by Gerry Davis
Dyson was also playing his part in the splash-down operation. ‘Hello Rome computer base. Final descent path. Please compute and repeat.’
A voice with a foreign accent spoke in reply. ‘All re-entry vectors are programmed. Read out at 1350.’
Barclay glanced around the large tracking room. Each of the men was now totally intent upon his part in the complex splash-down procedure. He pulled the mike closer, and spoke loudly. ‘Hello Zeus Four . Your flight path is now correcting.’
Schultz’s voice surfaced over the angry flood of static. ‘The power loss is now increasing. Something has happened to our limbs. We can hardly move.’
Barclay glanced anxiously at the screen. The picture of the two men was now flecked with little dots of white—as though the picture had encountered bad interference at some point in its transmission from space.
‘You’ve been up there a fair time. It’s probably just space fatigue.’
‘No... it’s quite different. We had to operate the manual controls together. Neither of us could have done it alone.’
Barclay anxiously examined the screen before replying. Then he glanced down at the paper Dyson had just slid along the top of the console, and replied. ‘We have your descent path now. Stand by.’
The astronauts in the capsule were growing weaker and weaker. Each movement seemed to require an immense effort.
Barclay’s voice came over the loudspeaker. ‘Re-entry will begin in position four six zero, and verto rockets to go at fourteen, forty five.’
Williams slowly raised his arm and weakly began operating the rows of switches in front of him.
‘Dan,’ he croaked, ‘put that into the computer, will you?’
Schultz, wincing from the effort, stretched out his arm and started programming the computer control in front of him.
‘One thing, man,’ gasped Williams into the mike, ‘you’ll have to bring us in this time round. We can’t hang on any longer.’
The two men held their breath as they waited for the reply. Then Barclay’s voice came over: ‘You must. We can’t bring you down this orbit. You’ll over-shoot!’
With a sense of impending doom, the two men looked at each other wearily. The grey-haired older man shook his head : ‘We’ll never make it, Glyn.’
The big negro astronaut seemed to pull himself together. ‘Yes we will. Come on, Dan, we’d better check the re-entry controls. Ready?’
Schultz nodded passively.
‘Retros one and three.’
Schultz looked up at the dials: ‘Check.’
‘Main ’chute cover?’
‘Yeah. O. K.’
‘Heat shield bolts?’
‘Yep.’ The routine of checking the instruments was one that Schultz could practically do blindfold—the familiar re-entry pattern.
Suddenly Williams looked at the instruments above his head and anxiously glanced back at him. ‘Dan, what do you make our position?’
Schultz leant over. His face contorted painfully. ‘We’ve swung out again!’
Williams heaved forward, and shouted into the mike: ‘Emergency! Emergency! We have left flight path again. Give correction please, urgent.’
Chapter 4
Mondas!
Barclay jumped up and slammed down the clipboard on which he had been making notes. ‘It must be that flaming planet. Its gravity is affecting the capsule.’
‘What do we do about it?’ asked Dyson, who was standing beside him.
‘What can we do?’ Barclay began—and then realised that the eyes of most of the men in the room were on him. He pulled himself together. ‘First of all we must give Zeus Four a new correction path. Will you do that?’
Dyson nodded. ‘Right away.’
‘Then we must get a better fix on this so-called planet and try to identify it.’
He looked across at Cutler, who was standing by the television screen, and noticed that the General had undone the buttons of his tunic—something Cutler only did in extreme emergencies.
‘It’s considerably clearer now,’ commented Cutler.
Barclay nodded then, remembering something, strode quickly across the floor of the control room towards the observation room. He beckoned to the Doctor.
When the Doctor appeared, he spoke quickly. ‘You say you know something about this new planet? Let’s have it.’
The Doctor looked away thoughtfully for a moment, and tapped his fingers on his lapels. ‘Well, I’m not absolutely sure. Perhaps if I can look at it again.’
Barclay turned round and shouted across to one of the technicians : ‘Feed the retinascope picture to the observation monitor.’
One of the nearby technicians pressed a button and the picture of the two astronauts was replaced by an image of a planet the size of a football. Barclay and the Doctor moved forward to observe it more closely.
‘What about setting these boys down, eh, Dr Barclay?’ shouted Cutler angrily from behind them.
But the scientist had been caught by something in the appearance of the new planet. ‘Yes, yes,’ shouted the Doctor excitedly, his eyes shining with the stimulus of a new idea. ‘It’s just as I thought. Perhaps you would care to examine these land masses here.’ He pointed to one side of the screen. Cutler, caught by the urgent tone of the Doctor’s voice, also turned round to examine the screen.
‘Land masses. I don’t see any... Oh yeh, I see what you mean!’
The image of the strange planet was now fairly clear on the larger screen. Much of it was covered in white cloud masses, but they could make out the outline of a long triangle with slightly curved edges.
‘Does that remind you of anything?’ asked the Doctor.
Cutler shrugged his shoulders. ‘No, I don’t reckon so.
Unnoticed by the others, the Sergeant, followed by Polly and Ben, had come up behind the Doctor.
It was Ben who spoke. ‘Hey, it looks familiar, don’t it?’
‘Yes!’ Polly moved a bit closer to the screen. ‘Ben, look. That bit, surely that’s... South America!’
‘Yeah! And look—the other side. Doesn’t that look like... Africa!’
‘There is a marked similarity,’ said Barclay slowly.
‘Nonsense!’ exclaimed Cutler. ‘How could it be?’ For answer, Barclay pointed to the top of the map.
‘Look. Surely that’s Arabia, India...’
The General nodded reluctantly. ‘Well, O.K. It must be some reflection of Earth.’
‘No.’ The scientist was thinking aloud. ‘It can’t be that. There’s nothing to reflect on.’
Behind him, the Doctor, a slightly self-satisfied expression on his face, had drawn himself up to his full height. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘my dear sir, I suggest you look at that piece of paper I gave you.’
‘Paper? Oh yes!’ Barclay fumbled in his pocket and brought it out. His eyes opened wide with amazement as he read it. ‘You knew?’
The Doctor nodded a little smugly. ‘Certainly.’
‘What did he know?’ rapped Cutler.
Barclay held out the paper to the General. ‘He has correctly written down what we have just seen and...’ He looked at the Doctor in amazement. ‘... he did it before we saw it!’
Cutler looked down suspiciously at the piece of paper in his hand. ‘Some kind of con trick, that’s all.’
But Ben noticed that from now on he seemed to treat the Doctor with a wary respect.
Barclay shook his head. ‘No, no, I remember when he gave me the bit of paper.’ He turned back to the Doctor. ‘You really know a great deal about this situation. Can you be more explicit?’
The Doctor nodded and grasped the lapels of his cloak. He looked a little like a school teacher addressing a class. ‘Yes, I’m sorry to say that I can. Millions of years ago Earth had a twin planet called Mondas...’
‘Get lost! We’ve no time to listen to this...’ Cutler turned away in disgust and called to the technician manning the communications console. ‘Get me Geneva on the radio link.’ He
turned back to Barclay. ‘We’ll see what Secretary Wiener has to say about this.’ He strode over to the communications console, Barclay following him.
Polly turned angrily to the Doctor. ‘How can he be so rude to you? What’s the matter, Doctor? You’re looking terribly worried.’
‘Really? Yes, I suppose you could say I’m a little worried.’
‘Tell us then, Doctor. What’s happening?’ pleaded Ben.
‘You see, Ben—I know what this planet is and what it means to Earth.’
‘Means to Earth!’ echoed Ben. ‘How can it affect us?’
The Doctor gazed up at the ceiling. His companions noticed that his cheek was twitching in agitation. He spoke slowly and deliberately: ‘Before very long, I’m afraid we must expect... visitors!’
‘Visitors? Out here at the South Pole? Come off it, Doctor! Who do you think’s going to bring them? Santa Claus on his sledge?’
But the Doctor didn’t appear to have heard Ben. He was watching Cutler, who was speaking into the console. ‘Quiet boy, quiet.’
Cutler’s loud voice echoed through the tracking room. ‘Is that I.S.C. Geneva? Put me through to the Secretary-General. Yes, that’s right.’
The Doctor turned to the Sergeant who was standing behind them. ‘May I ask who that is?’
‘Gee!’ The Sergeant seemed genuinely surprised. ‘You really are out of touch, aren’t you? That’s Secretary-General of International Space Command: Robert Wigner!’
Secretary Wigner, supreme commander of the International Space Command, was seated at his desk in the Geneva headquarters. A compact, dark-haired man of about forty, his round, slightly pudgy face gave no indication of his formidable character. He was respected throughout the world as an extremely efficient—even ruthless—administrator, with an enormous intelligence.
The large, circular crest of International Space Command—a globe with an outstreched hand holding a spaceship pointing towards the stars—dominated the wall behind him.
Wigner spoke into one of his many radio-phones. ‘This is very hard to believe, General. Are you quite sure?’
Cutler’s voice came through on the suspended loudspeaker system. ‘There’s no doubt at all.’
Wigner thought for a moment and then nodded. ‘Very well. Just a moment please.’ He turned to one of his aides.
‘Get on to Mount Palomar and ask them to provide us with a picture as soon as possible.’ He turned to another colleague. ‘Contact Jodrell Bank and ask them to get an exact fix on this “planet”. We must have data—and quickly!’
He turned back to the radio-phone. ‘Let me know the moment you have any more information, General.’
Wigner leant back for a moment and looked across at a large wall map on which red circles marked the various space tracking stations. His grey eyes looked cold and thoughtful.
Cutler’s voice came through again. ‘One more thing, sir.’
Wigner, shaken out of his thoughts, leant forward impatiently. ‘Yes?’
‘We have three intruders.’
‘Intruders? At the Pole? Where did they come from?’
‘We haven’t interrogated them yet—but one of them seems to know quite a bit about this new planet.’
‘I don’t understand. How can he possibly know?’
‘We’ll find out, Mr Secretary.’
‘Do that immediately, relay at once any further information.’
In the tracking room, Cutler turned to face the Doctor and his companions.
‘O.K. You heard the Secretary-General. Now suppose you tell me how you really got here.’
‘Ah,’ replied the Doctor, ‘that will be rather difficult.’
‘Not nearly as difficult as I can be. You’d better believe that, Doctor.’ Cutler’s powerful frame was looming over him, his large jaw jutting forward. ‘Now listen. You turn up from nowhere. A routine space shot goes wrong. A new planet appears. You tell us you know all about it. That puts you in the hot seat. Right?’
The Doctor looked puzzled. ‘Hot seat?’
‘On the carpet,’ Ben whispered.
‘We’ve got nothing to do with it,’ complained Polly quickly.
‘Can you prove it?’
‘Well,’ began the Doctor a little nervously, ‘if you let us return to where we came from, you would not be troubled further—’ The Doctor turned—and met the hard gaze of the Sergeant who was standing behind him. His fingers were tapping the strap of his machine gun, which was still slung loosely over his shoulder.
‘You’re not going anywhere, Doctor,’ replied the General. As though remembering something, he turned back to the Sergeant. ‘Have you searched that hut of theirs yet?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Why the devil not?’ Cutler exploded. ‘Send your men out there and get it done now—then we might get to the bottom of this!’
Outside, it was still snowing hard. Had the Sergeant and his men been out a moment sooner, they would have seen, dimly visible through the murk, a long black torpedo-like object coming into land just beyond the TARDIS...
As it landed, it gave out a high-pitched winnowing sound and a red light mounted on top flashed briefly. Over the roar of wind there was a faint bubbling radiophonic noise from the body of the object. Then all noise ceased, and the long, rocket-like object began to disappear beneath the driving snow.
The trap door opened with a splintering crack of ice and one by one, the parka clad figures of the Sergeant, Tito and a third soldier emerged from the warmth of the Base. Tito was carrying a small portable electric drill powered by a set of back batteries, and the other soldier, a crowbar. They looked around them: nothing but snow everywhere...
The Sergeant pointed in the direction of the TARDIS and, balancing themselves against the strong wind, they staggered across the snow towards it. They completely failed to see the long black object, which had nestled deep in the snow beyond the police box.
The three men ran their hands over the surface of the TARDIS. It seemed to be made of some sort of metal. The Sergeant tried to open the door, but found it locked. He banged it with his fist, heaved against it with his shoulder—but without success.
Tito now came forward with the drill, flicked the switch, and applied it to a point just above the lock. The Sergeant and the other men watched as a wisp of smoke began to rise from the drill point. Tito groaned and switched it off.
‘What’s up?’ asked the Sergeant.
Tito held up the hand-drill: the end had fractured clean off. ‘Dunno what the heck that metal is, Sarge, but it’s too tough for this drill.’
The Sergeant nodded. ‘Reckon we’re going to need a welding torch to get inside this thing. Get back inside and bring me one out—and bring an extra helper. You’ll need someone else to help.’ Tito shambled off.
The crowbar proved equally useless.
The Sergeant began kicking the TARDIS in disgust, and beating his hands on his ribs to keep warm.
From behind the TARDIS, a strange radiophonic bubbling sound penetrated through the blizzard.
The two men stopped stamping and turned round. ‘What’s that! Hey, Tito, is that you?’ The sound stopped.
The Sergeant looked at the other soldier, shrugged his shoulders and turned back to the TARDIS again. The soldier tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Sarge.’
‘Yeah,’ mumbled the Sergeant, irritated. Every time he spoke he had to pull down his face mask, and he was acquiring a beard of white frost all around his mouth and nose. ‘What is it?’
The man pointed beyond the TARDIS. The Sergeant looked. Three lights were moving towards them through the murk of the blizzard. Again the radiophonic bubbling sound, now slightly raised in pitch, drifted across the frozen waste.
‘What’s going on? Who the heck’s that?’ The Sergeant tried to rub the snow from the outside of his goggles to clear them—then realised that it was frozen condensation within. He whipped them off in disgust and, shielding his eyes, peered through the snow.
The
three lights were slowly changing into three tall, straight figures which were moving forward across the ice with a slow, deliberate step, and the perfect unison of guardsmen on parade.
The Sergeant swung the gun from his shoulder, and challenged the three figures: ‘O.K. Stay right there.’
But the tall figures, each one seemingly clad in a silver armoured suit, continued to move inexorably towards them.
‘I warn you,’ shouted the Sergeant, ‘one more step and I’ll open fire.’
The Sergeant gazed, horror-struck, as they came nearer and nearer. He made out their chests—which resembled concertina-like packs. For heads, they had helmets with side handles, a mounted light, circles for eyes and a slit for a mouth. Seen at closer quarters they were much more like robots than human beings!
Jerking up his machine gun, he aimed and pulled the trigger. The mouth of the gun spurted fire and a stream of bullets sprayed across the marching figures. To his horror the bullets seemed to have no affect whatsoever! Not for one moment did they stop their steady march towards the two frightened men. Finally, the gun jammed in the bitter cold, and the Sergeant swung it back to club down the nearest figure—who was now directly in front of him. Before he could do so, the leading figure raised an arm and swung it downwards in a terrible chop.
With a cry, the Sergeant staggered backwards and collapsed in the snow. His sightless eyes gazed up; his head—the neck completely shattered—lolled at a grotesque angle.
The other soldier, meanwhile, had been backing away, brandishing the crowbar in front of him like a quarterstaff. Suddenly, one of the robot figures reached forward and grasped the end of it.
After a brief tug-of-war, the robot, exerting his tremendous strength, swung his arm up, and lifted the man right off his feet, holding him suspended at arm’s length. Quickly the soldier let go, but before he could scramble to his feet, the robot had swung the heavy bar effortlessly through the air and had brought it crashing down on the soldier’s head, smashing helmet and skull like an eggshell. The man lay motionless in death; a red stain began to taint the snow.
Two minutes later, Tito and another soldier emerged from the trap door with the welding equipment.