Doctor Who: The Trial of a Time Lord : The Ultimate Foe (10 page)

‘Secret, Mel? Secret?’ He was still grinning.

Evasive responses irritated her. ‘Don’t patronise me, Doctor!’

‘Is that what I’m doing?’

‘I’m on your side, remember.’

‘A stout ally.’ A twinkle. ‘Not a very appropriate description, eh?’

‘Better than usual. At least you’ve not referred to me as an elephant.’ A joke he made frequently.

‘Because of your fantastic memory, Mel.’

She had this phenomenal capacity for total recall. Odd, really, that computer programming should be her profession since computers had virtually made memory redundant; at least, where facts and figures were concerned.

The outstanding ability intrigued the Doctor. It had also proved invaluable to him on many occasions; the most recent being when he had been battling against those Vervoids. That was when the ‘elephant’ joke had begun.

‘Memory like an elephant’ was a ludicrous comparison –

the ton weight pachyderm and the feather-weight girl!

‘I’m not short on intuition either. And I know you know something you’re not telling me.’

‘Do I, Mel? I wonder.’

Gallantly gesturing her to precede him, he held open the door to the balcony.

Mel was right.

He was harbouring a secret.

At least, a suspicion.

One that involved both Mr Popplewick and the Valeyard...

An unseen sentinel saw the Doctor, Mel, Popplewick and Glitz descend the Fantasy Factory’s stairs and troop across the yard. The matching blackness of the concealed observer’s tunic, gloves, and beard, blended with the darkness shrouding the niche in which he lurked.

The Master exercised, for him, herculean restraint as he watched his eternal foe lope past well within range of the TCE... just one blast and an exquisite consummation of revenge would be realised. Clemency was not an ingredient of that restraint: the flintlock poking Popplewick’s spine meant a greater victory was within grasp.

The fretful bureaucrat led the unsuspecting exodus to the gated entrance of a kiln: a bulbous, bell-shaped edifice that tapered into a soot-soiled chimney starkly silhouetted against the lowering night clouds.

‘This is the abode of our revered Mr J. J. Chambers, sir,’

announced the corpulent Popplewick.

‘So he’s been here all along! I’ve misjudged Mr J. J.

Chambers alias the Valeyard.’

Alias? Chambers? Valeyard? Mel was nonplussed!

Not the Doctor. He was blithely heading into the kiln.

‘Hey wait! Stop and think before you go barging in–!’

The Doctor ducked through the entrance.

‘How he’s managed to survive for nine hundred years beats me!’ she complained, trailing after him.

The unseen sentinel now awaited the next act in the drama.

The actors remaining on stage were Glitz and Popplewick.

Glitz lowered the flintlock. ‘We had an agreement, remember. I’ve played my part and delivered the Doctor.

Now for the pay-off. The cassette.’

‘My gun first, Mr Glitz.’ Their clandestine arrangement, made in the office, had been followed to the letter, but Popplewick did not trust the wily Glitz!

‘After I’ve got the Matrix Tape.’ Glitz was also practised in the art of deception!

‘That, my dear sir, was not our agreement.’

.’It is now, old fruit.’

‘I really cannot countenance such exoteric improbity.’

‘Cut the flowery spiel, fat man, and hand over the goods!’

‘Oh, very well!’ With an impatient gesture, Popplewick extracted the cassette. ‘But I take exception to this questioning of my integrity.’

Grabbing the cassette, Glitz returned the gun. ‘Nice doing business with you, Mr Popplewick.’ Then an afterthought: a venial self-justification. ‘Oh, present my apologies to the Doc. Tell him I haven’t sold him down the Milky Way cheaply.’

‘I am sure that will be a consolation to him in his final moments,’ purred the clerk.

‘Can’t stop. Must toddle,’ chirped Glitz, moving off.

‘Sabalom Glitz!’ called Popplewick – then levelled the gun and fired!

A derisory click. Nothing more.

A smug smile wrinkled his victim’s face. ‘Safety first is my motto,’ he chuckled, enjoying the embarrassment of the duped clerk.

Cockily jiggling the shot he had artfully removed... he swaggered on.

‘Very astute, Sabalom Glitz.’ The Master quit his hiding place. ‘But this is loaded.’

The TCE was pointed at Glitz’s stomach...

‘What’s that for? I thought there was complete trust between us.’ The blustering indignation lacked conviction.

‘I was on my way to find you.’ A lie. And the Master knew it.

‘My trust in you is in equal proportion to your trust in me.’ The TCE didn’t waver.

‘That’s all right then, isn’t it. I – er – believe you wanted this – er – Master Time Lord, sir,’ he bleated, surrendering the cassette.

The Master took it reverently and strode away. Now he would trumpet in his coronation: undreamed-of power was stored within this unprepossessing box. His double pulse rate pounded in his temples. The scope of the dominion he could achieve reduced the destruction of the Doctor to a piffling bagatelle; a tasty
hors d’oeuvre
to the main course.

An apposite metaphor. At the climax of their previous encounter, outwitted by the Doctor, the Master had been in danger of becoming the
plat du jour
of a Tyrannosaurus Rex!

Catapulted from nineteenth-century Earth at warp speed, he and that other renegade from Gallifrey, the Rani, had been trapped in her TARDIS at the mercy of the carnivorous dinosaur. A side effect of the hyper-sonic speed – Time Spillage – triggered into staggering growth the tiny embryo that had fallen from one of the Rani’s specimen jars.

The creature continued to enlarge in the cramped space until, a mature monster, its neck snapped against the ceiling.

The Rani’s prosaic explanations were bombastically rejected: the Master knew it was because he was indestructible!

‘A grotzi for your thoughts,’ interposed Glitz.

They had reached the effigy of Queen Victoria.

Foolishly, Glitz persisted. ‘You’ve a plan, partner?’

The toadying enquiry was contemptuously ignored: why should he – the Master – deign to humour this inferior? He glanced up at the stern, regal features looming over them; even her Imperial Majesty was a lesser being; the Empire she once ruled paled into insignificance when compared to the infinite regions that soon would be under his domination.

Then would be avenged all the humiliations he had endured.

From the paragons on Gallifrey who had shunned him.

From the High Council who had exiled him....

and last, but not least, from the Doctor...

‘Doesn’t that fill you with admiration, Mel? Such craftsmanship! Pride in every cog and piston!’

Aglow with admiration, the Doctor, elbows resting on the burnished brass guardrail, was enraptured by a generator that occupied prime position in the spotless, whitewashed machine bay. Enamelled in fire-engine red, every bearing, cog, and crankshaft was buffed to perfection.

Even the interlinked leather pulley-belts were in pristine condition.

Exasperated by his discursiveness, Mel was tempted to remind the Doctor that the Victorians’ devoted care of machinery had not extended to people: as the works of the author he was so fond of quoting – Charles Dickens – had vividly chronicled.

However, she opted for more practical considerations.

‘Doctor, there is another priority. The Valeyard.

Remember?’

‘How could I forget?’

Mr Popplewick bustled in. He was breathing heavily.

This was only partly due to the excess weight he carried.

Much of the huffing and puffing was the residue of his humiliating contretemps with Glitz.

It was the absence of Glitz that Mel noticed.

‘Where’s Glitz?’ Not only was the petty crook missing but Popplewick was no longer his prisoner.

‘He decided to stay outside on guard perhaps?’ In making the suggestion, the Doctor did not look up from the machinery. It was if he could sense Popplewick’s confusion.

‘Er – yes,’ replied the portly clerk grasping at the opportunistically proffered straw. ‘On guard. Exactly. Yes.’

‘Against what?’ persisted Mel.

‘Mmm?’ Preoccupied. Absorbed in the engine.

‘On guard against
what?
’ Accusatory: why should the Doctor provide Popplewick with an excuse?

The corpulent clerk intervened politely. ‘I perceive Mr Chambers is not present.’

‘I’d noted that too.’ The Doctor’s manner was mild and inscrutable.

‘I’ll find him for you, sir.’

‘Yes, you do that, Mr Popplewick,’ he replied, curiously stressing the name.

Vaguely perplexed, Popplewick lumbered from view into an alcove.

A move that prompted a complete change of tempo in the Doctor. Quitting the generator, he began hurriedly scavenging among the tools and components littering a bench.

‘If I knew what you were searching for, maybe I could help – oooh!’ Mel jumped, startled by the chuntering bark of the engine which had suddenly started into life.

Unperturbed, the Doctor flung screwdrivers and bradawls aside, the clatter disguised by the noise of the engine, until he unearthed a length of cable.

‘I’m most awfully sorry, sir...

The Doctor whipped the cable from sight.

Fortunately, Popplewick’s apology had preceded his appearance. ‘I am unable to locate Mr Chambers.’

‘I rather thought you might have trouble – who’s that?’

He pointed to an area beyond Popplewick.

Falling for the ruse, the podgy clerk automatically turned to look at the ‘newcomer’ – the Doctor leapt upon him, clamping his wrists behind his back!

‘Don’t just stand there, Mel, help me!’

She needed no second bidding to join the fray.

‘Unhand me!’ burbled Popplewick. ‘Stop!’

Together they tied his wrists to the brass rail.

‘This is preposterous! You will regret this!’

Testing the knot, the Doctor then stood before his puffing hostage.

‘Mr Chambers will demand an explanation for this iniquitous – this wicked behaviour.’

‘Will he, Mr Popplewick?’ Again the ironic stress on the name...

‘Indeed yes, sir. Be advised he most definitely will object!’

‘Well, let’s ask him, shall we?’ Reaching towards the round face, the Doctor squeezed a lump of the generous cheek into his fist... and pulled...

Mel gulped... screeched...

Grotesquely, a layer of ample flesh came loose... the loosened flesh puckered into folds...

Imperviously, the Doctor yanked harder... the flabby features stretched... straggling shreds of latex lengthened...

snapped... and came away...

Then, just as swiftly, Popplewick’s brown curls were vanquished.

So were his dimpled cheeks.

His brawny double chin.

And retroussé nose.

The features now exposed were thin, oval and fine-boned. The Roman nose sported no spectacles.. the straight dark hair sported no curls...

Only the eyes remained the same – they expressed malignant fury..!

‘Doctor... what are you... doing..!’ Mel’s quavering question died as the latex mask finally broke free... and she was able to see the face of -

- the Valeyard...

20

The unmasking was not finished.

The Doctor tugged at Popplewick’s thick-girthed paunch. Padded waistcoat and copious frock-coat were stripped away... to unveil the slim, black-robed prosecutor.

‘How did you.. ?’ The remnants of Popplewick lay strewn on the ground at Mel’s feet.

‘Know?’

‘That Mr Popplewick –’

‘Both Mr Popplewicks, Mel.’

‘Were – the Valeyard?’

‘The performances were too studied to be real. We Doctors have never been able to resist a touch of the Grand Guignol.’

‘You’ll soon have ample scope to indulge in melodrama.’

The officious kowtowing of the spurious clerk had regressed to the conniving prosecutor’s abrasive condescension.

‘Really? Why?’

‘Overture and beginners, please.. !’

The enigmatic rejoinder worried the Doctor. He intuitively understood the psyche of the Valeyard – to his woeful regret – and knew, therefore, that the confidence being displayed was not a façade. Something had been inaugurated by this scoundrel.

What? And when?

Quite fortuitously, Mel gave him the clue. ‘I preferred him when he was Popplewick,’ she declared.

Popplewick! The alcove! He’d gone into the alcove supposedly seeking the non-existent Mr J. J. Chambers!

Upbraiding himself for not keeping tabs on the stout caricature, the Doctor darted into the alcove. Its sole furnishing was an oblong cabinet: an innocent storage cupboard.

But when he looked inside, he saw no shelves stacked with harmless supplies, or any artefact available in the nineteenth century. He was greeted instead by a complex array of circuitry that incorporated transducers, anodes, and cathode tubes, all interconnected with what appeared to be a magnetic relay, a flowmeter, an ionization gauge, and a phase discriminator. Flickering digital counters and luminous neons indicated the device was energised.

‘A megabyte modum!’ A child of an high-tech age, Mel believed she recognised the contraption. ‘But what’s it for?’

‘Yes, do tell us,’ mocked the Valeyard. ‘Disseminate the news.’

‘Disseminate?’ The Doctor latched onto the worth He knew the futuristic compilation had to be more than a megabyte modum, but the truth was almost beyond belief.

‘A Particle Disseminator!’

‘Congratulations, Doctor. If my hands were free, I’d be able to show my appreciation with appropriate applause.’

‘A Particle Disseminator? What’s it do?’

No response. The Doctor was oblivious to everything but his thoughts.

‘It seems the other half of our persona is –

uncharacteristically – stunned into silence.’ The Valeyard’s use of the royal plural ‘our’ was no slip of the tongue. He embodied every conceit and arrogance the six quirky Doctors were heir to.