Doctor Who: The Devil Goblins From Neptune (6 page)

'Hey, I was reading it!' said Harrison sulkily, but the Doctor shushed him to silence as he stared at the front page, a huge photo of a pop concert with a headline that screamed NAKED RAVERS SEE STARS!

'Evidence,' said the Doctor, tucking the paper into his pocket. 'What's up, Doc?' asked Sam, suppressing a grin when the Doctor shot him a filthy look.

'What is it, Doctor?' added Benton, slightly more respectfully.

The Doctor removed the paper from his pocket and began to read from it. -Thousands of half-naked hippie kids, enjoying high temperatures at the Redborough '70 pop festival on the south coast yesterday, claimed to have seen unusually bright shooting stars..." Blah, blah, blah. This is appallingly written' He glanced up at Benton. 'Do you read this regularly?'

'Very popular with the lads, sir. Tells us what's going on and let' us get on with our lives. And the sports coverage is very good.'

'Hmmm.... The Doctor sounded unconvinced. 'Anyway, tilt report goes on to say that the crowd witnessed this meteor shower at around eight o'clock in the evening.' He glanced at the date 'This is yesterday's paper, describing the evening when you reported the meteorite. About what time was that, Sam?'

Just before eight... Ah.' Sam purred like the cat with the cream. 'I see where you're coming from'

And where it was going to,' said the Doctor with a flourish. 'Now, this pop festival took place on the Earl of Norton's land. Old Norton's been an invalid for decades, so I imagine that permission for this thing would have been given by his son'

'That would be Viscount Rose,' interjected Benton.

'Very good,' said the Doctor with surprise. 'You know the family?'

'No, sir.' said Benton. 'I read it in the paper yesterday.'

'I know Peter Gillingham-West, the Viscount Rose - or, rather, I've been introduced to him on a few occasions.

Always struck me as something of a decadent young man, but I'm sure he'd be keen to help in an investigation of such importance'

'Investigation?' asked Benton.

'But of course, man,' said the Doctor, as though he were attempting to explain quantum physics to a lobster. 'There may still be evidence at the site of this festival. I would go straight down there but it's probably wise to speak to the viscount first. Now, if I remember correctly, this being Saturday, he's likely to be at the Progressive Club in Mayfair.'

'Do you want me to get the Brigadier to pull a few strings, Doctor? I've heard that the place is quite exclusive.'

'Nonsense,' replied the Doctor. 'I've been a member for thirteen years! I'd better go alone, though, they don't allow riffraff on the premises.'

'Of course not,' said Benton sadly. 'Silly of me...'

'Not to worry, old chap.' said the Doctor, seemingly oblivious to the hurt he had just caused. 'Can you get one of your men to run me into the station? I've got a train to catch.'

* * *

'How do you do?' said Lethbridge-Stewart matter-of-factly.

An honour, sir.' replied the man. 'Bruce Davis. I've been looking forward to meeting you for some time.' His smile seemed genuine enough.

'Have you, by jingo?' asked the Brigadier. He had never particularly got on with Americans.' by and large he considered them loud people, with far too great a sense of their own importance. But this fellow seemed perfectly charming. He motioned Davis to sit and nodded to Yates, who saluted and left the office.

'Quite a place you have here,' said Davis.

'We've only just finished moving in. One of the drawbacks of the job, I'm afraid. Constantly being on the move. I expect the New York office is the same.'

'Actually, no.' said Davis. 'We've been in the Bronx since we became operational.'

'Isn't that a slightly... inappropriate area?' asked the Brigadier, remembering his own experiences in the Big Apple as a twenty-one-year-old on his way back from Korea.

'It has many advantages, sir,' said Davis. 'And if there ever were a situation, you just count to ten and run for cover.'

'I have your file here.' said the Brigadier, again drawn to Davis's bewitching smile. 'You've seen a lot of action since joining UNIT'

'Not as much as you, sir, or your British boys. You guys are highly regarded in the US for your personal experience of Alien Life Form situations.'

Lethbridge-Stewart nodded contentedly and allowed the American to continue.

'Your Classified Action report on the Auton invasion was breathtaking.'

'Thank you,' said the Brigadier with just a trace of satisfaction.

'Of course, our scientific adviser was largely responsible for the finished document.'

'Oh yes, Dr Smith. He's something of a legend, too. Will I be able to meet him at any stage?'

'Yes, quite likely.' The Brigadier tapped the file confidently

'Your record is, nevertheless, impressive.'

'I'm flattered to hear you say that, sir. Some of the mopping up at the second Silurian chamber in Oregon was good work. I also partnered Bill Filer investigating the International Electromatics West Coast Division.'

I've heard of Filer. Good man?'

'Yes, sir.' I'd trust him with my life.'

I also see,' noted the Brigadier, 'that after university you worked for a controversial businessman in Washington.'

'I did, sir.'

'Why was that?'

'If you mean why didn't I go straight into the military, sir...?'

'No, no,' said Lethbridge-Stewart quickly 'No implied criticism. I'm just interested in why you chose such a dangerous line of work.'

'I was young, sir,' said Davis. And stupid. The money was good, but it was a blind alley. Lifestyles of the rich and famous. Serious danger but ultimately no reward'

'I think you're going to enjoy your time with us here, Mr Davis,' said Lethbridge-Stewart. take you down to your office.

Captain Yates will be available to help you should you need anything. In the meantime, welcome aboard.'

They stood to shake hands, and the Brigadier felt an empathy with a fellow soldier. He noticed for the first time that there was a hardness behind the smile, a very necessary ruthlessness. He was clearly a man of hidden depths.

‘Thank you, sir,' said Davis. 'I hope I won't let you down.'

The Progressive Club was an imposing building of some five storeys in the leafy heart of Mayfair. To one side stood the headquarters of an obscure but influential government think tank (rumour had it that there was a connecting corridor between the two to facilitate the easy transfer of shared members); to the other the consulate of a diminutive but ambitious southern European state. Some years ago a wealthy Middle Eastern government had made overtures to purchase the consulate for their own purposes, and the powerful members of the Progressive Club had fought tooth and nail against the plans. This opposition was not so much an act of racist bigotry as a response to that nation's refusal to condemn terrorism.' when one was finally admitted to the Progressive Club, one undertook to stand firm against vulgarity of any kind.

The dichotomy of the club was further illustrated by the gilt-framed paintings that adorned the foyer of polished marble. In ancient oils.' red-jacketed huntsmen, resplendent on impossibly splay-legged horses, bugling across the shires of Little England. In modern acrylics.' photo-realistic whales butchered in choppy seas, the blubber being stripped away as the seas turned red. In gently faded watercolours.' a victorious batsman applauded from the village green, bat raised aloft in a cerulean sky. In the artist's own blood.' 'The slaughter must stop!', scrawled over a photograph from Vietnam.

The Doctor found himself wondering what the man had used to fix the painting's various elements into place - and what that work must have cost the club. A shade under half a million, perhaps - and it had been placed in the foyer, just next to the series of hat stands that serviced the club's occasional guests. The Doctor had once slipped into the Progressive Club's kitchens - their canapés were rightly famous throughout the capital - and had noticed an original Van Gogh just above the cavernous refrigerator. Moments later, he'd been thrown out by the burly French chef, but this insight into the opulence that underpinned the club's social activism had stayed with him.

The Doctor strode briskly towards the reception. Bertram was there, as usual - the Doctor had never known the man take a day off - and he smiled as he took the Doctor's cloak.

'Good day to you, sir. Trust you are well?'

'Indeed, old chap.'

'Uneventful journey?' Bertram rotated the signing-in book to face the Doctor. It was leather-bound and covered the last thirty years of the club's existence. Its contents were both irreplaceable - there was no other record of the members, their election to high office within the club's bizarre hierarchy, and their unpaid fees - and probably subject to the Official Secrets Act. Twenty-one grey-suited valets patrolled the club at any one time, and the two permanently stationed in the foyer were there not just to observe those who came and went but also to guard the precious book.

'Reasonably,' said the Doctor, signing in with a flourish.

'Bessie's had a prang. I had to come by train.'

'Bad show' Bertram nodded. 'Delayed arrival?'

'We were ten minutes late into Victoria.'

'Cow on the line at Hurstpierpoint?'

'Something like that' The Doctor smiled. 'Then I noticed someone following me on the Underground. Damned man stood out like a sore thumb. Probably the Brigadier's idea of heightened security.'

'Lose him at Green Park, did you, sir?'

'That's right. I dived through the doors just as they were closing, left him standing on the platform. You should have seen his face.'

'A veritable picture, I imagine? the Doctor took one last glance at the book before Bertram whisked it away. 'I notice Viscount Rose is here today.'

'You'll find Mr Gillingham-West in the Kean Bar on the third floor.'

'Thank you, Bertram.'

Not at all, sir.'

'Anything else I should know?'

All eastern rooms on the top floor are operating a policy of strict silence.'

'Oh dear.' said the Doctor. He'd once seen a man expelled for clearing his throat in a room where the strict silence rule was in force.

And the second floor is largely closed, sir.'

'Redecorating?'

'That's the official reason.' said Bertram, with the merest hint of a smile. 'And I'd probably avoid the banqueting hall if I were you, sir. There's some sort of competition going on in there.'

'Competition?'

'Competition, sir. Paper aeroplane, longest flight thereof.'

'Longest, as in distance?'

'Indeed, sir. My money is on the clerics?

'Really?'

'Yes, sir. Rest blotto. Sending out for more champagne even as we speak'

'Which reminds me - I'll have a bottle of your best vintage Krug, up on the third floor?

'Consider it done, sir.'

The Doctor nodded at the valet positioned just outside the lifts, but decided on the stairs. The carpet underfoot was rich and deep; the brass banister impeccably polished.

Despite the Progressive Club's name, and its committed principles, many of which the Doctor shared, it was almost comforting to see the old place so firmly keeping at least one foot in the past. On the second floor the Doctor noticed thick red ropes closing off many of the rooms. He couldn't detect any drilling or hammering. Redecorating indeed.

The third-floor corridor was comparatively modest, the decor more nineteenth century than eighteenth. Closed doors of stout oak let through laughter and occasional hints of whispered conversation. The bar was at the end, one windowed wall overlooking the street. A few men lounged in the corner, smoking; at another table, half smothered by the drooping leaves of an enormous Monstera deliciosa, two men read extracts from that morning's Times and Telegraph to each other. And under a peasant scene by Brueghel the Elder sat a casually attired man in his forties, staring down into the road. He turned the moment the Doctor approached.

'One of the club dullards said you wished to speak with me.'

Viscount Rose indicated the ice bucket towards his feet. And your champagne has arrived'

The Doctor was slightly taken aback. 'I do hope I'm not intruding'

It's a free country,' said Rose. 'So they tell me'

The Doctor sat facing the man. 'I wanted to ask you about the recent festival on your estate'

Rose snorted. 'It should have been today. Saturday makes sense. But I was prevented from holding a weekend festival on my own land.'

'With respect, it's not actually your land yet'

'I forgot you knew my father.'

'How is he?'

'Not well. He sits there, waiting to die. You can almost see the dust settling on him. Rose nudged the ice bucket with his foot. 'Better enjoy yourself, while you still can. Wealth isn't particularly helping my father at the moment'

'I'm very sorry to hear that' The Doctor nodded to one of the grey-suited valets, who came over to uncork the champagne. 'I'm told some revellers saw a meteorite shower

-'

'Revellers?' snapped Rose, suddenly irritated. 'Is that all they are to you? Children frolicking in the fields? Pat them on the head - there, there, you'll grow out of it?'

I meant no offence,' said the Doctor hurriedly. 'I'm only really interested in the lights in the sky.'

I can tell that. You have no idea what's happening, do you?' The Doctor's unblinking eyes caught Rose's. 'My dear fellow,' he said levelly, 'I know that very many things are happening at present. Some good, some dangerous. I believe that the meteor shower might be significant.'

Rose suddenly looked away. 'I don't know anything about a meteorite shower. I'd blame the heat and the drugs'

The Doctor rubbed his chin. 'A moment ago you criticised me for doing down the young people - now you're claiming that this light show was all in their minds'