Doctor Who_ The Dying Days Part 3

Benny leant over. The dust looked familiar from somewhere.

The Doctor peered through the eyepiece of the microscope. 'It's not from Earth, that's for sure. Let's see: Fe2O3.3H20. Limonite. Hydrogenated iron oxide.'

Why was it making her feel nostalgic?

Tickertape spewed from the box at the side of the desk. Without taking his eyes away from the microscope, the Doctor tore the tape off. Then he straightened up to read what it said.

'Found only one place in the solar system - '

' - Mars,' the Doctor and Benny declared in unison.

17.'Wel done,' the Doctor said, a little awestruck. 'I worked it out by spectrographic a.n.a.lysis with access to one of the finest mineralogical databases in the universe. How did you know?'

'As you'd know if you'd read my first book,' Benny announced authoritatively, 'I made my reputation as part of an expedition excavating the tombs of the Mare Sirenum,'

'Those tombs are carved from spotless blue crystal,' the Doctor objected in a wounded tone of voice.

'There was soil like that in the egg chambers.' - Benny realised she was blus.h.i.+ng - 'I was twenty-four and there was a lad called Tim in the same group. We spent a fair amount of the time rolling around together up there. That soil gets everywhere, trust me.'

'The odd thing is that it has been chemical y treated. The main question is, how did it get here?' The Doctor peered down at the sample, as though he was expecting it to confess the answer.

'That's no big mystery,' Benny said, 'Humanity has got to Mars by now.' Her knowledge of history was a little spa.r.s.e in places, but the late twentieth century (or more precisely 1963 - 1989: The Kennedy a.s.sa.s.sination to the Fall of the Berlin Wall) was one of her specialities. Within a couple of years of the Americans landing on the Moon, the British had put a man on Mars. It was al part of the superpower s.p.a.ce race, with Britain still trying to play with the big boys. Like al races, it was over quickly and didn't really amount to much. The United Kingdom felt good about itself for a couple of years and put itself even further into debt. There were no significant technological or scientific consequences, and al anyone had to show for it in the end was about five hundred kilos of red rock and rusty soil. Most people in the nineties probably wouldn't remember the names of any of the Mars Astronauts. There were a couple of disasters towards the end, Benny recalled. Something to do with astronauts going mad. Hardly surprising when they spent a total of sixteen months in a tin box the size of a Transit van.

The Doctor drummed his fingers on the bench top. 'Yes, now you mention it they were mounting Mars missions when I was exiled here. I remember helping them out that one time.'

'There was a report on the television news this morning about a new landing on Mars.'

The Doctor grabbed her by the shoulders and stared straight at her. 'It's al coming together. It looks like we need to catch up with current affairs. Come on, Bernice, let's get back to the control room!' He leapt up and bounded for the door.

Benny glanced down at the little soil sample. 'Now look what a fine mess you've got me into,' she scolded it.

The policeman in the vil age had seen him, looked straight at him. Christian had been forced to smile back at him.

What else could he have done? Broken his neck in the middle of the street? The constable hadn't shown a glimmer of recognition. Later, though, when he saw the new 'Wanted' posters up at his station, he'd remember.

Freedom. After twenty years, Alexander Christian could hardly remember what it was like to walk down a street, to see the young girls in their colourful summer outfits and the birds landing in the trees. Children with ice cream, mothers with prams. Fas.h.i.+ons had changed, of course, that's what fas.h.i.+ons did. Other little things were different: the cars were more streamlined, with odd rounded fronts and there were radio telescopes on the side of some houses - no doubt the latest hobby, like he used to build crystal sets when he was a kid.

Christian had reached the little supermart on the corner of the main street. A sign on the door read 'Open Today As Usual'. He straightened out his jacket, trying to look respectable, then he walked in. The bell above the door jangled as he closed it behind him. An old woman was behind the counter, stroking a large white cat.

'h.e.l.lo,' he said - a word he'd not used for a long time - 'Could you tell me where the nearest phone box is?' He scratched the cat's nose.

'There's a pay phone just there, behind you,' she replied cheerful y. The cat looked set to follow him over, until the woman caught hold of it. 'Stay here, Stevie.'

Christian thanked her and moved over to it. He checked the number for directory enquiries and then dialled it. Or rather he tapped out the number - the phone had b.u.t.tons rather than a dial.

After a couple of rings, a young man's voice asked which name he wanted. Christian told him and there was a pause, punctuated by the clacking of a keyboard. The whole system must be computerised by now.

'I'm sorry, sir, I can't find that name.'

'It's double-barrelled. With a hyphen.'

'And you don't know the area?'

'No. There can't be many with that surname.'

'I'll just try again.'

A four-second pause, more clacking. The line was crystal clear.

'I've found it, sir, but it's ex-directory.'

18.'Ex-directory?'

'A lot of teachers are ex-directory, sir.'

Teachers? Well, it had been twenty years. 'Can't you give it to me? It's an emergency.'

'I'm sorry, we can't.'

'Can you give me the address?'

'We don't give out addresses. Security. You could be an escaped nutter or anything.'

Christian decided not to argue the point.

'Could you at least tell me the county?'

'No, I'm sorry.'

'OK.' He hesitated for a moment, racking his brains. 'Katherine, with a "K", the same surname.'

A different voice, a recorded one, rattled out a number, then repeated it. Christian didn't have a pen, he committed the number to memory. He cut the connection, got a dialling tone, then tapped in the phone number: 0122 69046.

The Doctor was striding back towards the console, which in the new scheme of things stood on a hardwood plinth in the centre of the vast control room. Immense iron girders sprouted from the floor and arched overhead, forming a canopy.

Wolsey detached himself from a chaise-longue and jumped over for attention. The Doctor strolled past him, his attention fixed straight ahead. Benny bent down and scratched the tabby cat under the chin. He was almost embarra.s.singly grateful.

'Has he been neglecting you?' Benny asked seriously.

'Miaow,' replied Wolsey. The little cat was happy enough. Why wouldn't he be with al this antique furniture lying around from him to claw and leave hair al over? Benny noticed the question-mark umbrella gathering dust on top of a filing cabinet, and a s.h.i.+ver ran down her spine. Benny joined the Doctor, Wolsey trotting ahead of her, leading the way.

The Time Lord bounced around the console. After a second's consideration he chose one of the panels and began to flick switches and twist dials. As Benny stepped up to join him a holographic frame materialised at head height between them, filled with static.

'With this, the TARDIS can tune in to every television channel broadcasting on Earth at this moment.' The Doctor had his head down, trying to stabilise the picture.

'What, even the mucky ones?' Benny said, leaning forward. Image after image started to flash up on the screen, too fast to decipher all but a handful: the Pyramids; Dale Winton with j.a.panese subt.i.tles; riots on the Falls Road; Greedo firing first; a smiling Xhosa woman; James Bond diving after a plane in freefall; tanks in the desert; Batman knocking out the Riddler with a 'KA-POW!'.

'I've established the search parameters.'

The picture quickly settled on one of the American 24-hour news channels. An attractive young blonde was standing in the morning suns.h.i.+ne introducing a pair of men somewhere between three and four times her age. Her voice and manner weren't quite as annoying as some of her contemporaries, and suggested that there was a lot more to her than hair lacquer and lip-gloss.

' -erma.s.s and Patrick Moore, two of the leading British s.p.a.ce experts from that pioneering era. Professor, if I could start with you: you must be very proud?'

He was in his eighties, the tweed suit he wore wasn't much younger.

'Must I? We could have done al this twenty years ago. Forty years ago. We chose not to: s.p.a.ce is a Pandora's Box and we shouldn't open it until we've sorted out our problems down here. Think of all the setbacks, all those hundreds of millions of dol ars, roubles and pounds which exploded on launch pads, crashed into the sea or never come back from that void. Remember the dozens of people that died. Then you decide whether all this is worth it just to plant a flag in some radioactive rust. s.p.a.ce isn't the final frontier, you know. Earth is a tiny planet, surrounded by an infinite night, and out there are unimagined horrors.'

He was waving his finger upwards by this point. The interviewer had been shrewd enough to give the Professor enough rope to hang himself with: by the end of his speech he was ranting and almost out of breath. He'd reduced himself to an indignant old fool, live in front of tens of millions of viewers. Benny glanced over at the Doctor, who was rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

'Mr Moore, do you agree? After twenty years away from s.p.a.ce, why pour so much money into it now?'

19.Benny recognised the seasoned television performer, but even if she hadn't she would have admired the professionalism of a man who had been asked foolish questions by young journalists many, many times over the years. When he spoke, he paused between sentences, allowed everything he said to sink in.

'The Professor's views are well known. I disagree with the idea that mankind has ever been away from s.p.a.ce.

Your American viewers won't know me. I present an astronomy programme for the BBC that celebrated its fortieth anniversary last month. Back when The Sky at Night started, manned s.p.a.ce flight was still only the dream of people like Bernard, here. Since then, the moonshots, and the Mars missions have been and gone and things have seemed pretty quiet. But in reality, so much has happened in the last twenty years. Just think: you are only able to broadcast this programme across the Atlantic thanks to the communications satel ites that ring the Earth.

They may be less dramatic than the old manned mission, but the s.p.a.ce shuttle and the Zeus and Ariane programmes have made local s.p.a.ce travel a matter of routine.'

'But we've not been travelling to other planets anymore?'

'The Hubble Telescope and Voyager probes have allowed us to explore our little corner of the universe. Only last year we got the first sight of the surface of Pluto. s.p.a.ce research has concentrated on improving our life on Earth.

Satel ites monitor the environment. They help the rescue services. Military satellites can tell us when a country is building weapons that they shouldn't be. Those things are a great deal more use to us than putting a man on the Moon.'

'So the question seems to be why are the British going back to Mars? Are they hoping to find little green men?' she laughed.

They were nearing the end of the report, Benny realised, and the reporter wanted to end on a lighter note.

'They are five million years too late for that, if they are,' the Professor snorted.

'The findings of the Mariner probes of the nineteen-sixties didn't rule out the possibility that Mars might support human life, but I'm afraid that ten years later the British astronauts and the American Viking unmanned probes proved beyond al doubt that Mars was a barren, radioactive world, at least now. There may have been primitive life, many billions of years ago, but I remain sceptical. Mars is the world most similar to ours in the solar system, but the only water is frozen solid as a rock in the polar regions. I'm afraid that any human being walking on the surface of Mars without a s.p.a.cesuit would be blasted by radiation, frozen to death by the temperature and then he would suffocated by the lack of atmosphere.'

'Wel on that note, it's back to the studio. Thank you gentlemen. This is Eve Waugh, coming live from outside the Mars 97 Mission Control at the British National s.p.a.ce Museum, London, England.'

The picture cut back to a middle-aged man in the Was.h.i.+ngton studio.

'Thank you, Eve. We'll bring you coverage from London all day, including live coverage of the landing itself starting at 5am Eastern Standard Time.'

The Doctor tapped a control and the sound cut off.

'What do you think?'

'I liked his monocle and her hairdo, they're both good at their jobs. The Professor needs to switch to decaff, though. I've walked on the surface of Mars without a s.p.a.cesuit, and I'm fine.'

The Doctor beamed. 'Most of Mars has been terraformed by your time, as wel you know.' He screwed up his face, trying to dislodge a memory. 'The National s.p.a.ce Museum is in Trafalgar Square.' He paused. 'That's only a two minute trip by TARDIS.'

He set about the instruments again, rotating some big blocks on the navigation panel, pulling across a couple of switches and releasing the handbrake. The column that protruded from the centre of the console and carried on up as far as Benny could see began to hum, the mechanisms within it rising and falling with a familiar piston movement.

The Doctor moved in a way that was both manic and calm - suggesting that after centuries operating the TARDIS he still wasn't entirely sure he knew which b.u.t.tons he should be pressing. It was odd to see someone else at the controls. Odder stil to think that this man was the Doctor. He was in his element here, the tails of his frock coat flapping in time with the strands of his hair as he moved around.

Wolsey had found her again, and was brus.h.i.+ng around her legs, keeping her between himself and the Doctor.

There was the familiar chime, deep below the console. At least that hadn't changed. This part of the procedure, at least, the Doctor could accomplish with a practised ease. He straightened up, staring into the central column for a second or two, then flicked the last few controls and applied the handbrake.

It was quite a trek to the door, now, though. Benny followed the Doctor to the exit. The doors swung open as they approached.

20.The pigeons scattered as they stepped out. Once again the TARDIS had managed to land in the middle of one of the biggest cities in the world without anyone noticing. The Doctor locked the door behind him as Big Ben chimed nine o'clock.

Bernice was walking on ahead, looking at the National s.p.a.ce Museum with an historian's eye. Perhaps she had heard about the controversy a quarter of a century ago when it had been built. The concrete and chrome building was striking, one of the most recognisable modern buildings in Britain, but that hadn't silenced the public outcry when it had been built on the edge of such an historic square. It stood out even now, when a whole generation had grown up with it there. A huge red banner flapped above the door declaring 'MARS 1997'. Below street level was Mission Control itself. Of course the Mars 97 rocket hadn't blasted off from central London - the launch itself had taken place in Oxfords.h.i.+re, but it had all been co-ordinated from here. The roof bristled with satellite dishes, aerials and antennae, but all of them were part of the architecture, just as a medieval cathedrals managed to blend guttering and structural necessity with decoration and aesthetics.

The Doctor left Bernice behind, crossing the busy road and jumping up the steps, two at a time. When he tried the door, it wouldn't open.

'It's closed until ten-thirty,' an American voice informed him.

The Doctor turned to see a young woman winding up her microphone cable. She and her cameraman were packing up their equipment. Her two interviewees had disappeared.

'Eve Waugh. I've just seen your interview - well done, I know the Professor and he's a bit crotchety nowadays.'

She was shorter than she looked on television, but also a bit more willing to smile. 'Thanks, but I've faced worse.'

'Of course: your work during the Mexican War. I saw that, too: you saved a lot of lives, exposed a lot of evil men.'

She frowned. 'You have me confused with someone else. Wait a minute, how did you see my interview? It was only broadcast in the States.'

Bernice had finished her quick survey and had crossed over to join them. 'Hel o, Doctor. I see you've made a new friend.' She held out her hand. 'Professor Bernice Summerfield.'

'Eve Waugh. Yeah, I know: my folks were big fans of his, particularly Brideshead.' She looked Bernice up and down. 'So you're a Professor? And you are Doctor ... who?'

'Quite,' the Doctor nodded sagely.

'This museum doesn't open for another hour and a half,' Bernice interrupted. She was looking at the little card in the door.

'You academics should read your invitations,' Eve suggested. 'I'm going to be there, but I've got plenty to do before that - change into my gown for one thing. So, see you at ten-thirty,' she flashed them both a smile. 'Ready Alan?'

Her bearded cameraman nodded, but didn't say anything. Together they descended the steps.

Bernice waited until they were out of earshot. 'Nice woman. Right - so it looks like we've got to go back to the TARDIS and hop forward an hour and a half.'

'Time doesn't work like that. Now we're here we'l have to find something to do for ninety minutes. And we're not going to sit around in the TARDIS when we could be exploring this city.'

'Now why did I know you were going to say that? OK, but let me pop back, find my room and get changed into a party dress. If we're going to a posh do, there's no way I'm going to let anyone out-frock me.'