Doctor Who_ The Bodysnatchers - Mark Morris [81]
'Of course, I did bring this second suit for George, but as he's nowhere to be found I suppose I might as well make use of it.'
'Might as well,' agreed Sam. 'Do you think the professor managed to get out?'
The Doctor looked doubtful.'He might have. He's a game old bird. Perhaps I ought to stay and look for him.'
'It'd be like looking for a needle in a haystack,' said Sam. 'I feel as bad as you do about leaving him, but we've got no choice. He might not even be here, and we'd only end up getting captured again.'
'Yes, you're right,' sighed the Doctor. He meshed his fingers together in a stirrup for her to step into, and, abruptly cheerful, said,'I hope you're feeling energetic. Guess what we're going to do now.'
'Climb?' she said.
'Climb,' he confirmed.
***
It felt as though someone had been jumping up and down on his sternum wearing hob-nailed boots. The instant
consciousness returned to Litefoot, he sincerely wished it would go away again. His head was a jumble of confused images: dark, enclosed spaces, nightmarish creatures, black water from which he could not escape. At this last memory a feeling of panic gripped him and he lurched upright, gasping.
Instantly pain blazed in his chest and throat, and transformed his lungs into two bags of blazing hot coals. So agonising was the sensation that he could not even cry out. He sank back on to the unfamiliar bed and stared up at the unfamiliar ceiling, willing the pain to ebb away. Eventually it did, though an echo of it resounded each time he drew a breath. Moving only his head, he looked around to ascertain where he was.
Hospital, evidently, and a private room at that. He knew he was high up because the large window to the left of his iron-framed bed afforded him a view of nothing more than an early dawn sky, streaked with blueberry-coloured clouds.
He tried to piece his broken memories together. Yes, of course, he had been with the Doctor and Miss Samantha. As though the memory of the Doctor was the key that unlocked his mind, it suddenly all came flooding back to him.
The Zygons! Of course! My word, how could he have forgotten that? He had been expelled from their lair, hadn't he, effectively sneezed out into deep, dark water that had stolen his consciousness?
Frankly, now that he came to think of it, it was astounding that he had woken up at all. He must have been closer to the surface and the bank than he had realised. Someone must have spotted him and fished him out.
If so, then he possessed the luck of the devil, though perhaps it might be prudent not to celebrate quite so soon.The river was so filthy that he might yet fall prey to all manner of lethal complaints. His body could be acting as an incubator for cholera or typhus even now.
What of the Doctor and Miss Samantha? he wondered. Were they still in peril, held captive by the Zygons? He wondered how long he had been unconscious. It could be hours or days.
'Nurse,' he called, the word sawing at his throat like a rusty hacksaw blade and emerging as a croak. Nevertheless, a nurse appeared within seconds, a mere slip of a girl, evidently nervous to be caring for so prominent a patient.
'Yes, sir?' she said.
'Could you tell me how long I've been here, my dear?'
'Yes, sir. Several hours, sir. Four at least.'
'Hours, not days? You're quite sure?' said Litefoot.
'Yes, sir.'
'Excellent. Then there's still hope. Fetch me my clothes, would you, my dear?'
'Your clothes, sir?' said the girl uncertainly.
'Yes, and quick about it if you please. I have some rather pressing business to attend to.'
'B-begging your pardon, sir,' stammered