Doctor Who_ Island of Death - Barry Letts [80]
It was too far away to see at a glance with the naked eye, but as the image came into focus, he could see that the golden sand seemed to have turned black, and the avenue of neat white villas with its shapely palm trees had become something more like a mini-version of the shantytown on the outskirts of Bombay, in the middle of a bleak tangle of thorny shrubs.
„She‟s right, you know,‟ came Pete Andrews‟ voice. „There‟s no temple, either.‟
The Brigadier shifted his gaze.
As he registered the piles of rocks sitting at the top of the volcano where he had seen - and walked among - the pillars of marble, and the space where he‟d seen the great doors, he felt his head swim; and it had nothing to do with the bottle he‟d left nearly empty in the wardroom when he went to bed.
How could this be true?
He pulled himself together. Why hadn‟t he believed her?
The Doctor usually turned out to be right in the end. They had been drugged, just as she‟d said; and it must still have been having an effect.
„Miss Smith... Sarah. I owe you an apology. My behaviour has been inexcusable. Now tell me again exactly what the Doctor said. And this time I‟ll listen to you.‟
The Doctor shook himself. These were the alien monsters who could easily become the agents of the end of the human race. Why should he feel such overwhelming warmth towards them?
All the Skang raised their heads and turned together to look at the one who had been Alex Whitbread, standing alone at the side of the makeshift stage. The creature he had become looked as sorry as the human he had been. Its white robe hung loosely on its thin frame, its cheeks were sunken, and its eyes, unlike the glistening orbs of its fellows, were half closed, dull and discoloured. Even the bronze skin had dulled to a blotchy mud colour.
The Skang on the other side of the platform, who used to be Hilda, lifted her hand and pointed to Alex. As if she were a puppet master pulling a string, all the rest, with one accord, raised their right arms to point at him as well; and at the same time their voices could be heard again.
But how very different! At first there was nothing but a soft hum, but gradually it grew into a changing chorus of chanted notes, with shifting harmonies strange to the human ear, which would meet each other - and then be lost - only to join again in ever sweeter concord.
The Doctor was fighting to keep a hold on the reality of the situation. This could be the siren song that lured him to an unknown doom.
He must be true to his purpose! These creatures must be forced to leave the planet, or pitilessly annihilated, utterly wiped out... but ah! How could his heart not melt? How could it not be entranced by such a heavenly sound? Surely this must be the very music of the spheres, the song sung by the stars themselves in the silence of space.
As the crescendo reached a climax that touched him more deeply than the most sublime of symphonies, it began to fade. The voices fell away, one by one, until there was nothing but one high, sweet note, purer than any flute, which lingered into a stillness that had the touch of silk.
Only then did the Doctor notice what had been happening to the forlorn figure of Alex. As if he had been absorbing the very essence of the sound itself, the bony figure had rounded into the muscular form of perfection; his bronze skin was shining as though polished by the sun; his eyes, now wide open and alert, were arrogantly defying the world; and he was standing tall, triumphantly restored to his former Skangness.
As the Skang that was Hilda dropped her hand and the rest followed suit, Alex, apparently to her surprise, walked firmly across the stage to where the corpse lay waiting. Raising his hand, he pointed. All the Skang bar Hilda followed suit, and after a moment she too complied with the unspoken command.
Naked politics, thought the Doctor, whose normal objec-tivity was fast returning. Maybe there was something there that he could use.
He became conscious of another sound coming from the assembled Skang. But this