The nurse almost dropped the ’phone from pure terror. If there was anyone more feared than Doctor Henderson, it was old Doctor Lomax in Pathology. Silently she handed the ’phone to Doctor Henderson. He took it and said, ‘Doctor Henderson. Well?’
The fierce Scottish voice jabbed at his eardrums. ‘No, Doctor Henderson, it’s no’ well at all. Not when ye’ve the time to play wee stupid tricks on a busy man like me.’
Henderson’s bad temper returned full blast. He and Lomax were old enemies. ‘What the blazes are you talking about?’
‘I am talking, Doctor Henderson, about the sample of blood ye’ve just sent us for cross matching. Ye admit ye sent the sample?’
‘Of course I did. It’s routine. You know that. What’s the matter with it?’
The voice on the ’phone was airily sarcastic. ‘Oh nothing, Doctor Henderson, nothing. Except that it’s not human blood, as you very well know.’
Henderson said angrily. ‘What do you mean, not human? I took it from the patient myself.’
‘It is not human blood,’ said Lomax emphatically. ‘The platelet stickiness is quite different and it corresponds to no known human blood-type.’
‘Now you listen to me, Doctor Lomax. I took that blood sample from an adult male patient who is lying on the bed in front of me now. You tell me it’s not human. His X-ray tells me he’s got two hearts. Now I don’t know whether that makes me a doctor, a vet or a raving lunatic, but as far as I’m concerned those are the facts.’
Henderson slammed down the ’phone, feeling considerably better for his outburst. He turned to the nurse, who braced herself for another blast, and was astonished when Henderson said gently, ‘It seems I owe you an apology, nurse.’ He crossed to the bed and looked down at the sleeping man. ‘Well, whoever or whatever you are, old chap, you’re still a patient, and it’s my job to look after you.’ Henderson turned to the nurse with a worried smile. ‘The only thing is – I haven’t the faintest idea where to start.’
They both looked down at the man on the bed. The nurse said, ‘I thought he was coming round a moment ago, but he seems to have…’
She stopped as the man on the bed opened his eyes again. This time he was frowning. He said clearly, ‘My lord, I wish to protest in the strongest terms… the sentence is… I insist on my rights…’
The voice tailed away and the patient slept again. In the corridor outside, Mullins, the hospital porter, abandoned a half-mopped floor and moved off towards the foyer. No one paid Mullins any attention as he slipped across the foyer and into the ’phone booth. He was a seedy little man, easy to ignore. Quickly he dialled the local paper, hands trembling with excitement. In a moment he was speaking to one of the junior reporters.
‘Listen, I’ve got something for you.’
In a clump of bushes at the edge of Oxley Woods, Sam Seeley crouched as motionless as one of the rabbits he had so often poached. In the distance he could hear the crashing of heavily booted feet, the sound of shouted orders as the army patrols called to each other on their search.
With military precision the soldiers had divided the woods into sections, and were methodically combing them, one by one. The woods were thick and dark, the ground between the trees heavily overgrown with gorse and bracken. The search was taking a long time. So far they had found nothing. They certainly hadn’t found Sam Seeley, who slipped through the patrols at will, sometimes passing within a few feet of them.
The sounds of search came nearer. Sam peered through a gap in the bushes and saw a three-man patrol approaching. Two of the soldiers were carrying some kind of mine-detector, while the third, a corporal, was directing their search. Sam grinned to himself. He knew what they were looking for. What’s more, he knew where to find it.
After his terrifying experience in the woods, the previous night, Sam had been glad to slip back to his little cottage and creep into bed. His wife, Meg, pretended to be asleep as he crept into bed beside her. She knew well enough where he’d been, but preferred not to show it. Although she would never admit that Sam was a poacher, she’d no objection to the plump rabbits or partridges that appeared on the kitchen table from time to time, some to go into her stewpot, some to be sold by Sam down at the village pub.
Sam had been tossing and turning in bed, thinking over the things he’d seen. The glowing green sphere of the meteorite, the man who’d appeared by magic. Who should he tell? Above all, how could he turn a profit out of it all?
He had been wakened from an uneasy sleep just a few hours after dawn by the rumble of lorries past his window. Slipping out of bed and drawing back the curtain, he had seen the troops go by, lorry-load after lorry-load of grim silent men, clutching rifles.
As he crouched in the bushes, watching the patrol move away past him, Sam became more and more convinced that he was doing the right thing. Anything that was worth so much trouble must also be worth a lot of money. Let the soldier boys crash round the woods as much as they liked. Then, when they were desperate, they’d be ready to pay and pay well for the thing he’d found. Some piece of Government equipment, he reckoned. Something they’d shot up in the air that hadn’t come down where it was meant to. Well, they could have their nice green ball back. But not for nothing. Meanwhile he’d better get his find to a safe place, just in case one of those soldiers happened to get lucky. The patrol was almost out of sight now. Sam slipped into the woods, making for the clearing where he’d found the glowing ball. This time there was a shovel and a sheet of the wife’s new-fangled kitchen foil in the sack he carried.
Retracing his steps of last night, Sam skirted the edge of the clearing where the strange blue box had appeared. The man had gone but the box was still there. Now, in the daylight, he could see that it was nothing more than an old blue police box. A sentry stood guarding it. He was young and nervous looking. In his curiosity Sam forgot to watch his footing and stepped into a crackly patch of dry bracken. Immediately the sentry’s rifle swung round.
‘Halt. Who goes there? Answer, or I fire!’ Sam dropped to the ground and froze. The sentry’s voice was high-pitched with nerves. The sentry swung his rifle around, covering the thick forest. Except for some distant bird song, the silence was complete. Shaking his head at his own nervousness, the sentry shouldered his rifle, went back to guarding the police box. How much longer were they going to leave him here, anyway? What was the point of guarding a police box that some idiot had stolen and carried out here?
In the trees, Sam heaved a sigh of relief and slipped away. After a narrow shave with another patrol – the soldier was having a crafty doze and Sam almost stepped on him – he found himself back in the part of the woods where he’d made his find. To most people that bit of wood looked like any other, but to Sam it was as easily identifiable as if there’d been street names and signposts. That oddly shaped branch there, that little fold of land there, little thorn bush here… Sam lined up his landmarks, produced his spade and began to dig.
In a few moments the blade of the shovel touched something hard and smooth. Sam began to dig cautiously round the sphere. Whatever it was, he didn’t want to damage it. Soon the green globe was fully uncovered. It still pulsated, but it seemed quieter, more subdued, in the daylight. Sam reached out and touched it cautiously. Still warm, but none of the searing heat of the night before. He produced his sheet of kitchen foil and began to wrap up his find.
In the hospital bed the mysterious new patient stirred. His eyes shot open. Suddenly he sat bolt upright in the bed, looking keenly around him. Apart from himself, the room was empty. He frowned and rubbed his chin as if he’d forgotten something very important. Suddenly he lurched forward, face down across the bed, and began to grope underneath it. It was in this position that the nurse found him when she re-entered the room.
Shocked, she rushed forward, grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him back onto the bed.
‘You really mustn’t, you know,’ she said firmly. ‘You’re not strong enough to get up yet.’
The patient struggled feebly, but it was no use. ‘Shoes,’ he said with sudden clarity, ‘must find my shoes.’
The nurse ignored him. With professional skill she settled him back into the bed and tucked him in. ‘You don’t need your shoes,’ she said brightly, ‘because you’re not going anywhere. Now try to rest.’
The man on the bed regarded her with evident disgust. ‘Madam,’ he said with old-fashioned politeness, ‘I really must ask you… must ask you…’ The voice became faint and he sank back into sleep.
The nurse was smoothing his pillows and straightening the coverlet as Doctor Henderson entered. ‘Any change?’
‘He recovered consciousness, Doctor, just for a few minutes. He tried to get up but I managed to calm him.’
‘Did he say anything?’
‘Not really. He seemed to be worried about his shoes.’
Henderson shook his head as he looked down at the patient. The man was sleeping calmly now, though a faint frown still wrinkled his forehead. ‘Probably still irrational, poor chap. Well, some bigwig from UNIT’s coming down to see him. Perhaps he’ll know what to make of you,’ said Henderson to the sleeping man, ‘because I’m blowed if I do.’
At this particular moment the bigwig from UNIT, accompanied by a rather amused Liz Shaw, was trying to push his way politely but firmly through a crowd of eagerly inquisitive newspapermen and photographers in the hospital entrance hall. The Brigadier’s moustache twitched with disgust as a particularly keen photographer shot off a flash-bulb right under his nose. As the leader of a supposedly secret organisation, the Brigadier felt it was all wrong to be photographed for the newspapers, and he had no idea how all these people had turned up. He only knew that they were there, and he very much wished that they weren’t.
A tall man pushed his way to the front of the crowd. ‘Wagstaffe, sir, Defence Correspondent of The Daily Post.’
A second reporter cut in – ‘Can you give us a statement, sir?’
The Brigadier’s tone was not encouraging. ‘What about?’
Wagstaffe was courteous, but persistent. ‘What’s UNIT doing down here, sir? Is it true you’ve got some kind of man from space in there?’
‘Nonsense,’ said the Brigadier firmly. ‘I don’t know where you chaps get these stories from.’
‘Can we have some pictures of him, sir?’ said the photographer, getting another quick shot of the Brigadier meanwhile.
‘Certainly not.’
‘Why not, sir? Can we tell the readers they’d be too horrible to publish?’ said one of the reporters hopefully. ‘Have you got some kind of monster in there, sir?’
‘Ridiculous,’ said the Brigadier, ‘I assure you there is no monster and no story for you, either, so you might as well go home.’
Wagstaffe returned to the attack. ‘Then why are you here, sir? Why have your men cordoned off the whole of Oxley Woods? What are they searching for?’ The questions came thick and fast now, from all the others. ‘What about the freak heat-wave last night?’ ‘And the meteorite shower. Is there some connection?’ ‘What about this man from space? Is it true he’s not really human?’ ‘Where did you find him? Have you found his space-ship yet?’ ‘Who’s the young lady, sir? Has she come to identify the man?’
It was many years since the Brigadier had been on a barrack square, but his voice could still carry the arresting sharpness of command.
‘One moment, gentlemen, if you please!’ A rather startled silence fell. The Brigadier looked round. Beneath his assured exterior his mind was frantically searching for a plausible story. Oddly enough, he hit upon the same idea that Sam Seeley had worked out for himself in the woods. ‘All I can tell you at the moment is this. Last night some top secret Government equipment, something to do with the space programme, descended off-course and landed in this area. My men are searching for the fragments, if any, now.’ Pretty convincing, that, thought the Brigadier, might almost be true. He gave himself a mental pat on the back. Indicating Liz Shaw, he said, ‘This is our Scientific Adviser. She’s come to help identify anything we turn up.’
‘Then what about this mystery man in there?’ Wagstaffe again, not to be easily put off.
The Brigadier thought fast. ‘In there, gentlemen, is some unfortunate civilian who was found unconscious in the woods early this morning. We hope he may have seen the device land. He may even be able to tell us where it is.’
‘And that’s really all there is to it, sir?’
‘That’s all I can tell at the moment,’ said the Brigadier rather neatly avoiding a direct lie. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me?’
He strode through the swing-doors into Casualty, Liz Shaw following behind. The Brigadier would have been less pleased with himself if he could have known that his flight-of-fancy had endangered the life of the man he had come to see.
As the Brigadier was beginning his explanation, a man had entered unobserved. He was standing now at the back of the crowd. The man was middle-aged, immaculately dressed, with regular, handsome features. He might have been a distinguished surgeon, or a wealthy visitor for one of the hospital patients.
One of the reporters glanced casually at him, wondering who he was. Then the reporter looked again. There was something about this man, something odd. The clothes were too immaculate, the handsome features too calm and regular. He looks like a wax dummy, thought the reporter uneasily. Like a waxwork come to life.
Sensing that he was being stared at, the new arrival looked up. The reporter recoiled physically, as if struck by a sudden blow. The stranger’s eyes were staring at him, fiercely alive, almost glowing with the light of an intelligence that seemed somehow – alien. Those eyes scorched the reporter for a moment, then the man turned away, strode across the foyer, making as if to follow the Brigadier.
Mullins, the hospital porter, rather aghast at the results of his ’phone call, had been placed on guard by the door. He was being extra efficient, as if trying to make up for his previous indiscretion. As the stranger tried to follow the Brigadier, Mullins barred his way. ‘Can’t go in there sir, sorry. No one allowed in there at all.’ The stranger raised those burning eyes and Mullins too, recoiled. But he stood firm.
‘No use you glaring at me like that, mate,’ he said, his voice quavering a little. ‘You can’t go in there and that’s that. You want me to call the soldiers?’
Much to Mullins’ relief the man turned on his heel and strode swiftly away, making for the telephone in the corner.
Mullins mopped his brow and swore that he’d never call the papers again.
The stranger stepped beneath the acoustic hood and stood motionless. There was no expression on the blank face. The burning eyes stared into the distance, the head was cocked a little as if listening. The smooth white hands made no move to pick up the ’phone. The man simply stood there, completely motionless. Like a waxwork…
4
The Faceless Kidnappers
Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart strode along the hospital corridor, Liz Shaw struggling to keep up with him. Captain Munro came hurriedly to meet him.
‘Where the blazes did that lot come from?’ snapped the Brigadier, gesturing behind him.
‘No idea sir,’ said Munro. ‘They just appeared like swallows in the spring.’ He looked enquiringly at Liz, who gave him a friendly smile.
The Brigadier grunted. ‘Miss Shaw, this is Jimmy Munro, my number two.’ Munro nodded a greeting and fell into step beside them.
‘Got that police box under guard?’ said the Brigadier.
‘Yes sir. The sentry’s got orders to let no one near it.’
‘This man we’re going to see,’ said Liz. ‘I gather you think he may be your mysterious Doctor?’
‘I’m certain of it, Miss Shaw.’
‘Why? Because of the police box?’
‘Just so,’ said the Brigadier. ‘Because of the police box.’
‘Here we are, sir,’ said Munro. ‘They’ve put him in a private room.’ A sentry was guarding the door. The Br
igadier acknowledged his salute and strode into the room.
Doctor Henderson stood waiting by his bed. Nothing could be seen of the bed’s occupant, who had wriggled down under the covers. Briefly Munro made the necessary introductions.
‘I understand you may be able to cast some light on our mystery man, Brigadier?’ said Henderson. The Brigadier nodded. ‘In that case,’ Henderson went on, ‘I’d be very grateful for some explanation of his physical make-up.’
Liz looked puzzled. ‘How do you mean?’
‘His whole cardio-vascular system is different from anything I’ve ever encountered. He appears to have two hearts. Moreover, his blood belongs to no known human type.’
Lethbridge-Stewart nodded, obviously delighted by this news. ‘Splendid. That sounds exactly like the Doctor.’ He peered at the little that could be seen of the patient. ‘Hair was black, though, as I remember. Could be shock, I suppose.’
Cautiously the Brigadier drew back the sheet from the face of the man on the bed. He peered for a moment, then straightened up, his face a study in disappointment.
Liz said, ‘Well? Do you know him?’
The Brigadier shook his head sadly. ‘The man’s a complete stranger.’
‘You’re sure?’ asked Henderson.
‘Of course I’m sure.’ Disappointment made the Brigadier speak sharply. He looked down again at the sleeper. ‘Never seen the feller before in my life.’
The eyes of the man on the bed opened wide, staring straight at the Brigadier. A sudden charming smile spread over his face.
‘Lethbridge-Stewart, my dear fellow. How nice to see you again!’
‘You may not know him, sir,’ said Munro, ‘but he seems to know you all right.’
Baffled, the Brigadier stared at the patient, who seemed to be drifting off to sleep again.
‘But he can’t do. It’s impossible.’ The Brigadier bent over the bed and prodded the sleeper awake.
Doctor Who and the Auton Invasion Page 3
