big.

Yes, it's beautiful.

Do you think there's moon men living up there?

Oh, I don't think so, Alwyn.

The moon has no atmosphere.

And life needs free oxygen to survive.

William?

How surprising to see you here.

And Mrs. Jones.

Dr. Ogden.

Out gazing at the moon, were you?

Mr. Murdoch says life can't exist up there 'cause there's no oxygen.

Well, actually, they've just discovered a bacterium that thrives in the complete absence of oxygen.

Why, then, I would bet that there are moon men up there right now eating all that green cheese.

I'm sorry. My manners.

I'd like you to meet Reginald Poundsett.

This is William --

Detective William Murdoch.

A pleasure.

And Mrs. Enid Jones.

Enid Jones.

Mrs. Jones.

And I'm Alwyn.

Young man.

Well, we should be going. We don't want to be late.

Yes. Have a wonderful evening.

So there could be moon men?

Well...

Yes, Alwyn. Of course there could.

Of course there could be.

He's asleep.

Dreaming of moon men, no doubt.

It was strange bumping into Dr. Ogden like that, wasn't it?

Yes.

Mr. Poundsett seems like a pleasant fellow.

So, is it a romance between them, then?

I wouldn't know.

We don't discuss such things.

Would it bother you if it was?

I-I don't know.

Why would you ask me such a thing?

It's obvious when you see her, William.

Obvious to me, if not to you.

Enid, I can assure you that Dr. Ogden and I are professional colleagues, and that is all.

Are you sure you're not just saying that to spare my feelings?

Sorry to interrupt, sir. Uh, ma'am.

You're needed, sir.

Evening, sir.

What have we?

The victim was found just after 9:30.

Have you determined identity?

We found this on his person. Merrill Hardy.

He was vice president at Dominion Bank.

What are those?

Those, sir, we believe, are his dogs.

And they -- Well, they've been mauled.

Strange place for a banker to be walking his dogs.

I thought so, too.

Hello again, Doctor. What have we?

Quite a mess.

The entire throat area is torn open.

Torn?

It appears to be the result of a bite, but I have no idea what could cause such a savage wound.

Perhaps his dogs turned on him?

Except they're both dead.

And this is much larger than anything a dog could do.

It could be a bear, I suppose.

Bears use their claws.

A wolf, perhaps?

Possibly.

But a wolf running loose in a modern city?

It's like some terrible fairy tale.

Yes.

Fairy tales are make-believe.

And what we have here is very, very real.

Yes. Shocking is the word.

No. No. Of course. You're right, sir.

There are no words.

I'll see to it personally. Bye.

The chief constable?

The bleeding mayor.

Seems him and Merrill Hardy were tennis partners.

Naturally, he wants this beast captured and k*lled.

Of course.

So I've called in a tracker.

We've got one, you know. Works at the stables.

Oh. That's prudent, I suppose.

But I'm not entirely convinced we're looking for a wolf.

Why not?

Well, there are a number of troubling questions.

Such as?

When was the last time you heard of a wolf att*ck?

I don't know, but I know they happen.

They're what make the Brothers Grimm so bloody grim.

Yes, but wouldn't the wolf have fed on the carcass?

Perhaps it was scared off.

There's also this.

Mr. Hardy's g*n.

He had it out and ready when he was k*lled.

Still loaded.

As if he never had a chance to get a sh*t off.

I admit, that is curious.

Excuse me, Inspector. Uh, you asked for a tracker?

Ah. James, isn't it? Come in.

Crabtree!

Jimmy, actually. Jimmy McLeod.

Detective William Murdoch. Nice to meet you, Jimmy.

The same.

Sir?

Take Jimmy here back to the m*rder scene.

See if he can pick up the trail of this wolf.

Yes, sir.

So now the investigation is officially under way, how are we gonna answer these lingering questions?

By finding out what a banker was doing in a b*rned-out foundry with a loaded g*n and two guard dogs.

I don't know what Merrill was doing there.

He just said, "I'm...

I'm taking the dogs, and I'll be back in an hour."

And then he kissed me.

If I had known it was going to be the last time...

Mrs. Hardy, this must be terribly difficult for you.

Your husband was carrying a p*stol.

A p*stol?

What on earth for? What...

Perhaps he was having trouble with someone?

Oh, no, no, no.

Merrill got along with everybody.

Yet he felt the need to keep two large guard dogs as well.

We only got those last month.

Merrill said there had been some lurkers in the neighborhood.

But now I'm wondering if it was something else.

What do you mean?

One night I woke, and he was standing there, staring out the window, as if he was looking for someone... or something.

Mrs. Hardy, did your husband keep a diary or some place he collected his thoughts?

He had a daybook in his desk.

Concrete.

Not many tracks to be found in concrete.

No.

So, how does one track when there are no tracks?

Do you look for overturned stones, broken twigs, and such?

Well, there's always tracks.

You don't have to find every one. Just the next one.

Where did you learn to track?

My grandfather.

I lived with him until I was 10.

Where did you go then?

I got taken away. Sent to residential school.

What is it?

See for yourself.

These are a man's footprints. We're looking for a wolf.

But look how he was standing. Facing the wall.

Or... peering around the wall.

He may have watched the att*ck.

In fact, this man could be involved.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

What makes you say that?

Because now the tracks go the other way.

And he was running.

Well, yes. He was fleeing the scene of the crime.

Or racing for his life.

Mrs. Hardy, do you know a Jake S.?

Only one. Jacob Summers.

He's an architect, an associate of Merrill's.

Pull!

Damn!

Jacob Summers.

Yes?

Detective William Murdoch, Toronto Constabulary.

Well, we'll talk tomorrow.

Detective.

How may I help you?

I understand you knew Merrill Hardy?

Yes, I did.

Terrible what happened.

Did you send him this telegram?

Jamison Foundry. That's where Merrill was k*lled.

Are you suggesting I had something to do with it?

I repeat, sir -- Did you send him this telegram?

No, I didn't.

Curious. He apparently only knew one Jake S. -- you.

I sign all my correspondence "J. Summers."

Everyone knows that.

Including Merrill Hardy?

Well, I should think so.

We did business on several occasions.

I'll need to know your whereabouts for yesterday afternoon and evening.

Detective, I am not this Jake S.

Again, sir. Your whereabouts.

I was at the office until 6:00, and then I went to the Waverly Men's Club, where I spent the remainder of the evening.

Pull!

Where the devil is he headed?

Shh.

Stay behind me. This could be dangerous.

Doesn't seem all that dangerous to me.

Oh!

Rise and shine.

This telegram Merrill Hardy received was sent while Mr. Summers was at his club.

And we're sure of that?

Several people have placed him there.

He could have got someone to send it for him.

Perhaps. But there is the issue of his signature.

Perhaps he slipped up and signed it differently.

Or perhaps he's telling the truth, and it's the k*ller who has slipped up.

So Hardy gets the telegram and realizes he's being lured to this location.

So why not go to the police?

I think we should assume that Mr. Hardy was involved in something criminal.

So, thinking he has the advantage, he prepares for a confrontation.

Only two dogs and a g*n aren't enough to stop the k*ller.

Excuse me, sir. We've had a spot of success.

You've tracked down a wolf?

Not a wolf.

I was a mite dry, and was a fella I know keeps a stash 'round back of the boiler, on account of his missus gets into it if it's in the house.

So you thought you'd help yourself?

I was just borrowing.

I'm not a thief.

Of course not.

So, what happened?

I heard 'em.

Dogs growling as if they were fighting for their lives.

So you went to see what was happening.

Aye.

Saw the dogs lying there.

Torn to pieces!

And then I saw it.

Saw what?

A flash of fur.

A wolf, perhaps?

Aye. That's what it was, all right.

A wolf.

Mm. And did you see what happened to the victim?

No.

But I heard him scream.

And then I ran. And I hid.

Like a coward.

And then I saw it walk past.

The wolf?

It weren't no wolf.

It was a man.

You said you saw a wolf. Now, which was it?

You ain't listening.

It was a wolf I saw in that building, but it was a man that came out!

I think we can all agree that the witness was describing a werewolf.

Bloody hell, Crabtree. It wasn't a werewolf.

It was a full moon last night, sir.

There was a man, and there was a wolf.

And the man was using his wolf as a w*apon.

But, sir, the witness only saw the one leave.

He was three sheets to the wind in a gale.

Who knows what he saw?

Sir, it's probably not my place to say this.

Speak your mind, Jimmy.

Well, sir, uh, it's my understanding that the witness didn't say he saw a wolf exactly.

Just a flash.

It was the sounds that he heard -- the snarling and the growling -- that made him think it was a wolf.

So what do you think it was?

A windigo, sir.

A windigo?

It's the name that we give to an evil spirit that lives up in the northern woods.

It takes possession of the people and makes them hunger for human flesh.

Cannibals. Now, that's a chilling thought.

You know, I've heard that in the islands near Borneo --

Crabtree!

Actually, sir, there may be something to both of these arguments.

Oh, not you too, Murdoch.

I'm not suggesting anything supernatural, but there are people who believe themselves to be animals.

So you're saying this is some kind of lunatic with a taste for human blood?

It would explain the feral nature of the att*cks.

How does a man tear out another man's throat, then?

And what kind of lunatic has the presence of mind to send his victim a telegram in advance?

That's what I intend to find out.

Oh, fine. You go looking for your wolf man.

And you two get back to the alley.

We're looking for a man and a wolf.

See if you can find out where they went.

Well, move it!

So, have you an opinion, Dr. Roberts?

The condition you're describing is lycanthropy.

The term is applied to individuals who, for psychological reasons, believe themselves to be an animal, most often a wolf.

Hence, lycanthropy's traditional association with the werewolf myth.

The victim was discovered with his throat ripped out.

A witness claims to have heard snarling and growling during the att*cks.

And you'd like to know if this could be the work... of a lycanthrope.

Yes.

There are several documented instances of lycanthropes attacking sheep because they're the natural prey of the wolf.

Well, this would seem to suggest the sufferer was extremely delusional.

It's a very rare and a very strange condition.

In this case, the k*ller seems to have been lucid enough to have lured his victim to his death.

There is precedent for such behavior.

For example, a suspected lycanthrope named Antonio Léger led a woman into a cave, where he subsequently k*lled and devoured her.

So, could your k*ller be a lycanthrope?

Absolutely.

Is he one?

I couldn't say without examining him.

But what I can tell you with authority is that you're dealing with a deeply disturbed individual.

I've never ridden in a carriage before.

Really?

Yeah.

I've cleaned them, I've harnessed horses to them, but I've never rode in one.

How did you come to work at the stable?

I wanted to be a copper, but it didn't work out.

I think you'd make a fine copper.

Your instincts are sound.

Well, we both know there aren't any Indian coppers.

Doesn't mean there couldn't be.

They tried to b*at the Indian out of me at the school.

They should have b*at the color off of me, too.

It'll be a long time before they let someone like me wear that uniform.

Detective, your timing is impeccable.

I was just about to leave for an engagement with Mr. Poundsett.

I see. Well, then I'll be brief.

Have you Mr. Hardy's postmortem results?

I do. Nothing beyond the obvious.

Death due to massive blood loss.

Jugular and carotid arteries both severed.

Do you think it's possible the wound could have been caused by sharpened fingernails?

Fingernails?

Part of a theory I'm developing, that the k*ller is suffering from lycanthropy.

And they're somehow emulating the att*ck of a wolf?

Exactly.

Well, I suppose it... it might account for the width of the gash.

But...

But?

The wound is symmetrical.

A hand is not.

There's only one opposing thumb.

I'm also not sure that fingernails could withstand the force required to tear the flesh out.

I see.

Well, thank you.

There is one other thing.

Animal att*cks are rare, so I contacted some colleagues to see if they'd had any experience with them.

And had they?

Yes.

Three, actually. All in the last few months.

I don't know if there's any connection.

Most interesting. I'll be sure to look into it.

Thank you very much, Doctor.

Yes.

Well, as I said, I have -- have an appointment.

I have one of my own.

I'm no expert, by any means, but I believe the werewolf curse is caused by a Gypsy spell.

The evil eye.

Why the full moon?

I don't know.

I suppose it exerts some sort of supernatural force.

And after he kills, does he turn back to human?

I believe so.

And with no recollection of anything that's happened.

What happens to his clothes after he transforms?

Does he wake up naked?

Does he wake up naked?

I've often asked myself that very question.

Hmm.

What is it?

More shoe prints.

The witness's.

No. These are different.

The man the witness saw.

Any wolf tracks?

None.

Well, we'd best see where these lead.

Enid, I must apologize to you.

This case has been monopolizing my time.

It's what you do.

It is.

However, I wanted to discuss what you brought up last night about Dr. Ogden.

And?

And...

I must confess it has been difficult to put her out of my mind.

I see.

But I shall endeavor to do so.

William, that's not enough.

I don't know what more I can do.

If it were just me, I might be inclined to participate in some battle for your affection.

But there is no one else.

William, of course there is.

Alwyn.

And as you know, he is the most important thing in my life.

I can't allow him to grow attached to you... only to have you go back to her.

I can't take that chance.

Nor would I want you to.

Then I need you to decide, once and for all, what it is that you want.

Where was he headed? For the river?

He wasn't going to the river.

He went in there.

Are you sure he came this way?

Yes.

No.

There's been too much water.

Well, if we've lost the trail, he could be anywhere.

Or he could be up around the next bend.

I think it prudent we pay a visit to the station, report our findings, maybe enlist some help while we're there.

A search party would be good.

Or maybe a trip to the armory.

That'd be good, too.

Used the sewers, did he?

Good way to move a wolf unseen through a city.

Well, actually, sir, we didn't find any wolf tracks.

None at all?

No.

We looked very carefully. Your man would've found them.

That's very strange.

And the man you were tracking?

We lost his trail in the sewer.

Too much water. Sorry, sir.

Is there anything else?

No. That's good work, Jimmy.

If we need you, we'll send for you.

Uh, sir, can I have a moment?

What is it?

Uh, it's about Jimmy.

What about him?

He's proving very useful, sir, and...

Well, sir, he's confessed to me an interest in becoming a police officer, so I thought that I --

I'll stop you right there, Crabtree.

Sir, he's got genuine ability.

I don't doubt he's a smart lad.

He's probably got a better head on his shoulders than most of this lot around here.

Well, then why not g-- Why not give him a chance?

Because I can't change the world.

I wish I could.

Yes, sir.

A doctor from Port Credit was found three months ago with his throat ripped out.

It was assumed to have been a bear att*ck.

Though it could just as easily have been a wolf.

Then in August, a local alderman was found outside of Galt.

His throat had also been ripped out.

Wild dogs were thought to have been responsible.

And then, finally, a Newcastle man was found in his backyard.

And his throat was torn out.

Precisely.

What profession?

Lawyer.

These three and Merrill Hardy.

All k*lled in the same manner.

All toffs.

There's one more connection, sir.

All of these murders took place under the full moon.

It's still a full moon tonight.

Bloody hell.

Then we'd better find out where he's going to strike next, hadn't we?

Sir, I made a few inquiries, and I found several connections between the victims.

These two men went to university together but didn't get on very well.

Um, these three all invested in the same oil-drilling project in Pennsylvania, which didn't pan out.

And this man was a member of the same g*n club as Merrill Hardy at one point.

g*n club? Which g*n club?

The Radcliffe Sportsman's Club.

Jacob Summers is a member of that club.

His wife said he would be working late.

Mr. Summers?

That's odd. It's completely dark.

Mr. Summers?

There's something wrong with the lights.

Sir, what's this?

Shotgun blast, I'd say.

Hello?

I think we can safely eliminate Mr. Summers as a suspect.

Three shells spent.

One through the door panel.

The other two through the glass.

He must have been sitting here in the dark with his finger on the trigger.

As though he was anticipating an att*ck.

Mm.

Just like Merrill Hardy.

Sir.

You may want to take a look at this.

The victim is in the picture.

So, too, is Merrill Hardy.

Not just Mr. Hardy, George.

All five victims are in this photograph.

A hunting party.

But who's the sixth fella?

There's something familiar about his face.

Well, we'll talk tomorrow.

Detective.

He was with Mr. Summers at the g*n club.

George, see if anyone at the g*n club can identify him.

Sir.

Seems we need to find out a bit more about this little hunting party, me old mucker.

Indeed, sir.

I'm sorry. I don't... recognize him.

I don't recognize any of them.

Except Jake and...

Merrill, of course.

Mrs. Hardy, do you have any idea where or when this photograph might have been taken?

Merrill's scarf.

I knit it for his birthday.

Last year.

Where did he hunt last fall?

I believe it was out of Muskoka Lodge.

I remember he came back and he was very... subdued.

Ill-tempered, really.

We quarreled about it.

Ah. Sir.

We're still trying to determine this gentleman's identity, but it's beginning to prove difficult.

We know he's not a member of the club, so most likely he was Mr. Summers' guest.

But then, as far as pinpointing a name...

I think I can help narrow things down, George.

How's that?

Telephone the Muskoka Lodge and get a list of every guest that stayed there last fall.

Compare that to the guest list at the g*n club.

Right away, sir.

Oh, also, Dr. Ogden is here to see you.

Dr. Ogden.

What brings you here?

I was conducting my postmortem on Mr. Summers when I discovered something I felt you should be made aware of.

What is it?

I discovered this embedded in Mr. Summers' fourth vertebra.

The lower-right cuspid of a canine.

I suspect, given the size, it belongs to a wolf.

Which would seem to confirm the inspector's theory of a wolf under a man's control.

Actually, I don't think so.

Teeth, especially healthy teeth, don't just break off when ripping through flesh, which made me curious.

So I inspected the tooth more closely, and I discovered a straight groove running right through the center of the breakage point.

As though the tooth has been drilled through.

Exactly.

Well, I thought you'd want to know about it straightaway.

William, we can't do this.

We're both involved.

William?

William?

I'm sorry.

My mind was elsewhere.

Thank you, Doctor.

You're welcome, Detective.

Enid, I'm afraid you're right.

I don't think my feelings for Dr. Ogden will be dispelled anytime soon.

I see.

But you and Alwyn have come to mean so much to me.

And you to us.

I confess that I was hoping you would come to a different decision.

I never meant to cause either of you any pain.

I know.

But I think it's best that you go.

So, this is it, then?

What more could there be?

Goodbye, William.

Goodbye, Enid.

Mother, are you all right?

Come.

Come sit with me awhile.

There's something we need to talk about.

The tooth was machined, you say?

But why?

So it could be bolted to some form of device.

I believe that's how the k*ller is ripping the throats out.

To create the impression of a wolf.

Bloody devilish.

Sir, the man in the photo, we have a name for him -- Frank Jenson.

Very good, George.

Murdoch, keep your wits about you.

This Jenson may be another victim, but he could just as easily be the k*ller.

Yes, sir.

Be prepared for anything, George.

Sir.

Police!

Mr. Jenson?

Frank Jenson?

Mr. Jenson.

Put down the g*n, Mr. Jenson.

Are you all right?

It's impossible.

Where did he go?

We'll never catch him now.

He's got too much of a head start.

We'll need Jimmy again.

He went in there.

The sewers again.

Can you track him?

I'll try.

What is it?

Shh.

Something's moving.

I don't hear anything.

No.

Something's in here with us.

Sir! Sir!

Sir. Are you all right?

He had me by the throat.

It didn't bite?

I don't know.

He had me and... just released me.

Jimmy, are you all right?

Fine.

He went this way.

Sir, we came down here looking for a man, but what I saw --

That was a wolf.

Not a wolf, George.

A wolf would have k*lled me.

He went out.

Sir, this is the sewer outlet near the Jamison Foundry.

This would seem to confirm that he's using the sewers to access different parts of the city.

So what should we do now? Keep tracking him?

No.

I think I know of a quicker route to finding our k*ller.

What happened on that hunting trip, Mr. Jenson?

Don't feel like talking?

Well, sunshine, let me remind you -- Whatever did happen brought the wrath of hell down on every man that was with you.

Perhaps you should tell us.

Unless you want to take your chances the next full moon.

It was an accident.

What was?

It was Jake who pulled the trigger, but it wasn't his fault.

It was no one's fault.

We thought it was some animal.

But it wasn't.

Who was sh*t, Mr. Jenson?

Our guide.

An Indian. I don't -- I don't know his name.

He hit him square in the chest. There was nothing to be done.

So he d*ed. Then what happened?

He didn't exactly die.

What do you mean, "didn't exactly die"?

No, but he was going to. It was clear.

He had a chest wound, for God's sake.

What did you do?

What -- What could we do?

The -- The sun was setting.

You didn't carry him out?

You left him to die -- alone?

We buried him in branches and leaves.

But he couldn't have lived.

He couldn't have.

Clearly, the man they sh*t survived.

And now he's seeking the bloodiest revenge imaginable.

But, sir, whatever att*cked us was not a man.

It was a wolf.

Or at least some sort of --

George.

It was a man dressed as a wolf.

Why would he do that?

Perhaps he was a form of lycanthrope and the wolf held some psychological meaning for him.

Actually, sir, I think he may be a shaman.

A shaman?

We had one in our village.

And sometimes when he danced, he wore the head and the skin of a wolf.

Sounds like what you're describing.

It does.

But what would a shaman be doing working as a hunting guide?

The missionaries put an end to the shaman.

Now we have doctors and the good Lord Jesus.

So this shaman goes from being a high priest to a lackey for a bunch of country-club fat cats.

Who care so little for him, they leave him to die in the cold and dark.

And can't even remember his name.

Can't say I blame him for tearing their throats out.

But he's k*lled five men. And the law is the law.

George, contact the Muskoka Lodge.

See if anyone there remembers this man.

Sir.

Now, how do you propose we find him?

This is a map of the sewer lines that run beneath the city.

This is where he entered the system, near Frank Jensen's house.

This is where the old Jamison Foundry is... where Mr. Hardy was found.

Bloody hell, Murdoch.

There must be a hundred miles of sewer lines.

He could be anywhere.

Not anywhere, sir.

You see, he can only travel these main lines.

So if we post men at these main entrances and intersections, he'll be trapped down there.

Sir.

What is it?

There's a light, sir.

Turn off the lamp.

This must be his lair.

So where is he?

His bedding is still warm.

Probably heard us coming.

Sir.

This must be what he used.

Similar to a bear trap.

That would go through a man's throat like a Kn*fe through butter.

We know who you are.

We know what's happened to you.

It's all over.

He's got a Kn*fe, sir.

Frank Jenson is in jail.

Let justice take its course. Surrender yourself peacefully.

You're up against armed officers.

Stand down!

Stand down!

George! George, get help now!

Shh. Don't speak. Save your strength.

Jimmy, he wants you.

Maheengun.

What did he say?

Maheengun.

What does that mean?

It's an Ojibwa word for "wolf."

I think that was his real name, sir.

The perfect tool for a murderous lycanthrope.

Would that be your diagnosis, then?

No. He was most likely suffering from some kind of psychosis.

He adopted the wolf motif to reclaim his identity and terrify his victims.

I imagine, uh, it worked.

What did the full moon have to do with it?

Poetic justice.

They left him to die on a full moon.

The man clearly had a flair for the dramatic.

Yes, he did. Right to the bloody end.

What I don't understand is why he came at us like that.

He must have known we would sh**t him down.

Perhaps that's why he did it.

After all, what did he really have to live for?

He knew he was facing the noose.

Furthermore, with Jenson arrested, he'd done what he set out to do.

His desire for revenge gave him the strength to live.

Now, with that gone...

Yes, I suppose.

Still, hell of a thing.

I've never k*lled a man like that before.

But, sir, the regiment.

Oh, that's different.

You very rarely come face-to-face.

Last night, I looked this man in the eye as I pulled the trigger.

Well, if it's any consolation, you most likely saved my life.

Oh, it's all water under the bridge now.

Dr. Roberts, thank you very much.

Your insights are most appreciated.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have someplace I need to be.

As do I.

What's this, then?

My card.

Should you feel the need to discuss matters, give me a call.

I don't think there's anything wrong with me that a couple of whiskeys won't sort out, Doctor.

As you wish.

Jimmy.

You off, then?

Back to the stables.

Well, it was a pleasure working with you.

But, you know, in my opinion, the constabulary are wasting your talents.

Well, there's no changing the world, George.

Well, maybe not.

But this might help you.

What's this?

This is a friend of mine who works at the Pinkertons.

I told him about you. He's very keen.

You should go to the local office and ask for him.

I'll think about it.

You do that.

Master Alwyn.

Hello, Mr. Murdoch.

I don't know where my mother is.

Oh, that's all right.

Actually, I'm here to see you.

Really? Mother said you wouldn't be coming by anymore.

She's right.

I won't be.

So I brought this for you.

"From the Earth to the Moon."

Mm.

It's about a group of adventurers who build a cannon that sh**t them to the moon.

Is that even possible?

Well, it's a story.

I suppose anything is possible in stories.

But if you could build something that could push you faster than the earth's gravity pulls you down... you could go faster, faster, faster, until you reach escape velocity, and then the moon, that's just the beginning of your journey.

That could work?

Theoretically.

Maybe not in my lifetime, but quite possibly in yours.

"William Henry Murdoch."

It was my favorite book when I was a boy.

Thank you, Mr. Murdoch.

You're very welcome.

Mr. Murdoch?

Can I still come and see you?

Anytime, Alwyn.

Anytime.