Henderson was impatient. ‘There’s nothing whatever going on, as you put it.’
‘But he isn’t dead?’
‘No. But you might say he was just barely ticking over.’
‘Something to do with that bullet wound,’ suggested Munro.
Henderson shook his head. ‘That only left a slight graze across the scalp. Couldn’t account for this condition.’
The Brigadier was becoming impatient with all this medical mumbo-jumbo. ‘Then what does?’ he asked.
Henderson rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘It’s only a guess, but I reckon this coma is self-induced.’
‘You mean the chap’s put himself out?’ asked the Brigadier. ‘Why would he do that?’
‘Again, I’m only guessing,’ said Henderson. ‘But it could be part of some kind of healing process. A chance for his body to recover from all the stresses it’s been suffering.’
The Brigadier moved closer to the bed and studied the sleeping form. Everything about him sounds like the Doctor, he thought. The police box, the strange physical make-up. And he knew me. He really did know me. He knew about the Cyberman and the Yeti. But there’s no resemblance. No resemblance at all. The face, the height, the build, the colour of the hair – all utterly and completely different. And yet… The Brigadier could remember so many incredible things about the man he had known as the Doctor. Was a change of appearance any more unbelievable than all the rest?
He turned away from his bed. ‘You’ll keep me informed of his condition. I’d like to know as soon as he can talk.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Henderson. ‘Oh, by the way, we found this clutched in his hand.’
Henderson handed the Brigadier a little key. ‘We had to prise his fingers open. He was really hanging on to it.’
‘Yes,’ said the Brigadier thoughtfully, ‘he would do. Thank you, Doctor Henderson.’ Followed by Munro, he turned and left the room.
Outside the hospital, a couple of soldiers were standing guard beside a wooden ammunition box.
‘That’ll be the meteorite fragments, sir,’ said Munro. The Brigadier peered inside the box, as a soldier held open the lid. The box was about half-full of chunks of some dull green substance, rather like heat-fused glass.
‘All we could find, sir,’ said Munro. ‘It must have broken up when it hit the ground.’
The Brigadier sniffed. ‘Doesn’t seem much result for all this effort. Keep searching. See if you can find me a whole one. Oh, and put the box in the boot of my car. Miss Shaw can take a look at it.’
The soldier took the box away and the Brigadier turned back to Munro. ‘The police box is already on its way to H.Q. I want a guard on the hospital at all times.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Munro. ‘We won’t lose him again, I promise you.’
The Brigadier looked back at the hospital. ‘What puzzles me is, why did those people want to kidnap him?’
‘Maybe he was one of them,’ suggested Munro. ‘They could have been trying to rescue him.’
‘Anyone get a good look at them?’
‘Better than that, sir,’ said Munro proudly. ‘We’ve got a picture of their leader. He produced a glossy photograph and handed it to the Brigadier.
The Brigadier studied the picture, obviously one of those taken on his first visit to the hospital. The photograph showed the Brigadier talking to the crowd of journalists.
‘That’s him, there, sir,’ said Munro. Over the Brigadier’s shoulder in the picture there could be seen a man standing, watching. A well-dressed man with handsome, regular features and staring eyes.
‘Several people recognised him, sir,’ said Munro. ‘He was here posing as a pressman.’
‘What about the other two?’
‘Couldn’t really get much of a description,’ admitted Munro, ‘only that they were very big. And there was something strange, blank-looking about their faces. Probably wearing stocking masks.’
The Brigadier opened the door of his car. ‘Three things, Munro. Keep searching for the meteorites; guard that man in the hospital; and keep investigating the kidnap attempt. Call me at H.Q., the minute there’s news.’ The Brigadier closed the car door and the driver accelerated away. Munro gazed after the departing car. Is that all, Brigadier, he thought to himself. And what do I do in my spare time?
As Harry Ransome drove down the familiar road towards the plastics factory, his mind was in a turmoil. His thoughts kept circling round the letter, the incredible, unbelievable letter that had been waiting for him on his return from his business trip to America.
I’m not just going to accept it, he thought. They owe me an explanation, and I’m going to get it. He drove through the gates and parked in his usual slot in the company car-park. Picking up the bulging brief-case from the seat beside him, he got out of the car and stood still for a moment, bracing himself. A smartly-dressed, dapper little man in his early thirties, he usually radiated the warmth and charm of the top-class salesman. But Ransome’s face was grim and determined as he strode into the factory.
The girl behind the reception desk was new to him. She had a strange, expressionless, doll-like prettiness. She looked up incuriously as he entered.
‘My name’s Ransome. We haven’t met, but I expect you’ve heard of me. I work here – or I used to. Head of Sales and Design. Been with the firm for years.’
Still she didn’t speak. Ransome took a deep breath. ‘Just popping in to see Mr Hibbert. Don’t worry, he won’t mind. We’re old friends. It’s all right, I know the way.’
Ransome strode determinedly past her and through the door to the factory floor. Then he stopped in amazement. Everything was different. The jolly white-coated girls who worked on the production lines, the old-fashioned machinery turning out dolls’ heads and limbs and bodies – it was all gone. The place was completely deserted. Ultra-modern equipment had been moved in, equipment that hummed and whined, carrying out its tasks alone and unaided.
Automation, thought Ransome. Everything’s been automated. He walked between the new machines and crossed to a doorway. The door was locked. A notice read ‘Restricted Zone – Strictly Private’. Ransome was indignant. They can’t do that, he thought. That’s my workshop. Used to be my workshop. He glanced round, suddenly overcome by a strange feeling of unease. Then he crossed the factory floor and climbed the flight of steps that led to Hibbert’s office.
The moment he was out of sight, the door he had been trying opened. A man stood there, looking towards the flight of stairs. An immaculately-dressed man with handsome, regular features and eyes that seemed to glow.
Ransome gave a perfunctory tap on Hibbert’s office door and threw it open. He stood for a moment, looking at the man behind the desk. Good old George Hibbert, he thought ironically. Hasn’t changed a bit – on the outside.
Hibbert rose slowly. ‘Harry,’ he said, in a flat level voice. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’
‘Weren’t you? Then you should have been.’ Ransome snatched an envelope from his breast pocket and threw it on Hibbert’s desk. ‘What’s all this about, George?’
Still in the same expressionless voice, Hibbert said, ‘The letter explains everything.’
‘It explains nothing.’ Ransome opened his brief-case, fished out a large doll and dumped it on the desk. Hibbert looked at it incuriously. It was an elaborately-dressed girl doll, with golden curls and a simpering smile. Ransome fished a remote-control unit from the case and pressed a button.
Immediately, the doll struggled to its feet and began to walk slowly across the big leather-topped desk, scattering Hibbert’s papers. Ransome pressed a second control and the doll began to talk in a high sweet voice. It said, ‘Momma, momma, take me for a walk. Momma, momma, buy me some sweeties. Momma, momma…’
Ransome flung the control onto the desk and the doll became silent. Slowly it toppled onto its face. Ransome drew a deep breath. ‘Our famous A.1 Walkie Talkie doll,’ he said. ‘You do recognise it?’ Hibbert said nothing.
&nb
sp; Ransome went on: ‘When I invented this doll, you promised me full backing. You sent me to the States to try and interest the Americans in joint production. You said if it all worked out, we’d turn the whole factory over to making Walkie Talkies. You were going to make me a partner.’
He paused for breath. Still Hibbert sat motionless and silent. Ransome took wads of papers from the brief-case and slapped them on the desk. ‘Well, it’s all here. Agreements ready to sign. Advance orders, the lot. And when I get back home, what do I find? A letter cancelling the whole deal and giving me the push!’
Ransome looked appealingly at Hibbert. But still the older man made no response.
Ransome’s tone altered. ‘George, we worked on this project together. I thought we were friends. You helped me with the plans, you encouraged me. Now you just put the chop on it. Don’t you think you owe me some kind of an explanation?’
At last Hibbert looked up. ‘There was a cheque enclosed with the letter. The financial compensation was adequate.’
Ransome was ironic. ‘Oh yes. All very generous. Only that doesn’t happen to be the point. I want to know why.’
‘There were reasons for the decision,’ said Hibbert tonelessly. ‘Excellent reasons. I cannot explain further.’
‘Why not? Why can’t you explain?’
‘It’s the new policy. We’ve got a new policy. We are no longer manufacturing dolls. We have turned over to other work.’
‘This doll’s the best thing we ever came up with,’ Ransome insisted. ‘You said yourself there was a fortune in it.’
Hibbert repeated, ‘We’ve got a new policy.’
‘What about my workshop?’ Ransome insisted. ‘Why can’t I get in there?’
For the first time Hibbert’s face showed some animation. In an alarmed voice he said, ‘Stay away from there, Harry. You mustn’t go in there. It isn’t safe.’
‘What about my tools, my equipment?’
‘We’ll send them to you. You must promise not to go near there. You shouldn’t have come back here, Harry. It isn’t safe.’
Ransome looked curiously at his old colleague. Hibbert’s manner had changed completely. The inhuman coldness had gone. Now there were traces of Hibbert’s old self. But he seemed frightened, confused.
‘Listen, George,’ said Ransome gently. ‘I’m sorry I blew up at you. Is anything wrong? Are you in some kind of trouble?’
Hibbert shook his head as if to clear it. He said wildly, ‘Harry… Harry, you’ve got to get away… they’ll kill—’
Hibbert stopped talking as the office door was flung open. A man stood in the doorway. An immaculately-dressed man with handsome, regular features and glaring eyes.
Ransome said: ‘Who the blazes are you?’
The man said nothing but it was Hibbert who answered in the same cold flat voice in which he had first spoken.
‘This is Mr Channing, my new partner. There’s no point in going on with this conversation. The letter explained everything. Good day to you.’
Ransome opened his mouth as if to argue but something about the burning glare in Channing’s eyes seemed to destroy his will. He packed the doll and the papers back into the brief-case and almost ran from the office, edging past the motionless figure of Channing in the doorway. He could feel those burning eyes following all the way across the factory floor. Not until he was back in his car, driving fast away from the factory, did he begin to feel safe.
As the sound of his car died away, Channing turned coldly to Hibbert. ‘You did not handle the situation well.’
Hibbert said: ‘It wasn’t easy. He’d worked here for many years. We were – friends.’ His voice tailed off. Somehow he knew that friendship was not a word that would have any meaning for Channing.
Channing’s cold voice held a hint of puzzlement. ‘The letter was clear. The money offered was sufficient. Why did he not accept the situation?’
Hibbert tried again. ‘He liked working for me, you see. He was interested in the project, not just the money.’
‘The correct letter would have fashioned his response.’
Hibbert rubbed his forehead. He sounded almost angry. ‘It isn’t as easy as you make it sound. You don’t understand people. They’re not always so predictable.’
Channing swung round on him. Hibbert backed away in terror as those staring eyes seemed to burn into his brain. But Channing spoke quietly, almost kindly.
‘The visit of the man Ransome has disturbed you. But he is gone now. He will not return. All you need do is continue to run the factory as though nothing had changed. That is your sole concern, Hibbert. Do you understand?’
As always when Channing spoke to him in that tone, Hibbert felt calmed and reassured. A sense of clear-headedness and well-being came over him. It was all so simple. All he had to do was follow Channing’s orders and everything would be all right. He had to do what Channing told him because… because… Hibbert found that he couldn’t remember the reason. But he was quite sure that Channing must be obeyed, that there would be the most terrible consequences if Channing became angry with him. Hibbert’s face twitched at the memory of some horror buried deep in his mind. Then he became relaxed again, as he heard Channing’s soothing voice.
‘Do you understand, Hibbert? Do you understand?’
Hibbert said calmly: ‘Yes, I understand.’
Channing turned away and stared broodingly out of the office window at the line of trees which marked the beginning of Oxley Woods.
‘Two of the energy units are still missing. The Autons have not succeeded in finding them.’
Hibbert said worriedly: ‘Perhaps they broke up on landing.’
‘Perhaps. Or they may have buried themselves too deep in the soil of your planet.’
‘Do you think that man in the hospital found one? Will you try to capture him again?’
‘No. It is too dangerous.’
‘If the energy units are buried, how will you find them?’
‘They will increase the strength of their pulsation signals. The Auton is searching now. It will find them.’
Hibbert looked at him curiously. ‘You talk of these energy units as if they were alive.’
Channing turned and looked at this pitifully inadequate human creature. How limited was its intelligence. How easily its mind could be controlled. Soon these ridiculous little animals would be swept away, replaced as masters of this rich planet by the all-conquering mind of the Nestenes. Still, for the moment it was useful. It must be reassured, humoured.
Channing said gently: ‘Energy is a form of life, Hibbert.’
Hibbert’s worries persisted. ‘What about UNIT? Do you think they suspect the truth?’
Channing smiled coldly. ‘Even if they do, their minds will be too limited to accept it – until it is too late. I do not think we have anything to fear from UNIT.’
*
Sam Seeley came out of the back door of his cottage. With a hasty look to make sure his wife wasn’t watching, he scuttled down to his shed, a tumbledown building at the end of the long, overgrown cottage garden. He slipped inside and closed the door behind him. Then, furtively he dragged an old tin trunk from under his workbench and opened the lid. Like a child with a new toy, Sam just couldn’t resist taking another look at his treasure. The wonderful find that was going to bring him fame and fortune – once those idiots of soldiers realised that it took a man like Sam Seeley to find things in the woods.
Seeley unwrapped the green globe with trembling fingers, till it lay exposed on the crumpled sheet of tin foil. He stroked it gently.
‘Worth a pound or two, you are, me beauty. I’ll just hang on to you till they all get a bit keener.’
Sam let his imagination wander, dreaming of a huge cash reward from a grateful government. He’d have his picture in the local paper. Maybe they’d even want him to go on telly. Sam was so wrapped up in his dream of wealth and glory that he scarcely noticed when the globe began to pulse with a greenish glow, gently at first,
then with increasing strength.
Not far away in the woods the Auton had been standing motionless under a tree. It was shaped like a man but it was not human. It wore dark, serviceable overalls. Its face was a rough copy of a human face, but blank, unfinished, the features horribly lumpy and crude. It stood, silent, motionless, waiting.
At precisely the moment that the globe in Seeley’s trunk began to pulse, the Auton came to life. Its whole body swung round like a radar antenna, first one way and then the other. It swung back towards a particular point and then froze. Then, after a moment it began to move forward in a clumsy, shambling run. It ran in a perfectly straight line, snapping off the branches and bushes that were in its path. Only for big obstacles, like trees, would it turn aside. But it always returned unerringly to its course, pounding towards the signal that was summoning it.
Sam Seeley was wakened from his dreams of glory by a familiar voice. ‘Sam, Sam Seeley! What you up to down there?’ He peered through the shed window and saw his wife, Meg, hurrying down the path. Instantly Sam tried to put the globe back in the trunk but it slipped from his fingers and rolled under the workbench, still pulsing. Sam threw some old sacking over it.
In the woods the approaching Auton quickened its pace as if the signal were stronger.
Sam looked up innocently as the shed door flew open. His wife, Meg, a thin, depressed looking woman in an old flowered apron, stood looking suspiciously at him.
‘What you up to in there, Sam Seeley?’
Sam’s face was a picture of virtuous indignation. ‘Up to? Nothing. Just a bit of sorting out.’
Meg looked suspiciously round the cluttered shed, and noticed the old tin trunk. ‘What you doing with that old box?’
‘Nothing.’
Meg had been married to Sam for over twenty years, and by now she disbelieved everything he told her on principle.
‘You haven’t been thieving again, have you? ’Cause if you have…’
‘Oh, that’s nice, isn’t it?’ said Sam. ‘Accusing your own husband.’
Doctor Who and the Auton Invasion Page 5
