Doctor Who_ Atom Bomb Blues - Andrew Cartmel [58]
The Doctor was standing waiting for her when she arrived, delivered by the gentle clenching pressure of the tentacle through an opening in the floor of the ship. The hole closed under her, sealing itself so that she was standing on a solid surface. The Doctor smiled at her. ‘Impressive, eh?’
‘Beats the hell out of an escalator,’ said Ace. They both stood and waited for Major Butcher to turn up. There was a hole in the floor that evidently corresponded to the entry point for his tentacle, but no sign of the Major himself. ‘What’s keeping him?’
‘Poor Major Butcher. I imagine he’s experiencing a certain measure of. . .
culture shock, shall we say?’
‘Yes, I think we shall say.’
‘Instead of relaxing and allowing the delivery mechanism to do its job, he is no doubt resisting with every ounce of his considerable strength. And since the mechanism is designed first and foremost to bring living creatures on board unharmed, it is taking its time.’
Ace went and stood over the hole in the floor.
Looking down into it
she could see the struggling shape of Butcher, about twenty metres below, writhing and squirming in the pliant embrace of the soft transparent tube. At least he’d stopped screaming, though she could still hear frantic breathing, choking gasps of air that sounded like an exhausted dog panting after a long run.
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‘Poor bloke,’ she said. ‘This really must be mind-blowing for him. And I bet the drug isn’t helping.’
‘What drug?’ said the Doctor, his face a picture of polite puzzlement.
‘The hallucinogenic drug you gave him. The peyote.’
‘I didn’t give him any peyote. I merely told him that.’
‘It wasn’t true?’
‘No, I just wanted it as a kind of get-out clause. In case he couldn’t deal with the experience of visiting this alien spacecraft. If he thinks it’s all a peyote vision it will allow him to rationalise it afterwards, if necessary, and preserve his world view intact.’
‘What was in his sandwich, then?’ said Ace.
‘Guacamole.’
There was an inarticulate cry from the open hole in the floor, followed by a rush of air, and Butcher came sailing up into the chamber like a champagne cork from a bottle. The tentacle mechanism had presumably finally lost patience with his stubborn resistance and simply shot him into the craft at high speed. Butcher hovered, scrambling and twisting in mid-air for an instant, struggling frantically, with an expression of loathing and lost horror on his face that Ace couldn’t help feeling was rather comical.
The hole in the floor sealed itself before gravity brought Butcher crashing down again, onto a smooth, solid, surface that shone with a mother of pearl iridescence. The man sat there for a moment, his eyes squeezed shut, cursing savagely in the most profane language imaginable. Ace turned to the Doctor and whispered, ‘Gordon Bennett. And I thought he was such a nice boy.’
‘I think it’s a very positive sign,’ said the Doctor. He didn’t return Ace’s whisper but spoke instead in a normal voice. ‘It’s certainly a lot more encouraging than that pitiful screaming and moaning.’
Butcher heard what the Doctor was saying – of course – and he opened his eyes. He stared at the Doctor and anger suddenly replaced the look of despair on his face. And this was, thought Ace, exactly what the Doctor wanted.
‘Who’s pitiful?’ said Butcher hoarsely.
‘Well you must admit it was rather shameful behaviour for a grown man.’
Butcher stared around himself, like a trapped animal looking for a way out.
It was clear that he wasn’t going to find one. ‘Aren’t you going to ask where you are?’ said the Doctor. Butcher stopped twisting his head around and fixed his gaze on the Doctor.
‘All right,’ he rasped, ‘where am I?’
‘You’re on board a ship,’ said Ace.
‘A ship? Nonsense.’ Butcher wiped his hand across his face and studied the thick coating of sweat that came off on it. ‘We’re in the middle of the 103
New Mexico desert.’ He uttered this last sentence like a child repeating its catechism.
‘When Ace says ship, what she actually means