Doctor Who_ Island of Death - Barry Letts [96]
‘We need a longer lever,’ said the Doctor. ‘We’re just not strong enough to move the lot in one go. Or heavy enough, for that matter.’
Hilda gave him a startled glance. ‘I can but try,’ she said.
What did she mean?
‘If I were in my Skang form, I could surf the gravity waves.’
She gave a little laugh, and the pedantry of her former occupation briefly emerged. ‘A metaphor, of course, and not a very accurate one!’ she said. ‘All the same, I can feel the gravity of the sun and the moon becoming stronger and stronger. I could make myself as heavy as a London bus.’
Again the Doctor felt a clash of motives; a dissonance created by his seeking the help of his enemy And yet, what other choice did he have? ‘If there’s anything you can do, then please do it,’ he said urgently ‘If they manage to stop the Brigadier, it could be our only hope.’
She shook her head. ‘It takes a great deal of energy to turn by yourself. The human personality is incredibly hard to crack. The group chanting amplifies the psionic energy - like the body of a violin resonating with the vibrations of the strings, or the voice of a singer breaking a wineglass.’
But Alex Whitbread did it in London, thought the Doctor.
And then he’d had a top-up from those poor kids on Hampstead Heath.
‘It has been necessary at times, of course, to produce the serum we needed. But I doubt if I have enough energy left after these last few days,’ Hilda went on. She shrugged. ‘As I said, I can but try. But don’t expect it to be quick.’
She pulled herself to her feet and threw her head back, closing her eyes. When she started chanting, the Doctor realised why the sound of the group had been so unpleasant.
The strange articulations - you could hardly call them words
- grated on the ear, and the musical intervals bore no relation to any scale he knew. This multiplied twenty times or more could tear the mind to pieces. And that of course was its purpose.
Pete Andrews sniffed the air. Bacon frying in the open. It had always been his favourite smell.
The Dartmouth summer camps, when the strict discipline of term time was relaxed - and even the Master-at-Arms became ninety per cent human - and you could put all your hard-won sailing expertise at the service of winning the regatta! Those were without a doubt the happiest times of his life. Until now. Until now?
He turned to share this surprising insight with the Brigadier, who was barely discernible on the other side of the bridge, through the thick mist. But the Brigadier spoke first.
‘You know, Andrews,’ he said, walking over with a broad smile on his face, ‘if you’d asked me, I’d have said that the summer hols in India, up in the hills alone with my mother, were the jolliest times of my life. But do you know, I really think that our stay here beats them into a cocked hat.’
All over the ship, the crew had broken into a happy chattering. Their commanding officer heard it with a grin of satisfaction. The old saw, An efficient ship is a happy ship, was just as true the other way round.
He had a dim memory that they were at action stations.
Some sort of exercise?
He glanced up into the mist. Even struggling to shine through, the sun was unquestionably way over the yardarm.
Time to stop all this nonsense and have a snort. They were only showing the flag, for God’s sake. A sort of pleasure cruise, really.
His order to stand down was greeted by a loud cheer.
‘Good man,’ said Lethbridge-Stewart.
A voice came over the intercom. ‘I’ve already armed the third rocket, sir. Shall I abort?’ It was Chris on the foredeck.
‘Yes, abort, abort, abort! No! Hang on a minute...’ Andrews turned to the Brigadier. ‘Fancy a firework display?’
The Brigadier grinned and gave a thumbs-up.
‘Hey, Chris! Set them both at five seconds, elevation at maximum, and fire the buggers!’
‘What me, sir?’
‘Yes you, sir. Fire ‘em locally. About time we had a bit of fun!’
The Hallaton, still creeping ahead at minimum revs, had come to the edge of the small blue cloud that enveloped it, and in less than a minute, the bridge