Doctor Who_ Ghost Light - Marc Platt [11]
‘It’s your initiative test.’
‘That’s why I’m asking questions.’ She peered at the box again. ‘When was the Royal Flying Corps formed?’
‘The name wasn’t used until 1912, but I’ll get you a badge if you like. Ask me another.’
She reached out to pick up the box and got her hand sharply rapped away.
‘Professor! I’m only looking.’
‘Looking’s one thing,’ said the Doctor as he fished another instrument out of a pocket. Holding it like a gun, he pointed it at the box: the instrument started to emit a series of sharp crackles.
‘It’s radioactive!’
‘Very slightly,’ he mused, examining the Geiger counter’s reading.
‘Is it safe?’
‘There’s no such thing as a safe level.’
A worrying thought struck Ace. ‘What about RFC?’ Still crouching, she turned to face the Doctor and noticed that the sharp point of an African spear was sliding down between them.
The Doctor continued, oblivious to the threat.
‘Hopefully he abandoned the box before he came to any harm.’ He turned and registered the spear without the slightest flicker of surprise. ‘A Zulu assegai,’ he commented, ‘fairly lethal.’ He looked up the length of the spear to its owner.
The weary, weather-beaten face that returned his stare belonged to a man apparently in his late thirties. He had a haggard look to him. His thick, fair hair was greying and ruffled and his jacket looked slept in. Along with his bushy moustache, he had several days growth of stubble and accompanying bags under his eyes. Even so, Ace decided there was something dashing about him, despite the spear and being at least twice her age.
The Doctor guessed that the stranger was younger than he looked, but then too long in the bush could do that to a man. He had met explorers before; they always had a certain manner to them. They were fierce, enthusiastic —
the correct word was intrepid. As it was, the stranger seemed more interested in poking the silver box with the tip of the spear than using the assegai as a weapon. The Doctor reckoned the newcomer was just as much a stranger in the house as they were.
‘Where did you find it?’ barked the stranger, betraying the public school accent that the Doctor had expected.
‘Just here,’ the Doctor replied, getting to his feet. ‘I wouldn’t touch it if I were you. This is Ace and I am the Doctor.’
The explorer was as enthusiastic as the Doctor had anticipated. ‘I am a Fellow of the Royal Geographical Society,’ he announced, shaking the Doctor’s hand with gusto.
‘Really? So am I — several times over,’ responded the Doctor. They continued shaking hands and there was more than genuine delight in the stranger’s eyes; there was definite relief that he had by chance encountered a fellow Fellow in this desolate terrain.
‘Is it your snuffbox?’ cut in Ace, who found all this old boy stuff boring.
It was only then that the explorer took in Ace’s appearance. He executed a perfect triple take and then turned away in acute embarrassment.
‘Please, young lady, you are barely dressed!’
‘Who’s undressed?’ she exploded, resisting the Doctor’s attempts to push her out of sight behind him.
‘Excuse my friend,’ he apologized, ‘she comes from a less civilized clime.’
‘What do you want me to do? Wrap up in a curtain?’
came the annoyed voice from just behind his ear.
‘Be quiet, noble savage,’ muttered the Doctor. He addressed the explorer, ‘I’m sure that in the depths of central Africa, you’ve seen far grislier sights than Ace’s ankles.’
A veil of anxiety suddenly clouded the explorer’s face, but before the Doctor could pursue the enquiry, Ace butted in again.
‘He can’t see my ankles.’
‘Your boots then.’ He struggled to keep her behind him, while he spoke to the adventurer. ‘You are a big game hunter, I take it?’
‘I am, sir,’ came the reply. ‘But I’ve seen nothing that equals the atrocities that are rumoured about this place.’
The Doctor was taken aback by the open hatred embodied in that remark. He wondered if he dared risk divulging the house’s location to Ace yet, but she was already pressing his arm.
‘Is this the surprise, Professor? Because I’m not impressed.