Part 24 (1/2)

Fingers dug hard into his shoulders and Harrods pulled him away from the shop window. Inside, a dozen television screens were flickering balefully, their reception reduced to blank white light.

Clive Kirkham sat in the plush surroundings of the Millbank studio at Westminster waiting for something to happen. The BBC's hospitality was beginning to wear a bit thin. The young upstart correspondent they had a.s.signed to interview him about New World University kept apologizing for the delay.

There was meant to be a report to accompany the interview, but the top bra.s.s at New World were unavailable for comment and the camera crew were stuck in traffic between Westminster and Shepherd's Bush.

'Gone to the pub if they've any sense,' muttered Kirkham.

Initially, the producer had said that the interview was for the evening news. Now, in between bouts of blasphemy, she was muttering that the news might not go out at all. If it did, it would wholly concern the technological meltdown that was infecting every major computer system around the globe.

Millbank's link to Television Centre had gone down. All TV and radio stations were currently running on their own generators and several of the transmitters had failed.

'Christ,' the producer complained, 'what the h.e.l.l's going on out there? The licence-payers complain we spend too much time speculating, but how else do you cover the end of the world? Get Kate Adie to summarize Armageddon after after the event?' the event?'

'It'll never get the ratings,' crowed Clive Kirkham.

The producer gave him a withering look and retired from the studio to the bedlam of her control room. The correspondent apologized again. The lights went out. With no internal phones working, they were isolated and literally in the dark.

Kirkham stayed put, determined to have his say no matter what. He sipped his BBC tea, enjoying the dimly lit sight of the world's most prestigious broadcasting organization reduced to grovelling about trying to change a fuse.

Twice, a secretary from the House came in to see if there was any news. The second time, she announced that Parliament was to be recalled for an emergency debate.

The back-up generator came on. Clive Kirkham grabbed at the microphone boom and glared at the producer through the gla.s.s window of the control room. 'Young lady, are you listening? If you want this interview, I suggest you get it now.

Or maybe you can afford to get me back at a time more convenient to you.'

Within minutes, Kirkham was facing the camera and unleas.h.i.+ng his tirade against New World, neo-n.a.z.ism, the Education Secretary and the irresponsibility of the government in general.

As the correspondent nodded dutifully, there was a shout from the control room. The lights flickered and dimmed.

Several of the cables that lay across the floor twitched and undulated. There was a deafening screech of feedback.

Kirkham gaped as the whole camera podium, operator and all, lifted gracefully away from the floor. The cameraman flung himself sideways. The camera hovered and then threw itself straight at Clive Kirkham. The MP ducked as the ma.s.sive piece of technology sailed inches above his head and smashed itself into the wall behind him.

There was a loud clunk as someone cut the power.

Technicians and PAs cl.u.s.tered round the astonished Kirkham. All he could think to say was, 'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l. You didn't tell me you had a poltergeist.'

Sarah was getting increasingly frustrated. 'No. No. I said codes NN and QQ.'

She threw a glance at K9, who was waiting by the desk, monitoring the call to UNIT HQ. The voice still told her that Brigadier Crichton was unavailable, but at least she was not talking to Cavendish.

'Q...Q! It's urgent!' She shook the phone angrily, trying to clear the crackling interference. 'I'd get more sense out of the tea lady.'

The voice on the other end of the phone burbled something which she didn't even imagine she had heard correctly.

'Sorry? Have I encountered any what? What have Yeti got to do with it?'

There was a pause.

'Mistress?'

She groaned. 'Not now, K9.'

'Yeti, mistress?'

'What?'

'I have references to Yeti which also mention Colonel Lethbridge-Stewart and the London Event.'

'K9?'

'Mistress?'

'I'm sorry for what I said when I tripped over you this morning.'

'Apologies are unnecessary.'

'You're a wee gem, K9, and I won't ever threaten to put you in kennels again.'

'h.e.l.lo,' said a new voice on the line. 'This is Crichton.'

'Oh h.e.l.lo, Brigadier. My name is Sarah Jane Smith. I used to work with UNIT a long time ago. But I'm ringing about Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart and the London Event and New World University.'

Victoria rose from her desk as the old man appeared in the doorway. He advanced slowly, his white stick sweeping the floor before him.

'Chancellor,' she said, and came to meet him.

He stopped, sensing her presence.

She ignored Christopher's stare and gazed adoringly up at her mentor's ancient, bedraggled features. 'Welcome home, Professor Travers.'

His head did not turn and his voice was icy. 'I am still in the wilderness. Only my will to survive keeps me from despair.'

Victoria took his free hand and lifted it to her face. 'You have lit a flame of hope in all of us.'

He gave a little groan and started to run his bony fingers almost tenderly across the contours of her face. Then, with a grunt, he caught her chin and held her with sudden ferocity.

'Is it as I instructed? My shape. Symmetry. A form at last.