Doctor Who_ The Paradise of Death - Barry Letts [16]
All very fine and dandy, thought the Brigadier, but why didn’t the man stop nattering and let them all have a go?
As the thought passed through his mind, it was voiced, a deal more crudely, by the obnoxious Septimus.
Kitson was only too pleased to oblige, and the Brigadier was soon reclining at his ease, wearing a lightweight headset, trying to decide which of the many buttons on the control panel to push. There had been a mild altercation between himself and the Doctor as to who should be first, as there weren’t enough places to go round. Since, however, it soon appeared that the Doctor wasn’t really concerned, apparently on the grounds that ER would be a more sophisticated version of something he called VR –
Virtual Reality – the Brigadier allowed himself to be persuaded.
‘Well now,’ he said, finger poised, ‘how about “A Day at the Races”? I’ve always enjoyed an outing with the gee-gees.’ He stabbed the appropriate button.
‘Good grief!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m there! I’m really there!’
As if in the far distance, he heard the Doctor’s voice:
‘Not a computer model, then?’ but it was almost drowned by the noise of the crowd, the shouting of the bookies, and the general din he knew so well. For, yes, by jiminy, he was really there. At Epsom, of all places. He was walking down towards the paddock. He could feel the grass under his feet and the breeze in his face, and the smell of the horses mingling with the tempting aroma of cooking meat, drifting down from behind the crowd. He might pop over presently and get a bite. It seemed a long time since he’d had his breakfast.
With a jolt, he remembered what was really happening and became aware of the Doctor’s voice: ‘For Pete’s sake, Lethbridge-Stewart, speak to me. What’s going on?’
By concentrating hard, he managed to regain a rudimentary consciousness of his real situation, like a far-off unwanted memory. He could feel his body lying on the couch like the ghost of a thought at the back of his mind; and he was able to reply to the Doctor. But even as he described his experience, he found himself leaning on the rail, surveying the runners. There was Murphy Muffin, the Irish winner of the Oaks. Should stand a very good chance.
He glanced up. Yes, of course. He would be favourite. Odds on.
The Doctor was almost shouting at him. ‘Brigadier! I said, “Try turning round and walking back the way you came”.’
Wretched fellow! ‘Frankly,’ he said, ‘I don’t want to. I’m quite happy as I am.’
‘A scientific experiment, man! Remember why we’re here.’
Oh yes. Yes. The Brigadier managed to remember, but it seemed to be quite impossible to get his recalcitrant body to obey him. But it didn’t matter. As he told the Doctor, he was doing exactly what he wanted to do. Beautiful creatures, racehorses.
‘You’re doing what the program wants you to do,’ the Doctor was saying in the distance.
Fred the Frog looked to be in good nick. He might be worth a few bob each way.
‘May I change the channel for you?’
‘What? Oh, if you must. But I must say that I – oof!’
It was like hitting an air pocket. Epsom Downs vanished in an instant; the Brigadier felt himself falling through a cloud of – black cotton wool? No sound, no sight, no touch; until, abruptly, but with no sense of a sudden stop, he landed on a beach somewhere.
The shock of the change had forcibly reminded him of the object of the exercise. He made a firm effort to make some sort of report to the Doctor. ‘At the seaside. Lord knows where. Pretty darn hot. Strong smell of flowers.
Can’t quite place the perfume. I seem to be in my bathers.
Been for a swim, I suppose. I can hear the surf behind me and I’m walking up the beach towards a bunch of...
dollybirds...’
His intention faded away as he looked at the group