Doctor Who_ Daemons - Barry Letts [46]
All scruples forgotten, Bert slipped the safety-catch, raised the rifle to his shoulder and fired. Got him! He'd swerved off the road onto the green. No, must have missed him. Going straight, he was, making for the woods. No fool, this Doctor. Once more Bert took aim but this time he fired at the rear tyre of the bike. Ah! That really was a hit! The Doctor had somersaulted off the bucking bike and had landed on his back. He was up already and running like an Olympic sprinter for the cover of the trees. His broad back filled the sight of the rifle. Like target practice—or shooting a pheasant on the nest. It was almost too easy.
Bert smiled and lovingly squeezed the trigger...
1O The Third Appearance
'Missed him? How could you have missed him?' The Master's face, usually so controlled, twisted in anger.
'I'd swear he read my thoughts,' replied Bert, desperately seeking a way to avert the wrath he expected. 'Just as I pulled the trigger, he darted off to the right. When I'd realised what had happened, he'd gone. And by the time I'd got after him...'
'Yes, yes, yes. Excuses waste time.' The Master had regained his usual coolness. 'The important thing is: where is he now?'
'Well... I lost him in the woods, you see. I expect he's on his way back to the village.'
The Master smiled malevolently. 'I expect he is,' he said. 'Then we must see that he's given a suitable welcome! Mustn't we?'
Sergeant Benton was not used to feeling helpless and frustrated. In his experience, most worries soon disappeared if you did something about them. Didn't seem to matter much what you did. Move into action and in the long run things would sort themselves out. And here he was, stuck in this blooming pub, under order not to move except in the direst emergency, with Miss Hawthorne as his only companion. Miss Hawthorne, who seemed to have taken a fancy to him; Miss Hawthorne who treated him with an exasperating mixture of exaggerated deference and the sort of bossy affection you would expect her to lavish on a pet poodle. And to top it all, there seemed to be something wrong with communications. He'd tried to contact the Brigadier to tell him about Miss Grant and the Captain, but there'd been so much interference that he'd given up the attempt.
Pacing up and down the room like a wild animal in a cage, he tried to work out the best thing to do. At least he was free of Miss Hawthome's chatter for a while The longer she stayed in the kitchen, the better. Gave him a chance to have a bit of a think. Now then. If he were to go after Captain Yates he might miss the Doctor when he came back. If, on the other hand, he scrounged some transport and went to the heat barrier, he might be letting the Captain down. Angrily he pulled out his walkie-talkie. Maybe the dratted thing would have cleared itself by now.
' Hello, Trap Two, hello Trap two. Do you read? Over? '
'Trap Two', the call-sign for the Mobile H.Q., remained obstinately silent Or if it replying it was drowned in the heavy static. Better try the Brig's personal call-sign.
' Hello, Greyhound. Hello, Greyhound. This is Greyhound Three. Do you read. Over? '
Again, nothing could be heard above the interference. No, wait! Wasn't that a voice? The Sergeant strained to catch it. Was it or wasn't it? Ah! There it was again...
'I've brought you a nice cup of tea, Sergeant. I do hope you like China .'
Benton was jerked out of his concentration with an almost physical jolt. Miss Hawthorne, smiling archly, was standing in the doorway with a tray in her hands.
'There seemed to be nobody about,' she went on, 'so I took the liberty of boiling a kettle myself.'
'Oh, for Pete's sake,' snapped Benton , shaken out of his usual courtesy. Miss Hawthorn's eyes widened.
'What's the matter? Don't you like tea?'
'Look, Miss Hawthorne. Something's gone badly wrong. We've no idea what's happening to Miss Grant or the Captain; the Doctor should be back here by now; I can't get through to the Brigadier—and you're