Doctor Who: The Devil Goblins From Neptune (20 page)

'Right you are then, sir,' said Davis. As he pulled away from the roadblock he couldn't help but laugh.

Liz checked the Doctor's vital signs for the second time that minute. Still no change. It seemed that the Doctor was in a deep coma.

Of course, she had only a vague idea what was normal for the Doctor anyway. She knew that he had twin hearts, a lower-than human body temperature, and a physiology with massive built-in redundancy. But only the faintest exhalation could be detected from the Doctor's mouth. And that was surely bad news in anyone's book.

She suddenly remembered her parents, on the day that she announced she was going to Cambridge to read medicine rather than physics. They'd been outwardly supportive, but deep down she'd known they didn't approve, that they were concerned that she was letting her romanticism get in the way of her rationality. She'd qualified -

BM BCh, with a one-year BSc in physics just for good measure - but of course they'd been right. Four months as a house officer in some benighted inner-city A&E department had been enough for her. Thank God she'd made an impression on the Physics Department at St Leonard's. She was working towards her PhD within four weeks of shoving her white coat in a bin and walking out of the hospital.

But there were times - and this was one of them - when her years studying medicine were something of a comfort, although, as she tried to find the Doctor's pulse again, she wasn't sure that having qualified as a vet wouldn't have been more useful.

She felt rather than saw someone walk up behind her.

She turned. It was Shuskin. If impatience was an Olympic sport, then without any doubt here was the USSR's next gold medal winner. 'Is he better yet?' she asked.

'No.' said Liz, trying not to get cross. 'You can see that, surely?'

'We cannot wait any longer. As soon as we establish radio contact with base I will be requesting a full-scale nuclear strike' 'But_ but that could be catastrophic'

'Don't worry, we will make sure the Americans are fully aware of the situation'

'That's not what I mean, and you know it'

Shuskin seemed unperturbed. Now that we have definite proof of these creatures' aggression I do not have any other options.'

'But what makes you think that a nuclear strike will work when your other displays of military muscle have failed?'

'We only need one hit for the target to be obliterated.'

replied Shuskin. 'And we will launch as many missiles as it takes.'

Mike Yates loathed post-mortems. On a scale of most-hated things, they came right behind sandals, free-form jazz, and girls he was chatting up saying the two most dreaded words in the English language. 'my boyfriend'.

For that reason he elected to stay outside the pathology lab while Dr French dissected the corpse. Yates had tried to contact New York HQ to inform them of Davis's untimely death and request that his next of kin be informed, but thunderstorms had brought down phone lines on the east coast the previous night. He still hadn't been able to contact the Brigadier, despite having left several messages at the hotel. For the moment, Yates was on his own.

After an inordinately long period during which he engaged in pointless small talk with Claire, the medical secretary, Mike was beginning to feel fidgety and nervous. It was ridiculous.' he was acting commander of UNIT, and yet he felt like a small boy waiting outside the headmaster's study after having been caught smoking behind the bike shed. A feeling that Mike Yates knew very well.

'You can go in if you want. I'm sure he'll have finished by now,' said Claire brightly.

Mike shook his head. It was hard to be all butch and manly when making excuses, but he knew it would be even harder if he was on his hands and knees vomiting at the smell of embalming fluid. 'I'm allergic to some of the chemicals they use,' he said. 'I'll just hang around here.

Anyway, you were saying...'

To Yates's immense relief the double doors of the laboratory swung open and Dr French emerged with an enigmatic expression on his face. 'Captain Yates,' he said,

'How goes the hunt for our demon bomber?'

Mike growled something under his breath.

'So, I take it you want to know what killed this man, then?' French asked.

'No, actually, I was thinking of selling you tickets to the regimental dinner-dance'

'I'm busy,' said French.

'So am I, Doctor.' replied Yates angrily. 'I've now had two incidents under my command. One fatal'

French shrugged in seeming disinterest. 'Then you'd be better off cracking puerile one-liners with the local constabulary.' His voice was even and calm. 'Talk to them.'

'I'm talking to you!' hissed Yates through gritted teeth. 'So tell me something I want to know.'

If French was taken aback by Mike's anger, he didn't show it. 'Go and get yourself a cup of tea, Claire.' he said.

'You look knackered - you'll have been up half the night.'

The secretary left the room quickly, blushing slightly.

French sat in her chair and dropped the autopsy report on the desk. 'Pull up a seat, Captain.'

Mike considered standing as a show of strength but French's apparent disinterest in continuing the fight persuaded him to opt for comfort. He sat opposite the doctor and asked the obvious question. 'So.' how did he die?'

'Fractured skull, massive cerebral haemorrhage. Struck by a blunt instrument at the back of the skull. Probably the lead piping. In the laboratory.'

'By?' asked Mike.

'Who do you think I am? Dixon of Dock Green?' French glanced down at the file. 'Mind you, it's possible he just hit his head on the floor when he fell. That would be consistent with the evidence.'

'And the acid?'

'Nasty stuff. Went right through muscle and bone.

Certainly it contributed to the poor chap's death. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if getting it in the face caused him to fall over and smash his bonce. I'm not being too technical for you here, am I?' Yates ignored the man's facetiousness.

'However, the interesting thing is that most of the acid was applied after death.'

'What?'

'Thought that would surprise you. Most of the stuff on the face and all of it on the hands by the look of the tissue damage and the splash marks around the body. Now, I don't want to tell you your job, but...'

'It sounds as though the murderer didn't want the victim to be identified, either facially or by fingerprints.'

'Very good, Captain.' said French. 'Do you do this for a living?' 'Which means that the body may not be Bruce Davis.'

'That's right.'

Yates considered this for a moment. 'The man who died was wearing Bruce's clothes. That suggests to me that the corpse is either him or was killed by him.'

'Only one way to tell for sure,' agreed French. 'Dental records. I'll send Claire to fetch them when she gets back from her tea break'

'Good man,' said Yates, standing quickly. 'It's time the Brigadier was brought up to speed.'

'And if you can't get in touch with him again?' asked French with a hint of sympathy in his voice.

'Then,' said Mike, 'I guess it's down to me. Again.'

'Don't be a fool, Captain Shuskin,' said the Doctor.

Liz and Shuskin spun round. He was still lying on the ground, his eyes closed.

'Sorry?' said Liz in surprise.

The Doctor sat bolt upright. 'I'm advising Captain Shuskin to

be cautious.' he said, staring ahead unblinkingly for a moment.

'The fallout would be enormous. Make you very unpopular with the rest of the world'

Shuskin snorted. 'So we sit here and do nothing?'

'Of course not,' said the Doctor, getting to his feet.

'Are you all right?' asked Liz.

'I'm very well, thank you. Just catching up on forty winks.

Soul-catching can be rather tiring'

'Well, next time, how about warning me before collapsing in a heap?'

'I'll try to bear that in mind,' said the Doctor. He turned to the Soviet captain. 'Now then, my dear, subtlety is what we require. Just a few of us, moving through the forest, have a chance of getting safely to the base. Then we can see what's there, and make a fair and balanced decision. Much better than blundering in with nuclear weapons flying all over the place, wouldn't you say?'

'I am not convinced. We will just be picked off like vermin'

The Doctor pointed towards the blackened remains of the Waro creature. 'They are very reliant on those primitive artificial wings,' he said. 'Give me a few minutes, and I'll come up with something that jams the motors. That should make us immune from attack'

'Very well' Shuskin nodded. 'But I am having all nuclear missile bases put on immediate stand-by. And if we do not report back to base by dusk tonight, a massive strike will be launched against this area'

The Doctor smiled. 'Thank you, Captain. I knew you'd see sense' He turned to Liz. 'Would you mind giving me a hand? Time is rather of the essence.'

The stress and anxiety of the last few days finally caught up with the Brigadier and he slumped wearily in the front seat of the car, dozing intermittently.

He was woken suddenly by a tapping on the window. He shook himself awake and looked dizzily through the glass. A red-lipped smile was the first thing he took in. Sitting upright and winding down the window, Lethbridge-Stewart found himself looking at a young woman in a very short leather skirt, fishnet stockings and a tight angora sweater.

'Bonjour,' she said with a charming smile.

'I beg your pardon?' said the Brigadier, still disorientated.

'Anglais?' the woman asked with a slight tremor in her voice. 'You are liking it, yes?'

'Young lady,' said the Brigadier, recovering his wits, 'I am not liking it. Comprenez-vous?'

'Oui. Up yours!'

Delightful, thought the Brigadier, as he closed the window. Farther down the road he could see a small knot of similarly dressed women watching each passing car with interest. Clearly Ise was in the middle of the local red-light district. He glanced at his watch. Ye gods, but they worked all hours on the Continent.

He eased himself back in his seat, and stared across the road at the warehouse. He was beginning to feel more than a trifle foolish.

Half an hour later, just before dawn, a lorry approached the warehouse from the far end of the street. It was a large military vehicle with a green canvas rear. A man in dark clothing jumped from the cab as it approached the building.

Putting a key in the lock, he looked around furtively. The huge doors opened to admit the lorry, then slammed shut a moment later.

The Brigadier stepped from the car and watched with interest as lights began to flicker behind the warehouse's filthy windows. Thinking quickly, he withdrew his wallet and nervously approached the group of prostitutes. He coughed loudly to attract their attention.

'Look,' he began. 'Delicate matter, this, but I have a proposition to put to you...'

* * *

Bruce changed down into second, throwing the Land Rover around a small roundabout and scaring half to death the old woman in the little blue buggy thing to his left. He wondered if she knew her car had only three wheels.

He drove slowly along the almost deserted promenade.

This early in the morning the amusement arcades were just opening up, and old men bent double with age were carrying armfuls of deck chairs down to the beach.

The Land Rover came to a halt, facing the sea. Bruce flashed the headlights, then turned off the engine. He left the keys in the ignition, pushed open the door, shooing away the gulls that picked at the strewn remains of somebody's fish and chips. A stiff wind buffeted the seafront, bringing with it the tang of salt and seaweed.

'0i, mate,' said one of the deck-chair attendants, 'You've left your lights on.'

Bruce ignored him, and vaulted over the cast-iron railings, landing smartly on the sandy beach. The tide was in, and it didn't take Bruce long to reach the water's edge. He stared out at the dark sea, the wind tugging his hair. Waiting.

A little later he heard a droning noise over the crash of the waves. A dark shape skidded towards him across the water, gliding to a halt just in front of him.

He stepped nonchalantly aboard the hovercraft, which turned and moved swiftly back over the surface of the Channel.

It was Liz who reminded the Doctor that, if he wanted to construct a device to jam the artificial wings of the Waro, then perhaps letting Shuskin torch the one specimen they had wasn't such a good idea.

'Ah,' the Doctor had said, fiddling with some equipment he'd found in one of the armoured personnel carriers, 'I hadn't thought of that. Probably the after-effects of the soul-catching. perhaps if you could ask Shuskin to search the area thoroughly Ili Ili ping might be found...'

And so the Soviets had inspected the area around the destroyed vehicles. One of them found a Waro corpse, and dragged it across to the Doctor.

'Good man,' he said.

In this light the creature looked more like a grotesque vampire bat, with large ears and rows of needle-sharp teeth.

The corpse's eyes were blank and accusatory.

Liz examined the wings more closely. They emerged from a box held on to the creature's back like a rucksack, simple motorised limbs and joints connected by a strong rubbery material. Without saying a word the Doctor passed her a flat piece of metal that he had been using as a lever, and she began to prise off the back. 'It certainly looks primitive, said Liz.

That's what I'm relying on,' said the Doctor. 'The control mechanisms and software must be quite sophisticated, given the degree of agility we've witnessed, but I rather expect the motors and so on will be simple. Less to break, I suppose.'