Doctor Who_ The Algebra of Ice - Lloyd Rose [16]
Contrary to what might be supposed, Molecross was not a materialist. He knew the yearning for the hidden that fills the mystic’s soul. Whenever he encountered the truly inexplicable he felt a rush of joy. The narrow world expanded: out there, through that seemingly absurd door, lay the freedom of the transcendent not knowing. He never consciously tried to visualise this place of infinite possibility, but when occasionally an image crept into his mind it was of the sky at its palest blue, stretching away forever.
Molecross knew the pattern he had seen that morning was unique; he knew because he had on disk photographs of every known crop circle in the world.
When he had walked the trail of the pattern, he had noticed what was later to strike the Doctor, the sense of an action interrupted.
They would be back.
Some hours later, shivering in the cold, he remained steadfast. Nothing came easily, and it was possible he would have to hold this vigil for many more nights.
It would come when it was coming.
He stood in a fringe of trees on the edge of the field. He wasn’t worried about the UNIT patrol. Irritated at this chilly, obviously useless duty – what pranksters would come out in temperatures like this? – they stood close together and smoked. So as not to take the slightest chance of his car engine alerting them, Molecross had parked a mile away and walked to the site. He and the soldiers kept their vigil together. He had thermal socks and underwear for just this sort of occasion and wasn’t particularly uncomfortable. Still, he looked forward to morning. The night had a hard, heavy feel, as if, like a huge wall, it could fall slowly forward and crush him.
He looked at the sky. Clear as glass. He could pick out the constellations.
Orion. Taurus and Gemini. There were, of course, really thirteen constellations in the zodiac – between Sagittarius and Scorpio intruded the foot of Ophiuchus, the serpent-holder, who was also Asclepius, the physician to the gods. That was the sort of thing you knew if you were a scrupulous researcher.
Molecross shifted his stance, sighed and inhaled deeply. A shock of freezing air hit his nostrils. His mouth tasted of steel. He staggered and tripped, fell on his back. This was it. It was happening. It was happening. The terrible air filled his throat. He lay motionless with wonder, his harsh breath scraping 36
The Algebra of Ice
the silence. It would come when it was coming. It would come when it was coming.
And then it came.
Lethbridge-Stewart didn’t like interruptions in the first half hour of the morning, a period when he had a quiet cup of coffee and organised any work left over from the day before. He looked up in irritation when he heard a knock and held the expression as Ramsey came into the room. ‘This had better be important.’
‘I’m not sure, sir. But it seems to be something you should know about.’
‘Well?’
‘That journalist fellow is at the gates –’
‘Which journ– not that idiot Molecross?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Oh for God’s sake, man! You came in to tell me that?’
‘It’s a bit –’
‘The man is mentally unsound. He runs a magazine for people as unstable as he is. The secret of the crystal skulls. Egyptian hieroglyphics found on the walls of prehistoric caves. He’s a joke.’
‘Something’s wrong with his hand, sir.’
‘What?’
‘Something’s wrong with his hand. The men at the gate think you ought to see it.’
Molecross was weeping. Lethbridge-Stewart didn’t blame him. His left hand was black, flopping like something wilted. The UNIT doctor examined it gently, his expression somewhere between disbelief and worry. ‘I’m going to send in a nurse to give you some morphine, Mr Molecross.’ Molecross nodded. His red, wet face was slack with shock. The doctor touched Lethbridge-Stewart’s elbow and they went into the hall.
‘What is it?’
The doctor shook his head. He was a middle-aged Pakistani, with a worn, seen-it-all face. Now he looked almost stunned.
‘Have