The Empire of Glass - Andy Lane [71]
"Doctor, let me negotiate - I am used to dealing with Venetians."
"Nonsense," the Doctor expostulated, "I am quite able to fix an adequate price, and I'll have you know that I am used to dealing with Venusians. I'm not senile, you know."
"Indeed, Doctor, but..." Galileo paused and took a deep breath.
"Can I ask why we are not using the boat in which you and I sailed to fetch your telescope?"
"Oh, completely unsuitable," the Doctor said. "You remember how unstable it was when we were attacked. Why, one good heave and the whole thing might turn over. No, if the three of us are going in search of Laputa then we need something a lot safer than my dinghy."
"Your what?" "My never mind, young man. If you're going to fix a price with this ruffian, hadn't you better get on with it, hmm?"
Galileo opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again.
He'd argued with some of the greatest debaters in Europe in his time, but there was something about the Doctor's peremptory manner that brooked no argument.
He was about to turn back to the fisherman when he noticed that Shakespeare was staring rather fixedly at the group of Englishmen who were now moving towards them.
"Friends of yours?" he asked.
"I travelled with them on the boat that brought us here,"
Shakespeare said quietly. "They seemed healthy enough then, although they kept themselves to themselves. But look at them now."
The fear in Shakespeare's voice brought Galileo up short, as if he had just been caught in a sudden shower of cold rain. The Doctor too picked up on Shakespeare's tone and peered at the dowdy Englishmen as they passed by, talking animatedly amongst themselves. For a moment Galileo saw nothing untoward - their clothes were unfashionable and much patched, true, and their faces were pale and lined, but apart from –
No. Those faces. Pale they might be, but there were patches of red on them. He had thought for a moment that they were wearing rouge on their cheeks, but the patches were too irregular for that, and some of them had blisters in their centres. One of the women raised a hand to scratch at one of the blisters, and a shiver ran through Galileo as he saw a weeping red sore upon the back of her hand.
"God's truth!" he whispered, aghast, as the Englishmen passed by.
"They have the plague!"
"No," the Doctor said quietly, but with firm authority. "Those wounds have nothing to do with the plague. Those are radiation sores."
CHAPTER TWELVE
"Well," Steven muttered to himself as he stood in a small niche on the stairs that led up to the Doge's chambers, "here goes nothing."
His voice was lost amid the muted roar of conversation from the crowd bustling up and down the great marble steps and along the wooden corridors. The huge portraits around the wall gazed down on him with unreadable expressions. His palms were moist, his stomach was fluttering, and his muscles felt so weak that he kept expecting the telescope tucked beneath his arm to fall and smash on the steps. He hadn't felt this nervous since he had ridden his ship down in flames, surrounded by Krayt fighters, watching the indicator lights on the control board explode one by one, hearing the grinding noise as the rocket engines tore loose from their mountings.
Glancing around to ensure that none of the courtiers, petitioners and general hangers-on were paying him any attention, he casually slid his fingers down his tunic to his belt. For a moment he couldn't locate the small metal device that the Doctor had given him. His fingers scrabbled around the leather strap, frantically searching for the damned thing. If it had fallen off he might just as well find a nice little set of rooms overlooking a canal and settle down, because the Doctor would never let him back on the TARDIS again. Not if he screwed up Galileo's big presentation.
His little finger touched cold metal. Sighing with relief, he closed his hand over the device, feeling the raised stud beneath his palm.
The thing must have slid around the belt when