Doctor Who_ The Room With No Doors - Kate Orman [52]
A few dozen entries ago, I was telling you about that shell-shocked look the aliens sometimes have. You can see it in their eyes, if they have eyes – a kind of mix of surprise and defeat. The look people have when they’ve lost an argument or a job and they can’t quite work out how.
Heck, I saw that look a month ago, in the eyes of a Lacaillan scout. (We’ve had a lot of scouts recently. The various species with a greedy eye on Earth have apparently decided that a single alien is a lot less conspicuous than a horde, or even a reconnaissance team.)
The Doctor (how do I use our future meeting?) had brought the scout to us after bewildering him to a standstill. I didn’t get the full story, something involving the London phone system, amphibians, and static electricity, but all that
Lacaillan wanted was to get home as fast as possible.
I hope I’m not starting to get that look. The Lacaillan scout’s look, like his brain was in backwards. The Doctor asked me: ‘Are you sure about this? Very sure?’ As though he knew what I was planning.
Supposedly he can’t read your mind.
Maybe he knows my plan (such as it is) isn’t going to work. Maybe the daimyo’s going to have me boiled in oil. Maybe he does know what I’ve got in mind, and the pod is so much more important that he can’t be bothered with 105
me. . . for the moment.
(As you know, dear diary, I nearly dropped the whole idea when he first turned up. Somehow I should’ve known he would.) The pod looks like a satellite to me. Probably left by some BEM or other to observe the human race until we’re worth conquering. Ran out of power and fell out of the sky. (Wouldn’t it be more likely to have fallen into an ocean?
Maybe the bottom of the Atlantic is covered in alien space junk!) At least I won’t have the same problem, if Tony the techie Tzun’s battery additions keep on working. (Now, that’d be embarrassing – stuck three centuries in the past without the PowerBook. Geez, I think I just scared myself.) I’m still wondering – why here, why now? Is it a coincidence that a time machine pops up just when I’m thinking about leaving Little Caldwell? Does it have anything to do with falling back in time ten years when I was a kid?
Did I attract something’s attention? Am I really that important?
Frankly, diary, I doubt it. Stranger things have happened.
Later.
At least they’re feeding me. That’s all they’re doing, though. I’m hoping it’s just that the daimyo’s personal organizer is kind of full right now.
It was too late to change plans as soon as I sent that message to the daimyo, asking to stay. I had to tell it to a page – he wasn’t impressed that I couldn’t write. Geez, what if he didn’t bother to actually pass it on to the daimyo?
What if I really am being held hostage? (Maybe I should have let the Doctor talk me out of here. . . but if the daimyo did get my message, that would mean the Doctor finding out about it. My brain hurts.) My knees hurt. The many things I wish I had with me include a camp stool and a guide to Japanese etiquette (so I know when it’s OK to sit instead of kneeling). Not to mention a Japanese dictionary, a CD player and my Rush collection, and a spray can of Samurai-Away, just in case.
I’ve gotta stay calm. Try to connect with that confidence I was feeling when the idea first hit.
Heck, maybe the Doctor even approves. He knows I’m one of the good guys.
It’s not like the Admiral’s big, doomed attempt to change history. If I can make a few little changes, help a few people here and there, I’ll be doing just what he does.
Yeah. Even if the Doctor does know what I’m planning, either he thinks it’s OK or he’s too stressed out to care. And Chris is a mess, poor kid – that’d be enough to distract anyone.
Anyway, I’ve gone too far to stop now. Haven’t I?
∗ ∗ ∗
106
Chris hoped Penelope had guessed what was going on. The ride inside the cab must be hell.
They