Doctor Who - Downtime Part 8

'Lieutenant!' He was just going to relieve himself behind a lump of tossed-aside masonry the size of a small bungalow, when he heard Londqvist shouting.

The pilot was leaning out of the Valkyrie Valkyrie's c.o.c.kpit. When he saw Cavendish, he gestured up at the ridge that overlooked the valley.

A row of motionless figures was ranged across the crest, staring down at the intruders. They were dressed in orange robes like monks and carried tall staffs.

Cavendish heard a deep sepulchral chanting and felt a tangible wave of anger hit him. He was thought a profanity in their sacred place. He started to walk up towards the ridge, but the stare from the orange line was implacable, so increasingly angry that he found it physically difficult to face. It forced against him like a current of energy. The chanting grew in strength. He began to get the shakes. He turned and ran for the helicopter. Its blades were already scything the air.

'Let's get out of here!'

The Valkyrie Valkyrie lifted, then baulked under a surge of turbulence. They veered sharply sideways. The rockface loomed. Loose stones rattled onto the fuselage. Londqvist fought with the juddering controls to stop the machine smashing into the mountain. The force beat against them like a tide of invisible fists. The helicopter, its engine screaming, tilted down towards the mouth of the black pit. Londqvist wrenched the control column back with a yell. The machine pulled up with metres to spare. It cut through the veil of smoke and rose away. The force of the guardians of Det-sen broke. lifted, then baulked under a surge of turbulence. They veered sharply sideways. The rockface loomed. Loose stones rattled onto the fuselage. Londqvist fought with the juddering controls to stop the machine smashing into the mountain. The force beat against them like a tide of invisible fists. The helicopter, its engine screaming, tilted down towards the mouth of the black pit. Londqvist wrenched the control column back with a yell. The machine pulled up with metres to spare. It cut through the veil of smoke and rose away. The force of the guardians of Det-sen broke.

Behind them, Cavendish saw the line of figures begin to file slowly down into the valley. They were searching out their path with their long staffs, moving like a group of blind men.

'What was it?' he kept repeating.

'Put it in your report,' snapped the pilot. 'I am flying on to Lukla.' He was plainly concentrating on putting as much s.p.a.ce between themselves and Det-sen as he could.

Cavendish was still shivering. His hand stung a little where tiny fragments of the web had clung to it. He tried to brush them off.

'I said, I am flying to Lukla,' insisted Londqvist. 'What is the name of the contact there?'

Cavendish pulled the file out of his holdall He flicked clumsily through the pages and eventually found the list of civilian auxiliaries. All the entry for Lukla said was 'Eric'.

By the time they reached Lukla, Cavendish had settled himself again. Londqvist flew over the settlement and then turned to drop down to the airfield. As they pa.s.sed over one of the tin-roofed houses, they saw a man with wild grey hair staring up at them. Then he began running frantically about, tearing up a row of plants from a makeshift allotment at the back.

'Eric?' suggested the pilot.

'Right,' said Cavendish. 'I'll deal with him. You get yourself some tea or something.'

Cavendish found the teashop quickly enough and was soon joined by Londqvist, which was not what he had intended.

'Wait outside, old chap,' he advised using his inimitable Sandhurst charm. 'Don't want to intimidate him, do we? I'll bring you out a tea.'

There was an old man in the shop, but he ignored Cavendish's questions, seemingly content to stare ahead and turn his prayer wheel. The officer was just heading through to the back when he came face to face with Lukla's legacy from the Summer of Love. Eric was waving a half-empty bottle of cheap whisky.

'What's the hurry, man,' he slurred, blocking the way.

Cavendish flashed his UNIT pa.s.s. Eric peered at it, mystified. Then an expression of recognition dawned across his face. 'Hey, UNIT. That's cool. I thought you guys were checking me out as a drop point.'

'Sorry about your garden,' said Cavendish, curtly. 'I'll take two teas while I'm here.' He eyed the old man in the corner.

'That's Uncle,' Eric said. 'He's cool too. No talka the Inglesi, eh Uncle? He has a neat line in Tibetan hats though.

Only eight yuan yuan.'

Uncle ignored this and concentrated on his prayer wheel.

'No thanks. Just the tea,' said Cavendish. 'Do you get much news down from Tibet?'

Eric swigged at his bottle. 'Bad news. This place is getting too busy. Backpackers and trekkers. Like, soon there'll be a Hilton. That's all the c.r.a.p I came to get away from, man.'

'Have you heard about the monastery at Det-sen?'

Eric nearly choked. 'Oh no, man. Not that place again.

That's bad news. No one goes there. No trade. No nothing.'

'Why? What have you heard? Did you know there was an explosion six days ago? The place has been blown apart.'

Eric glanced at Uncle. 'What did I say, man? Bad news.'

Cavendish was getting impatient. He scratched at the irritation on his hand. 'We've reports that there was a trekker who was travelling to Det-sen via Lukla. We checked her permit in Kathmandu. Her name's Victoria Waterfield. She's English. Do you know anything about her?'

'Jolly bad show, old chap,' enunciated Eric. 'Seen one trekker, seen 'em all.'

'Now look here...' Cavendish tapered off as Londqvist came through the door.

The Swede sidled up to the counter. 'I'll try one of your yakburgers,' he said to Eric and slapped five ten- yuan yuan notes on the bar. He gave Cavendish a mocking wink. notes on the bar. He gave Cavendish a mocking wink.

Eric picked up the notes and sniffed them. 'Now that you mention it, man, there was a girl here. A couple of Sherpa brought her in. She was in a bad way. Bad burns. They ferried her back to Kathmandu.' He shrugged at Cavendish. 'Too bad.

You missed the boat.'

Cavendish was determined not to be outdone. 'And was it her? Had she been at Det-sen?'

At this, Uncle began to chatter away. Eric was suddenly animated, trying to calm him down. He shook the old man, who never looked him in the face, but only stared fixedly at the floor. Under his tatty brown coat there was a flash of brilliant orange.

It was incomprehensible to Cavendish, but one word kept recurring. It sounded like Travers Travers.

'What's he babbling about?' complained the second lieutenant. 'This is a total waste of time. Come on, Londqvist.

There's no point in staying.'

The pilot followed him out into the street. As they marched towards the airstrip, he said, 'I think you are missing a few things.'

'Too bad. I want to get my report in.'

'The old man was looking for someone called Edward Travers.'

'Travers? Means nothing to me.' Cavendish was scratching again at his hand.

'He said that Travers had escaped.'

'Probably went off without paying for a hat. This whole business is a wild-goose chase. I've got my samples. I want to get back.'

'The old man was a priest,' called Londqvist. 'And he was blind.'

Cavendish halted and did a complete about turn. 'Do you have something to say?' he snapped.

Londqvist shook his head. 'It's your mission, Lieutenant.

I'm sure it'll be in your report.'

'That's obvious, isn't it?' Cavendish complained. 'Good G.o.d, who in their right mind builds a monastery right on the side of a volcano? It's asking for trouble and that's what they got.'

The d.a.m.ned irritation on his hand was getting raw. He noticed that Londqvist was watching him scratch the skin.

'What about the attack?' the Swede asked. With a certain perverse satisfaction, Cavendish saw that he was scratching at his own wrist too.

'Frightened monks, that's all. They're mystics, aren't they?

So they're bound to tap unusual powers.' He would have thought that was obvious. 'I wouldn't be in UNIT if I didn't believe in the paranormal,' he snapped.

'I thought they tried to keep an equal balance of affirmed sceptics.' Londqvist paused, apparently no longer convinced by his own argument.

Cavendish was walking backwards towards the helicopter.

His eyes never left Londqvist: a look that allowed for no argument. 'As for that trekker,' he said firmly, 'you hardly need worry about her. Sounds as if she was lucky to get away with her life.'

The pilot flexed his fingers as if something was clinging to them. He glanced up at the mountains and the sky as if the answer to something he could not remember might be hovering there. He said slowly, 'I am sure that you have made the right decision.'

'Good,' said Second Lieutenant Cavendish. They marched to the Valkyrie Valkyrie and climbed into their seats. Cavendish pushed his a.s.signment file back into his holdall. 'I'm sorry, Londqvist. You never got your yakburger.' and climbed into their seats. Cavendish pushed his a.s.signment file back into his holdall. 'I'm sorry, Londqvist. You never got your yakburger.'

Londqvist stared at the helicopter controls and grunted his agreement.

Cavendish clicked-in his safety harness. 'Never mind, old chap. It'll all be in my report.'

Duty Officer Rikki Patel, not one to miss a trick not since the Tibet explosion fiasco at any rate flicked through the previous day's computer lists. It was the usual log of Geneva's accessions and transactions, but three entries commanded his interest.

There were two enquiries to the personnel records database from Second Lieutenant Douglas Cavendish, and a third from Flight Lieutenant Per Londqvist of Valkyrie Valkyrie Flight. Flight.

Dashing Duggie had been far too c.o.c.ky since he'd come bounding to the rescue with his Tibet report. He had certainly made it clear that Patel owed him one for that favour.

His first request concerned data on the name 'Waterfield, Victoria'. Access was denied a formal instruction that suggested that information was held under a security lock.

Apparently Cavendish did not have the clearance for this, since his enquiry went no further.

It was the next enquiry that made Patel sit up. Both Cavendish and Londqvist were requesting the same information. The input name was 'Travers, Edward (Professor)'. Access was given.

DO Patel logged into the database and entered the name himself. The system was slow four years old and already out of date. The terminal whirred and clicked before finally disclosing its information. All the screen showed was 'Subject Deceased, 80/25/12. File closed.'

'So sorry, Duggie,' observed Patel in an Eton accent. 'Too frightful. The old b.u.g.g.e.r probably choked on a mince pie.' It was a fate he wished the precocious young officer might enjoy as well. But it was a long time to wait until Christmas.

3.

A Day at the Zoo s befitted the cold end of September, the zoo was Adeserted. The leaves were already turning and there was a bite to the air. Sarah Jane Smith was a little early for the photocall so she made a detour to go and talk to the elephants.

There were no elephants to be seen, so she talked to a rhino instead. It was a one-sided conversation. She leaned on the railing and said, 'h.e.l.lo, rhino,' and it ignored her and got on with some important munching.

'Your interviewing technique's going a bit rusty,' said a voice behind her.

She froze. 'Charlie!' She turned and flung her arms round his neck, hugging him tight. 'I thought you were in...'

'Paris?' he mumbled.

'No, Nepal! I thought you were plant-hunting.' She pulled back to look at him. Charles Bryce, sickeningly brown, with his golden hair bleached almost albino. 'You look wonderful.'

'So do you, Sarah darling.'

'I should have guessed you'd be here at this.'

'Why else do you think they put you on this story?'

'I see,' she grinned. 'Well, at least there'll be someone here worth talking to.' She looked round. 'Is Jill here?'

'Nah. She is is in Paris, cataloguing my plants. It was a good trip.' in Paris, cataloguing my plants. It was a good trip.'

'You have a saintly wife, Charlie.' Sarah took his arm.

'Come on. You can tell me all about Yeti before all the bowing and sc.r.a.ping starts.'