Doctor Who_ The Paradise of Death - Barry Letts [26]
Clorinda picked up her camera which was lying on her desk. ‘Oh Sarah! Did you forget to take the lens cap off?’
But Sarah was gazing incredulously at the sheet of prints. They couldn’t be hers, she thought. He must have got them mixed up. And yet the ones of the outside of the pavilion were okay and they were on the same film.
But the ones she’d taken inside didn’t even show the desert, let alone the Kamelius. There was nothing to be seen but bare walls. This was more than strange, it was impossible.
The Brigadier needed to know about this. He should be back at UNIT HQ by now. Unless he’d gone home. ‘May I use your phone, Clorinda?’ she said.
The Doctor put on his jacket. ‘You’re right, Brigadier,’ he said. ‘Much higher and last Sunday’s mutton could easily have become next Sunday’s lamb. You could be talking to a new version at this very minute.’ He looked in the mirror on the wall and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Though not necessarily an improved version,’ he added, pushing at his face as if to make sure it was still the same one he had woken up with in the morning.
No, he hadn’t changed, thought the Brigadier, with an inward smile. ‘Lord knows why you weren’t killed, though,’ he said.
The door of the little office lent to the Doctor as a dressing room swung open. ‘Tom’s made us all a cup of tea,’ said the Professor. ‘I’m afraid we don’t run to anything stronger.’
‘Okay if I make a quick phone call, Prof?’ asked Tom as he left the room.
‘Nectar,’ said the Doctor sipping his tea. ‘I sometimes think I only stay on this planet for the tea. Nothing like a good cuppa. A chap in India got me hooked. Name of Clive.’
‘General Clive?’ said the Brigadier, doubtfully.
‘That’s the fellow. A thoroughgoing bad lot, but he knew his tea.’ He took another sip and continued, ‘The reason I wasn’t killed, Brigadier, was that I used a technique I learnt a few years ago from a wise old Neanderthal.’ A gulp of tea. ‘Well, not as wise as all that, perhaps. They were a relatively dim lot, but they certainly knew how to fall down cliffs. A simple matter of bone relaxation, do you see.’
‘ Bone relaxation?’ said Professor Willow, who had been listening with a settled look of disbelief on his face.
‘That’s right. As you know, muscle relaxation can save you some nasty bruises if you, say, slip on a banana skin Well, if you find yourself falling from a great height, bone relaxation can be just the ticket.’
‘But that’s physiological nonsense!’
‘A colloquial shorthand. More strictly speaking, it is analogous to the breakdown and regeneration of larval tissue in the formation of a pupa.’
The Professor could take it no longer. He put his mug down with a bang. ‘I have never listened to such unmitigated poppycock in all my born days! I don’t know who you are, sir, but I can tell you what you are. You are a charlatan, sir! A pseud!’
The Doctor eyed him coldly. ‘And if I knew who you were, sir, I might be able to decide what you are!’
The Brigadier leapt in. ‘I’m so sorry. This is Professor Willow. This is the Doctor, Professor, my scientific adviser.’
The Doctor’s face cleared. ‘Professor Mortimer Willow?
Who wrote that paper on the post-mortem agglutination of red blood cells in victims of carbon monoxide asphyxiation?’
‘The same’ the Professor said suspiciously.
‘I’m very pleased to meet you, sir. An excellent piece of work’
‘Thank you,’ answered the Professor a little stiffly. ‘I quite agree.’
The Brigadier looked from one to the other and decided to give a little help to the budding rapprochement. ‘What’s more to the point, Doctor, is that it was Professor Willow who wrote the post-mortem report on the victim of the attack on Hampstead Heath.’
This did the trick. The two scientists were soon in deep consultation and mutual agreement on the unaccountable nature of the injuries inflicted on the body in question.
‘And you have it here?’ asked the Doctor, eagerly.
‘You were in the fridge with him.’
‘Any chance of a quick glance?’
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