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The Well-Mannered War - Chapter Three - A Very Long Story

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A Very Long Story

The command post's alarms, untested and unneeded for over a hundred years, responded admirably to the shockwave of the explosion. Less than a second after the plasma core of the missile impacted with the surface at grid-cell 51 Y, the remote satellite sensors registered the energy release and triggered an automatic sequence wired into the post's defence network by hands long dead. As soon as the lighting flashed red, the air was invaded by a high-pitched howl of an alert, and the blast doors on the post's southern perimeter (the only ones that were still working) slid into position with a screech of unoiled machinery.

What let this effort down was the human part of the equation. Untested and unneeded, the majority of the staff, ambling about the corridors on their various businesses, stopped, turned their heads to each other, scratched their brows, tutted, and waited for somebody else to sort it all out. Just another component failure, no doubt.

Dolne, however, could tell something was wrong. Really wrong. The timing was too exact for this to be anything but a genuine alert.

He dabbed his tears dry, threw on his tabard with a groan of effort and hurried from his quarters, heading up to the Strat Room. The alarm blared in his ears, a constant escalating spiral of electronic noise. He loathed these loud noises and sudden frights. Was everything - the Phibbs Report, the election, the mechanical failures, the loss of Kelton's patrol - conspiring against him? Thirty years in the top job and he'd never before been called upon to act decisively. He tasted for the first time the responsibility of command, and it was bitter.

In the Strat Room hands were flying over consoles, screens were displaying unfamiliar patterns, voices were raised in near panic. Dolne's entry was greeted by several audible sighs of relief which he tried to put to the back of his mind. 'Don't the idiots realize?' he thought. 'I'm more scared than any of them. Just because I wear an outfit with more gold bits on doesn't mean I have the slightest idea how to handle this.'

'Captain.' He nodded as gruffly as his mood allowed to young Viddeas, who was hunched over the war map, his fingers curled over the edges, the knuckles whitened. 'What the hell's -' He broke off, aware that his voice was a full octave higher than usual. 'Ahem; Status report, Captain.'

Viddeas lifted his head at an odd angle. 'Admiral?' he said slowly.

Dolne felt like hopping up and down. 'Status report!' He sided closer and hissed, 'For heaven's sake, Viddeas, you've been praying for this for years. You've finally got the chance to astound us all with your tactical ability.'

Viddeas seemed to snap out of his trance. He pointed to a particular cell on the map, beneath which an unfamiliar bright red light was flashing continuously in time with the alarm. 'Plasma strike, sir, in 51Y.'

Dolne's blood ran cold. He wanted more than anything else to sit down and catch his breath. 'Strike? As in, er, missile strike? With proper missiles, big ones?'

'Yes, sir,' said Viddeas. He consulted a printout handed to him by a junior officer. 'The missile was launched from the enemy position along the 94 ridge.' He indicated the area, which was on the far side of the map, close to the mountainous area that ringed the Chelonians' base.

'Any patrols out there?'

'None registered, sir. But we've been having trouble getting through to at least half of our active units.'

'What sort of trouble?'

'Jamming, sir. I believe it to be enemy interference of a new, untraceable kind.' Viddeas snapped to particularly rigid attention. 'I suggest...' He faltered, and swayed suddenly.

Dolne was rather too lost in his own thoughts to notice. 'Suggest what?'

'Countermeasures, sir. A return strike.'

'Against the enemy? Don't be silly. They were probably just cleaning one of their launchers and it went off. Their missiles are as old as ours, you know.' The alarm made another swoop through the musical scale. 'Can't you switch that thing off?'

'We're trying to find the right switch, sir,' called Cadinot.

'Sir,' said Viddeas. Dolne looked at him properly for the first time since coming in and saw that his eyes were bright as buttons and his skin was pale. 'The Chelonians' launchers have computer-controlled failsafes. Accidental firing is impossible.' He swayed slightly again.

Dolne leant forward. The thought of Viddeas, who at least knew how most things in the post worked, falling ill at this moment filled him with horror. 'Are you feeling all right, boy?'

Viddeas attempted a smile and passed the back of his hand over his brow. 'Quite all right, sir. It must be the... the heat.'

It was at this point Dolne noticed two things. In normal circumstances they would have stood out as extraordinary, but in the present crisis the observations were relegated to the back of his mind. Firstly, Viddeas smelt, but the odour around him was not the stuffy sweatiness of all the others in the post. It was sort of cheesy. Secondly, despite what he had said there was not a single trickle of sweat visible on him. In fact he looked somehow cold. Ignoring these observations Dolne said, 'Get me Jafrid right away.'

Viddeas nodded and walked swiftly away from the map towards his desk.

Dolne rested his weight against the side of the map table and sighed heavily. The alarm clamoured on.

The Darkness watched through Viddeas's dead eyes. It saw the panic in the command post, the worry lines on Dolne's kind old face, the insistent flashing lights of the alarm.

Only the beginning.

In the split second before impact, with the unholy whistle of the missile ringing in his ears, the Doctor, realizing that he was not going to reach the catering lady in time, had thrown himself sideways, using a scissor-like movement of his long legs to propel him high and far. He had come down with an enormous thud that had knocked the wind out of him, but he had remained conscious throughout the blast. It was the aftermath that had caused his problems. The force had wedged him between two slabs of rock, with only his head and shoulders remaining above ground. He felt he must look like a partly hammered nail. He heard Romana and K9 calling his name and made to holler back, and encountered his next problem. His mouth was packed solid with grey dust and the only sound he could make was a sort of croak.

By the time he had levered himself out of his trap, taking care to move slowly to avoid agitating possible fractures, and spat the dust out, his two companions had stopped calling.

He dabbed at a small cut in one hand with his dusty tongue and called, 'Romana! Romana!' He made his hands into a funnel and bellowed her name. There was no reply.

The Doctor shrugged, and unconsciously reached into a pocket for the cup of tea stored there. After draining it he threw away the cup and set off for where he had last seen them. That was the intention, at least; he had not taken two steps before he realized that the blast had not only dislodged at least a couple of tons of rock dust but also caused the topography of the region to be altered dramatically. He looked around slowly and gave a grim whistle. There were no recognizable landmarks at all. The sun was still covered by clouds, giving no hint of help.

'Ah, well,' he said, taking out his tin whistle. 'If I just give this a blow and stay put...' He put it to his lips and sent out a repeated sequence of dots and dashes. He stood like this for some minutes, staring into the thick clouds of dust. Then he put the whistle away. 'Should have heard that, shouldn't they?' he muttered. 'If I stay within the general area, I should be - aha, what's this...'

An object had caught his eye on the ground a few feet ahead. He bent down and brushed off the dust that covered it, and found it to be a plastic bag. There was something soft and squelchy inside. Carefully he upended the bag and tipped out its contents into his palm. He sniffed it, still cautious, and then a grim expression sewed over his face. 'Scone mix. That poor woman. She didn't stand a chance.' He let the crumbs fall through his fingers and as he scattered the last few to the wind took off his hat and held it respectfully to his breast.

He put his hat back on and stood up. 'Where is that dog? K9?' He chose a direction at random and strode off.

The Strat Room's big screen whistled and clicked. For a few moments it buzzed and hissed as thick grey bars of interference rolled across it. Then, after a final surge of distortion, the image of General Jafrid steadied. It troubled Dolne that after all these years he still had no way to interpret the facial arrangements of his friend. Right now he looked hunched and aggressive, his head pulled right back up to his shell, concealing the neck.

There was an unhealthy silence (Cadinot had dealt with the alarm at last) as both leaders contemplated each other. Dolne was absolutely determined not to speak first. So, obviously, was Jafrid. The staring went on.

Dolne broke. Those green reptilian eyes sent an atavistic chill running through him, a fear that seemed to strike his very core. 'Er, now look,' he said feebly. He was aware of sounding unwarlike. To compensate he raised a finger and wagged it sternly. 'This isn't on, really, is it?'

Jafrid's reply was equally muted in tone. 'We are checking and rechecking all components.' He issued a deep groaning breath. 'The incident is most regrettable.'

Dolne felt a surge of relief. 'Ah. It was a mistake, then?'

'Of course it was,' thundered Jafrid. 'Did you really think we'd open fire on you?'

'I didn't know, er, what to make of the, er, incident,' stammered Dolne. He felt like a naughty schoolboy being told off by a headmaster.

'Ask him about the failsafes,' Viddeas whispered suspiciously in his ear.

'Hmm, yes. What about the failsafes, eh?'

Jafrid blinked. Had that thrown him off stride? 'We are rechecking, as I said.' He moved his head up a fraction. In disdain? In affection? 'Surely, if we had intended to start an attack we would have aimed our missile at a more important target.'

'I suppose.' Dolne gulped. 'I'm sorry. We'll get back to you as soon as we've -'

But Jafrid had cut the link.

Dolne stepped back from the screen and tottered automatically over to his desk, where he sat. His face was dripping with sweat, staining the front of his outfit. 'How was it I ended up apologizing?' he mused. 'They have a way of intimidating people. Very rude.'

Viddeas crashed to attention at his side. 'Sir. Permission to comment.'

'Granted.'

'The Chelonian was bluffing, sir. The odds against all the failsafes running down simultaneously on one of their launchers are implausibly high.'

'But like he said,' Dolne said, picking his words carefully, 'why choose 51Y of all places? There's nothing there.'

'To confuse us. And to make us hesitate to respond in kind when the real attack begins.' He was standing very close to the desk and his voice was raised.

Dolne sniffed. 'Have you been eating cheese, Captain?'

Viddeas frowned. 'What? We are discussing tactics.'

'There's an awfully mouldy smell about you. I suggest you take a bath.'

Viddeas swayed again, and again his eyes seemed to shine with a strange brightness. 'Sir. Permission to suggest.'

'Granted.'

'Mr Rabley's party, sir. They're still incommunicado. We should send out an escort and haul them in.'

Dolne clapped his hands together. 'Well done, Captain. That's more like it. A solid, practical suggestion.' He hoped he sounded convincing. He'd never really had to say things like this before. 'A political incident is the last thing we want. Send out a patrol immediately.'

Viddeas nodded and backed away stifly. 'Right away, Sir'.

'And then,' hissed Dolne, fanning his nose, 'have that bath!'

The Doctor tramped through the grey dust, his scarf blowing behind him in great loops, his hat jammed tightly on to his head. To keep up his spirits he was whistling 'Show Me The Way To Go Home' as he picked his way carefully around the rocks at the base of a crumbling cliff face. He was trying not to admit to himself that he was lost, although he was certain he had not passed this way before.

'High ground,' he said suddenly, pointing to the cliff up ahead. 'That's what I need. Pop up and have a quick look about for landmarks. If I'm going to get lost I might as well do it thoroughly.' He navigated his broad frame around the few rocks dotted very close together at the base of the cliff. Then his boot heel touched something soft. He looked down and his expression became immediately more sombre.

There were crushed bodies beneath the rocks.

He knelt to examine the one at his feet. The man's entire middle was missing, pulverized by a giant boulder. He looked to be in his early twenties, and was dressed in a simple military uniform of blue serge. A name patch was tagged to his breast. It read KELTON. Still gripped in his fingers was a pistol. The Doctor removed it for examination. It was compact and silver with a stubby barrel.

'Hmm. Hardly useful on the front.' A thought occurred to him. He leant over and smelt the boulder. 'Strong stuff: So the rockfall wasn't an accident. Plasma missile?' He ferreted in his pockets and brought out a small handheld radiation detector. It registered the recent release of plasma molecules in the explosion that had killed the catering woman, but nothing else. 'No. Rocket attack, then.' The Doctor returned the detector to his pocket and leant forward to gently close the dead man's staring, terrified eyes. And something unexpected happened.

His fingers sank into the man's flesh as if it was putty.

Disgusted, he pulled them back and shook them. A thin coating of slime, a fluid so clear it was almost invisible, clung to them. When he looked again at the dead man the Doctor saw that his exposed skin was covered in the stuff. He fitted the facts together mentally. The pistol had slipped from the fellow's dead grasp very easily, meaning that rigor mortis could not have set in yet. But the body was stone cold to the touch.

He held up his fingers to the dim light of the planet's cloud-covered sun and examined the glistening dew. 'A preservative?' He shuddered and looked about anxiously. 'For a predator? Time to be going, Doctor.'

He rooted about in his pockets once more until he found a test tube, emptied it of iron filings, and then used the end to catch the excess slime from his fingers as he shook them. 'That should do it. Let K9 have a sniff.' He stoppered the tube and returned it to his pocket, wiped his hand with a section of his scarf, and hurried away.

He was still determined not to admit he was lost. He was still in the right general area, for sure.

'... and the territorial claim to Barclow of the Chelonian 70th column (hereafter referred to as "the enemy"), as outlined in their policy document of 506.61, refers to the industrial and strategical worth of the said planetoid in each of its first 21 clauses (excepting clause 2a and clauses 8 through 11). This Committee has examined each of the relevant clauses with regard to officially sanctioned statistics and reports compiled in surveys dated 506.23 to 507.11, as these were considered true and verifiable by the Metralubitan administration (hereafter referred to as "the Administration") during the period covered by the enemy's initial claim, and has noted the following points for the attention of all concerned parties...'

Harmock shook his head and munched on another wafer as the Phibbs Report scrolled up his screen. He had chosen an access option to the file which allowed him to read Phibbs while it was still being fed to his terminal. Which was just as well. Galatea had told him it would take four days to download fully.

She stood over his desk now, her pale blue eyes flicking expressionlessly over the data as it was revealed. 'My research team are sifting through every section,' she said primly. 'Their instructions are to interpret all material in your favour.'

Harmock waved a contemptuous hand at the screen.

'It's gibberish. Could mean anything.'

'My team report that an average of twenty-two various opinions can be formed from each section of the report,' said Galatea. 'This means that Mr Rabley will also be able to claim its vindication.' The amulet at her throat chimed softly. 'My senior researcher is outside and wishes admittance, Premier.'

'Liris?' Harmock brightened a little. 'Send her in.'

Galatea touched the amulet and the office's hemispherical door slid smoothly up with a gentle purr of machinery. Liris walked in. She moved with the precision and smoothness of all Femdroids, although to signify her researcher's role her makers had imbued her with a slightly stumbling, bookish quality. She was substantially shorter and less glamorous than her fellows. Her hair was cut close to her head in a bob, and she wore a pair of wire-framed spectacles behind which brown eyes blinked owlishly. Her moulded tunic was a dark, tweedy brown colour, and she wore her control amulet at an angle that suggested a certain amount of absent-mindedness. Harmock liked her nervous, bumbling qualities, programmed though they were. She made him feel less inferior than the other Femdroids did. 'Good afternoon,' she said brightly. 'Premier, I bring suggestions for the campaign.' She held up a notescreen.

'Good, good.' He sat forward in his chair. 'Let's hear them, then.'

She pointed the hand-held unit to his desk screen and pressed transmit. Harmock sat back and watched avidly as a bewildering blur of images replaced the Phibbs Report. He saw Rabley's entire career compressed into a few seconds. Rallies, extremist meetings, his youth as a long- haired dissenter, his membership of the Rebel Labourers' Party. All of this was set to a threatening, rumbling piece of music. And then six words appeared, one after the other, outlined in throbbing red, each one accompanied by a thunderclap. DO YOU TRUST THIS EVIL MAN?

'Excellent, Liris,' said Harmock, rubbing his hands together. 'It says absolutely nothing about me or my policies. You've done very well. Have it released immediately, marked for prime scheduling across all channels of public broadcast.'

'Thank you, sir,' said Liris, tapping out the instruction on her pad.

'And I want a poll reaction a.s.a.p.' Harmock swung round in his chair to survey the world beyond the Dome. He watched as another skytrain flew past. The stupid faces of the passengers, craning their necks for a view of his office, amused him. Their minds were his, their fears easy to control, their future was surely in his hands.

Galatea spoke. 'Liris, how far has your team got with the Phibbs Report?'

As always, Liris seemed a little afraid of her senior. 'We have searched it for meaning and extracted a rough digest of points favourable to the Premier. This will be released to public broadcast as soon as Mr Rabley returns from Barclow. The news of the report's findings will eclipse Rabley's return and push him down the news schedule.' She gave a petite smile.

'Superb work,' said Harmock. 'What we need right now is a big push from everyone. We play down the report, wait as long as possible - give it another couple of weeks and call the election. We'll say that we'll act on the report afterwards and set out a strategy. Promise a return to hostilities. Rabley loses impetus, we pick it up, we win, and we engineer something or other to keep the Barclow situation the same as it ever was.' He smirked up at Galatea. 'How about that?'

'An admirable strategy.' Another chime sounded from her amulet. She exchanged a worried glance with Liris.

Liris put a hand to her mouth in a curiously natural gesture. 'Oh dear. This throws everything into confusion.' Her voice faltered. 'What are we to do?'

Harmock resented the way in which they could pick up information instantaneously. 'What's happened? What's the matter?'

For answer, Galatea used her finger to switch the screen to MNN. A Femdroid newscaster had assumed a concerned frown. 'We have just heard that a Chelonian plasma missile attack has taken place on Barclow,' she said. 'Details are still coming in, and it is unknown if there have been any fatalities.'

For the second time in a day Harmock bolted from his chair. 'A missile attack?' He spluttered. 'How the hell does MNN know about it before we do?' He slammed his fist down on the desk. 'Get me Dolne, right away.'

Galatea paused, her fingertips resting on her amulet, absorbing information. 'MNN are requesting your reaction, Premier.'

'Damn them. Get me Dolne!'

Galatea's eyes closed and she gave a tiny wince. 'Premier, the reaction of the electorate is very strong. Many of them are calling in already to demand reprisals.'

'Quick off the mark, aren't they?' Harmock thought. 'This throws our strategy out of the window. We can't hold on, can we?'

It was Liris who answered. 'Delaying the election in the face of this development would be seen as weak-minded. However, to react immediately by setting a date would increase your personal popularity rating.'

Harmock smiled again. 'Brilliant.' He felt his blood rising. Today was turning out quite interesting, with these shocks and countershocks. 'We'll do it. Say, the day after tomorrow. Catch the mood.'

Liris nodded and touched her amulet, sending out the statement.

'We have just heard that a Chelonian plasma missile attack has taken place on Barclow,' the newscaster said. 'Details are still coming in, and it is unknown if there have been any fatalities. But public feeling is already running high in the wake of the Phibbs Report...'

The Darkness allowed itself a moment of self-congratulation. It was a simple thing in its desires, but was not above pride.

Romana stopped and drew a despairing breath. The grey vista was as blank as ever on all sides. 'This is hopeless. Are you sure we're going the right way?'

K9 stopped too and his head craned up at an unfamiliar angle. He looked somehow worried. 'Clarify query, Mistress.'

'I can't see the TARDIS.' She flung an arm out over the barren plain.

K9 emitted a dismal-sounding chirrup. 'There is damage to my sensors.' She saw that the two crisp-shaped radar 'ears' on top of his head were whirring impotently but not turning. 'My array has been dislocated. Only immediate vision and hearing are unimpaired. I cannot locate the TARDIS or the Doctor Master.'

Romana felt a sudden dreadful rush of realization. 'You mean you've got no idea where you're leading me?'

K9's head drooped. 'You are leading, Mistress.'

Romana slumped down at his side. 'But I've been following you.' There was an embarrassed silence. 'You looked like you knew where you were going.'

'Your non-verbal signals suggested strong purpose, Mistress,' replied K9.

Romana knew they had no choice but to press on. She stood up and turned a full circle. There was not one landmark to distinguish this area from any other. 'This terrain is so featureless.' A kind of crunching noise was coming from behind a nearby ridge of rock. 'What's that?'

As if anxious to redeem himself, K9 trundled forward to a cleft in the ridge, and stuck his head around a corner to see what lay beyond. 'More humanoids, Mistress.'

Romana scurried to join him, putting her head next to his. The ridge they rested on was in fact part of a cliff that overlooked a gorge about forty feet across. Tramping through it with weary purpose were three soldiers dressed in one-piece fatigues only slightly less grey than their surroundings. They wore small handguns at their belts. At the centre of this small group was a figure dressed differently, a tall, authoritative-looking man in a light-green suit with a bulletproof vest tied around his middle. Oddly, there was a small device, slender and cigar-shaped, hovering a few feet behind him at eye level. A recorder, perhaps?

'More soldiers,' she said. As they came closer she could hear the tone of their conversation, if not the exact words. It was light, informal. Chatty.

'Suggest we confer and request guidance,' said K9.

Romana readied herself to descend. 'All right. They look friendly, but you get ready to cut them down with a stun sweep. Just in case.

K9 made an extraordinary clicking sound. 'Regret cannot, Mistress.'

'What?'

'Cannot,' K9 whispered. He seemed ashamed. 'Offensive capability impaired. My laser is inoperative. This unit is functioning at sixty-one per cent of full utility. Advise immediate repair.'

Romana's spirits sank even lower. She watched as the soldiers trudged along and pondered the problem. Perhaps she and the Doctor had grown too reliant on K9 as a universal problem-solver.

Suddenly there was an ear-splitting shriek, followed quickly by the droning chug of an engine. Instinctively Romana looked up. The sky seemed to be clear. Then she saw it at first not much bigger than a black dot, like a full stop, but growing larger by fractions of a second. Plummeting down, it seemed, right on top of them.

K9 wheeled about, panicked. Struck by fear as she was, Romana still had time to notice the unaccustomed anxiety in his manner. 'Advise take cover, Mistress! Missile attack!'

Romana looked down at the soldiers. They were still ambling along, oblivious to the attack, the high sides of the valley shielding them from the noise of the descending missile. There was no time to warn them. Grimly she threw herself down.

The drone of the missile's engine cut out abruptly. She heard K9's voice, strained to its maximum amplification. 'Attention, attention!' She lifted her head a fraction and saw that he had trundled forward to address the soldiers. 'Take cover immediately to avoid grave loss of life! Danger! Missile attack imminent!'

From her hiding place Romana could just glimpse what was going on down below. The man in the civilian suit broke off from the small, astonished group and walked forward. He squinted up the side of the valley, searching for the origin of the announcement, and called, 'I say, can you help us?' His voice carried upward. 'You probably recognize me.' He shrugged. 'We've got lost, and the radios are dead, and we -'

K9 boomed again, 'Take cover! Take cover!'

And then, for what seemed to Romana like the twentieth time that day, there was a very loud bang.

The Doctor was carrying on, guided by his earlier-stated principle that if you stick to one direction something is bound to turn up eventually. He used the time given to him to expound theories on his discovery. The reverberation of his own voice was strangely reassuring. 'But of course the climate's all wrong for a predator of that type. There's nothing for it to live on, well, nothing that occurs naturally. Hah. Where's a good xenobiologist when you need one?'

A gentle purring sound came from somewhere among the lowering clouds. He looked up and saw a saucer, nudging its way down slowly through the thin atmosphere like a lily blown about the surface of a pond. 'Ah, good.' He stopped, took off his hat and waved it over his head at the newcomer. 'Someone to have a chat with. I do so detest people who talk to themselves, don't you, Doctor?'

The saucer came ever closer, and a series of irregular patterned markings on its pitted upper surface became visible. The lettering was angular and jagged, the notation reminding him of trips to the Orient on Earth. 'If I didn't know any better,' the Doctor muttered to himself, 'I'd say that was a Chelonian ship. But of course it can't be. What would they want with a fleapit like this?'

A stentorian voice boomed from the craft. 'Remain in position,' it said. There was a throaty gurgle behind each syllable. 'Raise your appendages.' The Doctor lifted a leg cautiously. 'Your upper appendages.' He raised his hands. 'You are a prisoner of the Chelonian seventieth column.' A hatch on the craft's rim slid aside to uncover a tri-pronged disrupter attachment.

The Doctor sighed. 'How am I ever going to live today down?' he said.

There was more confusion in the Strat Room. Cadinot was hunched over his screen, his fingers clattering on the keyboard as he struggled to make sense of the sudden energy burst picked up by the detectors. At last he looked up, the troubled expression on his young face picked out in the green glow of the sensor equipment. 'Three missile traces this time, Captain,' he told Viddeas, who was leaning over him. 'Plasma release of -' He consulted a readout and shrugged. 'Well, quite a lot of plasma.'

'Area?'

'Could be anywhere between 48 to 55,' Cadinot said.

He made a hopeless gesture at the screen. 'It's that distortion on the east sat. I can't be more specific.'

Dolne, who had been observing this exchange from the side of the map screen, felt a tugging at his stomach as he looked along the grid. 'Area 52? That's where Rabley's supposed to be. Where's that escort?'

Viddeas, with his usual efficiency, was already on to it. He had snatched up a hand-held link and was calling into it, 'Grayn, come in.' There was no reply. 'Captain Viddeas to escort leader Grayn, respond.'

A wash of static was the only reply. Dolne felt the situation slipping ever further from his grasp. 'Answer, come on, answer.'

There was a beep in response, and a voice crackled through. 'Grayn here, sir. It's bad news, I'm afraid. Pretty awful news in fact, sir.'

Dolne felt like throwing his hands over his ears. 'Oh no.' He waved at Cadinot. 'Raise Jafrid again. I must talk with him.'

After brushing the rock dust from her clothing (she was beginning to look rather less elegant after all of these explosions), and having ascertained K9's good health, Romana crept forward to examine the aftermath of the attack. The valley had taken a direct hit and folded in on itself. The edge she had rested on had partly crumbled away and she was lucky to be alive. Now, only minutes after the strike, another three soldiers were picking their way through the chunks of rubble - coughing furiously as the chalky vapour infiltrated their lungs - and beginning the unwelcome task of dragging the bodies of their colleagues out from beneath the debris towards a small open-topped vehicle, not much bigger than a loading platform. Their leader, who looked far too old to be on field duty, was talking into a communicator. Carefully, Romana crept down towards the site, beckoning K9 to follow. She kept herself under cover.

The leader was saying, in a broken voice, 'Yes, Mr Rabley and the rest of them. It's terrible. There are bodies and bits of missile all over the place.' He paused, looked around at his men, and said, 'Er. What shall I do?'

The voice of his superior, clipped and curt, filtered back. 'Orders. You're supposed to request orders, not say "What shall I do?"

'Sorry, Captain. I request orders.'

There was a brief silence. Then the Captain's voice said, 'Load the bodies and the debris on your truck and get out of there right now. The Chelonians could open fire again any moment and you're sitting targets.'

Romana exchanged a knowing glance with K9, who was also listening attentively. So he had been right about the other side in this war.

The squad leader shuffled as if embarrassed. 'You mean, they really are shooting at us, sir?' he asked his communicator. 'But why? We get along usually, don't we?'

'Just get back here, Grayn,' said his superior. 'Viddeas out.'

Grayn squared his shoulders, holstered his communicator, and turned to those in his charge. 'Right. You heard the Captain. We've got to take all of this back to the post.'

One of the milling soldiers raised his hand. 'Do we have to touch the bodies, sir?'

'Yes, you do,' said Grayn awkwardly. 'Come on, get to work.' He made a chivvying gesture and the soldiers returned to their duty.

K9 made a clicking noise to get Romana's attention and whispered, 'Mistress. Suggest we offer assistance.'

'What if they turn nasty?'

'Speech mode and weaponry suggests non-aggressive character.'

She patted him on the side. 'All right, then. But go carefully.' She settled back to watch as he started to climb, with some difficulty, down the shattered slope.

Ahead of him one of the soldiers had come up to his leader with a piece of metal in his hand. 'Is this a bit of missile, sir?'

Grayn looked closely at it. 'No, it's Rabley's auto-cam.'

He took it and looked it over. 'Still working. There could be vital evidence on this. I'll convey it personally to -' At that moment he glanced up and caught sight of K9. His reaction was almost comical. He jumped and backed away, his right hand scrabbling desperately to unholster his pistol. 'Stop right there!'

K9 continued to advance. 'I am not hostile.'

The soldier gulped. 'Could be an enemy weapon, sir.'

'I am not a weapon,' said K9. 'Please do not shoot. My record of the events leading up to the missile attack may be of value to you.'

The soldier pointed. 'It's got agun, Sir, in its snout.'

This decided Grayn, who raised his pistol to fire, at point-blank range.

Romana leapt from her hiding place and bounded down over the rocks, scissoring her raised arms frantically. 'Wait! Don't fire!'

To her relief Grayn lowered his pistol. He stared at her for a few moments and then his shoulders slumped. 'I don't believe this,' he said.

The central compartment of the saucer was dark and cramped, each surface bristling with the assorted machinery of a high-tech war. The Chelonians came up to only just above waist height on the average humanoid, and the Doctor was forced to bend his knees as he stepped from the entry ramp. His eyes swept alertly about, taking note of the craft's systems and capabilities and comparing them to what he recalled of Chelonian technology from previous encounters. To cover his interest he said brightly, 'Good afternoon, gentlemen. Lovely saucer you have here. It's been, ooh, epochs since I last saw the inside of one of these.' He pointed to a control panel. 'I say, isn't that a remote missile activator?'

One of the three Chelonians aboard the saucer, plainly their leader from his position in a centrally positioned hammock, growled and fixed him with a baleful stare. 'Be silent.'

The Doctor ignored him and walked casually around the circular space. 'But then it's been epochs since I ran into any members of your charming species. Pardon me for saying so, but I'm quite surprised to find that you're still around.' He stooped to examine a set of environment displays. The small screens showed an aerial view of the battlefield, its contours picked out in yellow lines. He made an effort to memorize it. 'Although I'm sure you've outgrown any unpleasant aggressive tendencies you once had, and any second now you're going to offer me a seat and a plate of biscuits.'

'Silence!' the leader roared. 'Or I will have your eyes torn from their sockets!'

The Doctor gulped and stood up. 'Of course there's nothing that bad about aggressive tendencies.' He found one of the younger Chelonians lurking at his side, an oddly shaped yellow weapon clutched in one of his front feet.

'You will give your name and patrol number,' said the leader.

'I haven't got one. Of either.' He paused. On several occasions in his travels he had crossed paths with Chelonians, and put a stop to their schemes to wipe out human populations and push out the borders of their empire. Consequently he had an unfavourable reputation with them. Deciding it was best to be honest he said grandly, 'You can call me the Doctor.'

There was no noticeable reaction to this pronouncement.

The Doctor was slightly miffed. 'Hah,' he muttered. 'Forgotten like everybody else in the end.'

The Chelonian at his side spoke. 'He does not wear the clothing of the human soldiers, First Pilot.'

The leader waved a foot irritatedly. 'I can see that.' He shuffled in his webbing, his hydraulics making a clanking noise, and peered at the Doctor. 'What is your function? Answer now, and truthfully, or it will be the worse for you.'

The Doctor was pushed closer to his interrogator. He bit his lip. 'I've been caught this way before. You see, if I tell you the truth you won't believe me and after a lot of shouting you'll torture me. So why don't I just let you assume that I'm who you think I am and you can torture me straight away. It'll save a lot of time.'

As he had intended there was a baffled silence. The Doctor got the impression that the scenario was somehow half-hearted, that his captors were simply playing out roles. There was an unrehearsed quality about the whole scene. He was about to remark on this when the subordinate said, 'Doctor is a title used by human scientists.'

The First Pilot clenched his claws. 'Ah. You admit it then.'

'Admit what?'

'You are part of the plague war project. Your vile experiments are in direct contravention of the Bechet Treaty.' This time there was a genuine sense of grievance in the First Pilot's words, underpinned by a kind of disappointment.

'You must be mistaking me for somebody else,' said the Doctor. 'I don't do experiments, and certainly not vile ones. In fact I don't know where I am or what's going on here. I'm just an innocent, well, a fairly innocent traveller.'

'A traveller?' spluttered the First Pilot. 'On Barclow? You expect us to believe you are not from Metralubit?'

'Ah.' The Doctor was glad to be thrown this morsel of information, his first clue to his exact location.

'Metralubit. Excuse me, gentlemen.'

He rooted in his pocket and pulled out a battered copy of Finnickan's Planets, the essential reference for all travellers. Skimming quickly to M he read, '"Remote Tellurian colony, sited in the Fostrix galaxy, settled in the fifty-eighth segment of time."' He put away the book. 'That's saved a lot of tedious explanation. Fostrix, eh? Goodness, we are a long way out. No, I'm not.'

'Not what?' The First Pilot was baffled.

'From Metralubit,' said the Doctor. 'In fact, I'm from about as far away from here and now as it's possible to get.'

The First Pilot growled. 'You talk like an idiot from one of the humans' comedic entertainments. Your behaviour is a pathetic attempt to distract me from my questioning. Admit your function. You are one of the plague war team.'

The Doctor shrugged. 'I am one of the plague war team.'

'What?'

'That's what you wanted to hear, isn't it? I only said it to keep you happy.' The Doctor's attention had been caught by a beaded curtain strung on a pole in one comer. Taking advantage of his captors' bemusement he sprang forward and made to pull it back. 'Now, as your lot don't go in for decoration I have to wonder, what have we here?'

His mood became more sombre in an instant. Revealed behind the curtain was a narrow alcove, formed by two support struts. Placed on a square, padded stretcher slotted on to runners on the struts was the body of a Chelonian. Its sightless eyes, rolled upward in terror, seemed to stare accusingly at the Doctor.

'Stand away!' shouted the First Pilot. 'No human is permitted to look on the bodies of the Chelonian dead!'

The Doctor crouched to examine the body. The hard shell was unmarked, the leathery skin of the forelimbs, face and neck not scarred or even broken. But in the dim illumination of the battle craft's lighting a sticky substance, just visible, glistened. The coating covered the entire head. His scientific curiosity overcoming his sense of self- preservation, the Doctor reached out and prodded the brow. Every Chelonian possessed a hard cranial plate at that position, the terminal through which their cybernetic additions were routed to their brain. The flesh was soft and mushy. His mind flashed back to the human soldiers at the fallen rocks. 'But - it's exactly the same...'

'Yes.' The First Pilot unhooked himself from his webbing and motored forward, his limbs creaking with the strain. 'This is the result of your experimentation. Plague war. Forbidden by all civilized races.'

The Doctor backed away. There was a suggestion of fanaticism, almost of madness, in the First Pilot's voice.

Viddeas's bad dream continued. It was as if there were two voices in his head. Two influences: his own, which had control of his reasoning and his voice and his basic physical functions, and another, strange and very cold, at once reassuring - it kept telling him not to worry - and terrifying. Often he was about to speak and tell Dolne or one of the others about his bad experience at the copier. His mouth would open, but before any meaning could form the cold influence would take over and convert his words to something it wanted to say. There was also an intolerable itching under his arms and at his knee and elbow joints, and it was getting harder to move his arms and legs. And while he should have greeted the news of Rabley's death and the prospect of real war beginning with fear he actually felt thrilled, excited, very keyed up. Worst of all, he knew why. He was dead, wasn't he? A dead person, walking about with a voice in his head.

Now he stood at the door of the reception area, Dolne at his side, prepared to receive the returning escort division. Dolne had grown quiet since hearing of Rabley's death, and had taken to fingering the cuffs of his uniform distractedly. As the green light of the entry door lit up he said nervously, 'I wonder who this woman is.'

The voice answered for Viddeas. As always when it did that, a surge of redness seemed to push at his eyeballs. 'I have as much idea as you, sir.' In fact the voice was interested in this newcomer. A stranger could be blamed, branded a traitor, tortured. This would lead to death. And the voice really wanted a lot more death.

Dolne continued fidgeting. 'I'm going to have to tell Harmock about Rabley. And still no word from Jafrid.'

He looked over at Viddeas. 'What if they really are starting things up again? Do we stand a chance?'

'Every chance, sir.'

'Is that just fighting talk?'

The voice got excited. 'No. I believe strongly that if we mobilize our forces now, we may destroy them utterly.'

He was cut off by the creak of the entry door as it lifted. A moment later a young woman with fair hair and a striking air of confidence stepped through. Viddeas felt a moment of desire, but then reminded himself it was unseemly for the dead to harbour lustful thoughts for the living.

Dolne reacted warmly to the woman's smile. 'Ah. And you would be Romana?'

She put out a hand. 'Admiral Dolne?'

'Yes.' He shook it. 'Welcome. You're a traveller, Grayn says.'

She nodded. 'He told me of the rather unusual war you're having here. From a psychosociological standpoint it sounds fascinating.'

Dolne said, 'I'm glad you think so.'

'I've no business on this planet,' Romana went on looking down the corridor. 'As soon as I can find the friend I came with I'll be happy to leave.'

Dolne seemed taken aback by her forthright nature.

'I'm happy to take you at your word. You seem like a nice girl. Not a Femdroid, are you?'

She smiled back. 'I'm afraid I don't know what that is. But I shouldn't think so.'

The grizzled face of Grayn appeared behind her. 'Division G reporting, sir.' He lifted Rabley's autocam. 'I've brought this back, sir, as instructed.' His formal manner faltered. 'Sir, why are the enemy shooting at us? None of the lads can understand it.'

Viddeas stepped forward, directed by the voice. 'Enough talk.' He snatched the autocam, sensing that it might contain material that could be used to create more death. 'I'll take that.'

Dolne intercepted the device and tucked it under his arm. 'Thank you, Viddeas, I'll deal with this. Could be vital stuff on here. You stay and have a chat with this young woman.' He pointed to Romana.

Viddeas flinched, a little of his former personality's irritation with informality lingering. 'A chat?'

Dolne fluttered a hand. 'Oh, interrogation, if you must.' He looked again through the entry hatch. 'Where's that computer thing you were talking about, Grayn?'

A tinny voice came from ground level. 'I am here, Admiral.'

Viddeas looked down to see a primitive-looking robotic device trundling about on some sort of friction system. It looked like the kind of thing an eccentric civilian like the girl Romana would use as a data-store, harmless and whimsical. Unimportant in itself, but still useful.

'Dear heaven,' said Dolne, taking a step back as the device came forward. 'It talks.'

'I am programmed to converse in fifty-seven languages,' said the device.

Dolne chuckled and signed to the device to follow him. 'I'll get Cadinot to open this up and have a look at it. Right, come along, doggie.' The device followed him down the corridor, its rear probe wagging.

Viddeas turned to Romana. 'You haven't pulled the wool over my eyes.'

She seemed to find his anger amusing. 'I haven't tried to. Do you know, this post of yours is architecturally fascinating. I wonder how it stays up.'

'You are a Chelonian spy,' shouted Viddeas.

'I must be wearing a very clever disguise,' she replied.

Viddeas let his gaze linger on her neck. Alive, he had never been so taken with women's necks, being more of a leg man. Dead, he found them strangely tempting. Succulent. 'Don't be flippant. I meant that you are a spy working for the Chelonians. No off-worlders have come to this system since them, not for over a hundred years.'

'Hardly surprising, if this is what you call a welcome.'

She fanned her face as he came closer. 'Have you eaten something? It's very stuffy in here.'

Viddeas gestured down the corridor with his pistol. 'You will accompany me to the detention block.'

Romana sighed and said casually, 'Oh, all right.'

As she moved in front of him, Viddeas caught another glimpse of her neck. An obscene thought came into his head. He wanted to spit on it.

The novelty of the arrival of K9, as the portable computer had identified itself, was taking Dolne's mind away from the unpleasantness of the past few hours. He was not a strong-willed or practical man, and this distraction allowed him to forget the horrible situation that seemed to be brewing. Cadinot, the nearest the post had to a whizz with technical stuff, had been called down to his quarters to examine the creature. He had first asked it to give an account of itself. This account was coming to its end, relayed in its uniquely transistorised tone, and told a somewhat marvellous tale of space travel and adventuring. K9 was far from the faultless efficiency of the Femdroids, a fact that further endeared him to Dolne. 'I exist to obey the orders of the Doctor Master and Mistress Romana. My function is non-hostile. The local situation is of no intrinsic interest to my party.'

Dolne looked over K9's head at Cadinot, who was checking the veracity of the dog's words with a small, hand-held device. 'Well?'

Cadinot shook his head in amazement. 'Checks out, sir. True in all details.'

'Startling.' Dolne relaxed a little on his couch and rubbed his temples. It was nice to receive visitors. He couldn't recall the last time he'd seen an unfamiliar face. 'Welcome, my little pet.'

K9 turned to face him. 'I am not yours or little or a pet. Please return me to Mistress Romana.'

Cadinot ran the device over his metallic body. 'The circuitry's shielded in some way. But look here.' He indicated the dog's glass ears, which were chipped in several places. 'I think it's been damaged.'

'Damage was sustained in the first of the plasma explosions, yes,' said K9. 'However, this unit remains functional.' Its eye extended on a red stalk and an important-sounding beep came from its voice box. 'I have information, should you wish to accept it.'

'What's that?' Dolne asked.

K9 nodded to Rabley's auto-cam, which Dolne had quite forgotten still lay in his hand. 'The tracker/scanner device you are holding I estimate to be the product of a level-five civilization. As is the systems analyser used by Mr Cadinot.' He swivelled on his castors, paying particular attention to the com-screen. 'However, most of the other instruments in this room I would estimate to be products of a late level-three civilization.'

The words meant nothing to Dolne. He pulled a face at Cadinot to say what does it mean?

K9 saw him. 'Please address me directly. I am designed to interact on a personal level with a broad band of sentient creatures, and foremost with humans. My meaning is that there is an unnatural anachronism in these surroundings. Inference is there has been cross-cultural contact, although your assertion of historical isolation conflicts with this hypothesis.'

Dismayed by this stream of jargon, Dolne passed the auto-cam to Cadinot and whispered, 'Do you think it's got confused?'

Cadinot shrugged as he placed the cam in a slot on the com-unit designed for playback. 'Possibly.' He reached out and ran his hands along the device's back panel. 'I could open it up and have a poke about.'

'Only the Doctor Master and Mistress Romana are qualified to poke this unit,' said K9, turning quickly to brush him off.

Dolne stood. He had to get back to the Strat Room before Viddeas could do anything foolish. 'I think we're just going to have to accept your word. From the sound of things you could be quite useful to us.'

Cadinot interrupted him, indicating the com-screen. 'Sir, the recording.'

Dolne looked up. The screen showed a typical sector of the surface. Rabley, his grin wide as ever, could be seen in semi-close-up, the auto-cam following its program to keep him in shot and flatter him at all times. Codie and the other doomed troopers were milling in the background. Rabley was in profile, his head angled up, apparently talking to somebody. 'I say, can you help us?' he was saying. 'You probably recognize me.' He shrugged. 'We've got lost, and the radios are dead, and we-'

A familiar tinny voice, strained to its fullest amplification, echoed in replay. 'Take cover! Take cover!' The auto-cam, obeying its instructions to the last, swung away to fit this newcomer into the picture. K9 was revealed, perched precariously on the upper slopes of the valley Rabley was traversing.

There was a screeching whistle and the screen went black.

Dolne felt a powerful sadness tug at his heart. He'd barely known Rabley, but the sight of the poor fellow trying so hard to be understood at the moment before his death would have upset anybody. As he looked into the blackness and pondered the general unfairness of things another thought occurred to him - one that, despite his sorrow, nearly made him burst out laughing. 'Ah,' he said. 'That complicates things rather.' He shot Cadinot a significant look. 'Think about it.'

Cadinot looked blank for a moment, then his eye-brows shot up. 'You don't mean constitutional privilege?'

He indicated K9. 'For him?'

K9's head lifted suspiciously. 'Please explain reference.'

Romana was getting tired of Captain Viddeas. Not only was he an unpleasant character, but he smelt, and she had to hold back an urge to throw up several times as he led her through poorly lit, low-ceilinged corridors to the detention block. His questions, half shouted, half screamed, grew more insistent as they proceeded, as if he was trying to stir himself up into an unthinking rage. She countered this by keeping calm and polite.

After some minutes they emerged into an area that contained several caged and barred cells. The second along in the row contained a heap of sackcloth.

'Confess!' Viddeas shouted. 'You are an agent of the Chelonians.'

Romana raised a disapproving eyebrow as she looked around. 'Is this your detention block? You don't have any prisoners.'

Viddeas, keeping his pistol level, moved around to face her. 'They were handed back at the last solar quarter. As well you know.' There were traces of moisture around his mouth and his lips were unusually pale, almost blue.

'Please stop saying things like that,' said Romana. She watched as he swayed and shook his head. 'Are you all right?' She held back from reaching out to support him, as his uniform jacket was soaked with perspiration. 'This atmosphere's very unhealthy.' There was a tickle at her cheek that she brushed off instinctively. 'Lots of flies.'

The comment seemed to trouble Viddeas. He blinked and said quietly, 'What was that? What did you say?'

'I said it's very stuffy,' said Romana, fanning herself.

Viddeas shook his head. 'No, it wasn't that, I... about the...' His gun hand started to shake and he tottered away from her. The cells officer, a burly man in a non-descript set of coveralls, came forward to assist him.

'You need to sit down,' said Romana, trying to appear concerned.

Viddeas shrugged off the aid of the officer and pointed to the cells. 'Put her in there,' he blurted, drool now running from his mouth. 'I am perfectly all right! Do it!' He stumbled out, a hand pressed to his temple.

The big man looked after him, plainly confused. 'Stress, probably,' Romana suggested. She took the lead and walked across to the nearest cell, swinging the little barred door open and making herself comfortable on the bench within. 'I'd like a glass of water, if that's allowed.' She smiled sweetly at the officer, who locked her in and walked away, shaking his head in confusion.

Romana allowed herself a few moments of reflection. On the journey to the post she had learnt the bizarre history of the war from Grayn. It was just like the Doctor to land them here at the very moment things started to hot up. She considered using her sonic screwdriver to pick the lock of the cell, and decided it was probably better to keep on the good side of these people, who were, Viddeas excepted, pleasant enough. She sat back on the bench, drew her feet up, and allowed her head to fall back on the bars separating her cell from its neighbour. The pile of sacking in the next cell was placed conveniently for her to use as a pillow.

The sacking moved.

Romana sat up and turned to see a figure pushing itself out from beneath the covering. The initial shock of not being alone was compounded by the sight of the face revealed by this stirring. He was blinking with an unaccustomed grogginess, and he looked a few years older. There were new worry lines around his eyes and mouth. But the egg-like bald head, the hulking frame and the bloodless lips could have belonged to no one other than Menlove Stokes. She and the Doctor had encountered him not so long ago, in their own relative time-stream, during an encounter with the villainous Xais in the twenty-third century. He had then been employed as an artist, and not a very successful one, in a grotesque gallery of his own creation built into the basement of a prison.* All of this flashed through Romana's mind in an instant. 'Great Rassilon!' she shrieked, pulling herself up.

* See Doctor Who - The Romance of Crime.

Stokes peered at her from beneath heavy eyelids. 'Ah. You must be an illusion. A side effect of the sedative.' His voice was as affected and actorly as ever. 'Go away.' He pulled the sacking back over his head.

Romana considered for a moment the possibility that this was a distant descendant of the man she had met. But he had recognized her: She decided to be direct. 'I'm as solid as you are,' she said, reaching through the bars to tap him on the shoulder.

He refused to look up. 'No no, you are definitely the product of whatever unholy chemical mixture they've sent swimming through my bloodstream.' He shifted his position slightly and stared out at her. 'Interesting, how my mind works. At this, perhaps the time of greatest crisis in all my days, it summons forth a spectre from my second-best adventure. The lovely Ramona.'

'Romana.' This was definitely Stokes. 'You're starting to irritate me and I may have to slap you.'

He nodded. 'Exactly what a mirage would say. There's no need to raise your hand as my haunted mind would, no doubt, simulate the pain of actual physical contact.' A thought seemed to strike him. 'Actual physical contact,' he repeated slowly. Then he threw off the covering completely, revealing his battered, paint-spattered old raincoat and disordered cravat, and patted his knee. 'You don't fancy hopping on to Uncle Men's lap, do you?'

Romana had an idea. 'Stokes,' she said, 'you are a pompous, self-inflated fool with no talent whatever.'

He flushed and pulled himself upright, then clapped his hands together in astonishment, his tiredness seeming to vanish in an instant. 'You are real! No hallucination of mine would dare to say that!' He pointed an aggressive finger at her. 'How dare you say it!' Then he checked his temper. 'Very clever. Of course, you didn't mean it.'

Romana changed the subject. 'I am pleased to see you,' she said, honestly. 'But what are you doing in this time and place? You must be millennia out of era.'

He shuffled awkwardly. 'It's a very long story.'

'I was afraid it might be.' She leant forward. 'What have you been up to? Time travel?'

Stokes swelled with self-importance. 'Not exactly.' He coughed and began to declaim. Romana got the impression he had been rehearsing this speech. 'My tale begins shortly after our last meeting, and that unpleasantness aboard the Rock. That idiot Spiggot wrote a ludicrous account of what occurred there, casting himself as a hero and me as a bumbling fool. You and your pop-eyed friend and that tin bath of yours were written out altogether. Anyway, I wasn't prepared to stand for it. I took legal advice and sued him for every credit of his royalties.'

Romana cast her eyes over his clothing. 'You lost?'

'I was ruined,' he said hotly. 'Made a laughing stock in open court. No witnesses, you see - my word against his. It was a disgrace. Worse, it swallowed up my unearned income. And the exhibition I had timed to coincide with my victory was ill-attended and took very bad reviews.'

He smacked his fist into his palm. 'From fools, I might say. That churl Bootle Anderson said that I was "rubbing the faces of my audience in my own vomit". That crazy pipe-smoking old harridan Sybilla Strang claimed my works "plumbed a new nadir of creative bankruptcy". But I didn't let it get to me.'

'Evidently,' said Romana.

'Envy, that was all. It's been the same down the ages:true endeavour crushed by jealous chatterers. Think of Van Gogh, Matisse, Whiteread. All deceased and dispirited before the next generation, unencumbered by the judgements of their sniping rivals, recognized their actual worth. I was not prepared to follow that route. And, thanks to the technology of my native century, I did not have to.'

Romana grasped his meaning. 'Suspended animation?'

'Yes. I booked myself into the Dozing Decades cryo-mort on Fridgya, and took up a lease on a berth with the last few crumbs in my possession. I specified to be woken only when my work was re-evaluated and properly appreciated.'

There was an unpleasant silence. At length, Romana said, as politely as she could, 'Stokes, we're getting close to the very end of the universe.'

'There was a slight delay, yes. Fridgya was laid waste in the fifth Thargon-Sorson war and the cryo-mort was left unattended.'

Romana consulted her encyclopaedic memory of major galactic events. 'In 2660?'

Stokes nodded. 'Many, many thousands of years later archaeologists came to Fridgya and unearthed my fellow sleepers and myself. Unfortunately they were stupidly superstitious and packed us off, still frozen, in drifting, unpowered mini-pods. I ended up here in the Fostrix galaxy, a fair while later. Where the good Femdroids of Metralubit hauled me in. And what joys I stumbled on. I take it you haven't been down there?' Romana shook her head and he went on, 'It's a beautiful place. A Utopia. A rationally organized, harmonic society, governed by benevolent democracy.' His eyes glazed over. 'You must visit it. Great white towers stretching ever upward, free transport with no pollutants, rolling green spaces. I was welcomed and made so comfortable. The Metralubitans leapt at the work I provided for them. Even one of my lesser abstracts fetches a generous sum there. At last I was appreciated.' He snapped himself back to the present. 'But after some months of excessive comfort I started to thirst for a challenge and volunteered my services as a war artist, that I might capture some of the flavour of these bloodless hostilities. Now I wish I never had. Those reptilian beasts are going to plunge us all into disaster! And that uptight idiot Viddeas won't let me leave.'

Romana shook her head in wonderment. 'Astonishing. The level of coincidence, I mean. Our meeting is the most unlikely thing that could happen. Perhaps the Doctor was right about the Randomiser.'

'He's here?' Stokes groaned. 'No doubt the general level of mayhem will increase accordingly.'

'The Doctor saved your life,' Romana pointed out.

'Politeness is for mediocrities,' he said casually. His weariness had left him, and he got up from his bench and started to pace his cell. 'How long am I going to be subject to this whitewash! Will we all be dead?'

Romana looked up as Viddeas, now looking more controlled, returned to the detention block. Stokes pointed to him. 'You. I want to see the Admiral. Now.'

Viddeas's attention was all on Romana. 'Shut up. Or I will order your sedation.'

Stokes grimaced. 'There's been another attack, hasn't there? Now do you see I'm right? I'm a civilian - you can't hold me. Let me speak to the Admiral. Remind him that I'm known to Premier Harmock and that I'm not without influence on Metra.'

Viddeas ignored him and advanced on Romana's cell. 'You will give me details of the Chelonians' plans. Immediately. If you do not it is within my rights to have you tortured.'

She smiled back. 'That won't be necessary. I can prove my story. Stokes, tell him who I am. Stokes turned to Viddeas. 'Please, do I have to be shut up with this madwoman? Is this part of your game against me, Viddeas?'

Romana went on. 'He can vouch for me. We're known to each other.'

Page 39
  

Stokes gave her a scathing look. 'Please ignore her ramblings,' he told Viddeas. 'I've never seen her before in my life.'

Inwardly, Dolne was rather amused by the scandalized look on Cadinot's fresh face. The young man kept looking between him and K9 and shaking his head. 'You're not serious, sir. Say you aren't.'

Dolne wagged a finger and slid a thick leatherbound volume from his bookshelf. 'There's nothing in here to say it can't happen.' He handed the book over. 'Times have changed. In my academy days we learnt every page of the constitution.'

Cadinot turned the book over in his hands, as if afraid to open it. 'But a robot? Not much more than a Femdroid?'

'An artificial intelligence,' Dolne corrected him. 'Who can tell? It might be the best thing for Metralubit.' As he spoke he took the book and placed it before K9, who started to read eagerly, using his eyestalk to turn the pages. 'Better than old Harmock.'

The com-screen bleeped suddenly, and without preamble Harmock's face appeared on it. 'I've spent hours trying to get through to you,' he said, frowning. 'Your satellite bands are thick with distortion.'

Dolne nodded happily. He took a perverse pleasure from confounding Harmock, even in these circumstances. 'Yes, that'll be the enemy jamming.'

'Jamming?' Harmock sat forward and his face filled the screen. 'I think you'd better give me a full report, Admiral.'

The Doctor had shrugged off his coat, having found the close atmosphere of the saucer uncomfortable, and was using a small piece of wire to scrape off some of the substance from the dead skin of the victim and into another test tube fished from the depths of his pockets. His willingness to approach the body with no protection greater than a handkerchief had seemed to impress his captors, who were standing back as he completed his work. He turned to the First Pilot and held up the tube. 'No plague, Mr...?'

'Seskwa,' the other grunted.

'Mr Seskwa. Without the proper equipment I can't be absolutely certain, but I'd say this was the residue of a naturally occurring preservative chemical.'

Seskwa made a sceptical gesture. 'From a glance, you can tell that?'

'I've seen a similar process in a parasitic species called the Oraapi. Carrion feeders. It's used by an advance party to keep the food fresh until a full hatching.' He turned back to the body and used the wire, now clean, to point to two small marks on the grizzled neck. 'These look like incision points. The feeder has tested the meat, found it to its liking, and decided to preserve it and come back later, probably with friends. Say what you like about micro-organisms, they look after each other.'

'Micro-organisms?'

'Oh, I'd say so, wouldn't you? Anything larger would have simply gone for the chomp.' He rooted in his coat pocket and pulled out the first sample. 'And look at this.'

Seskwa and his colleagues took a step back. 'What is that?'

'Don't be so jumpy. I found it covering the bodies of some Metralubitan soldiers not far from here.' He looked Seskwa right in the eye. 'Do you know what I think?'

'Tell me.'

'I think your war has disturbed a predator.'

Seskwa moved a little closer, his eyes narrowing. His tone was outwardly unperturbed. 'Let me put an end to your theory, Doctor. There is no life on Barclow. Only our people, and your people. The planetoid is without any of the properties needed to sustain life. The atmospheric belt is only fifty miles wide. Nothing grows here. There are no such predators.'

The Doctor raised a finger and moved closer to Seskwa, stooping to put their heads on the same level. 'Can I ask you a pointed question?'

Seskwa nodded graciously.

'If this planet is so useless,' said the Doctor, 'why are you and the Metralubitans fighting over it?'

Harmock's bushy brows twitched in a reaction that Dolne found unreadable. Was it grief or joy mixed in with the shock? 'Rabley is dead?' he stammered.

'I'm afraid so, sir.'

'But that's -' Again the flutter, the hastily suppressed smile. 'I mean, it's - er, I'm not sure what it means, but...' He composed himself and put on the face he reserved for state funerals. 'What a terrible loss. In a cowardly attack, just two days before the election.' The words lingered on his lips. 'The election.' A glint came into his eye. 'You know what this means, Dolne.'

Dolne had a terrible feeling he did. 'You're not suggesting we fire back?'

'Drastic measure, I know,' Harmock said. 'Nothing serious, mind you. Be sure not to hurt anybody. Just let them know we're not going to stand for it.'

Dolne wrung his hands. 'I'm sure Jafrid didn't intend for Mr Rabley, or anyone else, to actually die. This is all a dreadful mistake, I can tell.'

Harmock wasn't listening. 'Poor Rabley. I'll mourn his passing, but he was a victim of his own pacifist stance. Yes, I like the sound of that.' He re-emphasized the sentence. 'A victim of his own pacifist stance. No, a victim of his own pacifist stance. Much better.' He waved a hand vaguely. 'His deputy will have to take over. Can't quite recall who that is.' Then he gave a small chuckle. 'What a pity. What a terrible pity.'

Suppressing his own outrage at this behaviour Dolne decided to drop his own bombshell. 'There's a further complication, sir. Someone here put his own life in danger to save Mr Rabley.'

'And survived?' Harmock, who obviously knew his constitution, looked anxious.

'Yes, sir. He's here with me now, sir.'

Harmock's eyes settled on Cadinot. 'Ah. Soldier. Well done. You shall be given the highest citation it is within my power to bestow. And your pension will be upgraded. So, no need for you to claim the privilege, right?'

'It isn't me, sir,' said Cadinot.

'Who, then?' said Harmock. 'You said he was with you?'

'Greetings, Premier Harmock,' said K9, motoring himself forward into the range of the com-camera. 'I am K9. I am now fully conversant with the Metralubitan constitution.'

Harmock slumped. 'Is this all a joke? The whole thing, I mean? The missiles, Rabley and everything?'

'I wish it was, sir,' said Dolne.

'I claim my constitutional right,' said K9. 'I will stand as your opponent in the coming election.'

Harmock took a long look at his new opponent, who was staring up at him from the carpet of Dolne's quarters. He felt vaguely amused. 'Do you, now? K9, you say?'

'He's a computer, Premier,' said Dolne. 'Belongs to a young lady who's just arrived here. An offworlder, in fact.'

Guided by instinct, Harmock looked over his shoulder at Galatea and Liris. They looked as inscrutable as ever. 'Off world visitors? I've had no notice of this.'

Liris's shoulders shifted in a movement that suggested unease. Galatea, though, reacted with her usual smoothness. 'The incursion did not register on our detectors,' she said. 'It must be small and poses no threat.'

Although reassured by her words and their simple wisdom, Harmock could not assuage his natural curiosity. 'Now listen, Dolne,' he said, turning back to the screen.

'Who is this woman? What's she doing wandering about on Barclow? She's not connected to all the trouble you're having, is she?'

The robot answered. 'Negative. My Mistress is non-hostile.'

'What about you?'

'My ethical programming is to resolve conflict situations.'

Harmock scented evasion. 'You haven't answered my question. It deserves a direct reply that you will not give.'

'My study of this war calls into doubt your suitability for office,' said K9. 'Your own environment appears excessively pleasurable, while this command post needs urgent replacement of defence and communications equipment.'

Harmock hooted. 'You're blaming me? Without stopping to give a decent account of your own origins? My goodness, it's laughable. Why should I take notice of you anyway? I might as well stand for office against this desk.'

'Prejudice against artificial intelligences is outmoded,' countered K9. 'As outmoded as your economic and social policies and your deployment of personal insults when argument fails you. I will now give -'

His speech was cut off by a sudden increase in the static interference that had been fluttering at the edges of the relayed picture.

The Darkness observed this exchange, and approved of it. One of the leaders was dead, raising the stakes. A new leader had been appointed. Instability was a good way to the creation of much human death.

Liris's fingers fluttered over the printed circuitry of her amulet, her bookish features wrinkling at the static-filled screen. 'The link is lost,' she reported at last. 'More interference on the east satellite.'

Harmock was hardly bothering to listen. 'What does it matter?' he asked. Below the desk his hands were rubbing together convulsively, his body sent into delighted spasms. 'This is looking better and better.'

His mind was filled with thoughts of his new opponent, and his undoubted victory, so he almost failed to register Liris's next words. 'MNN wish to know your reaction to the death of Mr Rabley and the appointment of K9, Premier.'

He sat up and fumed. 'They know already? Damn them. They must have a tap on our priority channels. Blooming journalists must have a better idea of the picture than we do.' He considered for a moment. 'Tell them I'm deeply saddened, etc etc, but that I'm looking forward to taking on his replacement. And that I've ordered a return of fire. That'll do. I'll make a fuller statement later when I've had time to think.'

Liris nodded and used her amulet to convey the message.

Fired by an unprecedented rush of enthusiasm, Harmock from his chair and began to pace the office's thick green carpet. 'Ha! This will be a doddle!' He turned to the Femdroids and took their hands. 'No offence, my dears, but I know which way the voters will go given a choice between an animated speak-your-weight machine with ideas above its station and good old flesh and blood. A strong majority, I'll be bound. Then we can sort out this nonsense with the Chelonians.'

Galatea tightened her pressure on his fingertips very slightly. 'The cause of their attacks remains unknown. Mechanical failure is unlikely.'

'And interference with our satellites supports the theory that they are acting aggressively,' added Liris.

But Harmock's mood could not be quelled. 'If they want trouble, by jingo we'll give it to them. Friends or not. They started it.' He let their hands fall and walked to the window. Daylight was fading over the beautiful city, the last tourist skycar buzzing by. 'Perhaps this is just what I needed,' he reflected. 'A bit of action.'

'Premier. The first updated poll returns have been received,' he heard Galatea say.

He turned to the screen where the familiar graph was sketching itself in. 'That was quick.' He jumped as his mind made sense of the green block streaking past his own dwindling orange. The Opposition were a full twenty-five points ahead. 'How?' he stammered.

'I have accessed the public broadcast research centre,' said Liris. 'The voters have responded favourably to K9's appearance and personality. He is seen as cute. Further more, his off world origins are being received favourably. Voters are calling in to say that he represents a new-broom approach.'

Harmock swung back to the window. He watched another skycar go by and cursed its passengers long and loud for their stupidity.

'Confess,' barked Viddeas. 'You are working for the Chelonians.'

Romana yawned and let her head fall back on the metal wall of her cell. She consulted her watch. This interrogation had been going on for only ten minutes. It felt more like an hour had passed, such was the cumulative effect of Viddeas's shouts and his awful odour. 'What as?'

'A spy.'

'I'm nobody's spy.' For the tenth time she appealed to the next cell. 'Stokes, tell him who I am.'

The artist made a shooing gesture. 'Don't try to implicate me in your schemes.' He smiled at Viddeas. 'I don't see why I should be locked up with her, or indeed why I should be locked up at all. I'm a civilian.' He raised his voice. 'By rights you ought to be grateful. Nobody here listened to me and now the bombs are dropping.'

Viddeas reacted to Stokes's words by fumbling at his belt and then whipping out a silver pistol. Romana was startled by the ferocity of the action. 'Will you -' Viddeas looked at the arm in which he held the gun and shuddered. 'Be quiet. There is a... there is...'

Stokes stood up and backed himself out of the line of fire. 'How dare you point that thing at me? I hope it's set on stun.'

Viddeas shuddered. 'I've had enough,' he said, spitting out each word. 'You cannot know... how long we've waited...' His voice died away, dropping to a whisper, and Romana had to strain her ears to catch his last words. '

'Consume,' he said, 'we must... consume...'

He slumped against the bars of her cell, and she was starting to weigh the odds on reaching out to grab his gun when the moment's tension was broken abruptly by the clatter of booted feet on metal and the appearance of Admiral Dolne and his fresh-faced colleague. 'Ah, Viddeas, there you are,' said Dolne, totally failing to notice the drawn weapon. 'Now look, the situation's changed.' His manner seemed to have become breezier since their last encounter, and his hands moved expansively as he spoke. He offered her a curious wave. 'Hello, Romana. I've heard all about you from K9.' Without waiting for an order, the young man with him stepped forward and started to unbolt her cell.

The effect on Viddeas was electric. He snapped upright. 'Sir, what are you doing?'

Dolne wrinkled his nose. 'You never did take that bath, did you?'

Romana stepped from the cell, nodded to the young man and addressed Dolne. 'Thank you, Admiral. I'm pleased that someone here can think clearly.'

He tapped her on the shoulder. 'Not a bit of it. Now, K9 is waiting for you in his quarters, fifth level. Cadinot here will show you the way and fill you in on the gen.'

Romana joined Cadinot, who waved a hand towards the door leading from the cells. Something in the formal manner of the Admiral was unsettling. Why had she suddenly been accepted, and treated so kindly?

'You can't let her go,' spluttered Viddeas. He was paid no attention.

Stokes was viewing this scene with visible apprehension. 'Admiral,' he called. 'At last you're here. This underling of yours has been behaving to me in an outrageous, and probably unlawful, manner. Surely there's no reason now, with the bombs flying about our heads, to keep me locked up down here? And no reason why I can't take the first shuttle away?'

'Return to your bunk,' said Viddeas, gesturing with his gun.

Dolne raised a hand. 'No, wait. Er, Stokes. If I let you out will you promise to behave?' He stepped closer and said quietly, 'Only I've got enough on my plate without you shouting your mouth off.'

'Sir,' protested Viddeas. 'This man is a disruptive influence.'

'You've just made up my mind for me,' Dolne said. He reached out and unbolted Stokes's cell. 'Out you come.'

'Thank you,' Stokes said, with all the grace he could muster. 'And now, if you'll escort me to the shuttle, Captain?'

'I didn't say anything about that. You're to remain here.'

Stokes flared up, pulling himself to his full height. 'But I've -' He caught sight of Dolne's look of warning and his shoulders fell. 'Very well.'

Sickened at the sight, Romana turned her back and allowed Cadinot to lead her away.

A moment later she felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to face Stokes with accusation in her eyes.

'I had no other option,' he said anxiously. 'If I'd spoken up they might have accused me of being your accomplice. By keeping quiet I could work out a plan to get us both free.' He held out a little finger. 'Friends again?'

She sniffed. 'I don't recall that we ever were.'

Dolne waited until both Romana and Stokes had departed before turning to Viddeas. He had no wish to give the man an audience at this distressing moment. Indeed, he felt rather embarrassed. 'Word's come through,' he said.

'From Metralubit?' Viddeas's eyebrow shot up.

'Do you have to look so eager?' He reached in his pocket for a small folding map of the battle zone, smoothed it out, and indicated a certain area. 'Here we are. There's a scattering of pillboxes along these slopes at 73 to 76. Prepare the launchers.'

Viddeas snatched the map and his eyeballs rolled over it. 'But they're unstaffed. The Chelonians use them for remote camera scanning. They're worthless.' He bit his lip, leaving a small white mark. 'Sir, three of our men are dead. Six if you count Kelton and his team. I say we should hit back hard. If we do this they'll just laugh at us.'

Dolne was saddened. 'Oh dear. Why does everyone have to get so upset? I don't know what's possessed you.'

Viddeas flinched and his eyes dilated oddly. 'Possessed? What do you mean, possessed?'

'I mean I don't know why you're behaving so oddly,' said Dolne.

'Ah I see.' Viddeas relaxed.

'I just think we ought to try not to let things get out of hand.' He took the map back, noting how it seemed to cling to the clammy skin of Viddeas's hand. It was only now he noticed that Viddeas wasn't sweating; and rather than being flushed like everyone else's face at the post, his face was pallid and showed a faint greenish tinge. He had always been of the fastidious sort, overeager but deferential, and scrupulously tidy. It was odd. 'Now, I want a mildly aggressive bombardment. Nothing too serious. Do I make myself clear?'

'Yes, sir,' said Viddeas. 'I'll see to it.' He saluted and left the cell block.

For the first time in a while Dolne was left alone. His thoughts turned to Jafrid. He hoped his old friend wouldn't mind what was about to happen, that he would see it was only fair for both sides to have their little accidents.

It was very difficult, Romana was rediscovering, to ignore Stokes. He made the Doctor, whose lips never seemed to rest together very long, seem shy and reflective by comparison, and seemed incapable of letting even the smallest incident pass by without making some comment on it. Cadinot had directed them to the post's lowest level and hurried away on business, and now they were turning the corner into the passage that contained K9's quarters. This level was constructed more sturdily than the others, and there was a suggestion of luxury in the fan-shaped light fittings that emitted a soft, reassuring orange glow. 'Plush, isn't it?' remarked Stokes. 'When I first arrived I came down here for some drinks with Dolne. He's got very good quarters and a reasonable cellar.' Noting Romana's silence he adopted a plaintive tone. 'I would hardly have abandoned you, you must realize. Here's a suggestion. Why don't we find the Doctor and all go back to your TARDIS thing? You've still got it, haven't you?'

'I thought you liked living on Metralubit,' said Romana.

'I do,' he said hotly. 'Very much so. It's a fantastic place, with all the luxuries and civilized refinements that a man of my taste and character could wish for. And I'm very much appreciated there. What I was thinking was that you could just drop me off...' He let the sentence fall to the floor.

'We'll discuss it later,' she said. They had now reached the third door along the passage. 'This must be it.'

Stokes seemed to notice where he was for the first time. 'I thought so. These are my rooms, the guest suite. They've got a cheek, throwing me out like an old boot. It's ridiculous. What will a tin dog want with a jacuzzi?'

'Let's find out.' Romana knocked on the door and it whirred open. Inside was a reasonably sized room with subdued lighting, a scattering of low leather sofas, and a large communications unit. Its main screen was at present scrolling through a micro disk's worth of data, which K9 was absorbing with incredible speed. On the wall above was a framed Stokes original, a dotted red swirl that depicted nothing in particular. 'Hello, K9,' she called.

'Greetings, Mistress,' he replied without turning from the screen.

'How are you?'

'I cannot converse at present, Mistress. Imperative that I absorb this information.'

Romana stepped forward and pressed the screen's pause control. The display at this point read:

The current democratic system evolved from the chivalric notions of the second Diurnary period, and from which many of the rituals, including the right of constitutional privilege, are traditionally derived.

'It doesn't look very imperative to me,' she observed.

'Hello,' said Stokes. K9 ignored him, so he stepped in front of the screen and smiled. 'Recognize me?'

This time K9 seemed genuinely taken aback. 'Humanoid artist Menlove Ereward Stokes. Friend. Encountered during the Xais/Nisbett affair. Unreliable and erratic character.'

'Lovely to see you again, too,' said Stokes. 'He seems a tad snootier than at our last meeting.'

Romana knelt down to address K9. 'We must find the Doctor. There's no time to waste on political history.'

'Aiding the Doctor Master is my first priority, Mistress.' Stokes was right, thought Romana. K9's manner seemed somehow elevated. 'It is to achieve that end that I have accepted my constitutional right to stand as the Opposition candidate for the Premiership of Metralubit.'

She blinked. 'What?'

'It is to achieve that end that I -'

'Shut up, K9. I mean, don't shut up. I mean, explain.'

In the Strat Room, Viddeas gripped the arms of his chair and swivelled it very slightly to the left. It was surprising, he thought, how much of his personality remained in this dead shell. Perhaps the creature dominating him needed to retain some of his human characteristics. It seemed to encourage him whenever he thought of war and death, which was often. 'Right,' he ordered. 'Align launchers three and four.' He swung a remote control board from the wall so that it rested at his waist. 'Hammerschmidt, give me satellite access to this position.'

The named officer turned round guiltily. The Strat Team had been shaken by Viddeas's orders to prepare counterfire, even when he had assured them of its mildly aggressive nature. 'The interference is still strong, sir,'said Hammerschmidt, a trace of resentment in his voice. Unlike Viddeas, many of the staff at the post had friends among the enemy. This reluctance would have to be dealt with. 'We'll have to launch the missiles on manual.'

'Do not question my orders,' snapped Viddeas. 'Give me guidance to this station.'

'But you won't be able to do anything, Captain,' protested Hammerschmidt.

'Do it!' shrieked Viddeas. For a moment, as the terrified lad struggled to comply, Viddeas had a sickening vision of his body with all the strength and health drained from it, saw it as a piece of decaying meat, and had to fight down a wave of some feeling that was nausea and excitement combined.

Cadinot spoke. 'Launchers aligned to target on manual.'

'Very well.' Viddeas gulped. 'On my order.'

Suddenly his mind was wrenched open from within with the force of a strong light piercing an ancient tomb. He seemed to see not only the Strat Room and the backs of his staff hunched at their stations but also a hideous, red-outlined place the size of a cathedral. This was a shrine to animal death, a stinking lightless temple where disease was a holy word. And his consciousness was not contained in just one body but in billions, all traces of individuality stripped away until there was one central mind governed by a feverish lust.

Somehow, this creature he had become part of told him that the satellite was free for him to use.

'Missiles armed and ready, sir,' said Cadinot, very distantly, his voice seeming to echo through the otherspace, the vast Darkness, to reverberate through the billions of tiny, furled-up buzzing creatures with jittering wings and twitching probosces.

He reached out and started to manipulate the satellite link, unseen by the others. 'On my mark,' he heard himself say.

The Doctor felt he was getting somewhere. Seskwa had been rather forthcoming about the planetoid's history.

'So, you turned up here a hundred and twenty-six years ago, set up camp, and the Metralubitans came along and told you to push off. At which point you claimed Barclow as your territory, you threatened war on each other, then signed a treaty to let this Committee sort it out, and have been waiting for the findings ever since with not a shot fired?'

'That is the gist, yes,' said Seskwa.

'Good. I just wanted to get things clear.' The Doctor allowed himself a smile. 'Very unusual. It makes this mystery all the more puzzling.' He gestured to the dead body.

'Humans weren't responsible for this.'

'How do you know?'

'Not their style. Too imaginative.' He crouched down to bring his face level with Seskwa's - a presumption that would test their new alliance.

Seskwa narrowed his eyes. 'Why, then, do they jam our communications? Our east satellite is almost totally blocked.'

The Doctor wagged a finger. 'You haven't considered the other possibility. Some third, alien force.'

Seskwa gestured with a front foot. 'You are an alien.'

'I meant a very alien force.' He looked at the test tube that was still in his pocket. 'I really could do with a closer look at this gloop. I don't suppose you have a microscope about the place?'

The Darkness concentrated, humming with power. This was perhaps the most crucial stage of its operation.

On one patch of the dripping screen was Viddeas's view of his own hands working at the satellite link controls. On another was the satellite itself seen from close by. A third section was taken up by a hastily compiled map of the war zone, adapted from the one shown by Dolne. According to this, the optimum strike should impact at the grid cells marked 48.

The Darkness sent a thought pulse, and Viddeas reset the east satellite to fire all launchers at that position.

'First Pilot!' cried one of Seskwa's juniors from his position. 'There is a shower of plasma missiles coming in fast!'

Seskwa reared up. 'What? Range?'

'Eleven point three kuznaks and closing. They will reach us in three minutes.'

Seskwa snarled at the Doctor. 'So much for the innocence of your species, human.'

The Doctor looked anxiously at the radar screen. 'I suggest you stop asserting your superiority and start worrying about those.'

'In this craft we can be far distant in seconds, Doctor.' Seskwa nodded to the third Chelonian, the navigator. 'Tuzelid, set a course for command and lift us away.' He started to strap himself into his support webbing as the saucer shook, preparing itself for flight.

The Doctor vaulted over the circular safety rail. 'Think. If I'm the evil genius you think I am why would my own side try to kill me?'

Seskwa looked troubled for a second. 'I don't know. But they obviously are.' He took out his weapon and levelled it at the Doctor. 'You will lie down.'

From the mind of Viddeas the Darkness saw how some of the animals would avoid death. They had machines to carry them off, in a mockery of the Darkness's own power of flight.

No matter. There were other machines aboard the satellite to prevent them.

The saucer groaned and creaked, tipping the Doctor from side to side. He raised his head and saw only confusion. Seskwa trying to retain his dignity as his webbing was sent swinging, and the two others busy at their stations but to no avail.

'The engines are immobilized!' cried the navigator. 'A paralyser field has been imposed from low orbit!'

'One of the humans' satellites,' snarled Seskwa. 'You must break through. Increase power.' There was a loud bang from somewhere in the saucer's workings.

'I cannot,' cried the navigator. 'The field is strong.'

The saucer tipped once more and then its motors cut out completely. It crashed to the rocky surface with a thump that jarred every bone in the Doctor's body. Smoke began to pour from some exposed panelling. Over this hiss came a far more significant noise - the droning whine of missiles.

'They're heading straight for us!' cried Seskwa, desperate. 'We are directly in their path!'

The Doctor let his head fall back on the floor of the saucer. 'Would you believe me if I told you I'm as unhappy about that as you are?'

The noise grew louder, until it became an unbearable roar signalling imminent and inescapable death.

'Impact in fifteen seconds!' shouted the Environments Officer. He could barely be heard beneath the grating machinery of the saucer's protesting engines and the horrifying shriek of the missiles.

Seskwa levelled his weapon between the Doctor's eyes. 'You shall die now, human!'

The Doctor was trying to balance himself on the wildly gyrating floor, in order that he might race to the navigator's aid and somehow affect an escape. He looked at the bright yellow muzzle of the gun with dismay. 'Where's the point in that?'

'I wish to savour the last few seconds of life.' Seskwa squeezed his claw on the trigger.