City of Death

by Douglas Adams

  Oh god.

  The Count staggered back against six paintings which he had been very successfully ignoring. So. No dream. It was all true. He touched his face again, feeling both overwhelmed and terribly sad. Also, he’d clearly been talking in his sleep. Bad dreams.

  ‘The Jagaroth?’ He ran his tongue over the words while knowing that he had no tongue. ‘You serve the Jagaroth. Now work!’ He shoved the Professor towards the laboratory, suddenly quite desperate to be alone.

  Kerensky barely moved, riveted by his employer cradling his head in his hands. He spoke with the halting voice of a man trying to reassure himself of the world. ‘It’s the Jagaroth who need all the chickens, is it?’

  This was too much. Count Carlos Scarlioni started to laugh. He very nearly didn’t stop.

  ‘Chickens?’ He rounded on the Professor, his smile flickering into life once more. ‘You never cease to amaze me, Professor. How such a giant intellect can live in such a tiny mind.’ He tapped the Professor’s head. It felt wrong. So solid and firm. He had the urge to tap it some more. Until it cracked like one of Kerensky’s precious eggs. But then a voice stopped him.

  ‘Scaroth!’

  It was his own voice. His real voice. Shouting into his brain. Clearing away all the thoughts he was trying to put in its path. There was no denying this voice.

  ‘I must think,’ the Count wailed. ‘I must have time to think.’

  Kerensky was proving irritatingly tenacious. Like the Black Death. ‘But then what have you been making me work for? I thought we were working to feed the human race . . .’ He trailed off, miserably.

  ‘The human race? Ha!’ More thoughts crashed into the Count’s brain. He could barely cope with them, yet there was a tidal wave more on the way. He rounded on the Professor, terrifying and magnificent. He clasped the Professor’s shoulder, the clasp swiftly turning into a grip. ‘We are working for a far greater purpose, on a scale you could not possibly conceive. The fate of the Jagaroth lies in my hands. And you will work for my purpose. Willingly or unwillingly.’

  11

  FOLLIES

  ‘Split up, meet back at the café’ had been Duggan’s instruction. Easier said than done.

  For once in her life, Romana was well and truly lost.

  She had, after all, been bundled away from the café in the back of a van. She had only just arrived in Paris, and had only the sketchiest idea of where the café was. It was near a cathedral, on a reasonably busy street bustling with shops. It was on the corner and it looked sort of beige with red canvas blinds.

  Romana very quickly discovered that nearly every street was near a cathedral, and nearly every corner had a sort of beige café with red canvas blinds. Also, in the middle of the night, all the shops were shut and the streets looked completely different. Paris was empty. It really was just her and some distant barking dogs that she hoped were just being chatty rather than hunting her.

  It really didn’t help that every street had three different signs, each one contradicting the other. It was as though Paris just didn’t want to be tied down. Romana ran across a bridge which only served to confirm her suspicions—it was covered in padlocks, as though the people were trying to stop it from wandering off somewhere else. This city was utterly baffling.

  Romana walked on, pretending very hard that she was getting her bearings. She suddenly found herself standing on the edge of an eight-lane motorway. Ho-hum. They definitely hadn’t come this way. Which meant . . .

  She ran on some more. Now, ah yes, this was the square where she and the Doctor had laughed at the statues. And behind the square that led through to . . .

  Romana was almost convinced she’d been in this square before. Only the fountains had been turned on then. Or maybe it was a completely different square. Now, then, had they been here just before heading to the café? Perhaps they’d come through here from the Louvre. How many metres had that been? Well, for once, Romana wasn’t certain. She’d just been through a crack in time.

  She concentrated on finding the Louvre and then, remembering that the Louvre was now concentrating quite hard on finding her, she gave up on that plan and sat down on a bench.

  If Romana had been the sort to have a damn good cry, she would have had a damn good cry. She was lost and very much alone, stranded on an alien planet with little immediate hope of rescue and she was being hunted for art theft and murder. Not bad for a day that had started out with plans for sightseeing and bouillabaisse.

  There was a chill in the night air and Romana suddenly regretted gadding about in a schoolgirl’s uniform. It had seemed rather fun a few hours ago. As Romana refused to cry, the sky did it for her, drenching her in a cold rain that sank immediately into her soul. Romana got up from the park bench, thought about kicking it, and then hurried away into the night.

  * * *

  Duggan leapt over the wall and into the path of a snarling police dog.

  ‘Sorry, Fido,’ he sighed, punching it in the throat.

  The dog stared at him in outrage, whimpered, and then sank to the floor.

  A gendarme rushed up to Duggan, no doubt using the French for ‘But sir, you appear to have hit my dog!’

  Duggan hit him as well, and then carried on running.

  This, he thought, was more like it.

  * * *

  Romana discovered herself in an area where she was no longer alone but rather wished that she was. ‘Not just right now, thank you,’ she said crisply and hurried off, ignoring the wolf whistles and catcalls that followed her. It was annoying, as she’d seemed rather close to the café. Something about the street seemed a little familiar. Was it the poster for that exhibition? Was there something about that cathedral that made it different from all the other cathedrals she’d wandered past?

  She found a tourist sign helpfully indicating that she was 1.5 kilometres from the Louvre. Finally, something that was talking her language. She scrolled back through the day and figured that that was just about correct.

  That was one good sign. Another was the realisation that she could still read what was written on it, which meant that her telepathic link to the TARDIS translation circuits was still working. So at least the Doctor hadn’t flown into a dwarf star. Yet.

  Two bits of good news gave Romana a new and positive outlook. If she walked in a circle from here, checking every café along the way, then she’d probably possibly find Duggan. The closest thing she had to a friend in the whole wide world.

  Romana laughed bitterly to herself.

  * * *

  This was it. She was sure of it. She’d been quite sure about two other cafés and, what with that and the rain getting worse, her confidence had taken something of a knock. This, she decided, looking at the beige café with the red canvas blinds, was it. And, if it wasn’t, then it would just have to do.

  Reaching into her sleeve she pulled out her own sonic screwdriver. She’d made it recently as the Doctor’s had struck her as both a neat idea and in need of improvement. Rather like the Doctor.

  She waved her sonic screwdriver along the glass door, and felt satisfaction as the stainless-steel lock pinged back on itself. Good.

  She stepped into the café, closed the door to keep out the rain and congratulated herself on her stealth. With a bit of luck, no one would ever know she’d been there.

  A windowpane smashed and a hand came grasping through the side door as Duggan fought his way in.

  ‘I thought these places were meant to be open all night,’ he growled.

  ‘You should go into partnership with a glazier,’ said Romana, quite pleased to see him. ‘You’d have a particularly symbiotic working relationship.’ She brushed some broken glass from his sleeve, not entirely sure why she was bothering as there’d only be some more along in a minute.

  ‘What?’ grunted Duggan.

  ‘I’m just pointing out that you break a
lot of glass.’

  ‘You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs,’ Duggan announced as though it was the wisest thing in the world. He picked up a bottle of wine and cracked it open against the counter. He poured them two glasses.

  Thoughtfully, Romana picked up the broken top of the bottle and slowly unscrewed the metal cap. ‘If you wanted an omelette I would expect to find a pile of smashed crockery, a cooker in flames and an unconscious chef.’

  ‘Listen.’ Duggan was bullishly defensive. Just as he was bullishly happy and bullishly bullish in general. ‘I get results.’

  ‘Really? The Count’s got the Mona Lisa.’ Romana couldn’t resist that.

  Duggan said nothing. He fished around under the counter and brought out a basket of only slightly stale bread, bringing it over to a table. He slumped heavily into a chair, not meeting her eye.

  Deciding to be placating, Romana sat down opposite him, nibbling a bit of bread and sipping the wine. It was actually not too horrible. Red and sharp, it cut neatly through her mood and the rain.

  Duggan emptied his glass and poured himself another. ‘Yeah. He’s got seven of them. Seven! You know what I don’t understand?’

  ‘I expect so.’

  ‘There are exactly seven potential buyers and exactly seven Mona Lisas.’

  ‘Yes.’ Romana had been wondering about this.

  ‘But, six of them have been sitting bricked up for centuries.’

  ‘Buyers?’

  ‘No, Mona Lisas,’ Duggan chided her, glad to have the upper hand for once. ‘Where did they come from? How did the Count know they were there?’

  ‘Taxes the mind, doesn’t it?’ Actually, these were pretty decent questions, Romana reflected. Basic, but fundamental.

  Duggan’s brow creased. Then more of his face creased. It took Romana a while to realise this was worry.

  ‘There is one answer,’ he said very slowly and carefully. ‘But . . .’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘No.’ Duggan shook his head. ‘You’ll think I’ve gone mad and no, it’s crazy, my brain’s too tired. Forget it.’

  ‘No.’ This might be when Duggan did his best thinking. Or his only thinking. ‘Do tell me.’

  ‘You’ll only laugh.’

  ‘You’re man enough to take that, aren’t you?’

  ‘True,’ Duggan conceded. ‘Well, I was thinking of all that weird equipment in the Count’s lab. I mean, one answer to this whole business would be that somebody had . . . er . . .’ He screwed his eyes shut and sneaked the words out while he wasn’t looking. ‘Er . . . discovered time travel.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ Romana stifled a giggle.

  ‘Yeah.’ Duggan mimed punching himself in the head. ‘Forget it. I’ll think of something more sensible in a bit.’ He took a swig from the broken wine bottle and suddenly spluttered, sitting bolt upright.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Oh nothing,’ Duggan moaned indistinctly. ‘Just cut my lip.’

  * * *

  The long night took its time passing.

  Duggan was all for racing back to the Château, even after Romana pointed out that they’d probably die. ‘Yes, but I’ll take a fair few of them down with me,’ he growled.

  ‘Enough to save the world?’

  ‘So what do you suggest we do?’

  ‘Wait,’ sighed Romana. She took another sip of her wine. It was proving, in its own way, quite pleasant. She couldn’t imagine herself drinking more than a glass of it. But in its haphazardly garden-sheddish muddle of alcohols, esters and norisoprenoids, wine was rather interesting. She was surprised the Doctor hadn’t drunk any. Yes, they’d wait here till the Doctor deigned to grace them with his presence. Do what the universe does and give the Doctor the benefit of the doubt. She sadly noticed she’d finished her glass. Duggan was dabbing mournfully away at his cut lip.

  ‘We wait for the Doctor till morning,’ said Romana.

  ‘Don’t you sleep?’ asked Duggan, a little thickly.

  ‘Not often.’

  ‘Oh.’ Duggan settled himself into the wooden chair and closed his eyes.

  Romana looked at her empty glass. ‘It’s a pity,’ she sighed, ‘that everything is shut.’

  Duggan opened his eyes. ‘Lady, that’s where you’re wrong,’ he said, brightening. ‘This is the City That Never Sleeps.’

  ‘I’m fairly sure that’s New York.’

  ‘You’ve never travelled.’

  ‘I assure you I have.’

  Duggan stood up, shaking off his tiredness as a dog shakes off water. ‘You’ve not travelled,’ he repeated firmly, offering Romana his hand. ‘Come on. Let’s hit the town.’

  * * *

  Much to Romana’s surprise, Duggan managed not to knock anyone unconscious. The city which had seemed empty turned out to be, just a few streets away, crammed full of life.

  They went a little way up the hill to a crowded basement with red walls. It was so full of smoke Romana assumed it was about to explode. It was filled with staggeringly loud noise which the people seemed to be trying to escape from in an alarming series of leaps and shudders.

  ‘What’s that?’ she hollered above the din.

  ‘It’s called Le Disco,’ said Duggan.

  They went somewhere else.

  * * *

  ‘Oh, I do like the outfits,’ Romana enthused, applauding wildly.

  Tomorrow, yes tomorrow, definitely and absolutely, when the TARDIS came back, which it definitely would, she would see if the Wardrobe Room had one of those outfits. It looked tremendous fun.

  The figures swung themselves across the stage in a series of high-leg kicks. Romana had never dreamed that you could make a dress entirely from sequins and feathers, but it was clearly highly manoeuvrable. Very practical. So long as the next planet they landed on wasn’t cold.

  ‘You want to go out dressed like that?’ Duggan boggled briefly. Then remembered what Romana was currently wearing. And smiled. C’est la vie. It was about the only bit of French he knew.

  ‘I say,’ said Romana, tapping her glass. ‘Is there any more of this wine?’

  * * *

  Duggan was showing Romana some fresh air very quickly.

  ‘Hrnk,’ she said.

  ‘Have you really never drunk before?’

  ‘Of course I’ve drunk.’ Romana concentrated, very studiously, on the two Eiffel Towers and wondered if she was falling through another crack in time. ‘Mostly water,’ she said with thick dignity.

  ‘Wait a second, you’ve NEVER drunk wine?’ Duggan was incredulous. ‘How old did you say you were?’

  ‘One hundred and twenty-five.’

  ‘Yeah, twenty-five.’ He nodded. ‘And you’ve never got drunk? What did you do with your evenings?’

  ‘A lot of reading and, lately, a whole lot of running.’ Romana was performing Graves’s Three Tests for imminent dimensional collapse and the initial results did not look promising.

  Duggan walked her to the riverbank, which, so long as the wind was going in the right direction, didn’t smell too badly of drains. The view, when it wasn’t jumping up and down, was breathtakingly lovely.

  ‘We have to save this city,’ Romana told Duggan very, very seriously. ‘Its waveform is collapsing.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he said, helping her to sit down on a bench. ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Better, but still bad.’ Romana smiled at him, holding up a hand. ‘You see, I am unusually susceptible . . .’ She lingered over the word. ‘Susceptible . . . to the tracks of time. And something is very wrong with Paris.’

  There was one Latin phrase which every Frenchman knew. They would repeat it to each other late at night, in cafés, bars and nightclubs, saying it with a stern waggle of a finger or a sly wink. The phrase was In Vino Veritas. In Wine, Truth.


  People were looking at them. A nearby couple were, in that very French way, trying to talk about the beauty of the riverbank rather than each other. Duggan realised they were in the way. People in the way got noticed, and they were, he remembered, currently suspected of stealing the Mona Lisa.

  Duggan briefly suggested they go back to his hotel and try and find Romana a room. It wasn’t much of a hotel and he doubted it would be much of a room, but it would be better than nothing. The plan stalled when he asked Romana her surname.

  ‘Smith,’ she announced eventually.

  No. Duggan doubted that, even in Paris, he could get away with an expenses claim for a room for a woman called Smith.

  So they went back to the café, smashed another window, and dozed awkwardly on chairs that were designed purely for dinner and gossip.

  12

  DÉJÀ VU

  So. Not dead then.

  Scaroth lay on the ground, expecting to see burning debris everywhere.

  Nothing. Just some shaggy, grunting creatures. They were waggling bones and staring at him in fascination. One of them, with no idea what to do about this unexpected appearance, threw a stone at him. It missed, and no more followed.

  This was all rather unexpected. The planet was supposed to be uninhabited. Could they not even get that bit right?

  Actually, where was he? This couldn’t even be the same planet, could it? Gone were the desolate rocks and thin red atmosphere. Instead he was lying in a lush valley under a warm blue sky. And again, those creatures, watching him.

  He stood up warily. What if they rushed him? Those bones had the look of clubs. And of course he had no weapons on him. Nothing.

  He was taller than they were. They looked so very different. They were hairy and their flesh was an unsettling shade of pink. They grunted.

  One, he guessed, the leader, broke free and lurched towards him, waving the bone above its head. It was a threat. They were clearly used to preying on creatures larger than themselves, which was disappointing. On the other hand, the leader did not appear entirely happy about approaching Scaroth. One of the creatures nudged it forward. It looked at Scaroth. While he couldn’t translate the grunts their meaning was clear. ‘Look, sorry about this, but anyway, got to keep one’s end up . . .’