by Gerry Davis
Cutler turned back to Barclay. ‘How long to count down?’
Barclay glanced at his watch for a moment. ‘Ten minutes.’
‘They’ll be here by then. We’ll have to hold them off first, then proceed with the launching.’
A buzzer sounded harshly. ‘Well?’
Dyson’s voice came over the loudspeaker system. ‘The bomb’s in position in the rocket, sir. Will you check it now?’
‘Yeah, just got time before the battle commences.’ He turned and strode rapidly out of the room.
Polly turned excitedly to Barclay. ‘Now’s our chance,’ she whispered.
‘What?’ Barclay turned, startled.
‘To see Ben—he may be able to help. We must do something to stop that rocket.’
Barclay hesitated, glancing indecisively from Polly to his seat at the control console.
‘Quick,’ continued Polly. ‘It’s our only chance—while the General’s out of the room. Come on—hurry before it’s too late.’
Trying to appear inconspicuous, she picked up the coffee tray and walked towards the door. Barclay hesitated for just a moment and then followed her.
In the cabin, Ben had removed the grille and edged his body half way up through the exposed ventilation shaft. ‘Lucky we don’t get much grub on the TARDIS —I’d never get through this on navy rations!’
Suddenly, he heard the cabin door open. Legs waving wildly, he tried to wriggle out of the shaft.
‘Ben!’
He turned quickly: to his relief it was Polly!
She ran across and peered into the Doctor’s face. He still seemed to be fast asleep. ‘How is he, Ben?’
Ben eased himself down from the top bunk. ‘Cor, I’m glad to see you, Polly.’ He nodded towards the Doctor: ‘He seems pretty fair.’
Barclay entered the room and closed the door behind him and Ben turned quickly, on his guard.
‘It’s all right, Ben, Dr Barclay’s going to help us.’
‘Great! Good work, Polly. What can we do to stop this rocket, then?’
Barclay looked towards the door, and then moved closer to the two time travellers. ‘It can be immobilised quite simply—if one can get into the rocket silo, that is.’
‘Can’t you?’
Barclay shook his head. ‘Cutler suspects me already. It’s under constant guard. If I or any of my staff try to tamper with the controls, we’d be discovered immediately.’
‘Is there any other way then?’ asked Ben.
‘I don’t know.’ Suddenly, he caught sight of the open ventilation shaft, and then looked down at Ben. ‘Can you get through that?’
Ben nodded. ‘I was just about to scarper when you came in. What about it?’
‘I designed this part of the base. That’s the main ventilation shaft. It leads through to the silo room—and the bomb!’
Ben nodded. ‘I get you. Maybe I could do something. Would I need a radiation suit?’
‘No, the silo room is screened.’ He thought for a moment. ‘But there’s a guard outside and there’s sure to be an engineer or two checking the systems inside.’
‘Couldn’t we distract them?’ queried Polly. ‘Get them outside somehow?’
Barclay nodded. ‘Yes, perhaps.’
Waah! Waaah! The harsh bray of the station alarm, sounding similar to a submarine alert, echoed through the base. Polly jumped. ‘What’s happened?’
‘The Cybermen must have landed. I must go.’ Barclay turned to the door.
‘No,’ pleaded Polly. She grasped his arm. ‘Don’t you see, this is your chance?’
Barclay thought for a moment, and then sat down again. ‘You’re right. Here.’ He motioned to Ben and, turning to the desk, picked up a pencil and pulled a sheet of paper towards him. ‘This is what you’ll have to do.’
Ben watched as Barclay started to draw a plan on the graph paper. He glanced down at the tool kit which Ben had used earlier on the door. ‘You’ll need these.’ He pointed to a section of his diagram. ‘Unscrew this panel. Inside there are four small plugs. Take out any of them, snip off a pin, and put it back.’
‘What will that do?’ queried Ben.
‘The fuel pump pressure will drop to zero at blast off.’
‘You mean the rocket engine won’t work? But won’t they spot it? And correct it?’
Barclay shook his head. ‘Not in six months. That’s not the sort of fault they would look for.’
Outside on the Polar surface; the wind had dropped, the moon had come out and a strange, unearthly silence dominated the crackling, cold landscape. The moonlight added a silver sheen to the Antarctic plains, giving them a dreamlike, shimmering appearance.
The long, ugly, torpedo-like shape of the Cybermen’s spacecraft broke the silence as it gently came to rest.
A moment later, the revolving red light began to fade, a slight whirring noise was heard, and part of the side section slid back. The first of the Cybermen stepped gingerly down into the Polar snows.
He looked around him, weapon at the ready—but all that was visible were the slopes leading up to the small cluster of chimneys and slight hump that marked the Polar base.
On the far side of the base, the Cyberman noticed the small, square shape of the TARDIS, and for a moment levelled his weapon in that direction—but there was no visible movement.
Reassured, he turned and pressed a signal button on his chest unit. One by one, the other Cybermen climbed down from the spacecraft.
At the entrance to the Polar base, the three guards detailed to ambush the Cybermen were waiting, rod-like Cyberweapons at the ready. They had made a rough ‘blind’ out of the snow with a white tarpaulin cover. With the exception of a small slit, they were completely invisible.
They watched as the Cybermen advanced across the snow.
In all, the guards counted twelve of the silver monsters, their tall figures glinting in the moonlight as they tramped in perfect unison through the dry powdery snow towards the base.
Nearer and nearer they came. In spite of the intense cold, the two men on either side of the Security Major were sweating with tension. When would he give the order to fire? There was something implacable and terrible in the steady, machine-like tread of the Cybermen...
The leading Cybermen had now marched to within ten feet of the blind.
‘FIRE!’ the Major shouted to his men. Almost simultaneously, the rattle of the three Cyberweapons rang out. The guards chosen for the duty were the three crack shots on the base—but it was unnecessary at such close range.
The three leading Cybermen jerked up their arms, staggered backwards, and fell. Behind them, the other Cybermen looked wildly around for their opponents.
Again, the three guards fired with unerring accuracy.
Three more Cybermen dropped.
The other Cybermen, still unsure where the attack was coming from, began to retreat.
Again the guards fired at the retreating figures, and three more Cybermen jack-knifed into the snow.
The remaining three turned and ran wildly through the snow back towards their waiting spacecraft.
The guards fired again, but the distance, and the strange ghostly Polar moonlight seemed to confuse them. Only one of the three remaining Cybermen was hit. The other two reached the safety of the spacecraft.
The Security Major flung off the white cover of the blind. ‘O.K. Get their weapons. Then back inside—fast!’
While the Major clambered down into the base to report, the other two men walked quickly over to the dead Cybermen to collect their prizes. One of the Cybermen had fallen on top of his weapon. Nervously, the guard kicked the lifeless giant aside, and snatched up his booty.
Ben, inch by effortful inch, was heaving himself along the base ventilation system.
The shaft, a narrow, square tunnel with protruding metal joins, dug into him as he wormed his way along. Every few feet, the tunnel was dimly lit by a shaft of light which penetrated a grille. Ben wondered how visible he was throug
h these close-mesh grilles, and made every effort to pass them as quickly as possible. His clothing had torn on the projecting screws, and his elbows and knees were raw and bleeding.
He paused. Ahead of him, he caught sight of a square intersection of two tunnels. Three ways: which one to follow?
He eased himself back to the previous grille and, by the light filtering through the mesh, examined the piece of paper Barclay had given him. Again he moved forward checking the stencilled numbers over the intersections. FIVE, SIX, SEVEN. Number five was the one to follow. He turned awkwardly and dragged his body at right-angles into the new tunnel. His face and singlet were wet with sweat. In spite of the warm breeze which was blowing along the shaft, and the short distance he had travelled, his arms and legs were beginning to ache intolerably...
Ahead he saw three grilles set close together—as described by Barclay. Cautiously, he put his eye to the thick mesh, looked through—and sighed with relief. The rocket silo! He had arrived exactly where Barclay had indicated on the sketch plan.
Looking down into the room, Ben could see that he had reached a grille set over the gallery. He looked across, and froze! An engineer with a clipboard was working almost directly opposite!
His hand felt for the four flynuts that held the grille in position, and started to loosen them. The hum of the powerful dynamos would prevent his activities being heard; he was also invisible through the grille—until, that is, it was removed. But where on earth was Dr Barclay?
He removed the top right hand flynut, the left, then began to loosen the lower ones. The grille began to sag outwards. One touch, and it would fall through—leaving the way clear. He looked across at the engineer to see if he had noticed anything, then saw that the man was looking down and nodding to somebody below.
By pushing his cheek against the warm metal top of the shaft, Ben could just make out, the floor of the silo room and the now empty bomb cradle. The bomb had been loaded into a hatch leading directly into the rocket launching tube and the waiting Demeter rocket. He saw an engineer fasten the large bolt arrangement that closed the square safe-like door of the hatch. Beside him stood Dr Barclay.
As Ben watched, almost holding his breath, he saw Barclay lead the man away, then look up and beckon to the engineer opposite Ben.
After what seemed an age, during which time Ben’s neck was horribly cramped by the awkward angle at which he had to hold his head, he saw the engineer climb slowly down the metal ladder, and follow Barclay and the other man out of the room.
The door closed behind them and, for a few precious minutes, the room was Ben’s. He pushed the grille out with his hand, then, as it clattered down, eased himself through and landed on the narrow gallery. He stretched his cramped muscles in relief, and brought out Barclay’s instructions.
Following the directions, he started tracing a line of twisted multi-coloured lead wires through the rocket launching controls. His fingers stopped opposite a panel labelled: PUMP SERVO LEADS.
Bringing out his screwdriver, he began to unscrew the panel...
In the tracking room, Cutler had been watching the ambush of the Cybermen relayed by the TV camera. As the last of the Cybermen climbed back into their spacecraft, he raised the stub of his cigar, smiled, and screwed it triumphantly into the ashtray. He turned to the R/T technician.
‘Tell them they did a great job. Have the Cyberweapons brought down to the guard room.’
He stretched himself, easing his muscles after the tension of the last few minutes. ‘Barclay,’ he called. He looked around—but the tall Australian physicist was nowhere to be seen.
‘Dyson,’ he snapped, ‘where is Dr Barclay?’
‘I don’t know, sir—he wasn’t here when I got back.’
‘Where could he have gone at this time? He’s needed right here!’
Dyson, busy with his own calculations, looked up again. ‘Er... perhaps he went down to the rocket silo.’
‘Rocket silo!’ Cutler’s face changed, his jaw set. ‘We’ll see, shall we?’ He strode over to the door.
In the long corridor outside the silo, Barclay and the two engineers were in conversation. Outside the sound-proofed room the roar of the mighty dynamos was even louder, and the three men only became aware of Cutler’s presence when he was standing beside them.
He pushed the two engineers aside and confronted Barclay. ‘Just what are you doing here, Dr Barclay?’
Barclay’s jaw dropped. His nervous glance gave him away. ‘We were just checking my...’
Without a word, Cutler grasped him by the tunic, thrust him aside, opened the door of the silo room, and rushed in. Immediately, he caught sight of Ben’s head inside the panel.
Dropping his hand to his belt, Cutler drew his heavy automatic, and levelled it at the intruder. Taking careful aim, the General’s finger tightened on the curved trigger...
As he fired, Barclay pushed his arm aside. The gun boomed, echoing round the metal walls of the silo room—but the bullet missed Ben, struck the metal panel and ricochetted off.
Holding Barclay aside with his other arm, Cutler levelled the automatic at Ben again.
‘O.K., sailor,’ he ordered, his voice rasping above the hum of the machinery, ‘get down here—at the double!’
For a second, Ben hesitated, torn between his uncompleted task, and almost certain death from Cutler’s gun.
The rocket had to be stopped—whatever the cost.
He turned back to the exposed wires, but Cutler, in one swift and incredibly agile leap for so large a man, reached the ladder, and grasped Ben’s ankle.
Ben gave a cry as he felt himself being pulled backwards. He tried to grab the rail but his head struck the metal platform. He slumped unconscious from the gallery and landed in a heap at the bottom of the ladder.
Barclay saw Cutler raise the gun again. ‘Stop!’ he yelled. But Cutler replaced it in his holster and turned to the guard who had just entered.
‘Get him along to the control room.’ He turned to the engineers. ‘You two get back on that rocket.’
Cutler turned to Barclay. The man backed away. ‘Look, I can explain,’ Barclay’s voice was shaking.
Cutler glanced at him with contempt. ‘Don’t bother. You’re coming with me right now. I need you. We’ll talk about this after the rocket has been fired.’
He turned to the guard who had lifted the unconscious sailor. ‘Have his companions brought along, too. Seems I can’t rely on anyone else to keep an eye on them.’
‘You’re treating him like a criminal,’ Polly shouted. Ben, his head bleeding, was slumped, still unconscious, in a chair by the main console.
The Doctor was sitting beside him, wide awake but silent. Polly was bathing the back of Ben’s bloody head.
Cutler turned to her. He had posted guards with drawn carbines on either side of the time travellers. His automatic rested on top of the console. ‘As far as I’m concerned, he is a criminal! I’m warning all of you, if that rocket doesn’t take off for Mondas, and if my son’s life is in jeopardy because of him, I shall take the law into my own hands.’ He looked across at Barclay. ‘And that goes for you too, Dr Barclay. You’d better do a damn good job on this launching—or else!’ He turned to the other technicians. ‘O.K., start the count down.’
Barclay looked down at the console. ‘Preliminary checking is not complete, General. I’ll inform all concerned when ready.’
Cutler nodded abstractedly and walked over to the R/T set. He glared at the operator. ‘I thought I told you to keep trying to contact Zeus Five ? Get with it!’
The R/T technician spoke tremblingly into the microphone. ‘ Snowcap to Zeus Five , Snowcap to Zeus Five . Come in please.’
After a crackling of static from the loudspeakers, Terry Cutler’s voice broke in. ‘ Zeus Five to Snowcap . Receiving you loud and clear. Over.’
Cutler’s dark, heavy-set face lightened suddenly. He leant over, shoved aside the R/T technician, and grabbed the mike. ‘Hello, son. Any sign of
those spacecraft in your vicinity?’
‘No, sir. I’m all on my lonesome up here.’
‘Well watch it, they move mighty fast.’
‘Only one question. When are you going to bring me down?’
‘We can’t do it yet. You’ll just have to hold on. We’re going to deal with the planet Mondas first. How are things with you?’
‘I guess the capsule’s getting a little slow at the controls.’
‘What about the power?’
‘It loses, then picks up again.’
Cutler nodded. ‘Yeah, Mondas is affecting it—we’ll get you down as soon as we can.’
For the first time the voice of the young astronaut showed a sign of strain: ‘Thanks. Can’t be too soon for me!’
Cutler’s face looked concerned. ‘Good luck, boy—switching off now.’
The astronaut’s voice came through almost as an aside. ‘Luck! I’m going to need it.’
As Cutler slowly replaced the mike, Barclay’s voice cut in.
‘All systems ready to proceed with count down.’ His voice echoed through the loudspeakers. ‘Barclay speaking. Please check in. Silo Control?’
‘Check,’ replied the silo engineer.
Polly crouched by Ben. He was coming to; his eyes were half opened—but he seemed dazed. She looked towards the Doctor. ‘Doctor, can’t we do something?’ But the Doctor still seemed half asleep. He shook his head as if lost in a day-dream, and didn’t reply.
‘Gantry team?’ queried Barclay. The answer came: ‘A1 O.K.!’
‘Fire control?’
‘Check! ‘
‘Ben!’ Polly said urgently. ‘Speak to me, please.’
‘Um?’ Ben peered round the room, trying to focus. ‘Who is that? Who’s talking?’
‘Keep your voice down,’ whispered Polly.
‘P... Polly? What happened?’
‘Look,’ she glanced round the room, ‘I’ll tell you later.’
Cutler and the team were now too deeply engrossed in the countdown to pay attention to the three time travellers.
‘Radar vectors check?’ queried Barclay.
‘Check,’ came the voice. ‘T minus one fifty and counting,’ said Barclay.
Polly whispered in Ben’s ear again. ‘Did you manage it?’
