Doctor Who_ Last Man Running - Chris Boucher [2]
‘If that’s what passes for a rat fart on this planet I should hate to stand behind one of their horses,’ Rinandor said.
‘You heard it too!’ Sozerdor was triumphant, then immediately annoyed. ‘Why didn’t you say something, woman?’
Rinandor pushed tightly bound black ringlets away from her eyes. Her round pale face remained impassive as she said, ‘I heard something. It was a long way off.’ She shrugged slightly. ‘It could have been wind.’
Pertanor smiled but no one else seemed to get the joke.
‘All right, we’ve wasted enough time,’ Kley said. ‘There’s some way to go before we reach that drop zone, so let’s get on with it, shall we?’ She moved off quickly to preclude further discussion, firing up the short-range thermal imager as she went. The others automatically fell into step behind her.
Although it was energy-hungry, enhanced imaging was the obvious system for picking an immediate line of march through the dense tropical scrub. When this was combined with data from the low-orbit microbeacons the ship had seeded on its way down to the surface, finding the route from anywhere here to anywhere there on the planet was mindlessly easy. The real-time navigation computers on the grounded ship did everything except choose the objective and the method of attack. Kley made those strategic decisions and despite Monly’s continuous bitching she was satisfied that the careful approach – like using the limited but difficult-to-detect microbeacons and landing a long way out and walking in – was sensible.
If she had needed reassurance that she had it more or less right, then Fermindor’s professionally routine agreement would have been enough. He was the best Investigator she had ever worked with: the exceptional toody who proved the rule. When he called yet another halt and made his way up the line to her she was irritated but more inclined to listen than before, especially when he leaned close and lowered his voice so that only she could hear.
‘I think we’ve got a problem with the landing site, Chief,’ he said.
‘Like what?’
‘Like maybe it’s too far away. Like maybe we should be carrying more equipment.’
Now Kley was more than just irritated; she was furious.
‘This is not the time for a debate about tactics,’ she whispered fiercely. ‘Have you lost your mind, man!’
‘No,’ Fermindor murmured, ‘I’ve lost the ship.’
‘What do you mean? What are you talking about?’ Kley asked, knowing they were stupid questions but unable to think of anything immediate to say.
‘Check your homer, Chief,’ he said. ‘The ship’s gone. It isn’t there any more.’
The Doctor liked to believe that his attitude to dress was one of lofty indifference; he was altogether too busy thinking serious thoughts to be concerned with what he was wearing.
When Leela pointed out that the long coat was cumbersome if you needed to run, the long scarf would get in the way if you needed to fight, and the hat was ridiculous on top of all that curly hair he maintained a calm dignity and pointed out that rational beings should seldom run and never fight, and that hats were supposed to be ridiculous. And anyway, someone who insisted on wearing a short tunic of nondescript animal skins, crude calf-length moccasins and a belt with enough Stone Age weaponry stuffed in it to fight a small tribal war was hardly in a position to criticise. But then, he occasionally had to remind himself that fighting small tribal wars was exactly what Leela had grown up to do and that he himself had some responsibility for the circumstances on her world that gave rise to them.
Leela had noticed before that the Doctor had a rather selective memory, and wondered if this was because it was impossible to hold on to memories when you were constantly travelling backwards and forwards to them as he did. She hoped the same thing would not happen to her now she too was passing time in the travelling TARDIS hut. Of course all shamans were mad, which