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'Won't other countries start taking things into their own hands and arrange their own nuclear strike?'

'They won't,' Lethbridge-Stewart said, more in hope than certain knowledge.

'Can't we try talking to them?' Bernice asked.

'Do you speak Martian. Mrs Summerfield?'

'As a matter of fact - '

'UFO is now in the atmosphere. Trajectory confirmed.' A string of numbers ran across the computer screen.

'Calculating course,' the Corporal said.

'It's heading for Trafalgar Square,' the Doctor announced. 'Brigadier, you have to get us down there.'

'UNIT engagement protocols - '

' - the Doctor knows al about them, Captain,' Lethbridge-Stewart interrupted, 'in fact he helped me to draft them.

We need a containment team down there to evacuate the public, we need military units to keep them out.'

'I am aware of what we need, Brigadier,' Bambera bawled at him, 'but I have just been given a direct order from the Secretary-General to stay put.'

'This is far more important than the petty concerns of your planet,' the Doctor yel ed.

'I agree, but - '

'Tracking computer confirms the landing area as Central London.'

The Doctor looked up at the ceiling. Far, far above him, the Martian spacecraft would be visible from the ground now.

'We're too late,' he whispered. He darted for the door. 'Come on, Bernice!'

***

Night was falling over London.

It never got dark in the city. The street lighting became diffused with the air pollution, and the sky glowed a muddy orange. On most nights you could see the Moon, and some of the brighter stars, but nothing much else. So few people ever looked up.

A black shape appeared among the clouds, parting them like a plough. It was vast, larger than any of the buildings it passed over.

Warning buzzers had already sounded at Air Traffic Control stations around the city. Airspace had been cleared, as best it could. Police stations were beginning to get the first of their phone calls from worried citizens.

***

Alan dialled the number of the Newsdesk.

'Gloria, it's Alan in London. I know I'm too late for the evening news, but I've got a story for you. Yeah - you'll want to flash it. Check the pictures of the - '

The line was beginning to crackle. Alan scowled at the phone, unable to believe that the story of the century would slip through his fingers because of a dodgy telephone.

'The line's terrible,' he told Oswald.

'It's the government listening in. They're on to us. We'd better get moving!'

51

The young man was swinging his head from side to side, checking to see if anyone was watching the phone box.

Alan ignored him.

'Check the pictures of the Mars Landing,' he shouted into the phone. 'Look at the air lines. One's disconnected. It's the story of the century: the Mars Missions are a fake. The Brits haven't been to Mars at all. Tell the world!' He slammed the handset down, knowing that he'd just made history. Oswald was waving at him.

'Alan, look up there, for Christ's sake.'

Alan did as Oswald said, and saw a vast, dark shape coming down through the clouds over the Thames.

***

For the first couple of seconds, those that looked up and saw it thought it was an aircraft in trouble. But after a moment of panic, they realised it couldn't be. It was perfectly silent. It wasn't a zeppelin, either: the hul was clearly made from thick metal plates, riveted together, and it must have weighed many hundreds of tonnes. It was drifting down, apparently effortlessly. In reality the underside of the object was lined with tiny rocket vents which were pulsing with bursts of magnetic force.

Far below, television pictures and computer monitors began to shimmer. Car radios and phone lines began to crackle. Every audio and video tape in Central London was wiped. Cutlery drawers were rattling, every loose piece of metal across the city began jiggling up and down.

People were beginning to look up. Cars stopped, the crowds on the streets began to point up into the sky. Every burglar alarm and car alarm went off.

***

The Sumerian MechInfs had wiped