Part 16 (1/2)

141.

'I'm sorry, young man?'

He grinned, knowing how young he really was. 'Well the staff don't exactly seem thrilled with the grub.'

He was right. As she put down her plate and gla.s.s (after one more small sip) and dabbed her lips on a napkin she could see that the waiters and waitresses nearest them seemed to be holding the plates of food at arm's length and doing their best not to look at them. Odd.

'Anderson. Call me Greg.'

'What? Oh yes, of course er, Greg.' The d.u.c.h.ess composed herself for the shot, annoyed to find Peterson suddenly latching on to her arm and trying to look as if he was in control. The d.u.c.h.ess reached across Peterson to shake Anderson's hand. 'Angela Ridpath. But Angela will do.'

The flash went off, catching a beautiful shot of the d.u.c.h.ess and the Amba.s.sador shaking hands. Their arms obscured Peterson's face completely, and the photographer decided to quit while he was ahead.

'Angela, meet Colin Hunter, my attache.' Anderson introduced them.

'Attache as in case?' the d.u.c.h.ess asked, and they all laughed.

Peterson strayed away, leaving them to their fun.

Sarah was serving drinks under the ever-watchful gaze of Carlson. She tried to make it look unplanned as she went up to Peterson as he meandered away from the main group of celebrities.

'Another drink, sir?' she asked loudly.

Peterson took a gla.s.s. He made no effort to thank her, or even acknowledge her presence.

'We need to talk,' Sarah whispered as loud as she dared, hoping Carlson was not too close.

But as she spoke a roar of laughter echoed round the room drowning out her voice completely. The tall red-haired director of Hubway was having a good time. He and the American Amba.s.sador were both almost doubled up from something the d.u.c.h.ess had said. The Amba.s.sador's aide was smiling politely to show he too had appreciated the comment.

142.

Sarah tried again. But just as she summoned the courage and opened her mouth, Peterson turned abruptly away from her. A young woman with long striking red hair who seemed to have been squeezed into a short green velvet dress, then inflated in strategic places, took Peterson's arm and led him away. As they turned, the woman glared for a second at Sarah. Had she heard? And if so, why was she glaring?

'What are you waiting for?' Carlson's voice was close to her ear.

'Because I'm a waitress.' Sarah spun round. The champagne angled in the gla.s.ses, but did not quite spill out. The tray came close to Carlson's face and he stepped back suddenly as if he had caught a whiff of ammonia.

He recovered quickly and pointed to a small group of half a dozen men and women. The men looked uncomfortable in their suits and the women were being extra careful to keep food and drink from spilling on their clothing. Sarah guessed they were the few technicians lucky enough to be invited to the opening.

'Offer them drinks,' Carlson said. The last word was an effort to force out. He seemed almost to spit it at her.

The Doctor was impressed with his programming. He rubbed his hands together, glad that the code had actually worked. When he examined the results he was a little less impressed.

It seemed likely from the readings that the creature was designed to be introduced into a complex digital system. And while the code had been running, the Doctor had taken the opportunity to enumerate the systems of sufficient complexity to merit the use of such a means to infiltrate them. On Earth in this time zone he could actually think of only one. And he was connected to it.

He could not be sure, of course, but he reckoned there was a strong probability that the CD had been intended to penetrate the global superhighway. And the main European node through which it would be logical to introduce the software was Hubway itself The main questions now were when? How? when? How?

Why? And And by whom? by whom?

143.

'Not a happy situation,' the Doctor said to the screen. 'We're dicing with death on the information superhighway to h.e.l.l.'

Somehow, when said out loud in his deep sonorous voice, echoing round the small attic room, the words did not sound as funny as he had antic.i.p.ated.

The two Voracian waitresses in the new block had dismantled the systems controlling the surveillance cameras.

Lattimer and Simpson were slumped over the front desk.

Simpson was snoring, Lattimer's face was pressed into the cover of his book. The tray of drugged champagne lay where it had fallen on the floor amongst the shards of gla.s.s and spilled liquid.

'Why not just kill them?' the blonde Voracian had asked.

'Stabfield wants them alive,' her colleague replied. 'We may need them to explain procedure. And more hostages add a marginal utility.'

'There comes a point of diminis.h.i.+ng returns,' the alien disguised as a blonde waitress said as she wired a new integrated circuit into the surveillance systems.

Carlson led Sarah back to the kitchen. Their trays were empty now, so they were getting fresh supplies.

Stabfield was sitting at his laptop still. He looked up as they came in. 'Ah,' he said. 'Just in time for phase Seven B Seven B.'

'Doesn't that machine ever get tired of you hammering away at it?' Sarah asked.

Stabfield snapped the lid shut. 'It does what it does most efficiently. As should we all.' He stood and came over to them.

'No more trays. They've had enough. It's time on the agenda for a change of tempo.'

Behind her Sarah heard a staccato double-click. She turned to see Johanna standing in the door from the bake-house corridor. She was holding a sub-machinegun, having readied it.

Stabfield held up his hand, and caught the gun cleanly, checking it before slinging it over his shoulder. Johanna and Carlson went out to the bake-house again.

144.

Stabfield levelled the gun at Sarah. 'Remember, Miss Smith,'

he said quietly, his head swaying in time to his words, 'the angels had keyboards before they had wings.'

He headed for the door, pulling off his chef's hat as he went.

'I think we can abandon the cranial accessories at this stage.'

Johanna and Carlson reappeared. They each carried a crate, and each had a machinegun over their shoulder.

'Time to open the kimono,' said Stabfield, and ushered Sarah out of the kitchen.

'Oh well,' the Doctor said, 'let's see what happens if we run it locally.'

He loaded the file, and a window sprang open, filling most of the monitor screen. The Doctor checked his fingers were crossed and put his hat on. Then he took it off again and stuffed it into his pocket.

An image formed in the window. A three-dimensional shape, jointed, segmented. It looked like an armoured snake made of highly polished metal, light sources reflecting off the scales as its head reared up and swung round towards the Doctor. He leaned back in the chair as the pixelated eyes stared at him.