Doctor Who: The Sea-Devils (7 page)

With these thoughts in mind Captain Hart got up and went into the next office, the Naval Base’s radio-room. Leading Telegraphist Bryson was on duty.

‘Bryson,’ said Hart, ‘whistle up oil-rig No. 5, will you?’

‘Anything in particular, sir?’ asked Bryson, as he adjusted his transmitter to the oil-rig’s wavelength.

‘I don’t know,’ said Hart. ‘Let’s see if we can get an answer first.’

Bryson spoke into a microphone: ‘
HMS Foxglove calling oil-rig five. I repeat, HMS Foxglove calling oil-rig five.
’ As with all Naval shore-establishments, the base had a name like a ship, and the name was always preceded with the words HMS—Her Majesty’s Ship.

‘How long do they usually take to reply?’ asked Hart.

‘When they’re fully operational, sir,’ said Bryson, ‘there’s always a sparks on duty. But No. 5’s only got two maintenance men on her. You know, that’s the rig where everything kept breaking down.’

‘Yes,’ said Captain Hart thoughtfully, ‘I remember.’ He suddenly made up his mind what had to be done. ‘Forget the call Bryson, and call up air-sea rescue.’

Jo opened a tin of baked beans and poured the contents into a little saucepan. They had had beans for breakfast, and now they would have to have beans for lunch. She could not find any other food anywhere on the oil-rig. Clark was at last sleeping peacefully, having had a troubled night full of bad dreams, and the Doctor was engrossed with building a complicated radio transmitter circuit from what remained of half-a-dozen pocket radios. Jo looked across at him and the tangle of wires strewn all over the table.

‘How’s it going?’ she asked.

‘Nearly finished,’ he said. ‘I’m just about to test it.’ He made a few final adjustments. ‘Now,’ he said proudly, ‘let’s see if we can call up the outside world!’

The Doctor turned on a switch that he had introduced into the circuits. From six tiny loudspeakers they heard one of the familiar voices of BBC Radio 1:‘—
and here’s a question for all serious motorists. If your car breaks down between Trafalgar Square and Aldwych, are you Stranded? Oh well, can’t win ’em all, so let’s move on to another golden oldie by the Beatles
—’ The Doctor turned off the switch, rested his chin on his hands and studied the mass of wires. ‘Somehow I must have forgotten to reverse the circuits,’ he muttered.

‘Maybe some food will help you to think better,’ suggested Jo. ‘It’ll be ready soon.’ She got on with cooking the beans while the Doctor set to work again with his wires, diodes and transistors.

After a few moments had passed Jo said, ‘Last night... that thing that attacked us... you said it was related to something that came out of caves in Derbyshire?’

‘That’s right,’ said the Doctor, as though that closed the matter.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘can you explain what you meant?’

‘It’s a rather sad story,’ the Doctor began. ‘You see, millions of years ago reptiles were the masters of this planet.’
*

‘I know all about the dinosaurs,’ said Jo.

‘Everybody knows about the dinosaurs,’ said the Doctor, rather resenting the interruption. ‘What people don’t know is that the reptiles also developed a highly intelligent form of humanoid,
homo reptilia
. These creatures believed that Earth was going to be badly affected by the arrival of a rogue planet from outer space, so they prepared deep underground shelters for themselves. The little planet didn’t cause any great harm at all—in fact, it got caught within Earth’s gravity and went into orbit around it.’

‘The Moon!’ exclaimed Jo.

‘Exactly,’ said the Doctor. ‘These reptile men and women had put themselves into deep hibernation, so that they wouldn’t use up any food or oxygen while they were in their shelters. Their plan was that special triggers on the surface would re-activate them all once the little planet had gone on its way. But because it went into orbit instead, and became the Moon, the triggering mechanisms never worked.’

Jo asked, ‘How many of these shelters did they build?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ said the Doctor. ‘Possibly thousands, all over the world. When the reptile men started to be re-activated up in Derbyshire, you can imagine how they felt about
homo sapiens
being the masters now.’

‘I don’t know that I can,’ said Jo.

The Doctor paused in his work to make his point. ‘Jo, if you went to sleep for, say, twenty years in your home, and then woke up to find it had been taken over by rats and mice, how would you feel about that?’

‘I’d want to clear them out,’ Jo said. ‘I see what you mean now. These reptiles think of humans as vermin?’

‘Naturally,’ said the Doctor. ‘To them, Earth is
their
planet, and always has been. As far as they’re concerned, Man is an ape who’s risen above himself.’

‘If they’d been hibernating for millions of years,’ Jo asked, ‘what woke them up?’

‘In Derbyshire it was the presence of a cyclotrone using enormous amounts of electrical power,’ said the Doctor. ‘Here, for this is clearly what we’re witnessing again, I don’t know... probably something to do with the drilling being carried out by this oil-rig.’ He sat back and regarded his make-do radio transmitter. ‘I think that should work now. What’s our call sign?’

Jo left her stove to look around the smashed-up transmitter. ‘It’s written on the wall here,’ she said, ‘ZXT 413.’

The Doctor switched on, then picked up one of the pocket transistors and spoke into its loudspeaker: ‘
May Day... May Day... This is ZXT 413. We are stranded on the oil-rig. Please send immediate assistance. Can you hear me? Can you hear me? Over.
’ The Doctor turned on the pocket radio that he had left intact as a receiver, although he had altered its wavebands down to ultra-short-wave.

‘What’s May Day got to do with it?’ Jo asked.

‘French for “aid me”,’ replied the Doctor. ‘Look,’ and he scribbled it down on a piece of paper so that Jo would understand.
M’aidez
. ‘It’s used internationally nowadays,’ he added, ‘instead of SOS.’

‘No one’s answering,’ said Jo.

‘Have patience, my dear, we shouldn’t expect miracles—’

His words were overspoken by a strong masculine voice coming from the one receiving pocket radio: ‘
Hello, oil-rig. Hello, oil-rig. Have received you loud and clear. Am about to land.
’

Even as the voice spoke they heard the roar of a helicopter directly overhead.

‘You say we shouldn’t expect miracles?’ said Jo, with a grin. ‘What do you call
that
?’

While the Doctor, Jo, and Clark were being lifted off the oil-rig in the air-sea rescue Naval helicopter that had been sent out by Captain Hart long before the Doctor had managed to transmit his May Day message, George Trenchard was slowly driving his landrover along the approach leading to the château. He drove slowly because he wanted time to think, and he wanted to think because he was about to commit a crime.

Trenchard had been immediately impressed by the intelligence of the Master, his one charge, and by the man’s seeming desire to become a reformed character. Even so, he was wary: it would not be the first time a prisoner had pretended to become reformed in order that security should be relaxed, thus allowing him to escape. Trenchard had heard all about
those
tricks. And then these ships started disappearing, and it was the Master who had produced the only possible explanation for them: some unknown enemies of England were trying out some deadly new weapon, just off the coast. Trenchard was in favour of relaying this information directly to the Government, but the Master pointed out that in a situation as dangerous as this no one could be trusted. What they needed was proof. In any case, the Master had said, if the Government was informed at this stage, someone else would be bound to get the credit. The Master’s plan was that he and Trenchard would work together to get to the root of the problem; then Trenchard would truly qualify for the recognition he so richly deserved, while the Master would remain quietly in the background.

Already Trenchard could sec himself receiving a knight-hood for his services to England in detecting and exposing its enemies.

Yet there remained in Trenchard’s mind the lurking suspicion that the Master was going to trick him. This thought haunted him as he halted the landrover outside the front door of the château. He reached behind his driving seat and brought out a large cardboard box, carefully carried it under his arm and gave his own coded knock on the front door. The door was opened immediately by the prison officer on duty. A minute later Trenchard was entering the Master’s basement room. The Master regarded the cardboard box with obvious pleasure.

‘No problems?’ asked the Master.

Trenchard waited until the prison officer had closed the door and they were alone. ‘It isn’t easy getting this sort of thing at a moment’s notice. Had to go over to the mainland to get it, of course. The blighter in the shop knew who I was.’

‘What did you say?’

‘Had to make up a story,’ said Trenchard, ‘said we were going to have some theatricals here.’

‘How very ingenious,’ said the Master, always quick to compliment Trenchard. ‘May I see?’

Trenchard stepped back from the box. ‘Help yourself. Hope it all fits.’

As the Master opened the box, Trenchard felt that he had to say what was uppermost in his mind. ‘You realise I’m committing a crime doing this, old man?’

‘Mr. Trenchard,’ said the Master, turning to him. ‘I am only too aware of the risk you are taking. That is why I don’t intend to let you down.’

‘Just as long as we understand each other,’ remarked Trenchard. ‘Aren’t you going to try it on?’

‘Of course,’ said the Master. He lifted one of the items out of the box, a Naval officer’s cap, and put it on. ‘How do I look?’

Captain Hart had listened with as much patience as possible to the Doctor’s incredible story. He hardly believed a word of it. When the Doctor had finished, Hart got up from his desk and walked over to the window overlooking the Naval Base. It was his favourite place for thinking. Then he turned to the Doctor and Jo.

‘How do you really expect me to believe in... in Sea-Devils?’ he asked.

‘We
both
saw one,’ said Jo.

‘Now just a minute,’ said Captain Hart, sensing an inconsistency, ‘a little while ago you said you only saw a silhouette, Miss Grant.’

‘It was the silhouette of a Sea-Devil,’ insisted Jo, exasperated by the captain’s disbelief. ‘In any case, you’ve spoken to the man we brought back from the oil-rig.
He
saw one kill his friend.’

That was true. On their return in the helicopter, Clark had been put straight into the sick-bay, and Captain Hart had spoken to him there. Even so, Hart remained sceptical. But he tried to be fair. ‘I want to put this suggestion to you both,’ he said. ‘The man Clark is obviously in a very poorly condition—mentally, I mean. Let us presume that yesterday, for some reason, he killed his companion—’

The Doctor suddenly interjected: ‘You’re accusing that man of murder!’

‘I’m simply suggesting what
might
have happened,’ said Captain Hart, and then continued: ‘While mentally unbalanced, he killed his companion. Then you two arrived. As you pointed out, Doctor, he tried to kill you. Fortunately, he was unsuccessful in that attempt, but he
may
have been successful in communicating his madness to you.’

‘Captain Hart,’ said the Doctor with studied emphasis, ‘I know about communicated madness. I can assure you that none of us are mad. I have seen, and been chased by, a Sea-Devil.’

Captain Hart came back and sat down again at his desk. He was an intelligent man, but he was being asked to believe in something which exceeded all his previous knowledge. ‘All right,’ he said at last. ‘May I, for the sake of my own conscience, hear your story again?’

Jo got angry. ‘We’ve already told you everything!’

‘It’s all right, Jo,’ said the Doctor. ‘Captain Hart’s quite right in wanting to be sure that we are telling the truth.’ Slowly, and carefully, the Doctor started to tell Captain Hart once more about the events on the oil-rig.

Trenchard drove his landrover carefully along the road leading to the Naval Base. From time to time he glanced at the heap of rugs, travelling blankets, and his golf bags, which made a mound on the floor behind his driving seat. He had already committed one major crime—allowing his prisoner to leave the prison without authority from the Prison Department. Now, as he approached the gates of the Naval Base, he was about to commit yet another—he was going to delude a representative of the Lords of the Admiralty into believing that he, Trenchard, was the only occupant of the landrover.

At the gates he stopped, and their Lordships’ representative, in the person of Chief Petty Officer Beaver, came up to the driver’s window and saluted. ‘’Afternoon, Mr. Trenchard. Want to see the captain?’

‘If I may,’ said Trenchard, always polite to lower-deck ratings. ‘I was just passing.’

‘I think he’s got visitors,’ said C.P.O. Beaver, ‘but I imagine he’ll have time for you.’ He opened the gates to admit the landrover. As Trenchard went by he called out cheerfully, ‘How’s the Master getting on?’

Trenchard almost jumped out of his driving seat. ‘Very well, thank you,’ he said, ‘considering...’ He realised Beaver’s question had no point behind it; it was just a pleasantry. After all, everyone on the island knew about the château and its celebrated prisoner.

Usually when Trenchard visited Captain Hart he parked his landrover right outside the main administrative block. It was his little way of showing that he was a cut above the other people who parked in the base’s car-park. Today, however, he decided it was wise to follow the custom of the common herd. He headed his landrover into the car-park at the side of the main building, and stationed it unobtrusively between two other vehicles. He stopped the motor, carefully pocketed the keys, and noted that his heart seemed to be pounding very fast. Without looking round to the mound of rugs and blankets behind him he said, ‘We are now in the car-park. I shall be gone for about twenty minutes.’ There was no reply.

Trenchard slowly got out of the landrover. His legs felt unsteady, as though his knees had turned to soapy water. Then he tried to remember that he was, first and foremost, a soldier, and soldiers must be brave. He knew, or hoped he knew, that what he was doing was right. He was trying to save England from her enemies. The difficult thing about it, though, was that in order to do the right thing he had to do so many
wrong
things. He was a very, very worried man as he walked, a little unsteadily, from the car-park in the direction of the administrative building.