Cold Fusion - Lance Parkin [45]
‘We’re in a chronic hyst-er-esis.
Yes, we’re in a chronic hysteresis!
We’re in a chronic hyst-er-esis.
Yes, we’re in a chronic hysteresis!
We’re in a chronic hyst-er-esis.’
And so on.
The volume fell from a loud roar to a low whisper, picking up again at the end of each line. The lab technicians were enjoying themselves, but the other diners were less than thrilled. Most were content to scowl at them from time to time. It had been carrying on for three or four minutes. Tegan was just about to turn around and give the men a piece of her mind.
‘Excuse me,’ a male voice asked. ‘Could you keep it down? Some of us here are trying to eat.’
They laughed rowdily at first, made exaggerated shushing noises. But they didn’t resume the chant. A number of fellow diners made a show of looking grateful.
Tegan twisted around to thank the man, only to face the Australian.
‘Hi honey, I’m home.’ he drawled. Without waiting to be invited he walked round and took the seat opposite her.
He had changed out of his suit into a tuxedo, complete with bow tie. It served to emphasize his broad chest and shoulders.
A spherical robot bobbed over, a large green bottle in its claw. ‘The champagne you ordered, Mr Jovanka,’ it purred in a perfectly modulated voice. The cork popped, and the robot began pouring.
‘Now, wait just a minute,’ Tegan began.
‘Relax. Have a drink. I’ll explain.’ His smile was almost reassuring, and there wasn’t an.ounce of menace in the voice. He was almost the definition of clean-cut: like a fifties movie star or an Olympic athlete. He passed her the glass.
‘Why should I trust you?’ she asked, already half-willing to do so. She sipped at the champagne.
The young man smiled. ‘Now what sort of attitude is that? A wife not trusting her own husband?’
Medford had taken them to one of the medical suites on level three-three-zero. He stood in the corner now, as the Doctor lay on the diagnosis couch, a medical scanning beam passing down his body. The chief medical officer of the Scientifica was tapping instructions into a computer terminal. His flowing red uniform reminded the Doctor a little of the robes of the Spanish Inquisition. On the screen at the head of the bed the results of the scan were being translated into images. The Doctor cricked his neck to see his own vital organs, skeletal and nervous systems resolving into a detailed plan.
‘Are you all right now, Doctor?’ Adric asked. He was sitting on a bench, an Adjudicator standing over him.
‘There’s no need to keep asking me that question. Don’t fuss.’
The chief medical officer unhooked a simbook.
Holographic pages unfurled, diagrams and charts filled themselves in. He stood engrossed in them for a couple of seconds. ‘These are the details of the female patient.’
‘Where is she?’ Adric asked, before the Doctor could.
‘In another suite like this one,’ the medical officer informed them. ‘You say that you and the Patient are members of the same race?’
‘That is correct. We are both Gallifreyans. Er, you don’t happen to know her name do you?’
‘No. My colleagues have asked her, but she seems to be suffering from selective amnesia. It is difficult to say, she doesn’t appear to speak any language known in this galaxy.
‘She banged herself right on the back of the head.’ The Doctor sat upright tapping the appropriate spot on the anatomical diagram. ‘The structure of the brain is more specialized in Gallifreyans than in humans. There’s a lobe at the back of the head, the hippocampus, that helps to regulate the short-term memory. Or is that the lindal gland? I forget. The regeneration won’t have helped clear the mind.’
‘She underwent total cellular restructure.’ It was a statement, not a question, but the scientist clearly wanted to know more.
‘Selected members of my people, the Time Lords, have the ability to regenerate. As long as our brain survives to initiate the process, we can grow an entirely new body when the old one is mortally injured or