Doctor Who_ Return of the Living Dad - Kate Orman [1]
Jason took the pad and pen off her. Benny had been making painstaking transcriptions of the hieroglyphs. ‘So what about the Egyptians? Did they have a name for Death?’
‘They had a couple of death gods,’ shrugged Benny. ‘But that’s not quite the same thing... the Osirans influenced the culture on hundreds of planets. And, thousands of years after them, the Exxilons took their own version of Osiran culture and spread it even further... But there were people before the Osirans.’
‘So they were influenced by someone else before they went off influencing everyone.’
Benny grinned at him. ‘I’m sorry, you’re getting a lecture.’
‘I like listening to you talk.’ He closed her notepad. ‘So is this going to be helpful for your thesis?’
‘More than helpful.’ They Sit Above in Shadow, said the notepad’s cover, Archaeological Echoes of the Universe’s First People. ‘I wish I could have talked to the people of Youkali. There’s so much guesswork. It’s like trying to get to know someone by reading the phone book.’
‘Would the Doctor have taken you back?’
‘What?’
‘Back then, I mean?’
Benny ruffled her husband’s hair. Dark roots were showing under the blond. ‘He might have, at that. He took me to some amazing places, some awesome times. But it wasn’t so much archaeology as tourism. I suppose I like the puzzle-solving, trying to work out the picture without being given all of the pieces.’
‘If you don’t like what you find, you can always make something up,’ said Jason.
Benny frowned. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘It was a joke. Sorry, it wasn’t a very good one. I’m no good this early in the morning.’
Benny planted a kiss on the top of his head, and looked up. An elderly woman, well-wrapped in a black coat and scarf, was watching them from the base of the steps.
She couldn’t be a student no dirt — and Benny didn’t recognize her from the seminars on board the Henrietta Leavitt. A cold wind was suddenly blowing.
‘Hello!’ called the woman. Dried leaves blew around her feet. ‘Is your name Summerfield?’
‘What can I do for you?’ said Benny, standing up.
‘Professor Truszkowski said I’d find you somewhere around here,’ said the woman. ‘I knew a Summerfield once, but it was a long time ago, a very long time...’ Benny started walking down the steps towards her. ‘You didn’t have an uncle or perhaps a grandfather named Isaac?’
Benny sat down on the steps, hard. Jason was by her side in a moment. ‘Oh my dear girl,’ said the woman. ‘What have I said?’
Jason squeezed his wife’s hand. Benny was staring through the woman as though her eyes had stopped working.
‘Admiral Isaac Douglas Summerfield?’ she said.
‘He was my commanding officer,’ said the woman. ‘Forty years ago.’
‘He was my father,’ said Benny. ‘And he disappeared.
Forty years ago.’
‘Your father,’ repeated the old woman. She squinted at the young couple. ‘My name is Admiral Groenewegen. I think you’d better come back to my tent.’
Benny sat on a box, looking at a photograph of her father.
Jason put his hand on her shoulder, just to let her know he was there. She gave the hand a reassuring squeeze. The Admiral’s tent was warm and cosy, a massive affair like something out of a Foreign Legion movie, all poles and cushions and interesting boxes.
Benny held the photograph in her hands. Sepiatone, a wooden frame; genuine artificial antique, a craze half a century out of date. Her face was dimly reflected in the dusty glass.
She didn’t look anything like him.
He was standing next to Groenewegen in the photo, a much younger Groenewegen, with short dark hair, her uniform in disarray and her eyes twinkling above a smile.
He... wasn’t exactly handsome, but striking: strong jaw, very pale hair, very grey eyes. The photo was different from the holograms in Spacefleet’s records, real, alive.
Groenewegen had a mug of beer, while he was holding a shot glass of dark fluid.
‘Turkish coffee,’ said the Admiral, handing her a cup of tea. Benny stared at it in confusion.