Doctor Who_ Cat's Cradle_ Warhead - Andrew Cartmel [72]
Mist drifted out of the mouth of the barrel. There was a smell that was both organic and medicinal. An unpleasant scent of menthol and, under it, a heavy oily aroma like that of rancid butter. When the mist cleared Ace could see inside. A crust sealed the entire surface of the liquid. A thick white plug of what Ace thought at first was ice. Then she realized it was some sort of white substance, like the fat that forms on a rich broth. She felt revolted at the thought.
‘What is this thing?’
‘Have you ever heard of cryogenics?’
‘Like when somebody gets sick with an incurable disease,’ said Ace. ‘They put them into deep freeze.’
‘Yes?’
‘And they hope one day, in the future, someone’s going to thaw them out and be able to cure the disease. Like Walt Disney.’
The Doctor probed the thick white layer at the top of the cylinder, testing it with his fingers. Ace shuddered. He took a plastic spatula from the packet of tools and looked at her and smiled. ‘Except with cryogenics you need a lot of technology and a lot of money. This is the poor man’s version. Instead of low temperatures it involves chemicals in a gel which suspend the life processes. You take a durable container, fill it with the chemicals, put the person inside it and seal it carefully.’ The Doctor studied the plastic spatula, testing its edge with his thumb. ‘The search for eternal life has been a recurrent motif in your cultures. It’s a form of insanity and this is one of its more benign manifestations. All you need is a plastic barrel and some storage space and you’ve achieved immortality. Of a sort. These are very popular in California.’
‘I’ll bet,’ said Ace.
The Doctor was using the plastic spatula to scrape back the heavy white layer. Dark liquid showed underneath. Despite herself, Ace came closer and looked down into the barrel. As she stared down into the dark fluid she saw two blue eyes staring back up at her.
* * *
14
At a distance the Victorian greenhouse looked in good repair. When you came up closer you could see the rust eating the ironwork and the missing and broken panes. Thick green tropical plants were finding their way out through the gaps, reaching for the warm autumn air. The rain had stopped but the ground was still damp, soaking through her jeans, making her feel the cold deep in her bones. It was nothing to compare with the cold she’d felt in the basement. Justine sat under a trailing length of foliage and watched the sun go down over the red‐brick house. She had gone back to her encampment and put things in order, packing her bedroll and shelter, burying her campfire. She’d set Sammy free and left him behind. He’d tried to follow her and she’d had to throw stones at him until he got the message. She’d abandoned the rest of her belongings. Now she just had the clothes on her back. She was ready.
Justine waited for nightfall, watching the house.
* * *
The Doctor had brought a bulky old physician’s bag down from the attic. The leather was stiff with age and the bag was difficult to open. Ace watched as he took a wooden tongue depressor from the bag and a blue glass jar. The jar had a handwritten label, the paper yellowed with age, the unreadable inscription scrawled with a fountain pen. The Doctor untied a length of string and removed the cloth seal from the jar. He scooped some gunk out with the wooden splint. The jar toppled and fell to the floor. Ace moved quickly and caught it, but the Doctor didn’t even seem to notice. He was back at the barrel, looking down at the boy.
The boy’s head was only just submerged in the dark fluid. When the Doctor tilted it back his face broke through the surface. The Doctor put a hand under the damp chin and adjusted the position of the boy’s head. Then he pinched the boy’s nose and squeezed his nostrils shut.
The boy’s mouth opened like a baby bird’s. The Doctor put the tongue depressor into the open mouth, feeding the boy the gunk. He stood back, beside Ace. They both waited, watching