Doctor Who_ The Algebra of Ice - Lloyd Rose [107]
‘It collapsed,’ she gasped. ‘Or something.’
The Doctor nodded, drawing deep breaths. ‘Imploded. Computed to zero.’
‘What?’
‘It was made of equations. With a few tweaks and additions, you can rearrange any equation so that its answer is zero.’
She sat back, impressed. ‘Well brilliant.’
‘It was rather clever of me,’ he agreed. ‘It’s one entity really, so now all of them/it are nothing. Not that they were much in the first place. They were as close to nil as anything that exists can be.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The Doctor put up a stone to Molecross next to an ancient church not far from his cottage, then went through his files and distributed them among the subscribers to the Miscellany. Afterwards, he visited a certain London alley and regarded with satisfaction the lettering across a pair of junkyard doors: I M
FOREMAN.
The spring thaw exposed Unwin’s body. Animals had been at it. The village authorities buried him in their paupers’ graveyard.
Briefed by the Doctor, the Brigadier wrote up his report and sealed it in his most secure file: a hidden safe in the UNIT basement.
Ace and Ethan said many intimate goodbyes. She promised to visit him often and she did, always the same while he grew older, always acting as if she’d seen him only yesterday, which was sometimes the case. Their friendship went on for one of her years and four of his, until the day he collapsed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
What little was left of Ethan’s mind spent its time dozing. When awake, in the sense that word could be used, it did something that in a complete brain would have been called dreaming. From time to time, a spark of self-consciousness gleamed, but no tinder struck – Ethan vaguely noted his situation, was relieved there was no pain, occasionally wondered where his body was and how it was doing, and then went away. Needless to say, there were no visitors.
Which was why, he thought ironically, he should have expected the Doctor.
Ethan actually saw him. It was the first sharp, stable image he’d seen in. . .
well, however long he’d been like this. The Doctor’s appearance was – not unexpectedly – what Ethan remembered: the improbably spotless ivory suit, the elegant waistcoat, the absurd hat. No umbrella, which was actually a bit of a relief.
‘I didn’t think you’d like it,’ said the Doctor. ‘You always found it a bit ludicrous, didn’t you?’
‘Now that there are no secrets between us. . . Are you reading my mind?’
‘In a way. I’m in your mind.’
‘Oh.’
‘I realise it’s a bit of an intrusion.’
‘No,’ said Ethan – if this sort of conversation involved saying anything, which he doubted. ‘I’m glad of the company.’ The Doctor looked down. ‘No sympathy necessary. Sometimes I hear music – you know, the way you can, full orchestra.
A lot of Bach. Mostly, I’m just not here. It’s no hardship – a bit like the place between wake and sleeping. Hypnapompia. Soon to be psychopompia.’
‘Not that soon, I’m sorry to say.’
Had Ethan shoulders, he would have shrugged. ‘It’s not a hardship,’ he repeated.
‘Would you like. . . ’ The Doctor hesitated. ‘I could arrange for you to experience something like corporeality. If you want.’
‘Why not?’ said Ethan, and found himself standing in front of the Doctor.
He examined his hands, which looked as they always had, and his feet, which were wearing trainers. ‘This is more for your convenience than mine, isn’t it?’
Chapter Twenty-eight
221
‘Now that there are no secrets between us. . . I confess, I find it difficult to talk to someone who lacks definition. Always have. It’s a limitation in my line of work.’
‘Yes,’ Ethan acknowledged. The Doctor produced a pair of club chairs – Ethan couldn’t recall if he’d seen something like them at Allen Road – and they sat down. ‘Tea?’ said the Doctor.
‘Yes, thanks. It would be nice to taste something.’
‘It doesn’t have to be tea. Perhaps some nice cheese?’