Doctor Who_ The Tomorrow Windows Part 25

'He says his door was forced open and a laser bolt was fired.'

'Did anyone hear it?'

The monitor took in Vors.h.a.gg, Question Intonation and Micron's other attendant. They gave no reply.

134.

'So we only have Poozle's word for it,' surmised Fitz. 'Then what?'

'Fortunately Poozle was protected by a counter-magnetic field,' said Dittero.

'He activated the intruder alarm and his attacker fled in surprise.'

'I suppose that's why they call it an intruder alarm. '

Micron laughed, not with Fitz but at him. These creatures were so dull and obvious. This whole auction was a charade they all must know that the Fabulous Micron would be able to outbid them all.

Micron leaned back in his chair, sn.i.g.g.e.ring. Soon they would see the might of the Micron!

Vors.h.a.gg blinked at the breaking sun. Streaks of orange and red set the clouds aflame. He loathed it. The gravel path crunched beneath his feet, and around him fountains tinkled and gushed. The air smelled of freshly cut gra.s.s. Vors.h.a.gg loathed that too.

He yearned for the scent of blood, the slicing of flesh, the crack of bone beneath his teeth.

Instead he was taking a walk in the sunshine with the human, Fitz.

'It's textbook stuff,' said Fitz. 'It must be Poozle. It happens in all the Agatha Christie's. The number one rule whoever it is who fakes an attack on themselves, they're the murderer.'

'That is your deduction?' How Vors.h.a.gg wished to flay away the skin from the foolish human's face and lick at the tender flesh beneath. He could do it now, all he would need to do was + De-Aggrifier Activated +. . . continue walking.

'Well, it's the number two rule. The number one rule is that your murderer is the most famous guest star. Which makes sense, you're not going to kill off Elizabeth Taylor in the first act, are you?'

'The Vors.h.a.gg know little of the celebrity Elizabeth Taylor.'

'There's only one problem,' said Fitz, halting. In front of them, a Zwee robot clipped a topiary hedge. The small, metal creature filled Vors.h.a.gg with loathing. He longed to smash it beneath his feet. All he would have to do was + De-Aggrifier Activated +. . . leave it to its work.

'What is. . . the problem?' said Vors.h.a.gg.

'The other number one rule,' said Fitz. 'It's always the one you least suspect.

So if Poozle is the top suspect, that rules him out.'

'I don't follow your logic. 'Vors.h.a.gg stared at Fitz, and pictured the flesh bursting as he squeezed the human's neck. He tensed the muscles in his arm and + De-Aggrifier Activated +. . . relaxed them.

'This is a whodunnit, mate,' said Fitz, 'logic doesn't enter into it.'

135.

The air-conditioning in the lobby bar wafted through Question Intonation's fur. It drifted closer, enjoying the fresh, cool wind. Lovely, lovely!

'So what you're saying,' said the human somewhere from near the ground, 'is that it could be anyone, Question Intonation.'

Humans were funny things, thought Question Intonation. It must feel odd, being glued to the ground all the time. Like rocks or plants. Poor darlings, they would never know the thrill of whizzing about the sky, your body whirling and dancing, the world rushing around you in a delightful blur. No wonder they were so tetchy all the time.

'Anyone could get a Zwee to reprogram the gravity unit in Nimbit's room,'

said Question Intonation. 'It would be easy-peasy.' It drifted above the human's head and revolved suggestively around him.

'But,' said the human, 'wouldn't the Zwee be able to tell on them, Question Intonation.'

Question Intonation hummed in thought. It was in two minds about the answer. 'It would, dear,' it said. 'Except the atmospheric storm has scrambled their memories, the poor darlings.'

'Convenient.'

Question Intonation levitated in agreement.

'So what about you, Question Intonation,' said the human. 'Did you want Nimbit dead, Question Intonation.'

'Oh no,' said Question Intonation. 'Awful business. I mean, the poor creature. Imagine getting squished! Makes me feel all funny thinking about it.'

'You have one less rival.'

'Not really,' said Question Intonation. 'I'm not here for the auction. I'm here for another pur' It stopped itself. It had said too much. 'What purpose, Question Intonation.'

'Bored now.' Question Intonation bobbed over to the doors. 'But I think Poozle is here for the same reason. . . '

Welwyn admired his reflection in the mirror. Beautiful. He twitched his neck, wafting his wavy hair. Beautiful. He tugged his cuffs into place, trying out different poses.

Hand on chin, raised eyebrows. Quizzical Quizzical.

Arms folded, frown. Brooding Brooding.

Hand resting on wall above head height, upper lip pouting. Casual.

Behind his reflection appeared a sceptical Mr Kreiner. 'Busy?'

'One is always busy, when one creates creates,' said Welwyn. 'Even when one is not in the process of creating, one is,' he breathed out, 'a creation.'

'Sorry, I thought you were just admiring yourself in the mirror.'

'What's not to admire?'

136.

Fitz nodded incredulously. 'Right. I have some questions.'

Welwyn turned away from his reflection and struck his hands upon his hips.

Debonair. 'Yes?'

'The thunderstorm last night. You know it erased the Zwees' memories?'

'No,' said Welwyn.

'No?'

'Well. . . yes. It's not the first time it's happened, you see. The weather has been playing up, and last time we had a storm. . . all the Zwees went haywire.'

'Who would've known about this?'

'I don't know. Everyone, I suppose. It happened during the auction for Shardybarn, before you arrived. Why d'you ask?'

Fitz placed one hand against the wall above his head. 'I'm wondering what caused the storm.'

'You don't think it was a malfunction?'

'No. I think someone wanted it to look like a malfunction. Because, after all, that's what everyone would a.s.sume '

Welwyn was hurt. 'That's not fair, it's a temporary problem '

Fitz shook his head. 'You misunderstand me. What I think is, your weather control system was working perfectly.'

'Oh. 'Welwyn's hurt eased. 'Good. Yes.'

'Someone deliberately created the storm, to wipe the memory of the Zwee that tampered with Nimbit's gravity.'

'I see. Gosh. How desperately cunning.'

'So, is there any way of finding out who did it?'

'Yes,' said Welwyn. 'Each instruction to the weather biosphere computer triggers an error message, which is logged.'

'Is it supposed to do that?'

'No.' Welwyn reached into his pocket. 'But, fortunately for you, it does.' He held the weather remote control and punched in his pa.s.s code to the Utopia biosphere computer. 'Ah. Here we are.' He gasped.

'What is it?'

'You were right. The storm last night. . . it was deliberate!'

Fitz smiled. 'So who did it?'

Welwyn scrolled down to the last error message.

'A Zwee.'

'So the Zwee that was instructed to create the storm would also forget who had given it the order,' concluded Fitz.

Dittero didn't like Fitz's line of questioning. He also didn't like the odour emanating from the remains on Nimbit's bed. Six Zwees attended to the gloopy mess, sc.r.a.ping the lumps into dustpans. As each pan was filled, they 137 decanted the jelly into a bucket. Other Zwees sprayed foam on to the carpet and scrubbed away the stains.

'What's gonna happen to. . . him?' said Fitz.

'The remains will be transported back to the nearest relative for burial, cremation or deep-s.p.a.ce disposal,' said Dittero.

'What a way to go.' Fitz turned to Dittero. 'What do you make of the delegates? Odd bunch, aren't they?'

'It is not for me to say,' said Dittero, one hand smoothing his hair.

'There's Vors.h.a.gg,' said Fitz. 'Seems harmless, thanks to the chip in his brain if nothing else. And there's Micron. He seems a bit too big for his boots.'

'The Micron are a. . . proud race,' Dittero said diplomatically. The smell in this room was rather too much. He pressed a handkerchief over his mouth and retreated to the door.

'Then there's Question Intonation,' said Fitz, following him. 'Who is, well, annoying.'

'I would not venture such an opinion, Mr Kreiner.' Dittero stepped out into the corridor.

'And Poozle,' said Fitz, closing the door behind them. 'Who doesn't seem to be much of anything.'

'The Varble are. . . inscrutable.'

'He's still refusing to leave his room.'

'After last night's attack, very much understandable,' Dittero reminded him.

'Yes,' shrugged Fitz. 'If he was attacked. . . Did you believe all that stuff about the magnetic fields?'

'I naturally have no reason to impugn his veracity.'

'I don't know. I was wondering. . . whether Poozle is really here for the auction?'

'What on Utopia do you mean?' snapped Dittero.

'Whether he has some other agenda?'

'Mr Kreiner, you seem to forget that, unlike your good self, Poozle has been an active partic.i.p.ant in the bidding.'

'Good point,' said Fitz.

'Speaking of which,' said Dittero, drumming his fingers on his clipboard.

'We have another planet on the schedule '

'Another one?'

'Yes. One I can guarantee guarantee will be vacated shortly. Estebol.' will be vacated shortly. Estebol.'

Fitz's breath clouded in the chilly air. He zipped up his jacket for warmth. The air stank of petrol fumes and smouldering rubber. Rain spattered.