Doctor Who_ Alien Bodies - Lawrence Miles [23]
‘Yes,’ said Trask. ‘This room has no door.’
His voice, like his face, had absolutely no trace of life in it. Qixotl had to concentrate just to figure out what the words he said actually meant. ‘Yeah. Sorry about that. Design oversight. Not too much of a problem, I hope?’
‘No. Mr Qixotl?’
‘Erm, yeah?’
‘I want to speak to you. In private.’
Something turned in Qixotl’s stomach. ‘Bit on the busy side right now, Mr T. Delegates turning up all over the place and everything. Maybe later on we can figure something out, yeah?’
‘You know who I represent,’ Trask creaked.
Mr Qixotl glanced around the room, hoping to find an excuse to end the conversation. Unsurprisingly, there wasn’t one. Trask’s room was bare, apart from the bunk. ‘I know, Mr Trask, I know. Look, I won’t tell any of the others, if that’s what you’re worried about. Discretion’s assured, yeah? A lot of the other bidders haven’t made their, er, their allegiances exactly public, if you follow me.’
‘I want to make a deal.’
Qixotl stared at him. Then wished he hadn’t. ‘Well, yeah. I mean, you’ll have your chance to make your bid –’
‘No. I want to make a deal. With you. Confidentially. Before the auction.’
‘That’s not exactly, y’know, regular,’ said Mr Qixotl.
‘I know,’ said Trask.
There were a lot of guest rooms in the ziggurat. More, in fact, than would ever be needed. The lowest level was a veritable labyrinth of corridors, peppered with pseudo-stone chambers full of warm air and torchlight. There was absolutely no need for any more rooms to be added.
Nevertheless, a new doorway spontaneously appeared in the wall of one of the side-passages, materialising with an ugly grating sound which – according to one popular mythology, at least – was the sound of Time itself groaning in agony. In defiance of the normal laws of spatial dimension, a new set of rooms appeared on the other side of the doorway.
After a while, two figures stepped out into the corridor, and stood there for a few moments, surveying their surroundings. The shorter of the two wore a Victorian funeral gown, heavy skirts sweeping the floor, a dark veil pulled across her face. The taller figure wore a suit, just as sombre in style. Not exactly elegant, but certainly formal. Ceremonial, even.
Beneath the woman’s veil was a face of raw bone. The snout was sharp, the jaw was set into a permanent leer, and there were jagged holes on either side of the face, empty spaces where the delicate mechanisms of the ears should have been. The features of a skeleton, the skull of an enormous bat. The man’s face was, to all intents and purposes, identical.
The two figures locked arms, then turned, as one. They moved off along the corridor, at a pace that could only have been described as “relaxed”.
Two more of Mr Qixotl’s guests had arrived in the ziggurat.
3
LOATHING THE ALIEN
Every now and then, Sam found herself thinking of the Doctor as a set of responses, not a man – half-man – person – at all. Maybe, just maybe, that was the only way a poxy human mind like hers could come to terms with him. As an equation, rather than a living being. A function of the universe, whose purpose was to (a) break into places and (b) break out of them again. It didn’t matter whether he was dealing with a cast-iron padlock or a bunch of genetically engineered toucans. Security devices would take one look at him and give up.
The wall of the “Lost City” hadn’t been far from the outhouse where the Doctor had found the biodata machine. He’d strolled right through the City archway without a second thought, head in the air, hands behind his back. He’d made straight for the central pyramid, sniffing disdainfully at the smaller buildings around it. ‘Shoddy workmanship,’ he’d mumbled, more than once.
They were inside the pyramid now. Sam had seen a lot of corridors over the last few months, but the passages here were something new. No vent shafts or strip lighting, for a start.