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I ran my finger along a polished pipe no thicker than my arm. Just the slightest crack, just the tiniest break, and it would escape. Everything would die from the smallest microbe to the last blue whale. That didn't frighten me so much as the knowledge that the thing in these silos had killed the Doctor.

The UNIT force began splitting up, hurrying along carefully-prepared routes.

End of extract

102

***

The box on the screen informed Dave that 87% of the information he had been amassing had been released into cyberspace. It would be appearing on various bulletin boards and inboxes.

'There's a crowd gathering,' he noted. They'd been listening to the radio, and they'd heard Lethbridge-Stewart's proclamation. Now a steady stream of people was heading up towards Whitehal .

'The Brig's a legend,' Oswald continued. 'Some skywatchers think he's a myth, a codename. UNIT go in for that: the scientific advisor is always cal ed "the Doct-" '

Dave grabbed his arm. 'Come on.'

***

Lethbridge-Stewart checked his watch. 12.20 and they were in Chiswick. They were a little ahead of schedule. He was sitting besides Bambera in the staff car. Three of the tanks headed the convoy, then the armoured cars. The staff car was next, followed by the Land Rovers. The other two tanks brought up the rear. Motorcycle outriders were scouting ahead.

Outside, crowds were beginning to line the streets. It reminded Alistair of a royal visit. Some people were even waving little plastic Union Flags. Ordinary people were falling in behind the military convoy: policemen and firemen, even postmen in their uniforms. Socialist Workers and members of the British Legion weren't walking hand-in-hand, but they at least had common purpose.

'You were right,' Bambera conceded. 'it looks like we've got a fair few people on our side.'

'There's no sign of Government forces. We'd have expected a road block by now, at least.'

'Perhaps they are weaker than we thought,' Bambera suggested.

The radio crackled. 'Greyhound, this is Trap Seven.'

'Receiving. Where are you?'

'Tower Hill. There's quite a crowd gathering. It's like the Royal Wedding, sir.'

'Spare me the Dimbleby commentary, Corporal. How many people and what's their mood?'

'Thousands. It's a carnival.'

'Any sign of the Provs?'

'They are keeping a cordon around the Tower, they've sealed off Downing Street. Defensive positions only at the moment, sir. We've had a lot of defectors.'

'Very good. Inform me if the situation changes.'

'Roger that, Greyhound.'

Bambera was smiling, not a common sight. 'It looks like we've got all sorts of people on our side.'

***

The Prime Minister looked out over London. Through fifty-one millimetre 13 ply laminated glass was the familiar skyline, with its familiar Martian warship.

It was so big. On the way to one of his meetings with Xznaal he'd stopped off at a newsagents by Fenchurch Street station. The shop was selling postcards showing the capital's latest tourist attraction. That had been on Saturday morning, not more than thirty-six hours after the invasion. Not that there were many tourists in London any longer. Before the Martians had come, the Tower of London had two million visitors a year - millions more buzzed around it without wanting to pay to get in. Now the streets and pavements around the walls were al but deserted for the first time in centuries. Many Londoners had fled the city to the Home Counties. The evacuation hadn't been orderly, dozens had died under the wheels of cars and vans and lorries charging away from the Capital, on both sides of the road. Most were living with friends or relatives, or in guest houses. Al the foreigners had gone, too. London hotels were empty, facing ruin. Walking along the deserted streets, the only language you heard was English. It made the city seem smaller, less alive. It was alive now. Even behind the bullet resistant window pane - no glass was truly bullet proof, four shotgun blasts at close range would be