Doctor Who_ Last of the Gaderene - Mark Gatiss [6]
There was a distinct flash of light between the trees. Both of them saw it and Whistler scanned the sky for any sign of cloud.
‘Storm coming, you reckon?’ he said.
Brigadier Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart was not having a good day. First, of course, there was this blasted weather.
Heat, he maintained, was not good for the military mind.
Made everyone far too sluggish. It was, after all, Britain – a cold, wet, sensible sort of place – which had once ruled half the globe. There was a patience and level-headedness that came from living on a damp little island which other countries simply couldn’t match. Hot weather bred intolerance and downright bad temper. No wonder all those Latin countries were in a permanent state of revolution. If Cuba had rain and cricket to concentrate on, decided the Brigadier, Castro would never have had a look in.
Secondly, there was the inactivity. After a particularly busy spell, UNIT had suddenly gone awfully quiet, leading Jo Grant to take leave and the Brigadier feeling like a form master presiding over a summer-term class that had gone on too long. After one morning too many shut up in his stuffy office, he had wandered down to the laboratory to see the Doctor. But when he got there, as the nursery rhyme had it, the cupboard was bare...
The Brigadier rubbed his forehead with a handkerchief and downed a tall glass of lemonade in one go, ice tinkling as he lifted it to his mouth. He set the glass down on the lab bench and swivelled round on his stool to face Jo Grant.
‘So that’s it, essentially, Miss Grant. While you were away on leave, the Doctor simply vanished.’
Jo smiled wryly. ‘Is that why it’s so neat and tidy in here?’
‘Quite. The Doctor never lets the cleaners anywhere near this place. They’ve been making up for lost time.’
Jo chose a stool for herself and sat down heavily. ‘But he’d never just go without saying goodbye. I mean... he just wouldn’t.’
The Brigadier wiped lemonade from the ends of his moustache. ‘Well, he’s free to come and go as he sees fit now, Miss Grant. To be perfectly honest, I’m surprised he’s hung around as long as he has.’
Jo shook her head. ‘No. There has to be an explanation.
He’s gone off somewhere in the TARDIS and got held up.’
The Brigadier nodded. ‘Perhaps.’
Jo ran a hand through her unruly blond hair. ‘Everyone else seems to be taking a holiday,’ she said brightly. ‘Why not the Doctor?’
The Brigadier frowned. ‘He’s not exactly the type to take notice of the factory fortnight, is he? I mean, what if something important came up?’
Jo let her gaze wander over to the empty corner where the TARDIS always stood. ‘He’ll be back. I know he will. In the meantime, sir, I think you should mellow out for a bit.’
‘I should what?’
Jo grinned. ‘Relax, Brigadier. The weather’s gorgeous.
The summer’s here. Nothing’s going to happen.’
Chapter Three
The Visitors
The hand which hovered over the controls was plump, pale and waxy, like a doll’s.
It moved in a swift and silent pattern over the winking panels, depressing delicate, membranous panels and switches.
Then two hands were at work, tracing a spiralling red line that rose and fell across a row of small black screens inset in the controls like dark, watchful eyes.
The red line was stationary for a moment and then spread across the screens like a blossoming flower. A detailed map, coloured a luminous green, rose beneath the red tide.
Culverton’s church appeared as a full, three-dimensional image. The wave of red light washed over it but its appearance didn’t alter.
At the side of the screens, nine rectangular holes yawned empty, like sockets in a metallic jawbone.
The hands moved towards them and rapidly slotted in eight objects. The ninth remained empty, shadow pooling inside it.
The red light on the screen grew noticeably more intense.
Someone moved forward: a bulky shape, dressed in black.
Its hands, pale as winter berries, came to rest on the controls, fingers dancing about on the cold metal as though in great agitation. Just visible in the flaring red and green