Part 1 (1/2)

DOCTOR WHO:.

LOVING THE ALIEN.

by Robert Perry and Mike Tucker.

PART ONE.

Chapter One.

'This is the BBC Here at Winnerton Flats hundreds of people have turned out to watch history being made. In the distance the elegant turned out to watch history being made. In the distance the elegant shape of the shape of the Blue Streak Blue Streak rocket dominates the skyline, and on top of it rocket dominates the skyline, and on top of it the experimental Waverider, the plane that the British Rocket Group the experimental Waverider, the plane that the British Rocket Group hope will put a man into orbit and them into the record books. hope will put a man into orbit and them into the record books.

'Here in the launch control room there is an air of barely concealed excitement as white-coated technicians scurry around like ants, excitement as white-coated technicians scurry around like ants, checking and rechecking their calculations, all eyes on the clock checking and rechecking their calculations, all eyes on the clock ticking relentlessly towards zero hour. ticking relentlessly towards zero hour.

'As for Uncle Sam, well, he's starting to look a little green with envy as our plucky chaps look like beating them to the punch. On the other as our plucky chaps look like beating them to the punch. On the other side of the pond the Dyna-Soar project has run into a few problems, side of the pond the Dyna-Soar project has run into a few problems, whilst here all systems are go, ready to make the Dyna-Soar look like a whilst here all systems are go, ready to make the Dyna-Soar look like a dinosaur!' dinosaur!'

Rita Hawks raised a perfectly measured eyebrow and gave an unlady like snort of contempt.

'If that's the best reporting you can do, then you're the only dinosaur round here, bud!'

The grey-suited BBC reporter cupped his hand over his microphone and gave her a disapproving look.

'If you don't mind, madam, we are on the air!'

'Yeah? Well, chances are that any listeners you had have probably dozed off. Still, it could be worse. They might be able to see you instead of just hear you, and you've got a face that was made for radio.'

There were guffaws from her fellow or, rather rival journalists.

The BBC man spluttered with indignation. 'Well, really.'

There was a good-natured chuckle from the doorway. 'Hey, Rita, the war's over, remember, and even if it weren't, I think we were on the same side as the Brits.'

Rita flashed a brilliant smile at the young army major who had just entered the control room. 'Ah, I know, Bill, but these BBC guys are an easy target. They bring out the worst in me.'

1.'And I thought it was me that did that.'

'No, you bring out the mother in me. It's those baby cheeks of yours.'

'Flattery now?'

'You get all the flattery you need from these British girls; I've seen you prowling the officers' club.'

'But you know that I prefer older women.'

'Well, if you're going to insult me, you can let me smoke a cigarette.'

Rita pulled an elegant silver cigarette case from her handbag and snapped it open. 'Got a light?'

'Sure.' The major slipped a lighter from his jacket and flicked it into life, cupping his hands over the tip of her cigarette.

'Thanks.' Rita took a deep drag and blew a cloud of blue smoke into the air. There was a cough from the control room. One of the white-coated lab technicians was looking at her sternly over the rim of his gla.s.ses.

'Miss Hawks, must I remind you yet again about smoking in the control room?'

'All right, all right! Jeez.' She fanned her hand through the cloud of cigarette smoke, sending wispy spirals towards the ceiling.

'I'd better step out onto the terrace. Care to join me, Bill?'

The major pulled his cap onto his head and grinned. 'I don't think that the general would be too pleased to find his staff fraternising with members of the opposite s.e.x whilst on duty.'

'Well, if the general would like to fraternise with me, I could do with a few words for the paper.'

'Well, I don't know...'

'Oh, come on Bill, what's the point of me being well connected if my connections don't get me any closer than this? All I need is five minutes with him. It'd be a h.e.l.luva scoop.'

'Are you sure you wouldn't rather spend five minutes with me? I know a quiet little place...'

'Bill Collins...'

'OK! OK! I'll see what I can do' He grinned. 'But I'll have to lie about the paper. You don't think your rag usually gets invited to these s.h.i.+ndigs, does it? I'll say you're from the Mirror Mirror.'

'Why not The Times The Times?'

Collins smirked.

'Say anything!' Rita blurted.

'And it's going to cost you a drink later.'

Rita sighed.

'Sure. You never give up, do you?'

2.'Never.

With a wink Major Collins straightened his uniform and crossed the control room. Two privates snapped to attention as he pa.s.sed and he gave a lazy salute. Rita smiled. The young major was so c.o.c.ky. Cute, but not her type. She raised her cigarette again, then caught the eye of the lab technician.

'I'm going! I'm going!'

She pulled open the door of the control room and stepped out onto the terrace that overlooked the launch site. The November air was crisp and cold, and Rita pulled her cardigan tighter around her shoulders, glad of the warmth from the cigarette. She squinted through the morning glare to where the rocket sat on its launch pad. The slender shape glinted under the winter sun, like the steeple of some technological church.

Rita nodded in approval. She liked that a.n.a.logy. She'd use it in her article. Show the BBC guys what real journalism was all about. A gust of cold wind sent ash from the tip of her cigarette skittering across the terrace and she ducked behind one of the crumbling columns that lined this wing of the house.

It was typical of the Brits to set a state-of-the-art s.p.a.ce development centre in the sh.e.l.l of an Edwardian manor. She craned her neck and looked back along the elegant frontage. Up to the line of the second floor windows Winnerton Manor looked like any one of a number of crumbling British country houses that littered the countryside, but the forest of aerials sprouting from the roof, and the huge radar dish that dominated the south wing, distinguished it as something different.

Winnerton Manor must have been impressive in its day, but time and the war had taken their toll. Out in the grounds, corrugated-iron huts sat amongst the rubble that had once been stables and outbuildings, rough, tyre-worn tracks cutting ugly swathes through the remains of the gardens. One wing of the house was gone completely, blown into dust by a German bomb intended for the docks. What remained had been hurriedly sh.o.r.ed up with scaffolding and timber by the army, holes in the stonework repaired with brick and concrete forming harsh blemishes amidst the Edwardian grandeur. The gentle sweep of the drive leading from the main road was now dotted with barriers and checkpoints, khaki-uniformed soldiers tensing whenever a car rounded the curve of the road.