Part 20 (2/2)

The commissionaire nodded.

'Sorry,' said Ace. 'We're strictly neutral. Non*intervention is the Doctor's middle name.' She considered for a moment. 'Might be his only name,' she added.

The commissionaire shook his head sadly. 'I am sorry I had hoped that the Doctor was a man who understood what was happening here knew something of the evil and how to fight it.'

'War is h.e.l.l.' She tried to keep a straight face as she said it.

'No.' He shook his head again. His eyes were firmly fixed on Ace now, no longer darting furtively in search of hidden cameras and microphones. 'No, not just the war. The occupations, the terror, the oppression, the camps.' He struggled to turn back to face the door. 'I am sorry you will not help. But I had to ask. Any hope for us has to be explored.'

'Heh, look if it's serious ' Ace was starting to think maybe they should consider the situation. She was not sure quite what he was talking about, but he was certainly sincere. 'I'll talk to the Doctor, tell him what you said.'

The commissionaire's face broke into a smile and he grabbed her hand and shook it as violently as the s.p.a.ce allowed. 'Thank you.' He calmed down at last and let go of her hand. 'Thank you,' he said again.

'Yeah, right. But no promises. We'll just see what's going on, okay?'

'Then go to Marlock's office in the war room. If your stomach is up to it.' He described briefly where it was located, then opened the door and stepped nervously into the corridor. 'Good luck, and thank you,' he called back to Ace, then set off down the corridor, head swaying slightly as he bustled about his business.

'Okay, doctor,' said Ace to the empty room. What the h.e.l.l have you got us into now?'

The Doctor had completely lost track of the route he had taken. He had no idea how to get back to Hamlet Hamlet, or even if he needed to in order to escape from this world. He was more concerned at the moment with finding the mysterious character who had been watching him on the croquet lawn. He had seen the man a couple of times amidst the confusion of the ending of A Splash of Red A Splash of Red, and ducking out of The Dumb Waiter The Dumb Waiter.

As he chased through the seemingly never*ending series of stages, each ab.u.t.ted to the next, the Doctor reflected that Pinter was an interesting playwright to find under these circ.u.mstances: how could he tell if the characters were frozen by the machine or by a scripted pause? But compared to some of the other thoughts whirling round in the Doctor's head, this puzzle was not a priority.

A rather more worrying thought occurred to the Doctor as he caught a glimpse of the man hurrying past Faustus. He could have eluded the Doctor several times in the drawing room right at the start of the chase, the Doctor had completely lost him until he stuck his head round the door, saw the Doctor, and ran off. Maybe, considered the Doctor as he waved cheerily to Sergeant Musgrave, he was himself being led a dance.

He skidded to a halt. The room next to the northern mining town was more familiar than most. It was the great hall of a castle. The rough stone sprayed with heat*resistant sealant, the plastic flooring and the blast*proof doors all suggested a variation on Scott Bailey's designs. Bailey had started with hydrogen plants and moved on to fortresses, and the Doctor was sure that this was a representation one of those fortresses the fortress of Limlough. He knew of only one play set in such a room, and the positions of the six characters, seated round the banqueting table confirmed this. He was on the main set for The Good Soldiers The Good Soldiers.

Judging from the fact that the characters were still at the table, and that the makes.h.i.+ft stage required for the play within a play had not yet been constructed, he was at the very beginning. The performance had not yet started.

The Doctor took a tour round the table, tapping each of the motionless men on the shoulder as he pa.s.sed. 'Remek, Spidler.'

He murmured their names as if they were old friends and in a way they were.

'Prator, Freppon, Teel.'

They looked almost exactly as he had imagined. He had Osterling's detailed stage direction to thank for that they left no room for interpretation. The Doctor smiled: they ad been extremely boring to transcribe from Osterling's dictation. But the creeping restioparothis had taken the playwright's ability to hold a stylus or tap on a keypad. And they neither of them trusted a computer to get the transcription correct. Besides, it was Art Art, and they had both considered that that the province of the sentient rather than the machine. the province of the sentient rather than the machine.

The Doctor reached the head of the table and clapped the final figure on the shoulder. 'Jorvik,' he whispered to the cloaked man. 'The only one who held true to his beliefs. The only ”good soldier” here. Philosopher, traitor and murderer.'

He turned away at last. There were two doors out of the room, excluding the one he had just come through. He went immediately for the door stage left, the door through which the players would later arrive to enact Jorvik's cruel play within a play.

Outside the door was a void. Blackness, like the Doctor and Ace had seen beyond the limits of Hamlet Hamlet. And as far as the Doctor could see, away into the darkness, stretched the line of players waiting to come on stage.

They were all cloaked in purple, their faces partly obscured by heavy hoods. From beneath the hoods glowed the red of their electronic eyes, throwing shadows down the reflective metal of their skull*like faces and the exposed sections of exoskeleton which showed from beneath the cloaks.

That the players were robots did not surprise the Doctor. That was totally in keeping with the play. But while Osterling had been uncharacteristically remiss in not explicitly stating how many robots there were, it was generally a.s.sumed that there were at most a dozen. Five players would fit with Jorvik's description of the mime play they were to perform. Five players would mirror the characters whose deaths they would portray. Add to that another six or seven to burst in at the climax of the play, and twelve was more than ample.

But here there were hundreds. And the Doctor could think of only one reason to swell their ranks.

There was a movement in the shadows beside the Doctor. An area of the dark void s.h.i.+mmered within the overall ma.s.s. The old man he had been chasing through the worlds of the machine stepped from the shadows and stood beside the Doctor. And as they surveyed the ranks of mechanical troops, the Doctor at last believed he knew what had happened on Menaxus.

The look of disdain on Klasvik's face was almost completely undisguised. Marlock smiled to himself at the old man's envious disgust as Lannic curtsied to the Exec, her hand outstretched. The Exec took it and wiped a greasy kiss over her knuckles. Klasvik turned away.

'Until tomorrow, then.' The Exec barely acknowledged either Klasvik or Marlock when he spoke.

'Until tomorrow,' echoed Lannic in a voice more husky than usual.

The Exec's bodyguards followed him from the room, close on his heel. Lannic followed them. Marlock inclined his head slightly as she pa.s.sed him, but she seemed not to notice.

Klasvik made to follow, but Marlock held up a hand. 'Wait. A word, if I may, Leontium Klasvik.'

'Marlock.'

'My t.i.tle is Manact.' Marlock's voice was like a thunderclap.

Klasvik took a step backwards. 'Er, yes Manact. My apologies. I did not intend any, er, any disrespect.'

'And none is taken.' Manact opened his arms to show how forgiving he was. Then he made a point of turning to look at the door through which the others have just left. You know,' he said without looking back. 'I think we shall be seeing a great deal more of Camarina Lannic.' Suddenly he spun round, his finger pointing at Klasvik's head. 'What do you say to that?' he demanded.

Klasvik bl.u.s.tered for a moment. 'The Exec chooses his friendly wisely,' he eventually managed to say.

Marlock threw his head back and let out a single snort of laughter. 'He does not.'

Klasvik looked puzzled. Marlock explained. 'The Exec is an adolescent idiot who couldn't choose where to sit down if we didn't give him a special chair. You saw how that Doctor made a fool of him earlier today. It is a constant struggle for all of us who serve him so loyally to how shall I put it? to emphasize the better parts of his character and abilities.'

Klasvik gulped. 'Yours must be a very special talent,' he hazarded.

Marlock glared at him. 'It is. Now Lannic.' He strode up to Klasvik and stood in front of him. Marlock's guards kept close behind. 'You were as revolted as I was by the display this evening. But you show too much of your feelings. Suppress tem.'

'Yes, Manact.'

'I do not know what your colleague is doing, any more than I see you do. I doubt very much if she is as taken with our Exec as she would like us, and him, to believe. But whatever power*play she thinks she is making. I wish her to continue.'

'To continue?'

Madock snorted again. 'Yes, to continue. She will not gain any real power through a liaison with the Exec, but while he is occupied, shall we say? Yes, while he is occupied, I can concentrate more of my energy and time on matters more important than acting as nursemaid.'

Klasvik nodded nervously, and Madock went to the door. Without turning back he said to Klasvik, 'You will ensure that the relations.h.i.+p between the Exec and Camarina Lannic is not... interrupted.'

'Of course, Manact.'

<script>