Part 29 (2/2)

'Tell me, how would I get to the s.p.a.ce Museum from here without those rioters tearing me apart?'

'We can arrange an escort, Prime Minister.'

'Do so. I will be downstairs in two minutes.'

Greyhaven combed his hair into place and slipped a fountain pen into his pocket. 'If you'll excuse me, Colonel, I have work to do.'

103.

Extract from the memoirs of Professor Bernice Summerfield The Martian s.h.i.+p was unguarded. It was exactly as Ray had described it, and as I had expected from my excavation of the ”s.h.i.+p's graveyard” at Tharsis. It was a V-wing, roughly the same size and shape as the pinnacle of human aviation at the time of the invasion, the B2 stealth bomber. It was built from a glistening green ceramic material, the name of which eluded me. I caught Ford's attention, and motioned that I was going in. Ford indicated that he would finish planting his explosives before joining me.

There were two ways into the shuttle: the main hatch at the front, and the cargo doors on the underside. Both were open. I chose the latter, edging forwards. A couple of fork lift trucks sat snugly in the shadow of the Martian craft.

Without even realising that I had slipped into Sherlock Holmes mode, I deduced from the tyre tracks that the fork lifts had been active recently. The cargo hatch looked like the bomb bay of a Lancaster bomber. As I approached the opening, the cold air from inside was wafting down.

I ducked underneath one of the cargo bay doors, poking my head up into the body of the s.h.i.+p. The shuttlecraft's hold was tiny, and there was only dim Martian lighting, but I could see that it had been packed solid with metal cylinders. Captain Ford was already out of sight and I certainly couldn't call out for him. The tiny UNIT walkie-talkie in my pocket was also useless for the moment - we'd agreed at the briefing that this phase of the operation was being conducted under the strictest radio silence.

Everything was going according to my plan - the one that I hadn't shared with UNIT. I took a last look around to make sure that no-one had seen me, then pul ed myself up into the shuttlecraft. I sat on the edge of the hatch for a moment to congratulate myself for being so quiet. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the twilight, and I could feel the gooseb.u.mps developing on my legs and arms. It wasn't uncomfortably cold, though. The magnetic engines were on, and throbbing with power. Like every machine of its complexity, the shuttle was on the brink of being alive. Noises that the s.h.i.+p's builders couldn't have explained surrounded me, a hiss there, a clank here.

I was heading for the communications rig. Al Martian equipment is bulky. The communicator was the size of a telephone box, too big to slot into the c.o.c.kpit. They tucked it away down here. I turned the corner.

The vast Martian scientist filled the alcove. He had his back to me. I edged away, trying not to make a sound.

Vrgnur hadn't seen me and was deep in a hissing, grunting conversation. I wasn't sure, but it was almost certainly Xznaal on the other end of the line. Like any language, there was a world of difference between the textbook Martian grammar and the col oquial form. The sound didn't carry very wel in the thin air, either. Despite all that, I could tell that the conversation was coming to an end.

I backed into something solid, the size of a tree trunk. I pul ed back, thinking it was another Martian, but it was merely a metal tank. I caught myself from screaming, sighing with relief, laughing and from making al the other little noises I was planning at that moment.

The gauge said that the cylinder was full to capacity. I bent over to double-check, resting my hand on the side of the container. Almost before my fingertips had touched the cold metal, whatever was inside surged towards them, clattering against the side like a bird in a cage.

I realised what it was.

Outside, Captain Ford and his men were planting explosives around an empty refinery. The poison gas had already been piped into the shuttle. The thing that had killed the Doctor was in here with me.

End of extract ***

'Sir,' the human female h.e.l.lmond squeaked. 'I've just had a phone cal from Downing Street. The Prime Minister isn't going to the Tower. His car is being escorted to Trafalgar Square.'

'What?' Xznaal bel owed, sweeping around.

'Did he explain why?' Xztaynz asked quietly.

'He is going to the s.p.a.ce Museum, sir,' the female said.

Xznaal glared down at the two humans. 'Why?'

'I have no idea,' Xztaynz muttered. He struggled with some mental activity - a feat of memory, perhaps. 'Unless he... he said something about an insurance policy, and that... the Orbiter.'

Xznaal's eyes narrowed. 'We musst follow him.'

Extract from the memoirs of Professor Bernice Summerfield Have you ever heard the expression ”her mind raced”? In adventure stories, when faced with insurmountable odds and imminent death, the author tells us that the heroine's mind ”races”. My mind did no such thing. It sat there, nursing the mental equivalent of a hamstring injury. The primal instinct in these circ.u.mstances ought to be ”flight or fight” - kil or run away. I stood there.

I managed to muster enough presence of mind to duck out of sight as Vrgnur detached himself from the communications alcove. In something akin to his native atmosphere, his breathing was quiet - I hoped that I could say the same about myself: Martian hearing was acute, possibly sharp enough to pick up the sound of a human heart slamming against a ribcage. Although I couldn't see or hear Vrgnur, I could feel his vast bulk moving across the deck of the shuttle, the metal reverberating with each footstep. Vrgnur paused, close to me. There was a wrenching sound, a pneumatic hiss and then the cargo bay doors slammed shut.

104.

I was trapped in here, alone with the Martian.

Within seconds, Vrgnur was lumbering out of the hold, away from me. ”Relief” seemed like a rather small word to describe what I was feeling. The Martian scientist was heading away from the hold to the c.o.c.kpit. I checked my watch. I had only a little over a minute to get clear before Captain Ford set off the bombs.

I eased myself out of my hiding place and tried to find the control that opened the cargo hatch. It wasn't difficult - the lever was four foot long, and bright red. It wouldn't have been out of place in an old-fas.h.i.+oned signal box. To Vrgnur, releasing the control would have been as easy as changing the gears of a car. But humans found it less easy, as I quickly discovered when I tried to apply all my weight to get the thing to budge.

Reader, I swore.

The sound echoed around the cargo hold, and didn't go away however much I wished that it would or however much I gritted my teeth.

Twenty seconds later, I still hadn't been killed by a Martian, so I decided that Vrgnur hadn't heard me. He would be safely strapped into his pilot's cradle by now, a chunky visor over his eyes, his claws tugging at the controls. Which would mean...

The shuttlecraft lurched skywards on a column of magnetic energy. At precisely that moment, I could hear the rumble of explosions outside. It was like being caught in a tidal wave.

As a train begins slowing at the end of every journey, when it's coming into the station and everyone is standing up, draping their coat over their arm ready to leave, there's always someone who contrives to pitch over and crash around, unable to manage even basic co-ordination. That person is generally me.

I tumbled to the floor, landing heavily on the metal deck.

Before I pul ed myself up, I unzipped one of the pouches on my belt, and tugged out one of the thermite packs. It was wrapped up in cellophane like a packet of cigarettes or a box of chocolates. I located the little strip and unwound it, slipping the bomb from its wrapper. Like all military hardware, like most things designed for men, it was black and ergonomic with little LEDs and ridges in the plastic so that it was easy to grip.

I checked the timing mechanism - usually the first thing to go on the things. The bomb was working. I slid the control on the top, arming it. I could set the timer by tapping the little b.u.t.tons, just like setting a digital watch or a VCR, or I could just press the red b.u.t.ton and save myself the wait. One explosion would be enough to depressurise the shuttle. However much Vrgnur struggled with the controls, the s.h.i.+p would drop like a stone and dash itself against the English countryside. I was actually reaching for the b.u.t.ton when I remembered my plan to end the invasion. I glanced back at the communications rig. There was an adhesive strip on the back of the bomb.

I attached the device to the nearest metal cylinder. For a few seconds the gas scuttled away at it, but I was already crossing the hold.

Vrgnur had deactivated the communicator. I examined the display and tried to twist one of the dials. It took a moment for my puny human wrists to get the dial to turn, but the holoplate began rezzing up. Martians had different colour and depth perception to a human, but I had seen enough Martian murals to work out what was going on.

I flicked a stiff switch, establis.h.i.+ng the interplanetary carrier wave, then sat back - it was going to take a while before I would be able to tell whether it was working. I didn't have a while. The logo of the Martian Communicators Guild appeared in the hologlobe. I selected an open channel, cleared my throat and began speaking in what I hoped the Martians would recognise as their own language.

'This is Professor Bernice Summerfield of the clans of the United Kingdom. Our world has been invaded by the Lord Xznaal. Unable to win in combat, he formed an alliance with traitors and now skulks in his wars.h.i.+p, afraid to Lord Xznaal. Unable to win in combat, he formed an alliance with traitors and now skulks in his wars.h.i.+p, afraid to leave its confines. We have heard legends of the mighty warrior race of Mars, and frankly we are shocked by this leave its confines. We have heard legends of the mighty warrior race of Mars, and frankly we are shocked by this cowardly behaviour. He now loots and plunders our world for its weapons, raw materials, and best soldiers. I can't cowardly behaviour. He now loots and plunders our world for its weapons, raw materials, and best soldiers. I can't imagine what he's planning to do with all of them. He said something about going back to Mars and, er, what was imagine what he's planning to do with all of them. He said something about going back to Mars and, er, what was it again? Oh yes ”showing that stunted git Paxaphyr where he can stick the sword of Tubarr”. Anyway, as I say, it again? Oh yes ”showing that stunted git Paxaphyr where he can stick the sword of Tubarr”. Anyway, as I say, his wars.h.i.+p is here now, along with his finest warriors. All of them here. And not there. Just thought you would like his wars.h.i.+p is here now, along with his finest warriors. All of them here. And not there. Just thought you would like to know that. Er... byeeee.' to know that. Er... byeeee.'

I tugged the 'off' control, took a deep breath and waited. I had done al that I could for the moment. What happened now depended on others.

End of extract ***

Greyhaven parked his Aston Martin on a double yellow line and bounded up the steps of the National s.p.a.ce Museum. The five-minute car journey had taken three times as long - they'd had to take a different route to avoid the crowds of people converging on the Square as if it were the venue for the cup final. The Prime Minister was waved through the various security barriers and into Mission Control. He paused to catch his breath. Theo Ogilvy, the Mars 97 mission controller, was there.

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