by Konig, Artor
I could see, studying the Doctor’s profile through my damp lashes, that he quite clearly didn’t see where the other man was heading. He had a harassed air, as if he could feel something was wrong but it didn’t occur to him that it was something wrong in the man before him. The incident with the spiders had jarred the Doctor much more than I had realised; I don’t think he had the slightest inkling of how out of focus he had been knocked by that shock.
Andrew, Craig and Harry; three empty beds, three places not set at the table, three cups of tea going cold, forever cold, never to be savoured. I felt the wrench rising up in my throat again, the sick horror, the glistening eyes of those mutants; mutants that the Master had known about for a very long time but about which he had chosen to do nothing.
It struck me then very forcefully that the rumours of the Master’s antisocial nature had not been exaggerated; could not be exaggerated. Whether he had lived for centuries or not, he was a man who found his own company to be the only salubrious company. I knew then, with not a trace of doubt anywhere in my mind, that between the aliens and the Master we didn’t have such a cheerful future. It occurred to me that if this ancient crab in his lair was in fact an immortal person then he would have little use for anyone else.
If he was most comfortable alone then an empty planet would seem like the veriest paradise. He had decided that the Doctor would sort out the aliens for him, set up a world-wide net of aggressive lasers for him and then conveniently fall prey to one of the spiders or some other lethal malady. The Master would then deal tyrannical death out to whoever he managed to get the laser sights onto, finally going back to his studies rather as if this humanity had never happened at all. I wondered about the aliens; their motives were much the same as those outrageous motives I had pinned on the Master. Those of the aliens I could accept; if the Doctor said it was so then it usually was so. But if the aliens were in fact on their way to do just that and the Master had already done much the same thing on a smaller scale here on Black Crag then were their motives fundamentally in accord?
And if their motives were fundamentally in accord would it not be possible that they had something more than just motives in common; maybe identity as well? The Master had his rocket in which he had been into space. He had the technology, out here on this isolated island, that Europe had not had when first records of his presence had been made. He had known of radiation before the Doctor had mentioned it to him; the spiders were mutated possibly centuries ago or their forebears were at least. It was quite possible that he’d had a hand in that.
His question about whether trans-light speeds had been achieved, his disguised but palpable concern at the Doctor’s assertion of the Wren’s abilities, his unquenchable thirst for the knowledge the Doctor had, even down to specific details about the Doctor’s plans to combat the aliens. The theory that travel beyond light speed caused time-lapses, that decades may elapse for the point of origin, while relatively little time elapsed for the trans-light traveller; that was the key. The Master’s enigmatic silences that the ledge dwellers had been too frightened to inquire into, his trips in his rocket; a sudden wave of arctic cold came over me when I at last realised just why the Master wanted to know how the Doctor was going to deal with the aliens. I felt that black, billowing fog rising before my eyes once again, that sudden and horrible sapping of my strength.
With a terrible effort I turned fear into tears, that my ashen face be seen as grief for the boys who had died at the fangs of the Master’s watch-spiders. I knew at that point that there was only one thing that was stopping the Master from dealing with us in a forthright manner; his thirst for knowledge only the Doctor could provide, the Doctor and his staff of capable technicians. It occurred to me as well that the fewer pilots the Doctor had at his disposal, the happier the Master would be. This thought made me distinctly uncomfortable. I wondered at the fortune that had decided the Doctor on making this terrible island his base when it was already a base for the other side. The Master was also very interested in how the Doctor had spotted the seven space ships; he mentioned seven quite often, as if slightly puzzled, as if trying very firmly to emphasize the number.
The rather incongruous thought that spiders had eight legs came flashing into my mind, obviously from memories of my recent shock. I wondered if there were any more spiders; that was something I could not deduce from the Master’s response to the Doctor’s victory; he seemed so totally indifferent, as if it was a fact that didn’t bother him either way, as if he was so in control that spiders or lack thereof didn’t make any difference to his plans. I looked at the tall and youthful form of the Master, betrayed by his face and its thousand wrinkles. He was old but he was immensely fit and probably stronger than any other man on the island with the exception of the Doctor, whose strength seemed to have no limits.
The faded eyes were intent, flickering over the Doctor’s face hungrily, the puckered lips pouting so slightly with each new question; questions upon questions, hungry, thirsty, lapping up those precious pearls of knowledge with no respect for the long hours of labour by which they had first been distilled, the gallons of midnight oil that the Doctor and his dedicated team had put into the search, the sunken cheeks afire with some hidden emotion, the bald head filing, weighing, sorting and assessing, the cunning mind keeping track on the knowledge pouring so shamelessly forth.
I felt shame as if the Doctor was stripping himself for the sullied pleasure of the beast sitting across the table from him. The Doctor was unaware, the Master was bleeding his soul with the delicate, painless bite of a vampire, sucking and taking, almost choking on the vast pool of knowledge he had wrung out of the Doctor. I felt helpless, knowing that at that moment I was completely unable to do anything to stop the Master taking whatever he wanted from the Doctor. I could barely keep myself conscious in the battering sweep of high emotions in which I was foundering. There was no let, no break, no end in sight; no mercy. I had seen something so hugely wrong, so vastly terrible, too huge for me to cope with. I just hoped that somebody with a bit more courage, a bit more of that fibre and spirit, would see the true state of affairs. Here my thoughts pinned themselves on Simon; he struck me as the closest thing to a hero the Crag possessed. And as I finished thinking that thought, the Master smiled.
I turned my thoughts inwards, afraid that there were snooping tendrils prying at my mind, seeking secrets within. The sheer paranoia shook me, imagining so much evil from so little evidence. I struggled with the darkness in my mind, trying to reason the whole thing into perspective, trying to find some truth in that tower of horse-feathers and sparrow-milk. I decided that I would drag somebody aside at the first possible opportunity and spill my soul to them, if only for the pleasure of hearing them tell me what a fathead I was. There were too many cobwebs in my mind, too much unfounded speculation; I needed to clear my mind of all the fatuous thoughts and get myself back on track once again. But whatever the outcome of whatever line of thought I ended up pursuing, I had decided that I didn’t trust the Master and that wasn’t going to change.
I wondered if I would be able to discuss my fears with the Doctor; he had already shown signs of being impressed with my ability to sniff out trouble in good time to give fair warning. Maybe he would find some solid evidence to support or disprove my tenuous feelings. Not that the feelings themselves were tenuous; they were nearly overwhelming; but that on which they were based was certainly less than satisfactory. But I looked again at the Master and at the Doctor, their long conversation showing no signs of abatement, the gushing fountain of learned words showing no let. The Doctor, I decided, was too far under the Master’s sway for anything I said to him to be kept in confidence and that would put me on the firing-line, where I had little desire to be. It was then that I remembered my father’s advice, to keep out of trouble.
I realised then that I was on the line, that I had to stay on the line right until the matter was concluded, that there would be little chance of me confiding my fears to the D
octor principally because the Master wouldn’t let me get a word in anyway, that this conversation was likely to go on until the matter had been cleared up to the Master’s satisfaction. I realised that I would have to peg my hopes on somebody other than the Doctor for the first time since I had arrived at the Crag. The cold which I felt before was nothing to the ice which crawled over me on realising that my foundational crutch was no longer available to me. I decided then that we had spent enough time as guests of the Master; it was time we returned the favour. I was suddenly urgently desirous of the safety of my room, the shallow comfort wherein spiders had no place and dreams had been pleasing. I looked at the two with new attention, waiting for a chance to make my feelings and intentions known.
“Of course, encephalic radiology is a risky business; but it is ironic that the cause and cure of cancer lies in almost the same area of physics.” The Doctor said, his expression full of a strange sort of cheer, as if he had been longing all his life for a conversational partner against whom any foil he chose to use would be answered intelligently. It did not seem to occur to him that while the Master understood all that he was telling him, the old man didn’t have the knowledge until it was given to him by the Doctor. That the Master could assimilate this endless flow of new knowledge so perfectly and seamlessly caused me a grave misgiving; here was a prepared mind indeed.
It may just be that this prepared mind was fully prepared for any eventuality, the onset of any contingency; that any plan I could foster in others or devise by myself was but a puddle in the way of the tide. I listened to the learnéd discourse for a few minutes longer, waiting for the pair of them to draw a breath at the same time. As they did so I pushed ahead with my little speech, almost gratified to realise that they had just about completely forgotten me once again. Such invisibility, I suddenly realised, could be an unseen asset in my tiny arsenal. How I would eventually turn such an asset to my advantage I didn’t know, but I filed that bit of knowledge away for later cogitation.
“Doctor, Master, I think it’s about time we trotted up to the castle; the lads are going to be a bit worried about us, not to forget they are on duty and Ronald said there was a situation brewing that they may have to monitor; they may need your advice on how to proceed. Anyway I’m sure the Master has forgotten what tea and cake is like; I’d like to get something together for supper as well.” So like a girl worried about feeding everybody, about the washing and if people are worrying to no good purpose; but something in what I said seemed to click with them. The Master looked at me, his faded eyes bleak with a dancing humour I knew not how to interpret, but his manner, condescending as always, told me what a thoughtful child I was, and it was so long since he’d had a formal meal with company, “I’m sure it’ll be a most rewarding experience; so kind of you to suggest it. Maybe we had better press on; it is, as you’ve pointed out, almost tea time.”
“We can continue our delightful conversation over Cassandra’s delightful cooking.” The Doctor declared cheerfully, as if he had just said something enormously amusing. The Master certainly seemed to find something funny about it. The two men stood up, the Master shaking his head negatively when I made a move to clear up the table, “Don’t worry about all that; you’ve done enough today already. I’ll probably get down to it at a later date but I don’t think we’ll need to bother about these rooms for a while at least. There is, after all, plenty of space up in the castle and I’m sure that none of my tools and equipment would be missed against what the good Doctor has brought to the castle.” He ushered us politely out of the kitchen, back into the passage we had entered, leaving the spiders and the musty passage behind.
“Did you lock the passage behind you? No? That was terribly careless of you but never mind; yes, just lock that door. I can’t really remember where I left the key for the further door. Now let me pack a small valise; there are one or two things I should take with me; in here; this is my room.” He led us into an ornate but rather shabby bedroom where he quickly packed a small case.
I looked around the room thoughtfully from my post at the door, learning little about the man who had spent so long there.
He wasn’t particularly tidy, rather he was on the messy and squalid side; but solitary men usually were, especially ones who had their thoughts elsewhere most of the time. It seemed evident that he had come up with a routine where each little job was done at its appointed time and having come up with the routine he had probably applied it whenever it occurred to him; maybe two or three times a year or when he started to stick to the floor.
Or maybe not; the hall and the kitchen were fairly clean as was his laboratory. This bedroom, however, was definitely a bit strong from the downwind side. The impression that the room seemed calculated to put across was that of a distracted and somewhat absent-minded old man who didn’t have the time to waste on trivialities.
He heaved up the small case and led the way back into the passage. His gait was quick, almost scuttling and insect-like, rather as if he was a big black beetle of some sort. The way he propelled himself was in marked contrast to the Doctor’s smooth, catlike grace or my somewhat long and languid stride. I let them keep ahead of me; at that particular moment I didn’t like the idea of the Master lurking behind my back and the Doctor was at his side all the time, talking, talking. The passage led, as I had deduced, towards the sea beyond the cliffs. The Master followed it almost to its end before taking another passage, this one with windows to let in the morning sun. This passage went on, following the curve of the cliff while the seascape beyond the low and long windows became gradually more occluded by the presence of greenery.
He opened a tall and forbidding door at the end of the passage, letting us out into the real and harmless world of the ledges. The door was on the side wall of a cave which went further into the depths of the Crag. The Master led us across the ledge to a small tributary of the corkscrew; once on that path, the Doctor led us down to June’s Mango Route. The Master protested at first, thinking that we were going the wrong way, but the Doctor soon reassured him with a brief explanation of the other route.
“Oh, right; I never used that path; too steep.” The Master replied cheerfully, “I suppose once won’t hurt.” He walked beside the Doctor, his step springy and light in contrast to the impression he was trying to give. I let them pull ahead of me, savouring the freedom this short trip on the slopes gave me. I kept a careful watch on the two just ahead of me; the Master seemed to be excited about something, expectant and gleeful. I put it down to his success in winning over the Doctor and his delight at being off to have a look at the Wrens openly for the first time.
I let the cool and calm freshness of the path through the trees and over the ledges soothe my frayed nerves. The pleasant scent of greens, flowers and grass in amongst the trees, the fresh breeze from off the sea, it all combined to ease the weight in my chest. I listened to the nonsense that the birds were shouting at us at the tops of their voices. They didn’t seem too pleased to see the Master, shouting enraged little cries as he passed.
He ignored them but I didn’t, wondering why the birds seemed to have something against him. It was probably my imagination. I felt all the more that the Master must not be given the chance to take control of the Crag and everything in it. It occurred to me that I could pinch one of the Wrens and take it somewhere; America or England, where they would be able to duplicate the technology; but it came back to me rather quickly that it would not help matters in the long run; it would simply mean that the Master would have a stiffer time getting everybody; the Wren provided no clues about how to defend oneself from those frightful beams. Further, it would seriously undermine the Doctor’s efforts to quell war if one of the other parties had access to the wren’s technology. And, I found that I could not betray the Doctor; for this is what it amounted to. The old crab would still go ahead with his programme of putting up laser satellites, undetectable ones if they were made of Alex’s cyanide broth. He would still have the upper hand unles
s I pointed out the exact location of the Crag.
However if he suspected why I had defected he would simply uproot the whole setup and plonk it down somewhere equally obscure and then that would put the matter forever out of my reach. I was only too well aware that I didn’t have forever in which to solve the problem. I began fervently to hope Simon at least would be in the kitchen when we arrived there, so I could drag him off somewhere and have a word with him. Or Bernhart. I was not too terribly fond of Bernhart but he had an acute mind and a knack of jumping to the correct conclusion. If I presented him with the facts, simple and unadorned as I was aware of them, he would soon tell me exactly where the whole puddle of sludge was heading to and if I had any legitimate reason to be almost hysterically panicked.
I looked up through the veil of leaves at the gloomy southwest wall, the roundhouse on the north end, the south tower on the other. Jasmine and honeysuckle had covered most of the lower faces, creeping over the network of ivy that rose right to the top of the wall. There was a heavy scent of loam on this last stretch of the path, the trees close and secretive, letting in few glimpses of the castle. The path went around an ivy-clad tangle of boulders, leading onto the stairway that emptied out in the courtyard.
I leaned into the walk, hauling myself up on the old wooden rail to stand on the flat crazy paving of the irregularly shaped courtyard. I sat back on the stone wall that edged the yard, looking about me for signs of who was where. No washing hung on the line and I frowned at that; there had been two loads that wanted doing, sitting patiently beside the machine until either June or I attended to them. The door to the kitchen was open as it usually was but it swung in the breeze in a strangely desolate way, half closing then creaking open, closing endlessly. Normally somebody hooked it open, or wedged it in place. The windows of my room were closed as I had left them, so too were most of the roundhouse windows that I could see, all but one on the sixth floor, just below the roof with all the radio antennae.
