Doctor Who_ Warlock - Andrew Cartmel [71]
The lab was a long, narrow room flanked by sinks and chrome work surfaces with glass storage cupboards above and below them. Most of the central area of the room was occupied by the chemical analysis hardware. Benny couldn’t help noticing that it was about thirty times the size of the set‐up the Doctor had in the garage at Allen Road. And certainly less efficient.
‘We’re nowhere,’ said the big Texan, confirming her private opinion.
Mr Harrigan was standing beside the lab technician, watching the results come out on long sheets of printout embellished with coloured inks. They’d been analysing samples of warlock all afternoon and the results were inconclusive, to say the least. Harrigan tore off the length of printout and studied the analysis curves.
‘What about this one?’ he said. The lab technician just shook his head. He was a pink‐faced young man with an unruly sheaf of wheat‐coloured hair. Benny thought that he looked like he was ready to cry. Harrigan crumpled the printout and tossed it to him. ‘It’s just the same as all the others, isn’t it?’
‘No, Mr Harrigan. It’s different.’ The technician smoothed out the paper on a lab bench and stared at it.
‘That’s exactly what I mean, boy. Every time we’ve done this test we’ve got a different result. And this one’s exactly the same. Different.’
‘I don’t understand it. I’ve recalibrated the equipment twice today. There’s nothing wrong with it.’
‘Of course there isn’t. It’s not your machines. It’s this god‐damned drug. It’s like it knows we’re testing it and it doesn’t want us to learn anything about it.’
‘Or perhaps it’s like the behaviour of subatomic particles,’ said Benny. ‘At a certain level of sensitivity you can measure the influence of the observer.’
‘And what the hell does that mean?’ Harrigan’s anger had previously only been directed at the technician but now he aimed it at Benny and she was a little shocked. Normally the Texan exhibited an old‐fashioned gallantry which she’d begun to like; to rely on, even.
‘Well,’ said Benny, ‘the behaviour of the particles changes when you study them. It’s as if they get self‐conscious with someone looking over their shoulder.’
‘Same damned thing,’ said Harrigan. ‘Exactly my point. This stuff knows we’re looking at it and it doesn’t like being looked at.’ The old man snatched the piece of printout from the technician, wadded it up and threw it in a waste‐paper basket. ‘Same old same old,’ he muttered in disgust. The technician hovered nervously behind him.
‘We still have plenty of samples to enable subjective testing.’
‘To hell with that, boy. You want to get some volunteers in here to gobble that stuff? Then what? They write a dissertation about what they feel?’
‘We were thinking more in terms of a video recording, with the subjects relating their experiences and narratizing in real time.’
‘Narratizing my ass.’ The big Texan stalked towards the door, the technician trailing after him. ‘I’ve got more than enough reports on what this drug does when it goes into someone’s head.’ Harrigan turned around and jabbed a finger at the technician. ‘I want to know what it does when it comes out.’
‘When it comes out?’
‘Yeah, that’s right. For God’s sake.’ Harrigan wearily rubbed his face with his big callused hand. ‘Haven’t you worked that out? What am I paying you for? I know more about this shit than you do.’
He spoke slowly, emphasizing each word, as if making a point to an idiot or small child. ‘Warlock has an inward effect. It increases your sensitivity to what’s happening. But it’s got an outward effect, too. It increases your ability to make things happen.’ He tapped his own head. ‘What’s inside here gets projected outside. Haven’t you even