Doctor Who: The Leisure Hive (13 page)

Two Security guides seized her before she could reach the door. She struggled in their arms, but it was useless. They were too strong.

'The Doctor's in there,' she pleaded. 'He's at his limit. He couldn't take any further ageing. It would kill him.'

'Good,' said Pangol. 'It will save him having to breathe the air of Argolis when we eject him from the Hive.'

'Romana's protests were drowned by the voice of the Shuttle Launch Controller through the loudspeaker system. He announced that the Foamasi shuttle had taken off without permission.

'Destroy it,' ordered Pangol.

'But, sir, that is an act of war,' objected the Controller.

'Remember the Second Precept of Theron,' declared Pangol. ' "War is the right and duty of every Argolin."

'Destroy the shuttle!'

As the suns rose - twin brilliant yellow objects - the whole sky was suddenly illumined by a burst of blinding white light. The sound of the explosion, though muffled by the glass of the dome, followed a moment later.

'Thus die the enemies of Argolis!' cried Pangol.

He settled the Helmet of Theron on his head and walked to the generator. He flung open the door and entered.

Romana struggled free from the Security guides. The Doctor was in the generator. Old and failing, he would stand no chance against the younger man. She flung herself at the door. But she was too late. The door closed in her face.

'Help me!' she called.

But no one moved.

She realized that they were staring up at the bubble screen.

In the bubble above the generator the helmeted image of Pangol appeared. The image grew larger. It swelled. Then, like cells dividing, the image separated into three. Three Pangols appeared where a second before there had been only one. These images in their turn separated, each producing three perfect duplicates. The process was repeated over and over again. Serried ranks of Pangols formed in the bubble. The doors of the generator opened at last. The ranks of Pangols began to march out-all helmeted, all identical.

Romana stood appalled. She had a vision of what the New Argolis would be like. It would be an army consisting of millions upon millions of facsimiles, all obedient to one leader, all totally loyal to their one progenitor. It would be an army of Pangols. The older Argolin were dying out. Soon all that would be left would be a state populated by one man, multiplied a billion times. With the generator to reduplicate him endlessly, what was.there to prevent him from fighting any war, regardless of losses? What was to prevent him from conquering other planets and populating them with himself? What was there to prevent Pangol from conquering the whole galaxy?

Jostled, forced backwards by the tide of helmeted figures, Romana tried to fight her way towards the generator.

'Remove this alien trash,' ordered the only begettor of the New Argolis. 'Let her breathe the air of Argolis'

A number of helmeted figures seized her. Gloved hands muffled her screams. Struggling violently, she was lifted off her feet and carried towards the shuttle bay. She knew she would die on the surface of the planet.

Meanwhile the generator continued its sinister work. The sound of tramping feet filled the Great Recreation Hall.

Hardin had found Mena in the boardroom, where she had collapsed. She was alone, having been deserted by all her Medical Guides who had joined Pangol. Her condition was grave. She was scarcely breathing at all, and when he took her pulse it was so weak he feared her heart had stopped beating.

He rolled up his jacket to make a pillow for her head. As he did so, he heard Pangol's voice come over the video screen: 'After you have disposed of the girl, get the body of the Chairwoman. That, too, must be left outside on the surface of the planet. We want no trace of past Heresiarchs here.'

They will not get Mena, thought Hardin. I'll see to that. She has perhaps one chance and one chance only...

He picked up the dying woman in his arms.

It was hopeless Romana knew. Struggle as she might, the helmeted figures were too strong for her. Then suddenly, as soon as they had carried her out of the Great Hall, she found herself being lowered to her feet. They let go of her.

Puzzled, she looked round the group of helmeted Pangols.

'What's going on?' she demanded.

One of the figures put his finger to his lips, signalling her to remain silent. He pushed back his helmet.

'Doctor!' she gasped.

For it was indeed the Doctor. No longer bent and white-haired, but youthful and rejuvenated. A mere seven hundred years old.

'Ssh,' said the Doctor.

Perhaps the effort of speaking proved too much for him-because he suddenly vanished into thin air! One minute he was grinning cheerfully at her from underneath his helmet, the next minute he was gone: disappeared.

The phenomenon, however, was not unique. In the Great Hall other members of Pangol's army were showing a distressing lack of substantiality. They tended to vanish quite suddenly, like snowflakes on a hotplate. There would be a squad of a hundred or so marching across the Hall. Then in the blink of an eye they would be reduced to ninety. A few steps later, fifty. Before they had gone twenty yards there would not be one left.

Another of the Argolin army removed his helmet to reveal a smiling Doctor.

'What's happening?' asked Romana.

The Doctor said: 'It's quite simple really. Tachyon images. Outwardly Pangol—'

Another soldier raised his helmet. It was a second Doctor.

'—inwardly me,' explained Doctor Number Two.

'Unfortunately,' observed a third Doctor, 'these tachyon images are basically unstable—'

But he, too, vanished before he could complete his sentence.

'Or fortunately,' remarked Doctor Number Two, 'depending on your point of view.'

And like the Cheshire Cat, he was gone.

'Doctor, which is you?' asked Romana.

'Here,' replied another of the soldiers. He took her arm. 'Come on. Back to the generator. We've got work to do.'

'Thank heavens,' she said. 'I was getting worried. At least you're solid.'

At which point the hand on her arm, and indeed the rest of the body attached to the hand, abruptly evaporated. Four, five, six other Doctors vanished one after another. In desperation Romana grabbed the last figure and clung to it.

'Careful,' protested the Doctor. 'I may be fragile.'

'Do you feel fragile?'

'I've got a bit of a headache and my feet hurt,' he complained. 'All in all, I have felt better.'

'But are you real?'

The Doctor poked himself in the chest with a cautious finger, an exercise which apparently did not fill him with confidence. 'Real-ish,' he ventured at last. 'That is to say, I seem to be all here. More or less. Give or take the odd molecule or two.

'I'd give me another moment or two, if I were you,' he advised. 'Maybe I need to set-like a jelly.'

Romana let go of him.

He did not vanish.

'Seems to be holding out,' he said at last. 'Wait a minute-I've lost my coat!'

'No time to bother about coats,' snapped Romana. 'We've got to do something for Mena.'

The Argolin guides watched their new leader in total silence. They were in a state of shock. Not surprisingly they were baffled by the turn of events. Within the space of only a few mintues they had witnessed the creation, and destruction, of a whole army-an act of military vandalism beyond the powers of even the most insane of Argolin generals.

Pangol had removed his helmet and stood at the data station console. He was running,a checkout routine designed to test the computer programme. If necessary, he would patch the programme, thus overriding that part of it which had caused the trouble.

He refused to be disheartened by what he regarded as a mere hiccup, a minor technical hitch. The destruction of one army of doubles would not stop him. Once he had amended the programme and run a few tests, he would reset the controls of the generator. The rebirth of Argolis would begin again. A short delay was not important.

A figure pushed its way through the silent crowd of (real) Argolin. It was Hardin, carrying Mena in his arms. Ignoring Pangol he made his way to the generator.

It took the latter a moment before he realized what the Terran had in mind.

'Stop him!' he cried. 'The late Heresiarch is dead. That man must not be allowed to enter the generator with her dead body.'

Perhaps it was the shock of seeing Mena again, or perhaps it was at that moment that the old Argolin belief in absolute obedience to a leader died - at any rate no one moved to do Pangol's bidding. No one barred Hardin's way.

'I am in command!' shrilled Pangol.

'Mena's. stopped breathing,' said the Terran simply. 'The generator is her only hope.'

'I am leader here! I order you to go back!'

Hardin shouldered Pangol aside. This sudden assault on his person galvanized the latter. All his resentment and disappointment came boiling to the surface. In a frenzy he flung himself on the Terran, whose arms were encumbered with the unconscious woman.

Almost with indifference the other Argolin watched as the two men wrestled at the door of the generator, each holding tight to the body of Mena. Then a fierce blow from Pangol sent Hardin sprawling to the floor. Triumphantly the young Argolin turned to face his people, with Mena in his arms. But the effort was too much for him. He lost his balance, staggered, and took a step backwards. He stepped over the threshold of the generator.

With a soft sigh the door closed automatically.

Pangol and Mena were trapped inside the generator.

Lights on the computer console flickered. Its programme was set in operation. There was a faint whine as power surged into the generator.

When the Doctor and Romana entered the Great Recreation Hall a moment later, they found Hardin struggling desperately to force open the door of the generator. Silent and unmoving the Argolin looked on.

'Look!' cried Romana. She pointed to the bubble screen.

There in the bubble they could see the images of Mena and Pangol. But the two images did not divide and reduplicate as they had done before. Instead they seemed to blend into each other.

'I set it up for rejuvenation, I think,' said the Doctor. 'But heaven knows what effect it will have.'

Romana shook her head, 'Anything could happen. The whole machine must have become totally unstable by now.'

Together they pulled on the doors of the generator with Hardin. But it was useless. Nothing would open them.

'The doors won't open while it's still running,' he gasped.

'Are you sure?' she said.

She went over to the data station console and started to try and abort the programme. But it was too late. When Pangol had reprogrammed the computer, he had written out the over-ride, which would have enabled anyone to stop or change the routine while it was running.

The Doctor picked up the Helmet of Theron which lay on the floor where it had fallen. He weighed it in his hand. The Helmet was heavy and made of a metal hard enough to stop a missile from a bolt gun or blunt the edge of one of the great double-handed sabres used by the old Argolin in their frequent duels.

Adopting the stance of an Olympic shot-putter, the Doctor hurled the Helmet at the bubble screen.

There was a flash of light as the screen shattered into a thousand fragments. For a moment everyone was blinded. Then when sight returned, the Doctor saw the door of the generator slide open. A figure appeared in the doorway.

It was Mena.

But a younger Mena, slim and statuesque. She carried something in her arms.

A small baby, bawling like a wild thing.

Mena spoke: 'I think this child must be Pangol. I seem to recall that he looked very much like this when he was born.'

'Apparently the generator looks after its own,' observed Hardin.

The Doctor laughed. 'One thing about babies,' he said, 'is that they're pretty harmless. They can't cause wars or lead armies for a good twenty years.'

'Then the Argolin must bring up this one to be a man of peace.'

She handed the child to the Doctor to hold. He looked down at the angry, red, little creature with some alarm. Maybe I was wrong about babies, he thought. This one looks quite capable of anything. .

But Mena had other things on her mind. 'First,' she said, 'we must contact the Foamasi and avert a war. Somehow we must make amends for the destruction of their shuttle.'

'Not necessary, madam, I assure you,' declared the familiar voice of Brock.

The Foamasi agent stalked through the crowd, his lizard's tail swishing in what appeared to be a friendly manner.

'But I thought your shuttle—'

'One of my agents', replied the Foamasi, 'permitted the leader of the West Lodge, the creature who impersonated your accountant, to escape. Whether my man was merely inefficient or else in the pay of the criminal is something that only a full internal investigation by the Bureau will determined

'In any case,' he continued, 'the question is academic. They took off together in our shuttle, which your Controller subsequently blew up. My congratulations. We are therefore in your debt.'

Mena wondered if she could capitalize on this indebtedness. After all one good turn deserves another. She knew that financing a new rejuvenation generator would require more capital than the Argolin possessed. She was already mentally planning the new publicity campaign: Come To Argolis And Grow Young.

While Mena and the Foamasi exchanged diplomatic compliments, the Doctor handed Hardin the baby.

'Here,' he said. 'Hold this.'

Romana was peering cautiously inside the door of the generator. 'We must get the Randomizer back,' she declared.

'Perhaps after we've run a checkout routine to see how much of the computer is still operational, it will be safe to go inside.'

But the Doctor had had enough of Randomizers to last him for a very long time. 'Why bother?' he said.

'We can't leave the Randomizer here.'

'Why not?'

'We'll never know where the TARD1S is going to turn up next.'