Doctor Who_ Warchild - Andrew Cartmel [42]
‘Mind exists as a function of brain activity,’ said the Doctor. ‘Like software running on a computer, to use a paradigm you’ll understand. And the brain inherits the physical equivalent of hard-wired software.’
Benny nodded. ‘Like the theory that we must have grammatical structures inside our heads because we learn language so quickly.’ She remembered what Chomsky had said.
‘Yes,’ said the Doctor. ‘A predisposition to certain patterns of thought, if you like. Electrochemical behaviour which is the precursor to true thought.’
‘You mean like in a new-born baby?’
‘Exactly.’ The Doctor was warming to his topic. ‘It was once believed that children were born with minds like clean slates. But even a new-born baby will imitate gestures that you show it, replicating them as best it can with its new muscles. That means that even a new-born human has a way of mapping an external stimulus on to its internal nervous system.’
‘And that they can recognize a human being, and in some way know that they are human, too.’
‘At the very least,’ said the Doctor, ‘there is a class of external stimuli which corresponds with pre-programmed internal behaviour.’
‘Which is what you meant by race memory.’
‘Yes.’
‘So I’ve had this fear programmed into me by evolution.’
‘Possibly.’
‘And evolution usually knows what it’s doing.’ Talking to the Doctor had initially calmed Benny down. But now she felt like shuddering again.
The Doctor seemed perfectly happy to go on having a discussion despite the unearthly cries rising and falling in the night outside. They didn’t distract him in the least. What did eventually distract him was the thudding sound.
At first Benny thought it must be her ears playing tricks on her. The new sound was in time with the howling outside.
At the end of each eerie chorus the heavy sound came in like the beating of a big, soft drum. Just one blow, as if to acknowledge the wailing. But each blow seemed also to be the impetus for the next sharply rising chorus of howls, as if it triggered them.
At first Benny thought she was hearing the pounding of blood in her ears. But then she saw the Doctor’s eyes flicker in time to the sound, and she realized it was outside her head.
She made herself listen carefully to another descending eerie wail followed by the fat thudding noise. She tried to imagine what it might be out there in the night that could make such a sound.
She was relieved that the Doctor heard it, too. At least she wasn’t imagining things. But this relief was short lived.
Because Benny gradually realized that whatever was making the wet pounding sound wasn’t outside in the night.
It was right here, inside. A thudding sound that was coming from somewhere in the darkened library behind them.
A steady thick wet sound, heavy and remorseless.
It took them a moment to find the source of it.
Benny watched as the Doctor took out a large linen handkerchief and wiped the glass. It seemed ridiculous that a two-metre-high cylinder with a middle-aged man floating in it could blend into the background like any other piece of furniture. But Benny had grown accustomed to the cylinder in its library alcove as time passed. There had, indeed, been occasions when she had forgotten about its paunchy naked occupant floating in the soupy broth, and had simply seen it as an object. Decorative, almost.
This was not one of those occasions.
‘Jack!’ said the Doctor excitedly. Benny suddenly felt guilty; she’d forgotten the name of the man in the cylinder; forgotten that he even had a name.
Not the Doctor. Now he stopped wiping the glass and stuffed his handkerchief into his pocket. ‘This is wonderful.’
He crouched and read the LED read-outs in the cylinder’s metal base. As he did so the howling outside the window reached another crescendo and in the cylinder there was immediately a sluggish movement.
Through turbulent swirls of cloudy liquid, Benny saw the pale bloated head turn towards her. Eyes squeezed shut, mouth slack, the big pale face jerked back. Then,