Doctor Who_ The Algebra of Ice - Lloyd Rose [97]
‘Ace, no!’ Ethan rushed after her, and slammed flat into the screen. Behind him, Molecross stopped in time:
‘It’s closed up again.’
‘Thank you,’ said Ethan, rubbing his nose. ‘I’d worked that out.’
‘But how –’
‘I imagine the lock’s self-healing, so to speak.’
‘Let’s blow it open again!’
‘Fine. Have you any explosives?’
Chapter Twenty-four
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‘Ah,’ said Molecross.
‘Yes.’ Ethan strode back to the computer. ‘The key’s in here somewhere,’ he said hopelessly.
‘Why did it reseal, anyway?’
‘Because the Doctor wanted to keep something. . . ’ The hairs on the back of Ethan’s neck prickled, and, slowly, he turned around.
‘Hello,’ said Brett.
The Doctor climbed hills and slid into valleys. He hiked up mountains. Around him, the seeming landscape was white as snow. The Doctor found the going surprisingly easy, perhaps because he wasn’t traversing actual heights. Where he had started, just inside the screen, the hills were low, but they had gradually and regularly, in precise ratio, become higher. In the distance a peak rose and rose, like a column, until it vanished beyond sight. The Doctor knew that it led to infinity.
In spite of the tension of his purpose, his journey was slightly boring. The perfect proportions surrounding him were as dull as computer animation –
nothing to surprise the eye, only lines to lead it. The ground beneath his feet was featureless. There was no sound but his own breathing and the crack of his umbrella ferrule on the non-ice.
He was walking straight ahead, towards the higher ground. To his right the peaks gradually flattened out to an endless plain. He knew that on his left, over what looked like the spine of the mountains, there was nothing. Nothing at all.
He had graphed only real numbers, and beyond the ridge was the territory of the impossible.
A soft rustle fell to him, like a light slide of snow. There was no snow. The Doctor stopped and looked around. In the depths of the false ice gleamed a blue shadow. It is coming to me, he thought, and waited, leaning on his umbrella.
A hairline crack ran crookedly down the slope of the hill, then shuddered and widened, making an entry. No, the Doctor corrected himself, I am going to it.
He ventured forward and poked his head inside. In front of him a short passage opened into a chamber. He frowned. Where had the energy come from for such a showy display? Oh well, he was here now. He tucked his umbrella under his arm and approached the chamber, stopping at the threshold.
The room before him curved up in an elliptical white dome. Tiny cracks spiderwebbed the floor. There was no furniture. Within the frozen walls, an occasional shadow pulsed like a blue heart. ‘A miracle of rare device,’ the Doctor murmured. He walked in a few paces and examined the floor. The 200
The Algebra of Ice
ice – he thought he might as well call it that – was reflective, like a shattered mirror.
‘Very impressive,’ he said. ‘I once visited a tourist attraction like this on the Jungfrau.’
The emptiness in front of him thickened – like mist, if mist could be solid and was utterly white. It began to shift horizontally, like shuffling abacus beads.
Putting itself together, the Doctor thought, calculating itself into a presence.
He didn’t see – probably couldn’t have seen – the moment it manifested, only found himself looking up at a towering dead-white being with long hair and neutral eyes, wearing an equally dead-white garment that made the Doctor think of a winding sheet. It had taken humanoid form, masking its geometry so well that no trace of sharp angle was visible. The Doctor raised his hat. It inclined its head.
‘Will this do?’ Its voice was thin and toneless, and it spoke in unaccented Gallifreyan. ‘I see you. Can you look on me?’
‘You’re quite clear, thank you,’ said the Doctor. The being smiled. Though its slenderness was birdlike, the overall impression was of strength. ‘I trust I am sufficiently numerical,’ the