Doctor Who_ The Algebra of Ice - Lloyd Rose [32]
The rest of the disks were more of the same. Dubiously, she eyed the filing cabinets. How long would it take her to check everything in them? She went up and down the little passages between them – all very orderly. The journey brought her to one of the walls of shelves. Surely they’d be quicker to get through than the files. Cocking her head, Ace began to walk slowly along, as if she were searching for a book in a library. The folders were carefully labelled and appeared to contain articles torn from newspapers and magazines. She went meticulously from wall to wall. The folders were replaced by books: Crop Circles: Why Not Now?, It’s All Lies: the Truth About Mass Media, Velcro of the Gods. . .
Ha! In its own little niche lay a blue folder labelled ‘Pending’. If this wasn’t it, nothing was. Ace leafed through the meagre contents. Bills, bills, more bills –
jackpot! A leaf torn from a pad with a short series of numbers and letters. She was pretty certain they were from a number plate. She copied them, musing on the title ‘Pending’. Was Molecross planning to find the car’s owner? She couldn’t think of any other reason to have a plate number.
This small find turned out to be her last one. Ace went over the room again and searched the bedroom wardrobe and the kitchen cabinets. She opened each filing cabinet drawer and checked the labels of the files. These appeared to be the same as for the folders on the shelves, only holding clippings from earlier years. The Doctor ought to hire Molecross to organise the TARDIS library.
Other than going through every one of the folders and files, which would take at least a couple of days, there wasn’t much else she could do. And anyway, since Molecross was so organised, it was unlikely there was anything stuck randomly among his carefully labelled records. Mindful of his orderliness, she tried to put everything back exactly as she found it, and as she left she wiped Chapter Eight
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up the small traces of dirt she’d tracked in.
Molecross returned to the UNIT hospital ward, but he was far from defeated.
He had a plan. And anyway, his arm appeared to need attention; there were foul-smelling yellow crusts on his bandages. With a serendipity that he assumed blessed his purpose, the nurse at the desk was one who had attended him on his first visit. He made certain to stop and thank her for her previous kindness, and she smiled like a person not used to appreciation. All to the good, he thought as he proceeded to his room. He was impressed with his own wiliness.
There was indeed some infection. Molecross sat patiently through the scold-ing by the doctor, occasionally giving the proper apologetic responses. He was prescribed antibiotics and hooked up to an IV. He was given painkillers. But in spite of his new confidence, he faltered at the idea of actually seeing his injury; when his stump was being cleaned and disinfected, he looked away.
The painkillers set him peacefully afloat but he sternly applied his will and retained some clearheadedness. It was important that he make his move before the nurse went off duty, and he wanted to be coherent. He had no idea when her shift ended, and this made him anxious, which further cut the drugs’
calming qualities. In a short while, he was actively nervous and, ignoring the muffled but persistent pain of his wound, he got out of bed and travelled with his IV into the hall.
The nurse was still there, thank heaven. She looked at him with professional alarm, but he waved and smiled reassuringly. ‘Only wanted to say ta again.’
‘That’s very sweet of you, Mr Molecross.’ She smiled briefly as she came around the counter. ‘But you must return to bed now.’
‘You’re so nice,’ he said sincerely, and her smile was warmer as she escorted him back to his room. After she settled him in bed and was checking the IV,