by Barry Letts
But on the fourth morning...
The footsteps were unmistakable. Quicker than ever, and much faster than anybody would normally walk on board, they alerted Alex Whitbread at once; and the sound of the door below, which had become almost a slam by now, told him when she’d passed beneath the corner of the bridge.
It was essential to get the timing right. He was in no hurry.
He would be able to hear the sound of the first door when she came into the corridor, and by watching a couple of times he would be able to judge exactly when she would be coming out the other side.
Here she came, on her second lap. Through the first door, one, two, three... and, yes, out of the second door. About three and a half seconds then, and as the door swung to, she was a couple of paces from where the searchlight would land.
Couldn’t be better.
Another check. Just the same. The only snag was that if he was peering over, he wasn’t in the right position to heave the thing over the edge.
Ah! He could go by the sound of the door. If he gave the thing the lift and the shove it needed as soon as he heard the second slam...
Right. Next time...
This particular morning, the CO was so far gone into his accustomed abyss (nearly two bottles deep), that the first couple of bangs hardly registered. It was the second pair that roused him, and when he caught a glimpse of Sarah - and what was happening filtered through - the fury started to boil up inside him.
By her third time round, he was heaving himself out of bed.
He had to stand for a while to get his bearings, and once he’d got to the door, she was back again. He staggered into the corridor, but he was too late - she was already at the second door. He was just in time to catch it as it swung behind her.
Out he went, incandescent with rage, and as the door slammed behind him, he stopped and shouted after her retreating back.
‘Hey! You!’
They were the last words that Lieutenant-Commander Hogben ever spoke.
* * *
‘...dwell in the house of the Lord forever.’ The First Lieutenant closed the Bible that he’d borrowed (surprisingly) from Petty Officer Hardy. Queen’s Regs would certainly say that they should have had a Prayer Book with the right form of words for a burial at sea, but no doubt a reading of the Twenty-third Psalm would do just as well. If the Lord was a shepherd, his flock must surely include a blackish sheep like Hogben.
He nodded to the Cox’n, and at a murmured order the door of the galley, which had been pressed into service as a stretcher, was tilted up, and the weighted body slid from under the White Ensign that hid it from view. A small splash, and it disappeared into the depths of the Indian Ocean.
‘Make and mend this afternoon for everybody who’s not on watch, Cox’n.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
The least he could do for the poor sod they’d just sent down to Davey Jones was to give the crew the afternoon off. Maybe they’d treat it as a celebration, but it would perhaps make them remember him a bit more kindly.
As the crew dispersed, and Bob Simkins went back to the bridge to get the Hallaton under way again, he turned to the Brigadier. ‘Sir. I would be obliged if you and your party would have a word with me in the wardroom. In ten minutes?’
He didn’t wait for an answer. Although the sun was sinking towards the horizon, this was no invitation for a pre-dinner noggin. The authority in his voice made that quite clear.
Ever since Hogben’s death Sarah had been struggling with the irrational thought that it was her fault. The searchlight must have been loosened by the rolling of the ship. And she could have been underneath it when it fell. If she hadn’t kept going through the CO’s corridor, if she hadn’t disturbed him by letting the doors bang, he’d still be alive.
Pete Andrews didn’t ask them to sit down. He stood waiting for them in the traditional pose of the Royal Navy officer on semi-official duty, with his hands clasped behind his back, like Prince Philip. There had been some discussion as to whether Alex Whitbread should be counted as one of their party. The First Lieutenant didn’t seem to be bothered by his absence.
He got straight to the point, without any preamble. ‘I would trust Rogers with my life. In fact, there have been a couple of occasions... Well, never mind that. If he says that he’d made that searchlight secure, I believe him. This was no accident.’
‘I quite agree with you,’ said the Doctor.
The Brigadier looked doubtful. ‘I know that the Commanding Officer was hardly the most popular man on the ship, but how could anybody have known that he would be there?’
‘Ah. See what you mean,’ he went on after a moment, with a glance at Sarah.
Sarah suddenly got the point as well. ‘If it wasn’t an accident at all, then...’
‘Oh God!’ she said, and sat down. There was only one person on board who could want her dead.
‘I can’t conceive of any motive that would make any member of my crew wish to harm Sarah,’ went on Andrews.
‘So one of you must be responsible. The question is, which one? And why?’
The Doctor started to speak, but the First Lieutenant held up a hand to stop him and went straight on, in a grim, official way that made his anger very apparent. ‘I have of course made a signal to London, and they’ve confirmed my position as acting Commanding Officer. I reported my view of the matter, and I fully expected to be ordered to return forthwith for a full investigation. Instead, I was informed that the original orders would stand, and that we were to place the ship, and the ship’s company, entirely at your disposal, Brigadier.’
‘This is a warship. We have been on active service in the South China Seas. We have a full complement of gunnery, and four surface-to-surface missiles, which, thank God, we have never had to use. We’re ready for anything you can ask of us.’
‘But I have to tell you that I have no intention of putting my people at risk without knowing exactly what’s going on -’
The Brigadier started to speak, but Andrews held up his hand to stop him. He hadn’t finished.
‘And I wish to make it perfectly clear that I consider it not only discourteous but dangerous in the extreme that I have been kept in the dark up to this point.’
Sarah could hardly blame him for feeling cross. In spite of the fact that he’d been second-in-command, he’d had the responsibility of running the ship. From what she’d gathered, nobody else had been told because the Captain had insisted.
Typical of the sort of man he’d been. Basically incompetent, and frightened of giving away his authority in case he was found out.
Even after Pete had had a look at the photograph that started the whole thing, he took a lot of convincing. And why not? Even though Sarah knew the whole story already, she found it difficult to believe that it was not only the two hundred cult members who were in danger but the entire population of the world.
Even the Brigadier, it seemed, shared their doubts. ‘The bodies on Hampstead Heath are evidence that we’re dealing with something quite alien, certainly,’ he said to the Doctor,
‘and the photograph bears out your hypothesis that this Skang creature is probably responsible, and I suppose there must be a number of them, but...’
The Doctor, obviously irritated, interrupted him. ‘If this were a simple incursion onto this planet of a bunch of predatory aliens, using humans as food, the pattern of events would be quite different. To start with, there would be reports of many many more similar deaths.’
‘Even if they had managed to get control of a group of humans to protect them, as it seems this lot has, they would use them merely as a cover. Ask yourselves this question?
Given what we know, why should they go to all the trouble of transporting so many of their potential victims thousands of miles away from the prying eyes of the world?’
‘It would seem that there is going to be a mass slaughter of the cult members. And what then? The creatures will have no further food. Isn’t that right?’
What on earth was he getting at? thought Sarah.
‘I am convinced that what we are seeing is merely an advance guard - a scouting party. If we are concerned for the lives of a hundred and eighty-eight poor deluded fools...’
Trust the Doctor to know the exact number!
‘...because of a mere twenty or so Skangs, what would we be looking at if there were thousands or even millions of them on the planet?’
It made sense, what he was saying. There was no logical reason for the trip to Stella Island. He must be right. Unless they could stop it happening, the Earth would be taken over by these nightmare creatures.
And the human race would become nothing more than their cattle.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Alex Whitbread lay on his bunk in a state of utter despair.
Even on an everyday level he was in deep trouble. Although he hadn’t been seen that morning, he had been placed under arrest, pending further investigation.
Nobody, it seemed, thought that the searchlight had fallen by accident. The target was obviously Sarah Jane Smith -
and it would be ludicrous to believe that any member of the ship’s crew had suddenly turned into a homicidal maniac. So that left only the Brigadier, the Doctor and himself; and the other two had a perfect alibi, as they were being served their bacon and eggs at the very moment when Sarah screamed.
Every so often his whole bunk was shaken by his violent shivering as he recalled yet again that his last chance of getting rid of the journalist kid had gone.
How was it that she hadn’t worked it out already? Or had she? The very fact that the Brigadier and the Doctor were going to all this trouble seemed to indicate that they knew that they were dealing with something far more serious than just a cult. If they confronted Mother Hilda with their suspicions, or perhaps their certain knowledge...
The rigor of desperation shook him once more.
...if Mother Hilda knew for sure that it was through him that their secret had been betrayed, he would be condemned forever to this state of half-existence, terminally cut off from his brothers and sisters of the Skang community, never again to be absorbed into the collective bliss.
He turned his face to the wall, to shut out the sight of the armed guard outside, and gave himself up to his misery.
‘But why are you heading to the west instead of the south, Bob? Have you missed it?’ Sarah stared down at the chart with its pencil line that showed their course making a right-angle, some way off to the east of the supposed position of Stella Island.
Chris, who was perched on the stool near the man at the wheel, apparently practising being the Officer of the Watch, laughed. ‘That’s right. He’s missed it. Can’t get the staff these days.’
‘Take no notice of the lower orders,’ said Bob. ‘I’ve missed it on purpose.’
‘Eh?’
‘The island’s position we’ve been given may be way out. As far as we know, it’s only been visited twice. If we aimed straight there and there was no sign of it, we’d have no idea whether to turn to port or to starboard, to the east or to the west. Doing it like this, we’ll know which area is the most likely for a box search.’
It all sounded a bit hit or miss. ‘What about the radar?’ she asked.
‘Steam-driven. They wouldn’t waste state-of-the-art on the likes of us. The poor old Hallaton can’t see over the horizon any more than you can!’
‘Don’t worry,’ he went on. ‘According to the pilot book, we can get in on a high spring tide. Well, my love, you can’t have anything higher than the equinoctial spring tides. Tomorrow is September the twentieth, the day before the equinox, when the day is as long as the night. With any luck, we’ll be anchoring in the lagoon well before lunch.’
‘Are you suggesting that some sort of UFO full of these creatures has landed without anybody noticing? Don’t you think we might have heard about it?’
That had been Pete Andrews’ first question, the evening before, once they got down to the nitty-gritty of planning their next step, and the atmosphere had become markedly more friendly.
‘If the Skang make a habit of finding inhabited planets to colonise,’ answered the Doctor, ‘they’ll have long ago perfected a way of arriving without getting a headline in the Daily Mail.’
‘Such as?’ said the Brigadier.
‘I have my own ideas on the subject, but I’d hesitate to put them forward without more evidence. Just ask yourself this question: Why were the bodies that have been found those of young humans, rather than your local farmer’s prize beef cattle?’
This was greeted by a baffled silence.
‘Well, why?’ asked the Brigadier at last.
‘Maybe we’ll find that out tomorrow,’ said the Doctor.
But what else would they find out, thought Sarah, as she left Bob checking, yet again, the effect that the tidal currents (which were apparently rather vaguely charted) might have on their new course.
She wandered across the bridge to look at the radar repeater screen, with its cursor endlessly going round and round. Would the Hallaton herself be the first to spot the island, or would they hear a hail from the lookout who’d been stationed on the upper bridge? Belt and braces, Pete had said with a grin.
Once he’d taken on board the idea of the Skang, he’d turned back into the amiable, slightly furry, friend-to-the-world they’d got to know. After dinner, he’d entered with enthusiasm into a discussion with the Brigadier about how to go about arresting the leaders of the cult, as had originally been intended, or how to hold off an armed attack if it should arise.
It was agreed almost at once that it would be foolish for the landing party not to be fully armed and ready for anything.
But what were they going to do with the stranded devotees?
They’d have to bring them back on the Skang, obviously, but that was taking for granted the co-operation of its crew. They might have to arrest them as well.
Not for the first time, the Brigadier had bemoaned out loud his serious lack of UNIT back-up.
Sarah had gone to bed, leaving them to it, noticing that the Doctor, with his second glass of what Pete called ‘cooking port’ in his hand, was quietly listening with an ironic smile.
She could understand why. In their professional enthusiasm for their contingency plans, covering the logistics of every eventuality, they seemed to have quite forgotten who the actual enemy was.
Watching the radar screen was almost hypnotic; and as the line of light went round it had something of the flavour of a roulette wheel. Would this time be the winner? Would this be the time that a little blip would show up near the top of the screen that...
There it was! A spot of light on the very edge of the display, a little bit to the left.
As she turned in excitement to tell Bob, she heard a buzzer, and a disembodied voice. ‘Radar, bridge. I have a trace, sir. Bearing two six seven degrees.’
By this time, Bob was by her side, looking at the screen.
And suddenly she had a doubt. ‘Maybe it’s the Skang,’ she said.
‘There was never a chance of catching her up,’ he said. ‘No, she’ll be waiting for us when we get there. In any case, that’s far too big a blip to be a ship. That’s the island all right! Fifty quid to a penny bun, that’s it. It’s just where it ought to be.
Chris! Give Pete a shout, will you?’
You could practically hear his grin of satisfaction.
Chris disappeared at a run, giving Bob a thumbs-up as he passed.
‘Red one zero! Something on the horizon...’ Another voice, hollow through the voice-pipe coming down from the upper bridge: the lookout. Fine on the port bow... Looks like land, sir.’
Belt and braces.
The Brigadier, in the cotton slacks and open-necked shirt that had become his preferred ‘dress-of-the-day’ while on board, hardly looked the part of a senior Army officer in charge of a vital operation.
He was more like a little boy getting ready for a game
of cowboys and Indians, thought the Doctor, as he watched him restlessly pacing up and down the upper bridge, from where Pete Andrews, with the Cox’n at the wheel, was conning the ship through the narrow gap in the reef that made an entrance into Stella Island’s large and peaceful lagoon.
Sarah seemed calmer than the Brigadier. The Doctor watched her as she leaned over the side of the bridge, trying to make out what awaited them. She was obviously excited.
Nevertheless, her face betrayed her underlying uneasiness at what might lie ahead. Of all the many companions he’d had on his travels through space and time, she was one of the most remarkable - on the face of it, an intrepid adventurer, with all the intense curiosity of an eager child, yet with much of a child’s anxiety as well. ‘I can’t see a flipping thing,’ she said.
As there was a band of mist in the way, through which the shape of the island could just be made out (very like the drawing they had seen in the Pilot book), it still wasn’t possible to get a good look at the shore. Just before they reached the mist, Chris’s voice sang out through the voice-pipe from the bridge below, where he was watching the sonar echo-sounder. ‘Seven fathoms!’
‘Stop both engines.’
The trring-trring of the engine-room telegraphs answered Pete Andrews’ order.
‘Five and a half fathoms. Shelving rapidly, sir.’
As the Hallaton ghosted forward, the new CO picked up the microphone of the Tannoy. ‘Stand by!’
Bob Simkins, in charge of the party on the foredeck, raised a hand in acknowledgement of the order.
‘Four fathoms.’
Another engine order. ‘Slow astern together.’
The twin screws took hold, the ship came to a stop, and as she gathered way astern, the order came.
‘Drop anchor!’
They had arrived at Stella Island. But where was the Skang?
‘Maybe they’ve anchored on the western side,’ said Pete Andrews.
