Doctor Who_ The Bodysnatchers - Mark Morris [71]
'Mowgra, what isTuval's current status?' Balaak asked.
A Zygon warrior crossed to the console recently vacated by Zorva and made some adjustments to the controls. 'Tuval's synchron response is unchanged, Commander.'
Balaak inclined its great domed head slightly and gave a soft hiss.That is something at least. Monitor Tuval's progress, Mowgra, and report to me if there is any fluctuation in the synchron response.'
'Yes, Commander.'
***
Somewhere out there, thought the Doctor, standing on the towpath and looking out at the points of light shattering and reforming on the otherwise unseen, tar-black Thames. Fog curled around his ankles, while drizzle darkened the shoulders of his coat and formed a halo of fine droplets on his thick, wavy hair.
He pulled back his sleeve and checked the device strapped to his wrist. It resembled a digital compass with its own light source. A needle hovered on a dial ringed with strange symbols. The central section contained several rows of ever-changing numerical readings.
He tapped the device as though it was a watch whose batteries were running down, then nodded in satisfaction. Humming a Draconian lament, he placed the carpet bag he was carrying on the wet cobbles and opened it. He extracted a bulging waterproof hip pack attached to a belt, a diver's face-mask, a pair of flippers, a small, slim oxygen cylinder and mouthpiece, and finally a worn and dusty-looking wet suit, which he laid on the ground and which immediately began to turn shiny black with the rain.
Quickly he stripped down to a pair of thermal long Johns, expertly folding each item of clothing as he removed it and placing it in the carpet bag, then donned the wet suit and flippers. He clipped the belt to his waist, buckled on the oxygen cylinder and covered his eyes and nose with the face-mask, adjusting it until it was comfortable.
At last he took a deep breath. Everything seemed fine.
After concealing the carpet bag as best he could beneath a nearby bench, he patted the hip pack and checked the device on his wrist once again. Not wishing to alarm anybody, or worse, be the cause of a rescue attempt, he glanced both ways along the towpath. Seeing no one, he murmured,
'Ready or not, here I come,' then flapped over to the nearest set of steps that led down to the river. He descended awkwardly until he reached the level of the water, then turned and allowed himself to flop backward into the Thames. There was a splash and a brief churning as the black water closed over him. Within seconds, however, the surface of the river was still and silent once more.
***
For those present in the Whitechapel gin palace known locally as the Doldrums, 13 January 1894 was a day to remember. At approximately 2
a.m. the door burst open and in staggered big Jack Howe, looking as no one had ever seen him before. His eyes were bulging, sweat was running down his face and he was shaking like a child. He stumbled to the bar and ordered gin in a weak, jabbering voice that was far removed from the arrogant growl that he usually employed. Once the glass was in his hand, he threw the gin down his throat and demanded another. This happened thrice more, after which Jack pushed the glass away from him and sank on to a bar stool, his head in his trembling hands.
The Doldrums was generally a rowdy, violent place, but for a full half-minute after Jack's entrance there was silence as those present looked at each other and at the big man himself, and tried to reckon up in their own minds what unutterably dreadful event could possibly have transpired to reduce Jack Howe to such a state. Finally Henry Peterson, one of Jack's drinking cronies, a florid-faced man with a nose so crooked it appeared to be almost at a right angle to the rest of his features, sidled up and tentatively inquired,'What ails you, Jack?'
Slowly Jack raised his head from the mask of his hands. Peterson took a hasty step back, looking like a boy who