Part 12 (2/2)

It looked neither encouraging nor welcoming. They saw metal support girders, covered in rust, trickling with moisture. Part of a wall, part of a bulkhead, the whole thing soaked in brownish, penumbral light. That was all.

'Are we inside what landed in the sea?' Turlough asked doubtfully.

The Doctor continued to stare at the screen for a moment as if he could see something that Turlough couldn't. Then he said, 'Let's find out, shall we?' and operated the door lever.

Two things struck Turlough as soon as they stepped outside: the cold and the smell. The chill was motionless and permanent, like the inside of a refrigerator. The smell was worse than the cold, though. It was like too many bad things all rolled into one. Rotting fish, rancid meat, large sweaty animals, the dankness of decaying vegetation.

He took a fresh handkerchief from his pocket and held it over his nose and mouth. He glanced at the Doctor, who seemed unaffected by the stench. The Doctor was looking around the vast, high-ceilinged area, which appeared to be some kind of cargo bay (or perhaps shuttle bay, although there were no shuttles to be seen) with a mixture of caution and keen interest. Turlough said, 'What is that awful smell?'

The Doctor sniffed the air as if he couldn't detect it otherwise. 'It smells like putrefaction,' he said matter-of-factly, 'but I don't think it is. I suspect it's some kind of musk.'

'Musk?' said Turlough, looking around nervously. 'You mean there are animals down here?'

'Or were,' said the Doctor. He moved across to a bulkhead door on the far side of the room, some two hundred yards away, his feet reverberating hollowly on the metal floor.

Rusty water dripped from above. When a spot landed on the Doctor's head, he stopped, glanced up ruefully, then unfolded his hat from his pocket and put it on. Reluctant though he was to leave the protective confines of the TARDIS, Turlough stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket and followed, glancing around nervously, all but wringing his hands. He kept thinking he glimpsed movement in the clotted brown areas of shadow, but each time he turned to look there was never anything there.

He caught up with the Doctor by the bulkhead door. The Doctor had perched a pair of half-moon spectacles on the end of his nose and was engrossed in an examination of the control panel beside it. Half-turning, he said, 'What do you make of this?'

Turlough looked, though without much enthusiasm. The panel was a mess; the cover had been prised off and a ma.s.s of trailing wires linked the unit to a greenish component that looked more like a spiny sh.e.l.l than a piece of technology.

This in turn was linked to what appeared to be some kind of circuit board, which had various other bits and pieces attached to it.

'It's a bit of a mishmash,' Turlough said, shrugging. 'So what?'

The Doctor looked at him, a little pained by his lack of interest. 'What if I were to tell you that there are at least...

oh, seven separate technologies evident here?'

Turlough feigned interest and asked, 'Is that significant?'

'It means that whoever these visitors are, they're very resourceful,' said the Doctor. He paused for a moment, then added, 'I don't think they crashed. I think they landed here deliberately.'

'So their intentions are are hostile?' hostile?'

'Not necessarily. They may be quite unaware of the effect their presence is having on the indigenous population.'

'Some kind of chemical leak?' suggested Turlough.

'Possibly. Let's find out, shall we?'

The Doctor ran his fingers deftly over the various component parts of the panel and, despite its haphazard appearance, the bulkhead door slid smoothly open.

'Technology a.s.similation,' he said. 'It may not look pretty but it certainly works.'

As they pa.s.sed through the door, Turlough asked, 'Have you any idea what kind of s.h.i.+p this is, Doctor?'

'Morok battle cruiser,' the Doctor replied without hesitation, and indicated a row of embossed metal symbols running along the length of one wall. Turlough couldn't decide whether the symbols were intended to be ornamental, instructional or functional. The Doctor's voice became thoughtful as he added, 'However, somehow I don't think the Moroks are in charge any more.'

'What makes you say that?'

'The Moroks are a very proud race. They certainly wouldn't use alien technology to improve, or even patch up, their existing systems. They'd rather die than admit that any technology is superior to their own.'

'So who are we dealing with then, Doctor?' Turlough asked, his voice quavering with nerves.

The Doctor pressed his lips together in contemplation, as if Turlough had posed nothing more than an intellectual question. 'A crew of mercenaries recruited from the far-flung comers of the galaxy?'

'Oh, is that that all?' replied Turlough heavily. 'And I thought I had cause to be worried.' all?' replied Turlough heavily. 'And I thought I had cause to be worried.'

'I could be wrong,' the Doctor admitted. 'A man who is never wrong is rarely right.' He smiled cheerfully and strode on. 'In my experience, people are usually friendly enough if you show them you mean them no harm.'

Turlough gave him an incredulous look and followed. Over the course of the next ten minutes the two of them pa.s.sed through a vast air filtration and water treatment plant, the systems humming and chugging efficiently away despite their apparently decrepit state; a food-producing area where the plants had withered and the fruit and vegetables had been allowed to bloat and rot in their artificial environments (leading the Doctor to comment that the dietary requirements of whoever had taken over the s.h.i.+p were evidently very different from those of the Moroks'); and finally a derelict recreation area whose facilities suggested that the emphasis was not so much on pleasure as on physical fitness.

Leading off from the recreation area in one direction were the mess hall and kitchens. In the other direction, like spokes protruding from a vast wheel, were numerous corridors inset with evenly-s.p.a.ced doors, a different symbol - which Turlough took to be either names or numbers - emblazoned on each.

'Crew quarters,' the Doctor said, and selecting a door at random began to tap in a sequence on the control panel beside it. He stopped almost immediately, however, fingers poised in midair. 'No power.'

'This place is falling apart,' commented Turlough.

'On the contrary. Essential systems appear to be running at maximum efficiency. This area is obviously superfluous to requirements.' The Doctor shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. 'What happened to the crew, I wonder.'

'I'd rather not think about it,' Turlough said.

'Hmm,' mused the Doctor, then abruptly he slapped Turlough on the arm. 'Oh well, onward and upward.'

They moved deeper into the s.h.i.+p, the smell growing stronger as they neared what the Doctor said was the command centre. Turlough produced his handkerchief again, covered his mouth and nose with it and tied it at the back of his head. He felt miserable, cold, sick and scared, and barely listened to the Doctor, who had started jabbering away like a tour guide about the austerity of Morokian architecture, its lack of colour, its over-reliance on dense metals.

Suddenly the Doctor stopped in mid-sentence. His eyes widened and he delicately pressed the fingertips of his right hand to his forehead. Then all at once his face creased in pain and he staggered, dropping to his knees as if he had been shoved hard in the back.

Turlough watched in horror, then glanced quickly around in an effort to ascertain where the attack had come from.

Seeing nothing, he squatted beside the Doctor and called his name. The Doctor groaned; his eyelids flickered. Terrified of the prospect of the Doctor pa.s.sing out and leaving him alone to face whatever had taken up residence on the s.h.i.+p, Turlough shook his friend roughly by the shoulders and shouted into his face, 'Come on, on, Doctor! Please wake up!' Doctor! Please wake up!'

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