City of Death

by Douglas Adams

Who greeted her with a little, sarcastic bow. ‘There you are. The unfortunate effects of an unstabilised time field.’ He did a little what-can-you-do shrug, before putting seventeen per cent more menace into his smile. ‘And I shall do exactly the same thing to the whole of this city unless you reveal to me the secret of achieving a stabilised time field.’

  Romana’s headache had come back and she needed a moment to think. A moment she didn’t get as Duggan roared, ‘You’re mad! You’re insane! You’re inhuman!’

  ‘Quite so.’ The Count acknowledged the comment curtly. ‘When I compare my race to yours, human, I take the word “inhuman” as a deep compliment.’

  Duggan boiled over with fury. The Count risked the tiniest of glances at Hermann, just to see how he was taking it. The Count and Hermann had an understanding. It had always been based on not bringing into the open what could be kept quite happily sealed behind closed doors. Of course, Hermann had an inkling that his employer’s origins were somewhat unusual, but he had never seemed to let it bother him. That said, this was the first time the Count had ever addressed the issue in front of him.

  The Count was pleased to see Hermann’s gun didn’t waver from Duggan. Not by a whisker. That was good. One less thing to worry about. Pretty much Hermann’s motto. Ah, he would miss Hermann.

  Duggan was off again, and of course he was using words to be tiresome. ‘You couldn’t possibly—’

  ‘Oh, do be quiet,’ the Count said, annoyed that he’d ever taught them language in the first place. He put just an extra little hint of threat into his bored smile.

  Romana did not miss the hint. She leaned back against the computer and struck up a carefully jaunty air. She’d learned it from the Doctor and it seemed a rather practical way of demonstrating eternal insouciance. Wave your tentacles at me all you like. I am a Time Lord of Gallifrey. ‘Count, you must have realised that I am not from this planet any more than you are. Why should it worry me if you destroy Paris?’

  ‘What?’ Duggan gaped like a goldfish. ‘What are you talking about?’

  Oh, enough, thought the Count, genially jamming his hands into his jacket pockets. ‘Hermann, I do think you’d better kill him.’

  ‘No!’ shouted Romana without thinking and wished she hadn’t.

  ‘Well, I think you’ve just answered your own question, my dear.’ The Count graced her with his finest victory smile. Tut tut. ‘Not a very clever bluff.’

  Pained, Romana turned to Duggan. ‘Just be quiet now, will you?’ she murmured gently. The grown-ups have some talking to do. She smiled at the Count. ‘All right. What are you trying to do?’

  ‘You agree to cooperate, then?’ The Count extended his victory smile to the whole room.

  ‘Just tell me what you’re trying to do and I’ll see.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Fine, thought the Count, let her have her little illusion of independence. What harm could it do? He nodded to Hermann insouciantly. ‘Take the Englishman away and lock him up. I will keep him as an insurance policy since it is unfortunately not possible to kill him twice.’

  Duggan scowled at the Count as Hermann shoved him into the storeroom, bolted the door, and then busied himself amongst the wine racks.

  Hermann, of course, being Hermann, brought them over a delightful amontillado and some biscotti before retreating upstairs. How thoughtful of him. After all, it did seem a pity to let the sherry go to waste. The Count offered some to Romana but she recoiled from the wine as politely as possible, contenting herself with nibbling on a biscuit and waiting for him to speak. Suddenly the cellar seemed a lot less cluttered. Just the Count and the Time Lady and the device that would free him.

  The Count told her his problem. It felt curiously like giving a little speech at a soirée. Put in such bald terms, it sounded ridiculous. A mild embarrassment between friends. ‘My problem is very simple. Four hundred million years ago, the spaceship I was piloting exploded whilst trying to take off from the surface of this planet.’

  ‘Ah. That was very clumsy of you.’

  ‘A calculated risk,’ conceded the Count. At this distance there seemed little point in getting cross. ‘The spaceship was severely damaged. I was in the warp-drive cabin and when the explosion occurred I was flung through the time vortex and’—a delicate cough—‘splintered into twelve different parts which now lead . . . have led, independent but connected lives in different times of this planet’s history.’ He tutted as though someone had served white wine with beef. ‘Not a very satisfactory mode of existence, I’m sure you’ll agree.’

  ‘So you just want to reunite yourself, yes?’ Seems fair enough, actually, thought Romana. Let the Doctor have all the ‘the universe shall be mine’ stuff.

  ‘Well, I’d like to do a little more than that,’ expanded the Count, sipping the sherry. He had the casual air of someone asking if he could perhaps have an extra duck egg on his niçoise salad. ‘I wish to return to where my ship is . . . was . . . and prevent my original self from pressing the button that caused the explosion. I want to save everyone on board. The last of the Jagaroth.’

  Practically an errand of mercy, thought Romana, if you ignored the skeleton in the corner. And the rather pathetic jumble of equipment it was held in. ‘You were hoping to do that with this lot?’ She sounded dubious.

  Every now and then, the Count met the mechanic who serviced his Rolls-Royce. Judging by her tone, he and Romana would get along fine. But no matter. Let her be rude about his lives’ work. She came from an ancient race of privileged time sensitives. He had had somewhat of a standing start. ‘Do not underestimate the problem with which I was faced. My twelve separate selves have been working throughout history to push forward this miserably primitive race so that even this’—he waved around at the computer, the banks of equipment, and yes, poor dear Kerensky—‘even this low level of technology could be available to me now.’

  ‘But this won’t work.’ Romana dismissed it all with a snort. ‘Put yourself in that time bubble and you would either regress back to being a baby or go forward to old age.’

  ‘I had . . .’ The Count paused, sadly. ‘I had worked out a way. A very difficult way. That I think would have taken rather a long time. But now, with your assistance, I shall be able to return with ease.’ He dusted his hands. Perhaps he was brushing away biscuit crumbs. Perhaps he was writing off a complicated plan that had been gestating for millions of years, involving all twelve of his fragments and seven Mona Lisas. Never mind. It had kept him busy. ‘Now . . .’ He gestured to Romana. ‘Build me a field interface stabiliser.’

  Romana hesitated, looking around at the room. Was it possible? the Count wondered. No more tinkering, no more endless experiments, no more expensive, tedious invoices. Would this girl just glance around the room and conjure up a time machine? It seemed too easy. Her eyes returned to him, doubtful.

  ‘Do it.’ He smiled encouragingly.

  There was a long pause. Maybe it just wasn’t possible.

  ‘“The largest doors open to the littlest keys, ‘No thank you’ and ‘If you please’”,’ Romana intoned neatly.

  ‘Oh, but of course.’ The Count pressed his fingertips together in apology. ‘Build me a time machine, please.’

  Romana grinned back. ‘All right. I’ll help you.’

  * * *

  The masks were the difficult bit. It was easy enough for the first few fragments of Scaroth. Even the one stranded among the Egyptians found itself welcomed with open arms. Apparently strange-headed aliens claiming to be gods were always turning up, and so Scaroth fitted right in. The Egyptians were, on the whole, a talented people. Much could be done with them. They’d once been ruled by a quite remarkable set of aliens who’d abandoned a lot of very useful technology, which was untidy but very helpful. He hunted through their artefacts, hoping to find something as simple as a time corridor, but his life span among the humans was annoyingly short. He blink
ed out of existence knowing that somewhere, out among the desert, was exactly what he needed. Possibly.

  He had, however, learned that aliens did visit this planet, occasionally, and he built up a storehouse of their leftovers. It was the start of his habit of collecting. Sadly, he did not encounter an alien race who could build him a time machine, but he found a lot he could work with.

  The masks for example. By Greek times they were useful and by Roman times they were vital. He got the idea watching a play in a Greek amphitheatre. All the actors performed behind masks, becoming the characters they inhabited. In some ways, for such a primitive culture, he felt rather proud of them sometimes. As the people grew more hesitant about his alarming appearance, he retreated behind a simple theatrical mask and gauntlets, claiming injury in battle. That won him respect. It was surprising among the humans that, even though they were achieving really useful things in terms of philosophy and mathematics, if you told them you’d been horridly wounded in combat, they’d be terribly impressed. How very Jagaroth, he thought.

  He began work on a more advanced mask. At first he tried fashioning something from canvas around a wooden frame, but the results were repellently crude. He went to see an artist. Sculpture was really finding its feet and he threw money at the brightest and best, until he found one who showed real promise.

  He sorted through what other races had abandoned. A force that could control all plastics had recently arrived, realised there was nothing to take control of, and left promising to come back in a few thousand years. They’d left behind a pan-polymeric protoplasm which looked quite promising. He presented it to the dubious sculptor.

  ‘What would you like me to make?’ the sculptor asked.

  ‘Oh . . .’ He had enjoyed learning to shrug. It seemed to help with humans far better than sticking knives in them. ‘You have a fine face. Make that.’

  Phidias did so and did so remarkably. It took a few attempts, but they eventually had a very promising mould and a worthwhile prototype.

  ‘But what is it for, my lord?’ the sculptor asked.

  When Phidias had met him wearing the mask in the agora a few days later, the sculptor had started screaming in horror. And so that had marked the rather abrupt and bloody end of Scaroth’s first experience of being a patron of the arts.

  But he’d found it a useful experience. Artists were adept at creating things which survived their little butterfly lives. Their works carried on after them. It amused him, in the far future, to visit galleries and touch the objects he himself had seen carved. They’d maybe lost a bit here, a bit there, but they had endured. He felt strangely proud.

  The Roman Empire proved a good base. The transport links were really excellent. The one problem with a far-flung place like Egypt was that it was a long way from anywhere. But Rome spread itself neatly and quickly out across Europe and beyond. It proved useful for ensuring that the Scaroth fragments could swiftly lay their hands on their inheritance.

  The Primary Fragment knew where they all were. The original gestalt manifestations allowed him to control and provide for them all. He knew where and when they were and could ensure that the ones with little self-awareness, little more than cries in the night, would swiftly be equipped with at least a mask.

  His solution had worked well. Regrettably, he had not been able to save one fragment. Occasionally, echoes of it wandered screaming into the gestalt. The humans had burned it.

  But he made sure that never happened again. Once he’d been a Roman Consul, later he was the Holy Roman Emperor. As Pope, he could issue edicts, and control a marvellously unquestioning network of spies and assassins. Confused splinters could be apprehended, looked after and provided with identities.

  Others did perfectly well for themselves, displaying an almost natural ability to spring to life, find the mask he’d left for them, and merge into society. As the distance between himself and the fragments grew, this ability evolved.

  The final fragment was the most impressive in this regard. For most of the time, it worked quite happily for their greater purpose whilst having little awareness of what it truly was. It entered the manifest only when dreaming, carrying out their goals subconsciously. In some ways this was worrying. In others it was reassuring. This was someone unburdened by a sense of history.

  The fate of the Jagaroth lay with Count Carlos Scarlioni. And he was a man who knew he was placed on this planet to get things done.

  * * *

  A maid was sweeping the front steps of the Château.

  The Doctor marched up to her and tapped her on the shoulder.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘I should like to make an appointment with Count Scarlioni at his earliest convenience.’

  She stared at him in astonishment.

  The Doctor’s hands were held high above his head.

  They stayed that way—the Doctor insisted on it—as she led him through the porch, down a hallway, and into an even bigger hallway at the base of a sweeping stone staircase. There they found someone who would point at gun at him.

  It was Hermann. The butler bowed, and obligingly pointed a gun at the Doctor.

  ‘Ah good, someone in authority,’ smiled the Doctor. He dismissed the maid, who scurried away, relieved. ‘Would you please inform the Count that I wait upon him?’

  Hermann regarded the Doctor. He was working out if it would be acceptable to just shoot him now. He said nothing.

  ‘Ah, the strong, silent type, eh? Once knew a young chap like you. Never said a word. “Well,” I said to him, “No point in talking if you’ve got nothing to say.” Did well in the end, though. Name of Shakespeare. Shows how we can all misjudge people.’

  Hermann didn’t react. But then, the Doctor was no longer playing to an audience of one. The Countess had come down the grand stone staircase and paused on the landing. She wondered if the Doctor’s last remark was addressed to her. He gave her a cheery wave with one of his hoisted hands.

  ‘Good morning! Have you read any Shakespeare, Countess?’

  ‘Ooh, a little.’ She smiled. Why not show off, eh?

  She descended coolly, taking her time, making her grand entrance. She dismissed Hermann. ‘No doubt,’ she told him, ‘the Count would like to know of his visitor. I will be fine.’ Really, she wanted to speak to the Doctor alone. She wanted the chance to learn a little about this Romana. The easiest way to do this was, of course, by impressing him, and the Countess always knew how to be impressive. She steered him towards the library, past a corridor of treasures.

  The Doctor lingered over them as they passed. A Botticelli surely consigned to Savonarola’s Bonfire of Vanities. Lysippos’s bronze of Hercules, last seen before Constantinople fell. An exquisite Bellini thought lost in a fire at the Doge’s Palace. As far as he knew, they hadn’t been heard of for centuries. And wouldn’t be heard of again.

  Going well so far. With a swing in her step, the Countess led him into the library. The room was large and neat and soaked in knowledge. The mid-morning sun beat through the windows. She strode over to the grandest bookcase in the library. At a touch of a lever, it slid back to reveal another bookcase behind it. Her lit cigarette and the ungloved fingers she danced across the spines would have made a bookseller flinch. She plucked a thin volume from the shelf, blew the dust from it, and passed it to the Doctor.

  ‘Hamlet,’ she announced.

  She’d wanted the Doctor to be impressed. He leafed through it, nodding. The book was ancient, the paper inexpensive, but filled with a crabbed script that flowed until it filled the page.

  ‘First draft,’ she added, gilding the lily.

  ‘This has been lost for centuries,’ the Doctor marvelled. He stopped leafing through it and looked at her. This book was impossibly valuable, wonderfully rare, and had been preserved with loving skill. The Count wasn’t just a collector, he was a connoisseur. The Doctor almost wished that for onc
e he could sweep aside all the reversing the polarity of the death ray nonsense and just sit down for tea and a natter over macaroons. If it wasn’t for the Count being a homicidal maniac, the two of them would get on famously. What a pity.

  ‘I assure you it’s quite genuine,’ the Countess added. She was enjoying her moment.

  ‘I can see that for myself.’ The Doctor nodded, running a thumb along the edge of a page. ‘I recognise the handwriting.’

  ‘Shakespeare’s.’ She nodded back.

  ‘No, mine,’ the Doctor said abruptly. ‘He’d sprained his wrist playing croquet.’

  The Countess glared at the Doctor. Could he take nothing seriously? Heedless, the buffoon carried on talking, finger rushing along a page. ‘Here we are. Tsk, tsk. “Take arms against a sea of troubles.” I told him it was a mixed metaphor, but he would insist.’ He pulled a regretful moue. No mending that now.

  Despite herself, the Countess giggled. There was something about this Doctor. He wouldn’t let her enjoy a single moment of being impressive. He just wouldn’t stop babbling away.

  ‘Doctor, it is quite clear to me that you are perfectly mad.’

  ‘Well, only nor-nor west, nobody’s perfect.’ The Doctor’s grin, as warm as a winter hearth, suddenly died out. ‘If you think I’m mad because I say I met Shakespeare, then where do you think your precious Count got this from, eh?’ He shook the volume dangerously hard.

  ‘He’s a collector.’ Obviously. ‘He has money and contacts.’

  ‘Personal contacts?’ The Doctor made it sound like an insult. ‘Just how much do you really know about him? Rather less than you imagine, I think.’

  * * *

  All things considered, the time machine was coming along nicely. The Doctor had once shown Romana a television programme called Blue Peter. Like most things the Doctor was inordinately fond of, the appeal of it missed her completely. It mostly featured Boy Scouts collecting milk-bottle tops, and people who should know better making toys out of pipe-cleaners, cardboard and whatever else came to hand. Just when the results looked like a tottering pile of junk, the presenter would sweep it to one side and hastily produce a rather more complete one that had clearly been assembled by an expert. ‘Here’s one I prepared earlier,’ they would then lie shamelessly.