Part 21 (1/2)

If the higher dimensions are released, time will cease to exist.

The door opens. The Doctor leaps to his feet.

A wan-looking officer stands there Carlin was his name wasn't it? Seemed a sensible enough fellow. Saner, at least, than Hopkins.

'Now, what can I do for you?' the Doctor asks, innocently.

Carlin seems embarra.s.sed, bemused in some way. 'We're moving into the atmosphere. You seem to know a bit about what's going on. I want you and Pelham on the bridge. Just in case.'

'What about Mr Hopkins? Can you keep him off me? He doesn't strike me as the type who appreciates advice.'

'I'll do what I can. Just don't push your luck.'

Robert Hopkins returns to his lists of efficiency percentages.

However, he finds the pragmatic statistics less soothing than usual. How clever this Doctor thinks he is, how charming, how absolutely awfully terribly amusing and witty and sardonic. At some point in the future, hopefully the very near future, Hopkins would like to remind this babbling idiot of some universal truths. The breaking point of the body, the weakness of the spirit, that kind of thing. He would enjoy teaching these lessons. Iron and flesh, Doctor, talk all you like.

It had been galling to accept that he would have to do what the Doctor suggested after all. Hopkins may have been looking forward to the damage he might do to his prisoners, but he isn't an idiot. Not where Paul Neville is concerned. Any kind of trap might be waiting for them in this golden palace thing.

How he hates Paul Neville, hates everything he represents.

Not only the centuries of misrule and subjugation of his own cla.s.s, almost of his own race. Hopkins has long ago sated his blood l.u.s.t in that particular quest for vengeance.

No, it is this spiritual, religious mysticism that he hates.

This decadent belief in spirits and souls and the greater life to come all nonsense, all lies to placate the fear of mortality.

He understands. Robert Hopkins understands, about life and death. There is no more, no less, than existence. No soul, no 'inner being', no higher purpose; just a cold, indifferent universe and the lives that pa.s.s through it. Nothing exists except that which one makes exist. Will to Power. Like it or not, that is everything.

This Ashkellia, this 'tomb of Valdemar'. Robert Hopkins looks at the statistics in the logbook and sees it for what it is.

A planet, the second planet in its system, orbiting at a distance of eighty-nine-million miles; a minor star in a spa.r.s.ely cl.u.s.tered back-end of the galaxy.

He has read the reports on the cult, their sad beliefs. The last dying breath of an obsolete social order, the final clinging to mysticism. It would make him laugh, if he were capable of laughing. How he had hated the resigned, pa.s.sive faces of those at the theomantic universities, as he and his men ploughed through them with sword and shot. He had shown up their religious convictions for the falsehoods they were.

Even believers could scream if you took your time and were brutal enough.

The cult is smashed now, he knows that. He wonders whether Neville does. How Hopkins would love to explain it to him the details, the ruination, all by his hand.

Yet a nagging doubt remains, even in his selective mind.

The cult isn't smashed, not entirely. And the strongest of those he had slain had still died with the word 'Valdemar' on their lips. The downfall of Paul Neville, this Magus of a little obscure cult a cult that stubbornly refuses to die, the symbol of all that opposes the New Protectorate is all that he feels he has left to achieve.

Well, Hopkins himself will parade that grey-bearded head on a pole through Earth Parliament if he has to. Because Hopkins is better. Because Hopkins knows that nothing matters, that out here in the stars there is no one to judge.

Paul Neville murders in the name of evil, in the name of Valdemar, always failing to understand the true perspective.

Let him do that, let him do those things. Hopkins knows better. He murders in the name of the only true universal law. He murders in the name of nothingness.

The intercom beeps. Hopkins realises he is soaked in sweat. The logbook is crushed in his hairless hands. He will have to wear the hairs.h.i.+rt to keep himself calm.

'Report!' he barks into the bra.s.s cylinder.

'Citizen Hopkins,' comes the voice of Carlin. 'We have broken orbit and are commencing descent. We should reach the coordinates obtained from the tracer in one hour.'

'You sound worried, Carlin.'

'Sir, sensors indicate that acidity levels contained in the atmosphere will cause severe damage to hull integrity. We will not be able to remain there for long...'

Hopkins flicks the 'send' command. 'We will remain as long as is necessary. I will not flinch from my duty.'

'Of course, Citizen.'

'Where is the Doctor?'

Carlin pauses. Hopkins listens to his breathing.

'On the bridge. We felt it would be wise-'

'What? How dare you! I'm coming up immediately.'

'Sir.' His cousin fails to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

Despite himself, despite all his knowledge, Robert Hopkins raises his head to the ceiling of his metal cage and looks up.

Without even realising he is doing it, he prays. Give Paul Neville to me, he hisses at the cold void outside. Give him to Give him to me me!

Chapter Eleven.

It's funny, thinks Miranda Pelham, but before Hopkins arrived, the bridge had almost seemed a relaxed, normal place to be.

The crew had been silent and efficient, just as a crew ought to be, only speaking when they had important information to relate. This Lieutenant Carlin seemed a humane and sensible officer, overseeing the s.h.i.+p's descent calmly and carefully.

The Doctor watched, to Carlin's right a Gonzalo to his duke as they entered the maelstrom. For a while Pelham had the impression that the cavalry were on their way to kick the stuffing out of the bad guys.

Hopkins's arrival changed all that.

For a start, as the hatch to the bridge opened and he strutted in, the s.h.i.+p lurched suddenly. As he opened his mouth to shout something unpleasant, Hopkins was totally caught out, flying over and smacking his head on the navigational consoles. Terrified officers helped him to his feet, pulling his captain's helmet up from over his eyes.

Now, the whole atmosphere has changed. The crew is nervous, over-enthusiastically studying their instrument readouts.

'Captain on deck!' bellows Carlin, and all stand to rapt attention. Hopkins smooths out the ruffles in his silk and leather uniform, then falls over again as the s.h.i.+p lists.

'Hull breaches on decks three and six, Lieuten-Citizen Hopkins.'

'Get men down there and get them sealed,' barks the inquisitor, looking around, daring his men to laugh. Carlin vacates his seat and Hopkins settles himself in, neatly avoiding humiliation in the subsequent lurch.