Doctor Who and the Auton Invasion (10 page)

Liz nodded. ‘Apparently. But it's not thermo-plastic, and neither is it thermo-setting. And there are no polymer chains.'

The Doctor's manner was now completely serious. Liz watched in fascination as his long fingers turned the fragments over and over on their tray. He weighed some pieces in his hand. ‘Most interesting. I wonder what was inside.'

‘Inside?'

‘Well, it's obvious, isn't it, this was some kind of hollow sphere?' Deftly his fingers assembled the pieces into a curved shape.

‘I'd say the space in the middle was about three thousand cubic centimetres, wouldn't you agree?'

Liz looked at him with new respect. The calculation, if it was accurate, had been done with astonishing speed.

The Brigadier had been watching the two of them with interest. It looked as if they would make a good team. He stood up. ‘Do I gather you're going to help us – Doctor?'

‘If I do, will you give me back the key to the TARDIS?'

The Brigadier nodded. ‘Certainly – once this matter has been satisfactorily cleared up.'

The Doctor looked keenly at him. There was a hint of resentment in his eyes. Then he smiled, seeming to accept the situation. ‘In that case, Brigadier, I suggest you allow Miss Shaw and myself to get on with our work.' The Doctor turned back to Liz. ‘Do I have to call you Miss Shaw? Should be Doctor Shaw, I suppose, really. Or even Professor Shaw?'

‘Just Liz will do fine.'

‘Splendid!'

The Brigadier said, ‘Right then, I'll leave you to it.'

‘Just a moment, old chap,' said the Doctor. ‘How many of these meteorite things came down?'

‘About fifty, near as the radar people could estimate.'

The Doctor frowned. ‘And all you've found is this?' He indicated the tray of fragments.

‘That, and the whole one, which disappeared on the way here.'

The Doctor slipped out of his cape and threw it across a stool. ‘Well, it's obvious what's been happening, isn't it? Before your search could get really under way, most of these things were collected.' The Doctor looked from Liz to the Brigadier. ‘Collected and taken somewhere. Question is – where?'

Harry Ransome steered his car carefully down the bumpy forest track. One half of his mind knew that what he was planning was completely daft. But he was determined to go on with it.

After his extraordinary interview with George Hibbert, he'd driven very fast to the local market town and treated himself to several drinks. He went over the interview in his mind time and time again… the strange remote manner of
old George, almost as though he'd been hypnotised… the way he'd suddenly seemed more like himself as he'd warned of danger… the arrival of Channing with his burning eyes… the way George had suddenly become a zombie again.

The more he thought about it, the more convinced Ransome had become that there was something very wrong indeed at the factory. Perhaps George was being threatened, or blackmailed. Maybe they had him under some kind of drug. After his fourth drink, Ransome was certain that for George's sake, as well as his own, he had to investigate further. He'd thought of telling the police. But what was there to tell them? The grumbles of a discontented ex-employee? No, first he had to find evidence. In this mood, Ransome had left the pub and gone to look for a hardware shop.

The track became too narrow to drive any further. He stopped the car and got out. From the boot he produced a pair of heavy-duty wire-cutters. He moved through the trees to the wire fence that marked the boundary between the factory and the woods.

Inside the factory, General Scobie's tour had come to an end. He'd expressed polite interest in all the impressive new automated machinery. Now the real purpose – the very flattering purpose – of his visit had been reached.

Scobie was a genuinely shy and modest man. It had never occurred to him that anyone would ever consider him as any kind of celebrity. He had been astonished when Hibbert had contacted him, and had needed quite a bit of persuasion before agreeing. ‘Just a simple soldier, you know. Doing my duty.' ‘Exactly, General,' Hibbert had said, ‘that's just the sort of people we want. Not the showy celebrities, always getting in the papers and on television, but the ones
who really keep the country going.' Eventually Scobie had agreed to come to the factory.

Now, in the factory's Replica Room, he was feeling a little hurt. The blank-faced dummy he was looking at bore only a very rough resemblance to him. Channing hastened to explain: ‘You see, General, this is just the first draft, so to speak. Prepared from measurements and drawings. For the final process we need your actual presence. If you wouldn't mind standing over there?'

Channing indicated a sort of upright coffin, surrounded with complex instruments. Gingerly, Scobie stepped inside. Immediately, the instruments surrounding him sprang to life. They hummed and whirred and clicked and buzzed excitedly.

‘Every detail of your appearance is being recorded, General,' explained Channing. ‘The measurements of the facial planes are accurate to millionths of a centimetre.'

Scobie grinned uneasily. ‘Jolly impressive,' he said as the instruments fell silent, and Channing helped him to step out. ‘I hope it all turns out all right.'

‘It will, General,' said Channing solemnly. ‘I can promise you that.'

Ransome meanwhile was dodging from machine to machine across the factory floor. Not that there was anyone about to see him. The whole place was deserted. He reached the door to the Restricted Area, and set to work, using his wire-cutters and an improvised crowbar. Savagely he wrenched at the lock, and in a few minutes he had it open. He slipped inside.

Once through the door, he looked round him in astonishment. The machinery here was far more advanced
in design, more alien in purpose, than anything out on the factory floor. Fascinated, he moved towards the huge coffin-shaped tank that dominated the centre of the area. Lights flashed and machinery hummed, as if in warning as he moved closer, trying to get a clear look at the huge thing that writhed sluggishly inside the tank.

Ransome had failed to notice the line of silent Autons as they stood motionless against the wall behind him. Absorbed in what he was looking at, he didn't see at first when one of them, the nearest, turned its head to look at him, and then suddenly came to life, taking a step forwards. On its second step, some instinct warned Ransome and he looked behind him. He leaped back as the giant figure came towards him.

The thing held out its hand in a curious pointing gesture. Then, to Ransome's unbelieving horror, the giant hand dropped away from the wrist on some kind of hinged joint. The hand dangled limply to reveal a tube, projecting from the wrist. It was like the muzzle of a gun.

For a moment Ransome stood terrified, then he instinctively hurled himself to one side. A sizzling bolt of energy whizzed past his head, drilling a plate-sized hole in the steel wall. Ransome look at it incredulously, and the Auton raised its hand to fire again.

By pure chance, Ransome made the one move that could save his life. He ducked round the side of the plastic coffin, sheltering behind it. The Auton paused. An over-riding point in its programming was that the tank and its contents must not be harmed.

Lowering its wrist-gun, the Auton began to stalk Ransome round the tank, waiting for the chance of a clear shot at him. By keeping the tank between them Ransome
was able to edge near the door. He made a sudden dash through it, leaving the shelter of the tank. The Auton fired another energy-bolt, missing Ransome's head by inches, and blasting another hole in the wall. Then it pursued Ransome out onto the factory floor.

Another energy-bolt whizzed past Ransome's head as he dodged between the machinery. There followed a terrifying game of hide-and-seek. Ransome ducked and dodged around the machinery, desperately avoiding the hunting Auton. He realised that the creature must have some kind of intelligence. It consistently managed to block his way to the exit. All the time it was edging closer and closer, confining him to one corner of the factory. With a feeling of terror Ransome realised that he was running out of hiding-places. He could see the Auton coming closer, wrist-gun raised.

Suddenly he heard footsteps and voices. He peered cautiously from behind a machine casing. Coming towards him across the factory area was Hibbert, talking to a man in army officer's uniform. Ransome was about to call for help, when he saw Channing following along behind. Ransome kept silent. Something told him that he would get no help from Channing. As he watched, Channing suddenly stopped walking. Those strange, burning eyes swept round the factory floor. Ransome shuddered and ducked out of sight.

As soon as he made contact with the consciousness of the Auton, Channing knew everything that had happened. He knew of Ransome's breaking in, the hunt across the factory, the fierce desire of the Auton to destroy the intruder. Swiftly Channing weighed up the factors. It was too soon to risk Scobie seeing anything that would disturb him. Channing flashed a mental command and the Auton stepped back in a shadowed corner and became motionless.

Instantly, Ransome seized his chance, weaving between the machinery and dashing out through the doorway by which he had entered.

Channing walked up to Scobie and Hibbert, who had been waiting for him in some puzzlement.

‘Everything all right?' asked Hibbert.

‘Forgive me, gentlemen,' said Channing, ‘just a sudden problem, something I must attend to later.'

‘Jolly quiet round here,' said Scobie. ‘Doesn't seem to be anyone in the place.'

Hibbert said: ‘We're turning over to full automation, General. The factory virtually runs itself.'

Scobie chuckled. ‘Splendid. Don't get any of this strike nonsense, eh? Didn't I see a big chap in overalls just now,
though?'

Channing said: ‘We still have one or two men about the place, for the heavy work. Your car's through this way, General Scobie.'

They walked to where the General's limousine stood waiting. Scobie held out his hand. ‘Well, goodbye, gentlemen. Been a most interesting afternoon.' Channing hesitated, hands still clasped behind him. It was Hibbert who stepped forward and shook Scobie's hand.

‘Goodbye, sir, and thank you once again for coming down here. We know how busy you must be.'

‘You'll let me see the model of me when it's really finished?'

‘You will certainly see it, General,' said Channing, ‘…when the time comes.'

Scobie got into his car, and was driven away. Channing and Hibbert looked after him a moment, and then walked back into the factory.

Ransome meanwhile was struggling through the hole he had cut in the wire. He ran for his car, jumped in, and reversed as fast as he could up the forest track. Not until he was back on the road and driving very fast towards London did he even begin to feel safe. Suddenly, he saw a small group of soldiers emerge from the forest. He jammed on his brakes and wound down the car window.

‘Hey… hey you!'

The NGO in charge of the patrol came up to the car.

‘Anything wrong, sir?'

‘There's something terribly wrong. They just tried to murder me!'

The Corporal looked at Ransome's wild-eyed face with
some caution.

‘Better tell the police then, sir. There's a police station down in the village.'

‘It's not a matter for the police. Look, let me talk to somebody senior. One of your officers.'

The Corporal considered for a moment, then decided to play it safe. Probably the man was just a nut, but you never knew.

‘Captain Munro's in the Command Tent. At the end of that lane, just down there. You could have a word with him.'

Ransome's car was already speeding down the road. The Corporal shook his head, and he and his men resumed their patrol.

In the factory's security area, Channing and Hibbert stood looking at a small screen. Hibbert said: ‘You're sure it was Ransome? You didn't actually see him.'

Channing indicated the Auton, now once more standing in line with its fellows. ‘The Auton saw him. It comes to the same thing.' Channing looked at Hibbert almost with pity. These humans with their limited, separate minds. How could they understand the essential unity of the Nestene consciousness? He touched a control and a bright cobwebby pattern appeared on the screen. ‘The detection scanner has registered his brain-print.'

Hibbert looked frightened. ‘What will you do?'

‘Send the Autons to destroy him.'

‘No, Channing, no! You can't just kill him! He was my friend.'

Channing came close, his burning eyes boring into Hibbert's very brain. He spoke soothingly: ‘It is necessary,
Hibbert. He saw all this. He saw the Autons. No one can see those things and live. No one except you, Hibbert. Think, and you will see that it is necessary.'

Hibbert's mind became calm. Of course Ransome had to die. It was unfortunate, but logical. ‘How will the Autons find him?'