Doctor Who_ Cat's Cradle_ Times Crucible - Marc Platt [74]
"Apologies meyopapa but listen we've a visitor in the Library. Curator system thought you'd better take a look in." Thrift sneezed. The miserable frozen spring disagreed with his native equatorial constitution.
The bubble flicked to a view of the main hall of the Library seen from a panoptic high in the galleries. The building was closed for the night and the lights were dimmed. It took a moment for enhancers to lucidate the image. But Rassilon could see a hooded shape making its way across the central area.
"Came in straight through," said Thrift's voice over the scene. "All the doors just opened up by themself no argument."
"Ask the curators to keep the main hall clear," Rassilon said. "I'm coming down now. And Thrift?"
"Yes meyopapa."
"Run to the Temple and fetch two sisters here. Don't use the vidilink. Go yourself."
"Meyopapa it's snowing."
"Take my coat. The southern trader's fur cloak. They will understand. But hurry, Thrift."
In the main entrance to the Library, Rassilon found the confused group of night curators. The massive doors had been thrown wide open before the intruder's advance and would not close. All secure systems had been overridden. The ghostly intruder, robed in blue, had passed into the main hall, ignoring their challenge. It had been wandering up and down the rows of ancient books so aimlessly that the panoptic security circuits were having problems following it. From the main hall, the presence had moved into an adjacent section of the Library. It seemed to be seeking something.
Rassilon thanked the curators for their information and deliberately removed his shoes. He slipped quietly down into the hall through a back route. By night the Library was like a cavern system, echoing and lost in shadow. High in the galleries above, snow was drifting silently against the tall windows. He moved quickly. The marble floor was bitterly cold on his bare feet.
There were exhibits among the rows of shelves, ancient artefacts in dusty glass cases relating to the sections where they had been placed. Old bones and alien armour. In the half-light they seemed to be watching, returned to secret life at night once all the paraphernalia of the day was gone.
Rassilon heard her before he saw her. A voice raised in angry accusation, coming from several directions, bounced within the confines of the walls. He could not hear another voice.
He rounded a corner in the section devoted to the barbaric Empire of Thule, and saw her. The Pythia's back was turned against him. She was facing one of the exhibit cases and leaning on her sceptre-headed wand. She had levelled a finger at the object in the glass case as she railed at it.
"The door of the Future is shut. I cannot see beyond. I drag myself from day to day and can see no further than the instant. I might as well walk backwards. Speak to me, wise one."
The severed head of the Sphinx stared at her from its case. Savage, feline eyes, frozen for more than a Gallifreyan year since a sudden death had overthrown its regime of riddles.
The Pythia laid down her wand and sat cross-legged on the floor before the head. Her tone was familiar, as if she recognized in the dead monster an old friend, an equal and ally. "They say that of all the augurers within the nine corners of the Universe, you see the furthest. It is true? Hmm? Yet you submitted to the sword of a Gallifreyan Hero. Did you not see?"
She paused and nodded to the head as if she heard some answer. Rassilon, shifting back and forth on his frozen feet, heard nothing. The grotesque shape in the glass case was just an object.
"Yes, that's true," the Pythia went on. "Perhaps you are farsighted. And the future that's close is transparent to you, so that you can see beyond." She laughed. An old crone's cackle — not the voice of a demigoddess at all. "Perhaps we