Doctor Who_ St. Anthony's Fire - Mark Gatiss [25]
‘Over an animal?’ said the Doctor.
Grek shrugged. ‘Yes! I accept that you’re different to the ones we’re used to but it’ll take a lot to make me trust you. If your friend was taken by the Cutch then I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do.’
The Doctor put his damp fedora onto his head, hoping this might lend him an air of authority.
‘Then I insist I be allowed to return to my ship. I’ll find her – even if you won’t.’
Grek straightened his tunic and winced as his boots cut into his clawed feet. ‘I’m afraid that’s impossible. You must stay here, now. I may need you.’
‘Then I’m still a prisoner?’
Grek scratched his crest irritably but said nothing in reply. Finally, stepping over the debris on the planked floor, he turned. ‘Don’t try anything stupid, will you? My men are awfully keen to get you back on that spit.’
The Doctor sat down on the table miserably. ‘You’ll at least ensure they don’t put me in a kennel, I hope.’
Grek frowned, then, grasping the Doctor’s meaning, smiled. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
He stepped out into the corridor, locking the conference room door firmly behind him.
The Doctor sighed and took off his hat. Disconsolately, he began to root through his waistcoat pockets for anything of use. He huffed disappointedly at his collection. Some nutcrackers and an autographed picture of Disraeli wouldn’t get him far.
Then, struck by a thought, the Doctor crossed the room and began to fish about in the shadows. With a little cry of triumph he picked up the ball of crumpled paper which Priss had given to Grek.
He returned to the table where the light was better and flattened out the paper with a couple of strokes of his hand. He peered closely at the hastily scrawled message from the Pelaradator and frowned.
* * *
Bernice opened her eyes.
She breathed in tightly, experimentally, feeling the air catching in her shuddering throat. There was nothing wrong with her.
Moving cautiously, her face sliding through the wet black mud, she looked over her shoulder.
The bodies of Utreh and the other Cutch lay sprawled in the undergrowth. Thick, pasty blood oozed from bullet wounds in their hides.
Standing over them, like a hunter with a brace of bagged pheasants, was another of the reptiles. He seemed somewhat different to those she had already encountered. His blue eyes were recessed into his skull and his crest rose proudly from the wide ridge of his snout.
Also, noted Bernice, he had the worst twitch she’d seen since one of her professors back at college. The reptile’s face convulsed as though something were actually crawling about under its skin.
He hooked his rifle over the shoulder of his black uniform and gazed at Bernice. ‘Well,’ said Ran. ‘You’d better come with me.’
* * *
Grek lay on his bunk with his eyes firmly closed. Next to him, sitting on a canvas chair was Maconsa, his massive head resting on his arm. Standing somewhat wearily to attention was young Priss.
‘…structural damage to all areas. Damage in third level limited to gas leak, sir. Entrance to dug‐out now restricted to Number Seven shaft,’ he concluded breathlessly.
Grek shot a glance at the firmly closed door at the far end of his quarters. No way through to that reassuring maze of tunnels now. He passed his claw over his face and yawned. Any firm idea what caused it?’
Priss cleared his throat. ‘No, sir. I mean… Has to be some sort of tectonic activity.’
‘Here?’ cried Grek. ‘Not very likely is it?’
‘A last‐ditch manoeuvre by the Cutch then, sir?’ said Priss brightly.
Maconsa grunted. Grek turned to him. ‘You have a comment, Maconsa?’
The old man got up, and jerking his head to one side, dismissed Priss. Once the two men were alone, he began to speak.
‘I was out there yesterday, Grek, when the quake hit. There was something else. It followed the tremor almost immediately. A meteorite shower.’
‘A what?’
‘Shower of what appeared to be meteorites. Look.’
Maconsa pulled one of the stones