Doctor Who and the Cybermen

by Gerry Davis

  Ben turned round, puzzled. ‘Surely you don’t believe…?’

  The Doctor looked down at Jamie, now sunk in an uneasy slumber. ‘He does. It is obviously important to him.’

  ‘He keeps asking us to keep the Piper away from him,’ said Polly.

  ‘Good,’ exclaimed the Doctor, ‘then that’s exactly what we’ll try to do.’

  Ben shrugged and turned away, rolling his eyes as if to say that he was the only sane one around. He dug Polly in the ribs. ‘Carry on, nurse.’

  Polly turned quickly round, her hand upraised, but Ben had dodged out of reach, grinning.

  ‘At least,’ said Polly glaring at him, ‘I try to help! With a ward full of sick men and no doctor, someone’s got to do something.’ She stalked disdainfully off to the other beds, fussing round the patients and eventually stopping opposite the one containing Dr Evans. ‘I wonder who this is?’ she said.

  The others had followed her down the ward. ‘Don’t get too close, Polly,’ said the Doctor. ‘Have a look at his chart.’

  ‘That’s a good idea.’ Polly picked up the temperature chart from the bed and looked at it. Ben looked over her shoulder. ‘It’s Dr Evans!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Ah, yes, the station doctor. He was the first to get it.’ The Doctor looked down at the unfortunate Dr Evans. The side of his face was covered with a spreading tree of black swollen lines. They had almost reached his temple.

  ‘He looks one of the worst,’ said Polly in a hushed voice.

  The Doctor came to a decision. ‘I’m staying down here. There is something I don’t quite understand about this epidemic. It doesn’t look like a real disease at all. It’s almost as if…’ He stopped as if afraid to put his thoughts into words.

  Ben looked around the ward. ‘Not real! What more do you want then?’

  The Doctor was twirling a stethoscope he had draped round his neck. ‘I don’t know. But there are one or two signs and symptoms which don’t add up. You go up to the Control Room, Ben. Keep an eye on things.’

  Ben, for once, looked rather blank. ‘How am I going to do that, Doctor? I’m about as popular up there as the measles.’

  The Doctor waved him away. ‘Offer to help, do anything, but keep your eyes and ears open. There is something very wrong here.’

  Ben and Polly looked at the Doctor. They had never seen him look quite so grim, and worried. Worry was something that the Doctor normally never allowed to show on his face.

  ‘There’s something very wrong indeed.’ He pulled out his diary, balanced it from hand to hand in an undecided way, and put it back in his pocket. As he did so, the room lights flickered once and then dimmed. Certain lighting tubes went out and a new pattern of reddish-coloured working lights came on.

  Polly gave a slight cry and put a hand over her mouth. The Doctor was quick to reassure her. ‘They’ve switched over to the moon base “night”.’

  Up in the Control Room the main light was also out. The lighting resembled the bridge of a ship at night. The huge map in the centre of the room had been illuminated from behind, and now provided the main light source. Hobson, looking tired and dishevelled, was still on duty. He was pacing up and down, like the captain of a ship, watching the operators punch results up on the map.

  Jules Benoit entered, still looking, with a particular knack that he had, fresh and unwearied, and went over to Hobson. ‘Still up, chief?’ he said. ‘Why not take a rest. Go below and get some sleep.’

  Hobson turned on him irritably. ‘How can I rest when that thing’s up the spout!’ He pointed to the Gravitron. ‘You know the score as well as I do. Five units off centre and we lift half London into space. Five more and the Atlantic water level goes up three feet. Rinberg just doesn’t realise the pressure we are under.’

  But Benoit was obviously well used to these tirades from his superior. He understood that they were a necessary letting-off of steam to the older man. In the years they had worked together, Benoit had come to feel a considerable respect and affection for the gruff Englishman. He kept silent, therefore, a faint smile on his face.

  Swinging round, Hobson spotted Ben lurking in the shadows on the far side of the illuminated screen. At last he had found someone to vent his irritation on. ‘Hey you!’ he yelled, ‘what do you think you’re doing skulking there?’

  Ben came over to him and stood as if at attention before his commanding officer. ‘Wondering whether I could help, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Help!’ Hobson snapped. ‘How could you…’ But Benoit smoothly intervened. ‘We could use an extra pair of hands. He can help me.’

  Hobson glared once more at Ben. ‘Well, keep him out of my way that’s all.’

  Ben stepped back a pace in the approved naval fashion and Hobson wearily turned back to Benoit. ‘All right, Jules, I know what you’re thinking. I’ll take a break. Call me if anything happens. Oh, by the way, there were two more of those momentary drops in air pressure while I was on. I’ve put them in the log.’

  The Frenchman nodded. ‘Right!’ Hobson turned and walked slowly and stiffly towards the exit, watched by the others. After he had gone, the men in the Control Room seemed to visibly relax a little. Benoit turned to Ben and smiled. ‘There are some coffee cups to clear away.’

  Ben nodded gratefully. ‘Good. Right away.’

  Benoit’s attention was now back on the huge screen. He remembered something. ‘Also Ralph, that is, No. 14, needs a hand down in the food store. Can you find your way there?’

  ‘I’ll find it,’ said Ben.

  ‘Good.’ Benoit nodded a little absently, his mind totally on the job of maintaining the weather control station. Ben moved towards the door and cast a quick look around the room. Everyone was totally engaged in their tasks. At least, thought Ben, now I have something to do as well. He collected the tray of coffee cups set down by the door, and walked out of the room.

  The corridor in which Ben found himself was the main thoroughfare of the base. Most of the living quarters, repair rooms and store rooms ran off it. The Medical Unit, for the sake of quietness, was on a lower level than the Weather Control Room. Ben remembered seeing the words ‘Food Store’ on the door next to the Medical Unit, immediately before the stairway leading to the main corridor.

  Near the top of the stairway was a small galley and Ben quickly and efficiently washed the cups, dried them and put them away in the appropriate locker. It was surprising, he noticed, how quickly one’s eyes got adjusted to the dimmer ‘night’ lighting with its prevailing reddish tinge.

  Thoughtfully, Ben filled up the huge coffee urn with water, replaced the filter bag with fresh coffee, and switched it on. If he could not be of use in any other capacity, he was determined that no one should want for coffee while he was the official moon base coffee boy.

  Meanwhile, in the Store Room, the man named Ralph – No. 14 on the moon base personnel list – was ‘shopping’ along the loaded racks. The men thought of their job as ‘shopping’ because the overall lay-out of the store was rather like a smaller version of a supermarket. Ralph was pushing along a basket on wheels. It was very similar to the supermarket carriers except that these wheels were rubberised to prevent the danger of a spark if the carrier should accidentally knock into one of the metal walls. As he went along the long racks, he checked off the various food supplies, now and again taking a package and placing it in the carrier.

  The food on the racks was packaged in soft shapeless plastic bags, which gave little indication of content. The bags were labelled, ‘Duck concentrate’, ‘Algae block’, ‘General Hydroponic Concentrate’, and ‘Vegetable Pellets’. Ben would have thought the titles most unappetising, but Ralph, a man from a different age, saw nothing unusual in them. He reached over and picked up a bag marked ‘Sugar’. The bag was broken and, as the man raised it, the powdered contents streamed out over the racks and floor.

  Ralph snorted in disgust. He would have to clear up this mess. He carefully screwed up the bag, with what remained of its contents
, and took it over to a flap opening labelled ‘Dry Waste Disposal’. ‘Anyone would think we had rats up here!’ he exclaimed.

  Just then there was a sound at the far end of the food store. At that end, were piles of tinned stuff. The sound was obviously the clatter of a falling tin can. Ralph turned round anxiously. ‘Who on earth’s that?’

  The food carrier trolley blocked the narrow space between the piled up stores. ‘Who’s there?’ he called again.

  The overhead lighting threw deep shadows across the far end of the food store and Ralph had to strain his eyes to see. It seemed to him that one shadow, different from the rest, was moving, although whatever caused it to move was hidden by one of the centre racks. It was the shadow of a large, human figure with a strange flat, almost square head, and two jug-like side protections. Ralph only caught a glimpse of it before it disappeared from view. ‘Who is it?’ he called again.

  ‘Only me, mate!’ Ben had entered the store at that moment and heard Ralph’s call. He stepped into the narrow passageway where No. 14 could see him. The shadow had now completely disappeared.

  Ralph was relieved but angry. ‘For heaven’s sake, don’t go sneaking around like that. Knock first.’

  Ben walked along the narrow aisle and looked curiously at the other man. ‘Blimey! You lot ain’t ’alf edgy.’

  Ralph pointed to the scattered sugar on the floor. ‘Are you responsible for these broken bags?’

  Ben looked down at the sugar. ‘Come off it, mate. I just got here, didn’t I? I’ve been sent down to help you.’

  Ralph eyed him suspiciously for a moment, but there was something so open, friendly and uncomplicated about the young sailor that he merely tore off half the list and handed it to Ben.

  ‘O.K.,’ he said. ‘See if you can find that lot. Most of it’s round the next aisle. Let’s see… we still need milk and…’ He looked ruefully down at the spilt white powder, ‘sugar.’ Ralph turned and went along to the centre aisle of the store while Ben, the list in his hand, continued where the cook had left off.

  ‘Let’s see now,’ Ben muttered to himself, ‘chicken concentrate – what on earth’s that?’ He looked up and saw the appropriate rack with ‘chicken concentrate’ written across the front, and gingerly pulled out one of the shapeless plastic packets. As he suspected, it bore no visible resemblance to any chicken he had ever seen. He threw the packet with distaste into the trolley. ‘And I used to complain about too much navy stew and plum duff! Won’t ’alf be glad to get back to the mess deck after this little lot!’

  Ralph was now down at the far end of the middle aisle near the spot where he had seen the shadow which he had taken to be Ben. It was dark at this end of the store room. One of the overhead lights had gone out and had not been replaced in the current emergency.

  Ralph, holding up the list so that he could see it in the dim light, extended his hand, with easy familiarity, towards the spot occupied by the milk containers. Instead, his fingers touched a hard, metallic surface. The surface was slightly rounded and, as his fingers strayed down, he encountered a large, accordion-like projection. He turned his head in amazement and looked. There, in the dim light stood a huge silver-clad figure, like a man but obviously not a man. The head of the figure loomed at least a foot above Ralph’s head. It was of silver metal with thin cut-out slits for eyes and mouth. Above the forehead was a large lamp like a miner’s, and at each side of the head, two handle-like projections in place of ears.

  Ralph’s mouth dropped open. He was just about to call out when the Cyberman stretched out from the shadows and touched him lightly at the side of the head. A sudden flash, and the man collapsed. He was soundlessly caught by a silver arm and hand that hooked in his clothing and dragged him quickly aside into the shadows.

  ‘Yes?’ From the other end of the room Ben thought he heard a sound. He looked up and down the aisle. There was no sign of Ralph. ‘No. 14. Hey, No. 14. Ralph!’ He walked a little way down the aisles but there was no sign of the man anywhere in the food store. ‘Where are you?’ He walked down to the end of the aisle just to make sure, but again the food racks seemed intact and, again, no one. Nor had he seen or heard the door of the corridor open.

  ‘Scarpered.’ Ben scratched his head. ‘Cor, there’s some right nutters aboard this tub!’ He shrugged, walked back to his trolley and recommenced loading it.

  Polly was dozing in one of the three armchairs in the Medical Unit. The chair was set in the centre of the room so that she could keep an eye on the whole unit. Despite her intention of keeping awake, her eyes kept closing. She tried pinching herself, but the pinches only bruised her leg. Her heavy eyelids, after so many hours without sleep, kept closing involuntarily.

  She had just nodded off for the fifth time when the door of the Unit opened and the Doctor entered. Immediately, Polly sprang awake, startled. ‘Hello,’ she said, ‘what’s that?’

  The Doctor put his fingers to his lips, ‘Shh… we don’t want to wake everyone. You could do with some sleep yourself by the look of you.’

  Polly obstinately shook her head. The Doctor’s arrival had started her awake again. ‘I’m all right. What have you got there, Doctor?’

  The Doctor looked round cautiously. ‘I have been doing a little investigation around the base.’ He felt in his pocket and brought out a piece of silver metallic material. He handed it to Polly. ‘Ever seen anything like this before?’ he asked.

  She examined it, rubbing it between her fingers. It was extremely pliable. Polly held it up to the light. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s like some kind of metal. At least it feels like metal. Cold! But it’s as flexible as a piece of cloth.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said the Doctor.

  Polly shrugged her shoulders. ‘Well I give up, Doctor. What is it?’ She handed it back to the Doctor who put it in his pocket. He smiled at her. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’

  Abruptly the lights in the room flickered twice and began to dim down again even more. The shadows intensified and it became difficult to see across the room. Polly involuntarily grabbed the Doctor’s hand. ‘What’s happening!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘It’s probably another switch over in the time cycle.’ The Doctor tried to look reassuring.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Polly.

  ‘Well, you see, it’s all rather fascinating, actually. On the moon they have a fortnight of days and a fortnight of nights.’

  ‘Well?’ said Polly.

  ‘It’s obvious, surely, that they have to make their own day and night artificially up here. To match what they are used to on Earth. Otherwise, it would throw their whole biological time-clock.’

  ‘Their what?’ Polly looked confused.

  The Doctor was finding it hard to explain the elementary scientific processes he knew so well. ‘Our bodies have to have a biological time-clock. A rhythm that tells you when to get up, when to eat, when you need sleep, etc.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Polly doubtfully.

  ‘Otherwise we wouldn’t know whether we were coming or going, would we? Understand?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Polly.

  ‘Clever girl,’ said the Doctor patronisingly. ‘So that’s why it is now night time in here.’

  There was a sudden cry from the far end of the ward. Polly started up and ran along to the bed. It was Dr Evans.

  ‘Dr Evans,’ Polly cried. As she reached his bedside, closely followed by the Doctor, they saw that Evans was tossing from side to side, in delirium. His face was covered with sweat, his breathing laboured and heavy. The Doctor bent over and started taking his pulse.

  ‘Impossible!’ The Doctor was looking at his watch in incredulity. Dr Evans’ body suddenly bent from the middle and he sat up in bed stiffly, almost like a zombie, his eyes open and staring. Polly moved back a pace, frightened.

  ‘The hand.’ Dr Evans’ voice was hoarse and shaking. His face registered an almost unbearable fright. ‘No,’ he shouted, shrinking away from the Doctor, and pulling his hand and wrist from
the Doctor’s grasp, ‘don’t touch me.’ His hands raised and clutched his head. He twisted it from side to side as though in great pain. ‘Keep that hand away from me… that silver hand.’ He closed his eyes for a second and then opened them. His body gave a convulsive twist and he fell back in bed, apparently dead, his eyes open and staring.

  ‘Oh no, Doctor!’ Polly shrank away from the bed. ‘Is he…?’

  The Doctor had raised his stethoscope. He bent over the man and listened for his heart beat. ‘Yes, I’m very much afraid he is.’ He pulled the sheet up over the man’s head, covering up the staring eyes and the twisted, distorted face. Behind him Polly, in a state of shock, wrung her hands in desperation. ‘What are we going to do?’ she moaned.

  The Doctor brought out the silver piece of cloth from his pocket and examined it closely. As usual, he seemed quite unperturbed by the way events were shaping. Almost without fear, in the conventional sense.

  ‘What did he say? The silver hand? Look…’ he turned to Polly, ‘I’d better go and tell Hobson about this.’ He started for the door, his thoughts entirely on the business in hand. Behind him Polly held her hand to her mouth. ‘No, Doctor, please…’ The Doctor turned round and looked back at her, his hand on the door handle. ‘Yes, Polly?’ He seemed a little remote, far away, his mind wrestling with the problem of the ‘silver hand’.

  Polly decided to be brave. ‘Nothing, Doctor,’ she said. The Doctor nodded, smiled vaguely, and went out the door. Polly, left alone, crept back to the armchair and sat in it gingerly. There was no need to pinch herself to keep awake now. She was only too wide awake, trembling at the slightest sound in the room…

  In the Weather Control Room, Ben had just explained to Hobson the mysterious disappearance of No. 14. Hobson had been absent from the seat of operation for a little over an hour. He had tried to sleep but had found it impossible. The rest seemed to have done him some good, however. He looked a little less tired, more alert.

  ‘Can’t find him?’