Doctor Who_ The Myth Makers - Donald Cotton [5]
he looked, I say, like the harassed captain of a coaster who can’t remember his port from his starboard. A sort of superannuated Flying Dutchman, in fact: and not far out, at that, when you think about it.
I gathered later, that for some time the TARDIS had been tumbling origin over terminus through eternity, ricochetting from one more or less disastrous planetary landfall to another; when all the poor old chap wanted to do was get back to earth and put his feet up for a bit!
Well, he’d found the Earth all right, but unfortunately, several thousand miles and as many years from where he really wanted to be: which was, I gather, some place called London in the nineteen-sixties – if that means anything to you? He’d promised to give his friends, Vicki and Steven, a lift there, you see; because they thought it was somewhere they might be happy and belong for once. All very well for him, because he didn’t truly belong anywhere – or, rather, he belonged everywhere; being a Time Lord, he claimed, or some such nonsense!
But the trouble was, he couldn’t navigate, bless him! Oh, brilliant as the devil in his time, no doubt – whenever that was –
but just a shade past it, if you ask me!
He blamed the mechanism of course – claimed it was faulty; but then don’t they always? We’ve all heard it before – ‘Damned sprockets on the blink!’ or something; when all the time, if they’re honest, they’ve completely forgotten what a sprocket is!
At all events, he was apparently under the impression that he’d landed in the Kalahari Desert, and he was having a bit of trouble with the crew in consequence. So you can imagine his confusion when, expecting to be able to ask his way to the nearest water-hole from a passing bush-man, he found himself being worshipped by a classical Greek hero, with, moreover, a Trojan warrior bleeding to death at his feet.
Achilles didn’t help matters much by immediately addressing him as ‘Father!’ Disconcerting, to say the least.
‘Eh? What’s that? I’m not your father, my boy! Certainly not!’ objected the Doctor, lustily. After all, Vicki and Steven were probably listening... ‘This won’t do at all – get up at once!’
Achilles was glad about that, you could tell. Sand burning his cuirasses, no doubt.
‘If Zeus bids me rise, then must I do so...’ He lumbered to his feet, rubbing his knees.
‘Zeus?’ enquired the Doctor, surprised. (And I must say he didn’t look a lot like him.) ‘What’s this? Who do you take me for?’
‘The father of the gods, and ruler of the world!’ announced Achilles, clearing the matter up rather neatly.
‘Dear me! Do you really? And may I ask, who you are?’
‘I am Achilles – mightiest of warriors!’ Yes, he could say that now. ‘Greatest in battle, humblest of your servants.’
‘I must say, you don’t sound particularly humble! Achilles, eh? Yes, I’ve heard of you...’
Achilles looked pleased. ‘Has my fame then spread even to Olympus? Tell me, I pray, what you have heard of me...?’
Not an easy question to answer truthfully, but the Doctor did his best. ‘Why, that you are rather... well, sensitive, shall we say? Or, perhaps, yes, well, never mind...’ He gave up and changed the subject. ‘And this poor fellow must be... ?’
‘Hector, prince of Troy – sent to Hades for blasphemy against the gods of Greece!’
‘Blasphemy? Oh, really, Achilles – I’m sure he meant no particular harm by it!’
‘Did he not? He threatened to trim your beard should you descend to earth!’ He’d done nothing of the sort of course.
Unpardonable.
‘Did he indeed? But, as you see, I have no beard,’ said the Doctor, putting his finger on the flaw in the argument.
‘Oh, if you had appeared in your true form, I would have been blinded by your radiance! It is well known that when you come amongst us you adopt many different shapes. To Europa, you appeared as a