‘Not so.’ Mr Jottipher was, as ever, impressed by the Secunda’s steadiness in these situations. She faced the Chelonians with scarcely a tremble. ‘Our species have a history of enmity. That is true of many who have come to Zamper.’ She raised her hands, palms outward. ‘But remember. This facility is neutral, and no violent act, on any part, is tolerated here.’ She indicated Mr Jottipher. ‘It is the duty of our guest liaision executive to ensure your convenience.’
He bowed nervously. ‘Sirs.’
The General raised a foot. ‘You are the Secunda?’
‘That is correct.’
‘You control this place?’
She shook her head, a gesture the Chelonians seemed to understand. ‘I am the senior agent of the Management of Zamper. May I know your names?’
The General seemed to swell up in his shell. ‘I am General Hezzka of the Chelonian fifteenth column, commander-in-chief of the Maternal Guard.’ He indicated the other. ‘This is First Pilot Ivzid.’
Ivzid nodded stiffly. The Secunda’s research – drawn from several hastily compiled travelogues into the empire and a fiction that had been exciting, if rather showy – suggested that Chelonians were unable to tell humans apart. But when Ivzid’s eyes swivelled to meet Mr Jottipher’s there was a flicker of recognition, and the reptile’s long pink tongue swished wetly over its top lip. Mr Jottipher shuddered.
‘We are insulted by your actions,’ said Hezzka. ‘You have ransacked the systems of our ship, and forced us to pass through some moistening contraption.’ He shook his shell, shedding the last few drops of fluid from the germwash.
‘These are routine procedures,’ said the Secunda. ‘Outlined and agreed on in the contract that your leader signed, via data-coil, six months ago.’
Hezzka grunted and lowered his head, a gesture Mr Jottipher took to be a sign of anger.
‘Before we proceed,’ the Secunda continued, ‘more tedious formalities. The Management will insist, and I suppose the inconvenience is not too great.’
‘What is this formality?’ snapped Ivzid.
On cue, Mr Jottipher stepped forward, his composure slightly returned. He took a small grey device from the inside pocket of his jacket and showed it to Hezzka.
‘A datalyzer,’ the Chelonian growled.
‘A final security check.’ Mr Jottipher switched the device on and adjusted the settings. A multicoloured display lit up as he passed the scanner end over Hezzka. ‘A regulation, nothing more.’
‘You do not trust us!’
Mr Jottipher studied the display, noting the number of bionic implants contained in Hezzka’s body. There was one at each joint of his four limbs, a large power unit under the plastron, and a sheet grafted to his brain. A communicator unit was connected to a point beneath his chin. But there was no trace of weaponry.
The scanner beam swept over Ivzid, and the device emitted a frantic bleeping that brought a rush of colour to Mr Jottipher’s cheeks. ‘Mr Ivzid,’ he said, uncertain how to address the creature, ‘I think you’ve overlooked something.’
There was an uneasy exchange of glances between Ivzid and his superior. Hezzka seemed almost to sigh with exasperation, if such a thing was possible for a Chelonian.
‘There’s an energy weapon in your –’ Mr Jottipher circled a nervous finger, unwilling to point, ‘in your, your, er …’
Ivzid tipped sideways. There was a sharp clicking sound as internal hinges shifted, and then a strangely shaped object clattered onto the carpet. The Secunda swooped it up. ‘You must have forgotten to leave this behind,’ she said brightly, turning the thing over in her hand. It was designed to be grasped and operated by the three claws of a Chelonian foot, and its buttons were labelled copiously in their squiggly notation.
‘A Chelonian officer has much to consider,’ Hezzka said through tightened lips. ‘The First Pilot most of all.’
‘We accept your apology,’ said Mr Jottipher automatically. It was the standard response given in the Management’s book of etiquette. Its effect on the Chelonians was electric. For a moment it looked as if they were going to burst from their shells in apoplexy at the very idea of apologizing to a parasite. Ivzid took it very badly, his free foot shaking.
There was a long and uncomfortable silence. Secretly, Mr Jottipher was pleased the contract had been broken. The sooner the Chelonians were away the happier and easier his life would become. Not even the Sprox had been so troublesome.
Typically it was the Secunda who spoke first. ‘Never mind. I’ll pop it in my personal safe and you can have it back when our business is concluded.’
Mr Jottipher almost choked. The contract, the standard Zamper contract adhered to the letter for 473 years, had clearly been broken. In such cases, and there had been a few in his time here, the offending party was expelled immediately by the servitors. What was the Secunda doing?
Hezzka moved forward, stretching out one foot to clasp at a glazed blue bowl of pansies with the polite interest of a competitor at a garden show sizing up the opposition. His splayed claws examined the plants briefly, checking the health of the stems, then he tipped back the bowl and munched on the purple and black leaves. The meal, unintentionally provided, appeared to raise his spirits. ‘Good, good. Your caterer is to be congratulated.’ He looked about the lounge, noting the variety of hanging baskets. With a startled jolt, Mr Jottipher realized that he was making an attempt at friendliness, as if the previous incident had not occurred. ‘I see you have hiatus blossom, very good.’
‘The plants are imported,’ said the Secunda, ‘on our supply ships. And preserved with a harmless chemical formula.’
‘Oh yes, G3sO5?’
She nodded. ‘I am aware of the affinity between your people and floral blooms.’
Ivzid bristled. ‘Blooms are for eating, parasite Secunda. We are loyal Chelonian officers. To us the outward aspect of these things is incidental.’
Hezzka, remembering himself, replaced the empty bowl.
‘Quite.’ The Secunda indicated the exit and assumed an air that put Mr Jottipher in mind of a harried schoolmistress. ‘Now, we really must get on. The day has barely begun.’
‘We wish to inspect the ship.’
‘Yes, the Management tells me it’s almost ready. And,’ she nodded to the strongbox, ‘your deposit has to be accepted. But, of course, you shall see it.’ She spoke firmly. ‘To my office. And then our Mr Jottipher will be pleased to show you to your quarters.’
Mr Jottipher fell into step behind the Secunda and the Chelonians. He couldn’t take his eyes off the weapon his mistress carried so easily in one hand, as if she was very familiar with such things.
Forrester had risen from her berth in the escape capsule to find it was bobbing gently against a line of high rocks that ringed the water into which she and Cwej had fallen. She’d remained conscious during the fall, and was pleased about that. There was a small power rudder affixed to the capsule for such a contingency, and she was able to steer the metal box, and her sleeping partner, to a point she judged to be safe. At the third attempt she wedged one end of the capsule between two rocks, jumped up and down to make sure it was lodged securely, and hopped out for a look about.
It was stupid, but as she walked along the flat, featureless purple plain, she felt like calling for the Doctor and Bernice. In the heat of the last moments aboard the test ship, she’d been angry enough to throttle the Doctor. But it wasn’t in her nature to shift blame, and her curiosity was as culpable. She found she missed the Doctor. It was comforting to be around him, mostly because he was so good at looking out for himself, and that freed her to do other things.
She pulled herself up sharp, almost tripping over in surprise. About a mile or so ahead loomed a structure. It looked like a ship, of unfamiliar design, definitely alien, about sixty metres from side to side. Its architecture was all wrong, dividing the thing into three chunky blocks with engine ports pointing up and down from its middle. Cool purple sunlight spangled off its faceted black
surfaces. Its solidity suggested military use, although no weapons were visible. It rested on a launchpad that could have taken a ship three times its size; at the edge of the pad was a dull silver domed structure that curled underground. There was no sign of life.
Forrester hurried back to the escape capsule, biting her lip and ruminating. Different technology from the test ship. An observer, then, or buyer, or perhaps only passing. The complex under the pad wouldn’t be safe from several hundred tons of superheated wreckage. It followed that the remains of the test ship, and therefore the TARDIS, were distant.
When she got back to the capsule she was confronted by a bizarre sight. Cwej had jumped onto the rocks. His trousers were sopping wet. Ha, he’d fallen in. And he was hopping up and down, pulling a face and shaking his legs alternately.
She coughed. ‘I don’t know that one. Want to teach me?’
‘I’ve got an eel in my trousers!’ he shouted.
Forrester suppressed a giggle. ‘Take them off, then.’
Cwej writhed and wriggled. ‘I’m trying to shake it out.’
‘And what if it’s a leech? With savage teeth?’ Forrester unbuckled his belt and pulled his trousers down to his knees with one swift jerk. ‘Come on, it’s nothing we haven’t seen before.’
A thin kipper-shaped creature jumped out of Cwej’s trousers and floundered on the rocks. Satisfied that it was harmless, Forrester picked it up and threw it back into the water.
Cwej stopped shaking and adopted a mournful expression. ‘These trousers are ruined.’ He kicked off his boots and stepped out of his trousers.
Forrester shook her head. ‘We’re stranded possibly millions of miles from civilization and your trousers are ruined.’
He wrung them in his huge hands and threw them over his shoulder. ‘We can always eat those eels.’
‘We’d have to catch them first. And it looked more like a kipper.’ Forrester sighed. ‘Am I really having this conversation? Aren’t you cold?’
Cwej shrugged. He was decently covered by a large pair of white briefs, at least. ‘I’ll be fine in just these. I found them in the TARDIS laundry. They belong to someone called Calvin.’
‘I’m not interested in your knickers.’ Forrester jerked a thumb over her shoulder. ‘About a mile over there there’s a landing pad and an alien ship. Coming to take a look?’
He slipped back into his boots. To Forrester he looked rather like a monstrously overgrown baby, standing in his white T-shirt and nappy. ‘I feel a bit embarrassed. Can we wait until I’ve dried out?’
Forrester walked away.
The canasta game, preset by Taal at a difficulty level of minus three, had attracted droves of spectators. Green signatures flashed red for active as, spurred on by the ease with which the house had conceded, they logged on for the next contest.
Taal’s enthusiasm had been worn away by fourteen years’ service on Zamper, but he felt a distant, ticklish sort of thrill as the queue lengthened. He flexed his fingers and punched up the gaming menu.
‘Shall I sort out the coupons again?’ Christie asked, picking up the tray.
He patted her hand. ‘Just stand there and watch, dear. We’re going for something very different. Yes, I think we’ll try another old Earth game, level plus three – no, two, I don’t want to scare them off.’ He pointed to the data-link screen. ‘Keep your eyes on the guidance lines.’
The warning tone sounded, signalling the start of the new game. Taal selected the sound option and the level metallic voice of the gaming network spoke. ‘Welcome to bingo.’
‘What’s bingo?’ The first sign of curiosity the girl had shown.
‘Old Earth game,’ Taal whispered back. ‘Very simple, and it really piles up the tension. You’ll work it out soon enough.’
‘Collect your books,’ said the Network.
The signatures, including the Marlex stellar accumulator who cleared up at canasta, removed their random number sheets from the supplied index. Taal almost felt sorry for the Marlex, could see him as clear as if he was standing feet away. Laughing in the face of fate, slapping all thirty thousand livres of his winnings down.
‘Eight and three, eighty-three,’ said the network. ‘Two and four, twenty-four. All the fours, forty-four. Key of the door, twenty-one.’
Each number, when called, appeared on the game panel. ‘What’s key of the door?’ asked Christie.
‘Old Earth ritual.’
‘Eighty-eight, two fat ladies. Five and nine, fifty-nine, the Brighton line. Close the doors.’
The girl laughed, a sprinkle of a giggle that Taal found not unpleasant. A long time since he’d heard anything so untainted, something that signified genuine innocent pleasure. He contemplated the giggle. What made it so attractive? Yes. It wasn’t brainless. He’d never gone for bimbos in the old life. She’d got that reference to Brighton, to trains, to classical history. She was educated.
‘Three and four, thirty-four. All the nines, ninety-nine. Number ten, Tony’s den. One and five, fifteen. On its own, number four, number number number num-berrrrrr –’
Taal beat his fists on the desk. ‘Not again.’
The network voice droned, ‘Number threeeee, threeeee-eeee –,’ rising in pitch, flattening finally to an ultrasonic wave.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked the girl, sounding hopeless again.
Taal shook his head and shut down the network, his stubby fingers dancing expertly over the mini-controls. The signatures snapped off in disgust, the Marlex departing with winnings intact. ‘Equipment failure,’ Taal muttered, then raised his head and bellowed at the ceiling, ‘No, why keep it quiet? Equipment failure!’
The girl put a nervous hand on his shoulder. ‘Steady on. It can hear us, can’t it? The Management?’
‘Yes, he can hear us,’ Taal said bitterly. He kicked the network, composed himself, and said meekly, ‘And I would like to report an equipment failure in the data-coil linkage to the gaming centre.’
Bernice and the Doctor stood outside the hut. Recent footprints led from the door.
Bernice knelt for a closer look. ‘Size six, so probably a woman. Humanoid, anyway.’
The Doctor pointed to some other marks. ‘Vehicle tracks. An aircar, I think.’ He clasped one hand over the other and looked about. ‘Interesting. I think this is some sort of outpost, and the occupant – there’s only one set of footprints, see – has her supplies delivered.’ He examined the jambs of the hut’s door. ‘There doesn’t seem to be a locking device.’
Bernice pushed the door open. ‘Very trusting. I think that’s rather nice.’
‘You’ll find more unlocked doors in a totalitarian state than anywhere else,’ the Doctor said casually.
Inside, a small and bare vestibule led to the central area of the building. There was a strong sour chemical whiff mixed in with tobacco fumes, and the ceiling was stained nicotine-yellow. It was apparent this was a laboratory. A sturdy bench piled with stacks of apparatus stood in the middle of the room, with a single stool tucked neatly beneath it. The scientific stuff on the table caused Bernice’s nose to wrinkle. It looked way too complicated, in an intricate fiddly way. Whole weeks of her life had been spent pottering around pits with nothing more than a spade, and she resented sensors and analysers instinctively, at least until her arms started to ache. But then the field of the Doctor’s hypothetical lady labworker was not archaeological. On each wall of the lab were rows of shelves, and on the shelves were labelled jars containing bits of dead things.
The Doctor picked a jar up and peered at the bit of dead thing inside, a stringy green glob suspended in clear fluid. ‘It could be one layer of a membrane.’
Bernice took the jar. ‘It could be a toast topper.’ She cast her glance over some of the other jars while the Doctor went to poke his head around the far door. There were about thirty in all. Each label was computer printed, and the multi-syllabic words on the labels were outside Bernice’s experience. The jars contained a multitude of parts. Bern
ice identified a speckled section of tissue as a digestive filament. There was also a stomach, a walnut-sized brain and two objects that looked like decayed feelers which had darkened their suspension fluid brown. Bernice felt vaguely reassured; this place, disorganized and dirty, wasn’t the home of any thick-eyebrowed white-coated Moreau forcing cross-breeds.
The Doctor beckoned her to a corner of the lab. He had come across a glass case, about the size of a fish tank, attached to the wall, and was leaning over, brow creased with interest. A couple of adjustable lamps swung a faint greenish glow into the case, lighting three of the strangest animals Bernice had ever seen. They lay on a thin bed of grass clippings. Her first impression was of a snail missing its shell. The beasts were about a foot and a half in length and jet black, apart from a few flecks of grey which she took to be diseased tissue. Their skin was smooth and dry like that of a seal, with the suggestion of a slimier underside at the flanks. An internal skeleton elevated the front section into a head, from which sprouted three feelers. Of eyes or mouth there was no trace.
Bernice shivered at the sight, and immediately felt rather ashamed. Even if the things were dangerous they were securely caged. It was a dumb reaction to alien life forms she thought she’d conquered long ago.
‘Yes, they are just a bit creepy, aren’t they?’ said the Doctor. He tapped the side of the case, making a hollow ringing sound. The animals didn’t react. ‘I’ve not seen a creature quite like these.’
‘Surely they’re not native to this planet, or at least to this region. This is the sort of thing you’d expect to find somewhere with no light and plenty of moisture.’
‘You’re probably right.’ He smiled and pointed to the ranks of jars. ‘But whoever works here’s very interested in them, and perhaps they can give us a few answers.’ His attention was caught by a magazine that lay open on the shelf by the case, next to a row of stoppered chemical flasks. He flipped to the cover. ‘The Year in Architecture. A lively range of interests, then.’
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