Doctor Who_ St. Anthony's Fire - Mark Gatiss [8]
She had found a few references to Massatoris on several of the yellowing, spider‐scrawl index cards but the space where Bernice deduced the relevant records should be housed had instead revealed a well‐thumbed copy of The Moonstone, sixteen wax cylinders of indeterminate origin and a luminous hat box.
Bernice ran a hand through her short bob of dark hair and pulled a face, her puckish features crinkling in dismay. There was only one way to progress now and that was to find the Doctor.
Threading her way through the long, white corridors which led away from the library, Bernice passed Ace’s room. The door was firmly closed. A small, grimacing wooden mask had been pinned up just above the handle like a warning to anyone thinking of entering.
For a moment, Bernice imagined Ace’s face transposed onto that of the mask, like the ghost in the Old Earth story, her long hair projecting spectrally through to the other side of the door. The look of permanent disapproval the mask wore could have been modelled from life.
Bernice paused for a moment outside the plain white door and sucked her lower lip thoughtfully. Raising a hand to knock, she thought better of it and continued down the almost featureless corridor towards the console room.
Even before she reached it, Bernice was aware that something was different. The threshold of the door was wreathed in shadow, blurring the corridor roundels as though night were encroaching into their very structure. The reassuring background hum, always present in the huge chamber, was unaccountably low, scarcely impinging on her senses.
As she slipped through the doorway, she was shocked to discover the room in complete darkness. The air was cold to the point of frostiness and she half expected to find a carpet of mist creeping around her ankles.
There was no light coming from the console itself but she could make out the rising and falling of the time rotor, its glass column whispering up and down like the shallow breathing of a dying man.
Bernice felt her way inside. When she was sure of the roundels behind her back she took a deep breath which rasped painfully in her lungs.
‘Doctor?’
There was no response. Only the steady rhythm of the console. She could make out shapes, looming hugely out of the darkness, but whether they were items of furniture or unknown hostiles she couldn’t tell. Then, almost imperceptibly, a panel of dials and switches on one side of the console glowed into life.
The pale, ghostly light illuminated a hand and a suggestion of cuff.
‘Doctor?’ Bernice called again, a little louder.
‘Hush.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘Hush.’
The hand stretched out, beating a tattoo on the console. At once, a second panel flared into brightness.
Bernice could make out most of the crumpled three‐piece linen suit which the Doctor had recently adopted but his face was still hidden.
‘Now,’ whispered the Doctor, his breath like a pistol‐shot in the icy air. ‘The moment of truth.’
There was a brief, frantic flurry of movement as the Doctor’s hands danced over the console.
As Bernice watched, the room was drenched in light, the temperature rose and the background hum reached its familiar pitch once more. She felt immensely comforted.
The Doctor stepped back from the console like an exhausted conductor and beamed delightedly. ‘Well, that’s that. Three cheers and pats on backs all round, I think.’
He was a small man of indeterminate age, his brown hair rather long, his bushy brows and stern expression enlivened by a twinkling gaze. Bernice noticed that his neck was almost swallowed up by a black cravat and stiff Gladstone collar, the ends of which bent down whenever he smiled.
‘What have you done?’ said Bernice, crossing to the console and looking down worriedly as though expecting some drastic alteration.
‘Just solved a little problem,’ smiled the Doctor, stuffing his hands into