Island of Death Page 4

  ‘I programmed the TARDIS to arrive in an inconspicuous corner. I expected the screen to show us exactly what it is showing us now.’

  The Brigadier was unconvinced. ‘One way to find out,’ he said,

  ‘Indeed,’ said the Doctor coldly, putting out his hand to the door control.

  ‘Stop!’

  The two men turned in surprise at Sarah’s yell.

  ‘I don’t think it would be a very good idea to open the door, she said. ‘Look!’

  They both looked up. Filling the monitor screen was the face of a curious and very large shark.

  The TARDIS was at the bottom of the sea.

  Jeremy had a pretty good idea where Brother Alex would be found. He’d gone on at length about the purpose of their flight from Hampstead. They were going to get their reward -

  and that meant first joining Mother Hilda in Bombay.

  Mother Hilda! Next to the Great Skang himself, the very centre of their devotion. Brother Alex would have gone straight to her.

  But it wouldn’t be so easy for somebody like Jeremy. Her bungalow had a fence round it even taller than the massive helpers (known as guards, he’d learnt on the introductory tour) who stood glowering either side of the gateway.

  For a moment he was tempted to forget about it and accept that he would have to be crammed in with all the others, no matter how common - as Mama would have said... though he’d learned by bitter experience not to use the word himself.

  The thought of his mother stiffened his resolve. She wouldn’t give up so easily. On the other hand, she would have put the fear of God into the guards and talked her way in.

  She wouldn’t have found a convenient tree and scrambled up it, crawling along a projecting branch, only to slip off and fall heavily into the bushes on the other side of the fence.

  It just wasn’t fair, he thought, as he pushed his way through the shrubbery into the open. Somebody like him ought to have been given a good room automatically - not the best, necessarily, he wasn’t unreasonable - but a decent sort of room, with a proper bed and stuff. What was the point of paying out all that lolly otherwise?

  His internal grumbling was interrupted by voices. There was the bungalow, different from the rest of the ashram buildings, a remnant perhaps of the prosperous days of the Raj. Sitting on the extensive open veranda, under a lazily turning fan, were three people: a thick-set man who looked too tough to be a Skangite (where had Jeremy seen him before?); next to him, Brother Alex; and on the other side of the bamboo table, a small woman with white hair.

  Mother Hilda.

  ‘There’s only one possible answer,’ said the Doctor. ‘The relativity circuit has overcompensated. We’re on the reciprocal arc of the meridian great circle...’ He dived back under the control column.

  ‘So where exactly are we? In English.’

  ‘I just told you. The latitude is Bombay’s - round about twenty degrees north, but the longitude is one hundred and eighty degrees - exactly opposite the longitude of London.’

  The Brigadier dug deep into his memory. He’d managed to scrape a pass in Geography, but he hadn’t had occasion to consider such matters for years. ‘In the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Right?’

  ‘Well done,’ said the Doctor, coming into view and setting the TARDIS on its travels once more. ‘And because there was no land in sight the TARDIS naturally made the assumption that we wanted to be on the ocean bed.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem to want to take us to Bombay,’ said the Brigadier, ‘that’s for sure.’

  ‘Nearly there,’ said the Doctor, unruffled. He leaned forward to inspect the dials. ‘Good grief!’ he exclaimed, and seizing the signal-red handle of a large lever, he yanked it down to its full extent.

  After a short pause, the TARDIS started her song of arrival.

  ‘What’s up? Are we there?’ asked the Brigadier.

  The Doctor turned from the control console. He didn’t speak. His face was ashen.

  ‘Are you all right, Doctor?’ said Sarah, putting a tentative hand on his arm. She’d never seen him like this before.

  The Doctor shuddered. He took a deep breath.

  ‘We’re safe now,’ he said.

  ‘What on earth...?’ said the Brigadier.

  The Doctor turned back to the control panel and restored the emergency lever to its normal position. ‘The temporal governor had cut out completely; and the back-up circuit hadn’t kicked in. Our acceleration into the past was increasing exponentially. If our speed had reached six and a half googol years per metasecond - and we weren’t far off it -

  it would have been irreversible. We’d have shot straight through the singularity of the Big Bang and out the other side!’

  The Brigadier cleared his throat. ‘Before... before Creation, you mean?’

  ‘Before time itself, if there’s any meaning in that. No time, no space, no change. We’d have been stuck in the TARDIS

  with nowhere to go for... for eternity? For an infinite number of years? And with no possibility of death... There are no words to express it.’

  Sarah found she was holding her breath.

  The Brigadier frowned. ‘Mm. Beyond me,’ he said. ‘So I take it that we’re not in Bombay?’

  The door of the TARDIS opened. Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart came out, and strode across to the phone on the laboratory desk.

  ‘Switchboard?’ he said. His voice was tight, controlled. Get me British Airways...’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Now what?

  Jeremy’s plan, if that’s what it could be called, had been to march straight up to Brother Alex and demand to be given what was clearly his due. He’d made his way across the billiard-table lawn, which looked as if it had been clipped with nail-scissors, pretending to himself that he was walking round the edge to avoid the spray, but really trying to keep out of sight for as long as possible. By the time he had reached the other side, his courage, never very great, had all but vanished.

  Mama would have had no qualms at all in interrupting a private conversation. But even she might have drawn back when she realised that there was a row going on. Brother Alex was getting really ratty.

  ‘But I tell you, she thought she’d seen an idol of the Skang!’

  ‘And how, may I ask, do you know that?’

  ‘I found out where she lived and...’

  ‘That was most imprudent!’ Mother Hilda’s voice was stern, like Nanny’s when Jeremy had forgotten to wash his hands before tea.

  ‘It was bloody stupid!’

  At the big man’s intervention, Mother Hilda raised a hand.

  Thank you, Brother Will. Leave this to me.’

  Of course! That’s who the other man was. Will Cabot, the boxer, who’d won a gold medal in the Munich Olympics and then turned professional. What was he doing here?

  Alex changed to a more placatory tone. ‘Do you think I didn’t take precautions, Mother? I promise you, she couldn’t have had any idea that I’d been there. But I found the photo graph, and I read her notes. It was quite clear.’

  ‘Mm. Well, if you’re sure...’ Her voice was a little gentler.

  Why didn’t he say sorry?

  ‘I do see now that it was foolish of me. Please forgive me.’

  That was the way. It always worked with Nanny.

  But the big man wasn’t going to let him off so easily. ‘And have you nothing more to tell Mother Hilda?’

  A long pause.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Alex replied at last.

  ‘It’s no good denying it,’ said Cabot. ‘See for yourself. It’s even made the headlines in The Times of India.’

  As Alex picked up the paper, Jeremy shrank into the shadows, creeping under the floor of the veranda. What did he think he was doing? The boxer fellow looked dangerous -

  and what about the guards? What if he were to be handed over to them? Nobody knew where he was. He could just disappear...

  His paranoid musings were interrupted by Brother Alex
speaking in a very different tone to the one he’d used to address Hilda. It was the way Mama would speak to an impertinent servant. ‘And why do you think that I’m responsible, Cabot?’

  Will Cabot laughed. But he didn’t sound amused. ‘Come off it, Alex!’ he said. Three of them - on Hampstead Heath? The next nearest centre is in Cardiff, for God’s sake.’

  But Alex was not going to give in easily. ‘Even if you could lay these incidents at my door, it would be irrelevant. You know very well that I have never agreed with Mother Hilda’s basic strategy. From the very first...’

  The boxer’s voice was harsh. ‘And you know very well that she has the authority to overrule your stupid suggestions!’

  ‘And, what’s more,’ broke in Hilda, my way forward has the consensus of the group.’ Her gentle voice couldn’t have been more different from that of the boxer.

  ‘That remains to be seen,’ said Alex. ‘Things can change.’

  There was some sort of creepy-crawly climbing up Jeremy’s leg. He could feel it under his trousers. What was that thing... like a sort of prawn that had a curly tail with a nasty sting at the end of it? He tried to roll up his trouser leg without making a noise, but found he couldn’t stop himself from letting out a tiny whimper of fear.

  He became aware that none of them had spoken for quite a long time. Now he was for it! Then Cabot spoke again.

  ‘Mother! We can’t let this go!’

  She sighed. ‘I’m afraid you’re right.’

  They hadn’t heard him...

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘What do you think she means?’ said Cabot. ‘You’ve blown it Whitbread. It’s about time you got what’s coming to you.’

  ‘Now, look here, Cabot...’

  ‘The whole question - and your crass behaviour with the journalist girl - will have to be brought to a full meeting.’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s right,’ said the little old lady.

  ‘I hardly think that will be necessary,’ replied Alex.

  ‘I do. And that’s my final word on the matter.’ The gentleness had quite gone.

  ‘But...’

  ‘You can come out now,’ she went on, raising her voice -

  though it had quickly lost its steely tone. ‘Yes, you under the veranda. Let’s have a look at you.’

  Jeremy, only too pleased to be able to move, scrambled out onto the lawn and did a stamping, stomping dance to dislodge the scorpion he was convinced was poised to stab him in the calf. A small beetle (about half an inch long) fell to the ground and scuttled away. Jeremy, still panting with fear, looked up, awaiting his fate.

  ‘Don’t look so scared,’ said Mother Hilda, with a little laugh.

  ‘We’re not going to eat you. Come and have a drink. You must be thirsty in this heat.’

  He went up the steps and sat down where Mother Hilda

  indicated. She clapped her hands, and an Indian bearer appeared.

  ‘Bring the young sahib a glass of fresh lime and soda - the special soda - with ice.’

  ‘At once, memsahib.’

  Jeremy breathed a sigh of relief and settled back into the cushions. This was a lot better. Five-star stuff. She’d obviously spotted that he was a bit different.

  Sarah discovered that one of the advantages of travelling with Brigadier Alistair Lethbridge-Stewart, the Commanding Officer of UNIT UK - and, indeed, being a temporary member of his staff - was that you found yourself in First Class.

  Not that it made all that much difference. As it happened, they were the only passengers in the curtained-off area at the front of the plane. The seats were marginally more com-

  fortable, and they were offered a free drink as soon as the

  seat-belts sign went off, but that was about all.

  ‘Better bring a bottle,’ said the Brigadier, after the smart air-hostess had brought him his second dram of Scotch in a miniature.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ she replied, ‘it’s regulations. We have to monitor your drinking.’ And she disappeared.

  For a moment the Brigadier was speechless; and the Doctor looked as if he was struggling not to burst into laughter. Not a good start, thought Sarah.

  The flight was going to be a difficult one. The Brig was not in any sort of mood to chat, especially after a couple more

  drams. And the Doctor, almost as soon as they were on their

  way, had pulled something out of his pocket that looked like

  one of those old-fashioned silver cigarette cases you saw in

  black-and-white thirties films. This was fatter, though, and

  had some push buttons and other knobs and dials on the outside.

  When he opened it, she saw that it was filled with parts so

  minute that it was impossible to make out whether they were electronic components or mechanical cogs. And as he worked at it with what seemed to be a long metal tooth-pick, the parts moved and sparkled, and it emitted a tiny noise like a fairy music box.

  He noticed that she was watching him. ‘Fair wear and tear,’

  he said. But if I don’t get it working, the TARDIS will be about as much use as a car without a gear-box.’

  The Brigadier gave a snort. It wasn’t a snort of laughter.

  The Doctor looked across the aisle at him. ‘I didn’t quite catch that, Lethbridge-Stewart,’ he said icily. ‘Would you mind repeating it?’

  Oh God! If they were going to behave like a couple of kids from the infants’ class, it was going to be a swinging journey.

  ‘Doctor,’ she said hastily, before the Brig could react,

  ‘forgive me, but you’ve been awfully cagey so far. Won’t you tell us what you think is going on?’

  Her diversion worked.

  ‘Quite right,’ said the Brigadier. ‘Here we are setting off to go halfway across the world, and you haven’t yet deigned to explain exactly what particular breed of wild goose we’re chasing.’

  ‘Oh, very poetical,’ said the Doctor. ‘I should have thought it was obvious, even to the meanest intelligence.’

  Oh dear! You could hear the irritation in both their voices.

  ‘Evidently not,’ snapped the Brigadier.

  The Doctor grunted and turned to Sarah. ‘Did you do Biology at that school of yours?’

  The Doctor never seemed to have much opinion of human education.

  ‘Some. Not a lot. It was part of General Science.’

  ‘Entomology?’

  ‘Bugs and things? Well, I suppose we touched on it. Yes, the bees and... and fertilisation and all that,’ said Sarah, pushing down the memory of a hilarious session on sex given reluctantly - and incomprehensibly - by the elderly Miss Prosser, popularly known as Old Prodnose.

  ‘Then I expect you’re familiar with the family of Asilidae - the robber flies.’

  ‘Er... not so you’d notice.’

  The Brigadier, who had already finished his fourth Scotch, broke in. ‘Are you trying to tell us that... that thing is an insect?’

  ‘Not exactly...’ The Doctor paused as if to marshal his thoughts.

  Must be like trying to explain trigonometry to a couple of toddlers in nursery school, thought Sarah.

  ‘All physiological details of the body, with very few exceptions, show their evolutionary function in their shape, or their position, or both. Sometimes the development of an organ is so fitted to its purpose that it seems to be teleological - but no doubt you’d agree with me, Lethbridge-Stewart, that such a way of looking at it is erroneous.’

  ‘Oh, absolutely. Couldn’t have put it better myself,’ said the Brigadier, reaching for the bell to summon the stewardess.

  ‘Teleological?’ asked Sarah.

  ‘The idea that evolution is mediated by a preordained future purpose.’

  Sarah thought for a bit. ‘You mean... like... like evolution had no way of knowing that we were going to wear glasses, yet look where it put our ears?’

  ‘Sorry,’ she added. The look on the Brig’s face told her that

 
this was no time for joking. But the Doctor didn’t seem to

  mind.

  ‘In a way, that’s just what I do mean. It was a very popular view before Charlie came up with the obvious answer.’

  ‘Charlie who?’ said the Brigadier, as the air-hostess arrived with several more miniature bottles and an air of resignation.

  ‘Charlie Darwin. Bit of a plodder old Charlie, but he got there in the end.’

  The biggest name-dropper in the universe, the Doctor!

  Sarah was still not used to somebody like him caring about such things. Or perhaps it was the other way round - he just didn’t care...?

  ‘So what’s that got to do with the price of turnips?’ she said.

  ‘The asilid has the habit of stabbing its prey - another insect; it might be one of your friends, Sarah, a bee perhaps -

  stabbing it in the neck with its proboscis. Though perhaps it should more properly be called its hypopharynx...’

  ‘Oh, for Pete’s sake...’ said the Brigadier, whose glass was nearly empty again.

  ‘Quite right, quite right. What it’s called hardly matters to the poor old bee. You see, the asilid injects its saliva into the body of its prey; and the saliva has proteolytic enzymes in it which... all right, all right... It has what you might call digestive juices, which liquefy the bee’s innards. And then all the asilid has to do is suck out its dinner. Simple.’

  The Brigadier had lost his air of irritation. He was leaning forward, listening intently. He said, ‘I see what you mean.

  Those bodies...’

  ‘As soon as I saw Sarah’s snap, I realised the creature’s physiognomy could have only one function. And I’m sorry to say that I was right.’

  While the Doctor was speaking, Sarah had pulled the Polaroid print out of her pocket. The Skang looked as if it were drinking from the bowl with its trunk thing, but...

  ‘You mean it’s not a statue - and it’s going around sucking out the...’ She could hardly finish the thought, let alone the sentence.

  And where was the Skang now?

  Jeremy tried to remember why he’d gone looking for Brother Alex, without success. It didn’t seem to matter, though. After all, he’d met Mother Hilda, and had a whizzo drink; and that nice fellow who’d brought him back to the dormitory (one of the guards, wasn’t he?) had been so kind; and then there were all those lovely people they’d met on the way, who’d smiled at him as if he was their bestest friend in all the world..