Was it possible?
The Doctor moved back to the keypad. He tapped digits: a zero, a three, a zero and a five.
The lights flashed once, then went out. A set of green lights had come on.
The Sild was beginning to find its way out of the bin, poking thin legs and tentacles under the rim. The Doctor’s rage boiled over. He stomped on the bin, crushing the Sild’s limbs. The Sild’s glass container shattered and the creature was still.
‘Thank you, Director,’ the Doctor said, addressing the now dead Childers. ‘You didn’t let the team down, in the end.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Lovelace’s hand was trembling on the automatic. The thing on the window had unsettled him. Were it not for the fact that Irwin had been present as a witness, he would have gladly accepted Callow’s theory that his concussion was getting to him.
He had returned to the telephone after shooting the crab, but when he picked up the handset there was nobody on the other end of the line. He tried reconnecting to the Ministry, but something was wrong with the sub-sea link.
‘If I were you,’ Irwin said, ‘I’d be thinking about a change of career.’
‘We’re all in this together,’ Lovelace said.
Irwin had his arms folded. He looked perfectly relaxed and affable, not at all like a man being held at gunpoint. It was an act, Lovelace was certain, but a thoroughly convincing one all the same. ‘Aye, but what is it we’re “in”, Lovelace? That’s the question. What mess have you brought down on all of us?’
‘The less you ask, Irwin, the less need I’ll have to shoot you.’
‘That’s mightily reassuring.’
At that moment the general alarm began to sound. It was a fierce electronic tone, signalling one of several calamitous things that could happen on an oil platform. It was coming out of a grille in McCrimmon’s office, but the same sound would be transmitted throughout the rig.
‘What is it?’
Irwin shrugged. ‘Could be a fire, could be a blow-out, or a structural problem. Or could be more of those crab beasties scuttling around. So are you still going to do what you told Callow over the phone? Blow up your equipment or whatever it is you said? Wouldn’t want the nasty old Russians getting hold of it, would we?’
‘Never you mind.’ Lovelace’s intentions had been thrown into disarray. Ideally, he had been planning to scuttle the MERMAN equipment before abandoning the platform. But the coming of the crab, and now this alarm, made him anxious not to spend a minute longer on the rig than necessary.
‘Take me to the helicopter deck. We’re leaving.’
‘Not until you tell me what you’ve done to Eddie McCrimmon.’
‘I said we’re leaving. You know I’ll use this weapon if I must. So take me to the helicopter deck!’
‘Find it yourself. You’ve come and gone from the rig often enough.’
‘You misunderstand me. You’re my hostage now, Irwin. You’re the man who’s going to get me on that helicopter ahead of the others.’ And he waggled the automatic for emphasis, just in case he had not made his point with sufficient authority.
By the time the Doctor reached the immersion tank, the Master’s accommodation unit was halfway out of the water, being hoisted by the overhead gantry. The connecting drawbridge was in the process of folding out, ready to provide access to the module.
But the Master was already standing at the open doorway, braced against the frame, looking down into the flooded pit, as if he half fancied his chances of jumping and swimming.
‘Doctor,’ he called, raising his voice over the alarms, Tannoy announcements, and the labouring whine of the overhead gantry. ‘You do me a great honour, by arriving to witness the moment of my escape. But I advise you not to interfere.’
‘I haven’t come to interfere, I’ve come to rescue you,’ the Doctor shouted back.
‘Rescue me? My dear fellow, all is in hand, as should be evident even to you. I have sent a message into time; this is the response.’
The accommodation block came to a halt, swaying slightly. The Master kept his balance, waiting for the connection walkway to lock into place.
‘You’re wrong,’ the Doctor called, the two of them now facing each other from either end of the walkway. ‘You’re wrong, and what’s worse, you know it!’
‘Step aside, please Doctor. I have work to be getting on with.’
‘The amnesia – aren’t you curious about it? Doesn’t it worry you?’
‘A mere side effect of my temporal intervention, Doctor.’
‘It’s a lot more than a side effect. Even the UNIT records of you are starting to degrade. It’s progressive time-fade! You are being unstitched from time.’
The Master had begun to advance across the connecting drawbridge. ‘Then it can only be part of my plan.’
‘It’s the Sild.’
‘Do not mock me, Doctor. We both know that the Sild are long gone. I transmitted my message into the future, not the remote past.’
‘I don’t understand it either. But I’ve seen Sild units coming ashore. Somehow or other, the Sild are responding to your transmission.’ The Doctor paused for effect. ‘But not in the way you were hoping.’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘They’re here – individually, and in control of many hosts. They’ve reached Childers, and you’d have been next.’
‘And is that why you’re here? To turn me over to them?’
‘My TARDIS is nearby – at the very least it’ll get you away from the Sild.’
‘And then what? Further incarceration? Forgive me, Doctor, but I may just take my chances with the Sild, assuming they are not a figment of your overheated imagination.’
‘They’re stronger than you.’
‘But I am quicker, and vastly more intelligent. Stand aside, please.’ The Master advanced another couple of strides: he and the Doctor were now close enough to touch.
‘You’ll never make it out of this building.’
‘You underestimate me, as always.’
‘You can’t do your usual bargaining with the enemy, Master. It may have worked with the Axons and the Nestene Consciousness, but they needed your cooperation. The Sild don’t need cooperation at all. Whatever they want from you, they can get it by sheer force.’
‘They are very welcome to try.’
The Master pushed forward, trying to barge his way past the Doctor.
‘No!’ The Doctor cried, grappling with his old adversary, hoping to pin the Master in one place long enough to reason with him. ‘I won’t let the Sild have you! They want you very badly and that’s reason enough to stop them!’
‘I warn you, Doctor!’ The Master gave the Doctor a violent shove, enough to topple him over the side of the low-railinged walkway. The Doctor grabbed for something, anything, to stop his fall. His feet flailed over open air. His fingers grabbed onto the lower lip of the walkway, and he hung there.
The Master tugged his sleeves down and adjusted his collar, regaining what little composure he had lost during the struggle. His hair, oiled back, remained immaculately undisturbed.
‘Farewell, Doctor.’ The Master planted the toe of his boot on the Doctor’s fingertips. He pressed down, like a man stubbing out a cigarette. The Doctor let out a yelp of pain.
‘You fool! I only wanted to help you!’
‘Is that true, Doctor? Or are you really only concerned about what the Sild want of me?’ The Master worked his boot to one side and the other, until the Doctor could no longer maintain his grip. He let go, the bones in his fingers feeling as if they been turned to shards, and hung by the other hand, over the immersion tank. The Master set his foot down on the Doctor’s other hand. He did not have to press very hard this time. The Master chuckled.
And then the Doctor was falling, and the Master was free.
Jo had just passed through the checkpoint at RAF Eastmere airfield, flashing her UNIT accreditation, when the orderly passed her the radio.
She took it with trepidation, fully exp
ecting to be reprimanded, perhaps even given notice of her dismissal. She had exceeded her authority in arranging this last-minute dash to Scotland; still worse, she had pulled the wool over the Brigadier’s eyes by letting him think the Doctor fully approved of her plans.
‘Lethbridge-Stewart here,’ said the voice on the other end of the connection. ‘I’ve told them to stop you getting on that Hercules …’
‘I see, sir.’ Jo had to speak up over the four-engined drone of the military transport, squatting on the ground while it was being readied for departure. ‘Look, I realise I overstepped—’
‘… until help arrives,’ the Brigadier continued, speaking over her. ‘In a very short while, my ground forces at Durlston Heath are going to be surplus to requirements. As soon as I can free those men, I’ll helicopter them to Eastmere.’
Jo gulped. This was the last thing she had expected. ‘And … um … the Doctor, sir?’
‘I’m afraid the news is mixed.’
‘Has he managed to get to …’
‘The Doctor’s gone into the power station on his own, in an attempt to reach the … objective … ahead of the Sild. He had to take the TARDIS – there was no other way through the perimeter. At least, that’s what we think. We’ve had no contact with him since he dematerialised, and that was …’ There was a pause as the Brigadier consulted his watch. ‘Twenty-eight minutes ago, precisely.’
‘I’m sure he’ll be out sooner or later.’
‘I wish I shared your optimism, Miss Grant. I gave him twenty minutes to get in and out. I have now exceeded that time by a considerable margin.’
‘What are you saying, Brigadier?’
‘I’m saying I have no choice but to authorise an airstrike.’
‘But you don’t know if the Doctor’s still in there!’
‘Believe me, I would far rather wait until I have concrete news of the Doctor’s whereabouts. But I simply don’t have that luxury.’
Jo nodded to herself. She had crossed swords with Lethbridge-Stewart on many occasions but she had never had cause to doubt his integrity or his indebtedness to the Doctor. This must be one of the hardest decisions he had ever taken in his military career.
‘How long, Brigadier?’
‘The Phantoms will be in position in … just over two minutes.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
During the short trip to the helicopter deck, Lovelace made no attempt to hide the fact that he had a pistol aimed squarely at Tom Irwin. The more obvious the situation the better, in fact. As they passed other oil workers, waiting their turns to board one of the helicopters, Lovelace barked: ‘Let us through! Any of you tries anything, I won’t hesitate to shoot him and you.’
‘I’d take him at his word,’ Irwin said through his beard. ‘Man’s got a serious case of the heebie-jeebies.’
‘Where’s Eddie?’ someone shouted.
‘He’s got her locked away below, in the secret area,’ Irwin called back, before earning a hard jab in the kidneys from the automatic. ‘Assuming he isn’t lying, and he killed her the same way him and his pals bumped off Pete Lomax!’
‘What the …’ another worker shouted, as Irwin’s words hit home. The man had a hefty spanner in his hand, and seemed to debate swinging it at Lovelace.
‘Get down there,’ Irwin said back. ‘See if you can find Eddie. Tell her this nutcase has slipped a gear!’
The alarm was still sounding, louder now since it was coming from one of the deck-mounted speakers, its shrill blare echoing off the high steelwork of the crane, blow-off tower and drill derrick. Lovelace prodded Irwin up the final flight of stairs, onto the flat grey apron of the vacant helipad. One of the transports was coming back in from the mainland, the steady thump-thump of its rotors already cutting through the sound of the alarm.
‘What do you think this is going to achieve, Lovelace?’ Irwin asked, crouching down against the wind and the anticipated arrival of the helicopter.
‘You worry about yourself, Irwin; I’ll worry about me.’
‘Oh, I get it. Pals in high places. You lot can worm your way out of any old bother, can’t you? Is it something they teach you in public school?’
‘Tom!’
The two men paused. The speaker was another oil worker, but Lovelace had never bothered to keep tabs on more than a handful of them. It was a young man with long hair, like a layabout or footballer, running out onto the operations deck with his arms flapping.
Irwin said, ‘What’s up, Bill?’
‘It’s Gerry Evans, Tom – I don’t know what’s got into him!’ Then the young man appeared to notice the unusual situation before him: the man with the gun, aiming it at Tom Irwin. ‘Tom?’
‘Never mind us, Bill. What’s the matter with Gerry?’
‘There’s something stuck to him, like a metal crab! He’s walking around like a sleepwalker, tried to grab hold of me before I cottoned on! I closed the fire door, sealed him into D section! Is that what the alarm’s about?’
Irwin looked at Lovelace and nodded slowly. ‘There are more of the sods. Someone must’ve seen enough to raise the alarm.’
The helicopter was completing its final approach, settling slowly down onto the platform.
‘The nick, as they say, of time,’ Lovelace said.
‘If you still have contact with your pals in the Ministry,’ Irwin said, ‘you’d better get word to them that we could use a bit of help out here.’
‘No need. As Eddie McCrimmon was so good to point out, UNIT are on their way.’ Then Lovelace smiled. ‘Unless she was bluffing.’
Lovelace walked to the door of the helicopter, still training his automatic on Irwin. He rapped on the pilot’s door. ‘Open up! If you delay, I will shoot this man!’
The pilot had flipped up his visor. He looked perplexed, then shocked.
Irwin nodded at him. ‘Better do as the idiot says. He can have a seat at the back, and talk to the police when he lands. I can still get twenty men off the rig if they budge up.’
Lovelace shook his head. ‘No. I’m not waiting.’ He worked the side door, which was now unlocked, and hopped up into the cabin, crouching down to keep the automatic trained. The pilot and co-pilot were talking furiously.
‘At least take some of my men!’ Irwin called. ‘It’s no skin off your nose – you’re on the helicopter already, and I won’t stop you! My day starts getting better the moment you leave!’
‘No,’ Lovelace said. ‘We’re going now. Take off, pilot – unless you’d like a bullet as well!’
Irwin shook his head resignedly. ‘You’d better do what he says – he’s already well off the deep end.’
‘Very sensible of you, Irwin.’ Lovelace dragged shut the door, and began to scuttle back to one of the passenger seats. ‘Take off!’ he snapped again.
The helicopter began to rev up – the rotors had hardly slowed after touchdown – and with a moment of dreamy disconnection from the rig and its manifold difficulties, they were aloft. Lovelace allowed himself to sink back into the padding of the seat. It was not exactly the case that his troubles were over. There would, as Irwin had correctly predicted, be some questions to answer when he reached the mainland. Equally, it was true that he did have connections where he needed them. His actions, though committed with a certain haste, were eminently defensible. He had worked to protect vital national interests. He had not actually killed anyone. And if it looked as if he was running away from trouble now, in flagrant dereliction of duty, then it was only because he had an obligation, a pressing moral responsibility, to protect the sensitive information in his head. He was Lovelace! He couldn’t risk himself, not to shut down equipment which probably wasn’t going to last long anyway.
Something moved under the seat, across the aisle and a couple of rows back. He heard it quite distinctly, even above the throb and thump of the climbing helicopter. A kind of scratchy metallic whisking and tapping. A dread beyond dread seized Lovelace. It couldn’t be, could it? One of those things couldn’t
have found its way aboard the helicopter while it was on the pad?
But there it was, emerging from under the seats – the same as the one he had shot through the window. Not the same one, though. There was no bullet hole in this one. The fist-sized body was intact. Now that he was seeing the crab the right way up, he had no difficulty making out the glass pod Irwin had seen on the other one. A squishy little thing was moving around in that bottle, twitching like a worm on a hook.
‘Land!’ Lovelace shrieked. ‘Put us back down!’
The pilots twisted round in their seats, but they couldn’t see what Lovelace could see.
‘Land!’ he screamed. ‘Go back!’
The crab was on his side of the aisle now, climbing up the back of the seat behind him. The silver tentacles were groping ahead of it. His thoughts flashed back to what the young man had said, about a crab stuck to another oil worker. Lovelace had eased from his seat and was now moving forward, back toward the cockpit. The pilots were still trying to work out what he wanted. Take off, go back – no wonder they were confused.
He aimed the automatic at the crab, fired once. The crab dropped off the seat. He’d killed it, hadn’t he? One clean shot, the way he’d dispensed with the one in McCrimmon’s office.
No. The crab was damaged – he’d blown off one or two of its limbs, but it was still capable of movement. He aimed again, panicked, and missed completely, blowing a hole in the hull. It wouldn’t matter; the helicopter wasn’t pressurised.
Now the crab was scuttling onto the ceiling. It was just as nimble upside down as the right way up. The thing was coming down the centre of the aisle, straddling it like a nasty modern light fitting. Lovelace aimed again and fired. This time he bit off a good chunk of it. The crab hung lopsidedly. He wasn’t going to take any chances. There had to be only one of the things on the helicopter, didn’t there? If there was another one he was stuffed anyway.
Doctor Who: Harvest of Time Page 16