Doctor Who_ The Sleep of Reason - Martin Day [87]
On other worlds they have other names, other myths attached to them. Some know them as the Dead Lords of the Everlasting. I believe that one civilisation even worships them as gods.’ He smiled, as if aware he was wandering off the point somewhat. ‘I do not believe I have encountered them before. Indeed, until I read the two diaries I was never even sure, on this world, that they existed beyond the confines of books of Eastern lore and myth.’
Liz stared at Smith, incredulous. She had worked with him for months; he’d become a dependable colleague and, in the nicest possible way, part of the fixture and fittings at the Retreat. She had trusted him utterly and, compared to the cheerful laddishness of Thomson, the awful formality of Oldfield, she’d welcomed his opinion, his input. Yes, he’d been eccentric, and given to moody stares into the middle distance as if his undoubtedly vast intellect were at that moment otherwise engaged. But how could this vibrant, beguiling man suddenly be revealed as a deluded maniac who saw alien menace at every turn? Why was this most human of men now claiming not to be human at all?
His stories, his claims, were fanciful – they had to be. All right, so he said he knew what was going on – he had an explanation, no matter how bizarre, for every strange event that had recently occurred – but he simply could not be telling the truth.
Could he?
Liz noticed that even Laska, that most admirable of arch-cynics, was hanging on his every word. But then, she had claimed to have been attacked by a dog creature near the gatehouse. The madness, or whatever it was, was spreading.
‘In Bronze Age Persia,’ continued Smith, as if unaware of the impact he was having on the others, ‘the Sholem-Luz were said to flock to the insane like “bees to a honeypot”. In medieval China their power and influence was reputed to wax and wane with the phases of the moon, and. . . ’
‘Yes, but what are they?’ asked Laska impatiently.
‘They’re almost unique,’ said Smith, infuriatingly.
‘They create tunnels
within the very fabric of space and time. They can ride the Time Winds without danger of physical or mental injury because, according to every accepted and normal biological definition, they are already dead.’
‘Weird,’ was Trix’s considered assessment of this.
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‘You can perhaps understand why the legends say that to gaze upon a Sholem-Luz is to risk insanity – or death.’
‘Not high on anyone’s Christmas card list, then,’ said Fitz.
‘But what do they want?’ asked Laska.
‘I don’t propose to ask them,’ said Smith gravely. ‘One cannot communicate with them, cannot reason with them, in any shape or form. They obey their biological imperative – if that’s what it is – as surely as a computer executes a program without thinking of the consequences. One might as well ask a dragonfly larva – a voracious killer in its own little world – to consider the benefits of vegetarianism. The larva’s sole aim in life is to feed, and to prepare the way for the next stage of its life cycle.’
‘But, with these Sholem-Luz things. . . I take it they don’t turn into dragonflies or anything nice?’ said Trix.
Smith shook his head. ‘Few who encounter the adult Sholem-Luz survive long enough to leave behind a report! But I’ve heard hints – from other worlds, other civilisations. . . ’
‘So you’re not a superhero,’ said Laska, the disappointment obvious in her voice. ‘You’re just some sort of intergalactic zoologist who wants to tick off another creature in his I-Spy book.’
Smith shook his head vehemently. ‘I’ve always said that I am here to avert destruction, chaos and pain. That hasn’t changed, not in the slightest.’
There was an uncertain pause. Liz allowed herself, just for a moment, to be sucked into Smith’s fantasy. It was somehow comforting; Smith claimed to have the answers, and they were all sharing his delusion. It was down to him now. He was in charge.
‘So,’ said Laska, nodding as if taking all this on board.