Doctor Who_ Interference_ Book Two - Lawrence Miles [3]
And the walls were covered in hardware. Thick cables wound their way up to the top of the building, threading between gigantic receiver dishes and smooth-edged pieces of technology the size of tractors. Sam could imagine lightning striking the roof, and trickling down to ground level, lighting up each piece of machinery in turn. Like the world’s biggest game of Mousetrap.
She spent a good three minutes just standing there, turning round and round, trying to work out what was supposed to be happening. There were people moving from dome to dome, in through the archways and out of the lift tubes, across the floor and across the higher levels. But none of them seemed to be doing anything, much. A lot seemed to be taking a casual stroll, listening to the signals in the air.
Perhaps they just liked being here. Close to the main transmitter, close to the heart of the culture, but shielded from the full strength of the signals by the architecture. This place was like a shrine to them, Sam concluded. Here inside the building, she’d managed to get her head together again, but you could practically feel the transmissions from the top of the tower, humming in the walls, vibrating through every part of the structure.
Again, Sam wondered whether there was any way she could get out of here without being seen. Or, indeed, whether there was any point running for it at all. She didn’t even have the first idea where Anathema was. Bearing in mind its downright peculiar relationship to the rest of space-time, for all she knew the whole city could have been on board the –
She suddenly realised she was on her own.
She turned back to the central shaft, trying to find Compassion among the other passers-by. It wasn’t hard. Most of the Remote wore pure, smooth, SF colours, their clothes looking like uniforms without actually being at all similar. Here, Compassion’s combat jacket stood out a mile. Sam hurried after her.
Compassion stepped up to one of the lift tubes, and waited for the platform to reach ground level. When it arrived, she finally turned back to face Sam.
‘Well?’ she said. ‘Are you coming?’
Was that a serious question? Sam shrugged, to see what the woman would do. ‘Thought I might hang around here for a while. Soak up the atmosphere. You know.’
Compassion didn’t seem concerned. She stepped on to the platform, and straight away it started to rise, carrying her up the shaft. ‘Suit yourself,’ she said. ‘Guest’s going to be here soon. We’ll be on the top level when you –’
Then she was gone, the lift taking her out of earshot. Sam watched her go, and tried to make sense of all this.
She’d been taken prisoner by aliens before. Generally, though, her captors had waved guns at her face, or shouted at her not to ask questions. But Compassion didn’t even seem bothered about keeping an eye on her. Was it just because the Remote knew there was nowhere she could go? Or, alternatively…
Alternatively, the idea of ‘captivity’ might not even have occurred to them. They’d tied Sam up on Earth, but back then they’d been at the mercy of different signals, picking up the media transmissions of Great Britain. Acting the way villains would have acted on Earth. Here, the rules were different.
My God, thought Sam. They’re anarchists.
It was true, wasn’t it? There were no rules in Anathema. No laws. Everyone acted on impulse, the impulses in question being beamed out of the transmitters, but interpreted by each person in his or her own way. A world of individuals, all having different agendas, but all acting inside the confines of the culture.
Sam thought about her own room, in her own house, on her own planet. She had her own TV set, her own stereo, her own PC. She liked to tell herself she wasn’t