'The dam. Apart from the danger of losing our hats, I mean.' His hand flew to his head suddenly, and he seemed surprised when it met his wind*blown hair.
'It appears to be safe, yes sir. The tremors and the fissure don't seem to have affected the structure at all. But we'll check again in a week in case there's any movement.'
'Very wise.' The Doctor had turned. He was staring out across the reservoir on the other side of the dam. The surface was partly frozen, islands of ice floating just under the surface of the artificial lake. In places the ice emerged from the water and was dusted with snow.
'Did you know,' the Doctor said quietly, 'that snow screams when it hits water?'
'No, sir. I didn't know that.'
'Nor did I,' Dobbs said in surprise. 'What do you mean?'
'Oh it's too high*pitched a cry for us to hear,' he mused in the same quiet voice. 'But just because we can't perceive it doesn't mean it doesn't happen.' He swung round to face Wilson. 'Thank you, Colonel,' he barked loudly. 'You may carry on.'
Instinctively Wilson saluted. 'Sir.' Then he frowned. 'Are you a military man, sir? I hope you don't mind me asking.'
'Of course not.'
'You mean you're not in the military?'
'I mean I don't mind,' the Doctor confirmed. 'A military man,' he murmured as Wilson turned to go. 'Perhaps. We all have our wars to fight, you know.'
'Indeed, sir.' Wilson shuffled, embarrassed, not sure if he had been intended to hear the remark. 'Excuse me, sir.' He made his way back to his men, thoughts of the two scientists already demoted. Just an hour or so, and he could be on his way.
The strongest dowsers did not need a rod or a plumb bob, Gaddis had been told. They could just feel the influence the flowing power within themselves. In their bones.
His grandmother had taught Gaddis the art. She had Romany blood in her, or so she claimed. She had taken him out in the meadow behind her cottage and led him towards the stream, sticks outstretched, searching for the water running below the surface. She knew where it was, of course. She had the gift herself, and had been delighted at her grandson's instant aptitude.
But Alistair Gaddis needed a medium, something for the power to be channelled through. Finding no suitable sticks, he was using his house key. He had threaded a length of twine through it and held it out before him, allowing it to swing gently back and forth to describe an oval in the air as he walked.
He knew that Dobbs believed that dowsing was nonsense. The one semi*civilised conversation they had shared on the subject, many years ago now, had been enough for Gaddis to realise that Dobbs missed the point and always would. The professor had been forced to admit that dowsing might on occasion work. But his explanation was a subconscious realisation on the part of the dowser, an assimilation of clues and evidence from the surroundings that gave an indication of where water might be found. The movement of the sticks or the pendulum was merely, Dobbs maintained, a subconscious outlet for that realisation.
When they had moved on to discussing other lines of power, of magnetism and more esoteric forces, Dobbs had ended the conversation. He could never admit what Gaddis knew. What he knew from his own experience. He had felt the movement of the sticks unbidden in his hands, seen the pendulum swing awry without his assistance.
Now, as he worked his way along the side of the abyss, Gaddis was not examining the landscape for tell*tale topographical evidence. He had already found two lines of power, both of which pointed in the same direction. When he found the third and started to follow it he decided that he had found the focal point for whatever force emanated from the fissure. His concentration was focussed on the key as it swung in its arc.
So focussed that he did not see the figure approaching him until it was within twenty yards.
'I thought so.'
Dobbs had examined the fissure from the windswept top of the dam for as long as his old skin could bear the bite of the wind. He had made estimations of the size, sketched outlines of the shape. wondered at the depth. The Doctor had pointed out where there were jagged patches along the edge of the snowline where the snow had receded still further. As if the heat from the fissure were concentrating its efforts on particular points where it struggled to push back the snow.
Now they were walking round the frozen edge of the reservoir. The Doctor had said he wished to examine a slight inlet along the side, pointing it out to Dobbs's bleary eyes. They had a while yet until they were due to meet Gaddis, and Dobbs had no objection to a walk in the Doctor's company.
He leaned heavily on his stick and watched the Doctor slip and slide his way down towards the water's edge. Sure enough, as the Doctor had described, he could now see that the water here was steaming. Probably it did not need to be very hot in this weather for the effect. But it was unsettling nonetheless. He tried to recall if he had ever witnessed such a phenomenon before. He could remember walking across the frozen Thames when he was younger. But had the water steamed like warm breath in the cold air as it thawed?
'The ice is simply melting, surely,' he called after the Doctor who was now crouched by the misty edge of the reservoir.
'I don't think so.' The Doctor's voice carried back easily through the cold air. 'It's actually bubbling in places.'
'Bubbling?' Dobbs pulled himself upright and took a few steps forwards. But his feet slipped slightly and he felt decidedly unsteady. So from only slightly closer he called: 'Are you sure?'
'It's not something that allows for doubt.' The Doctor sounded put out by the question. He was leaning forward, into the mist. When he turned and started up the slope towards Dobbs, his hands were cupped together in front of him. They were steaming.
'Here,' the Doctor said as he stood in front of the Professor. He nodded towards the shallow water cupped in his hands. 'Stick your finger in.'
Even as he said it, even as Dobbs reached forwards, it was obvious that the water was hot. It was not bubbling, but a hazy mist shimmered from its surface. A drop squeezed out between the Doctor's hands, running down to his lowest knuckles and dripping to the ground. The snow where it landed shrank away from the warmth. Dobbs wondered for a moment if it was screaming as he dipped his finger cautiously into the liquid.
He nodded. 'Warm.' His eyes met the Doctor's. 'What do you think that means?'
'I don't know.' Suddenly the Doctor opened his hands and the water splashed to the ground, making a series of spattered depressions in the snow a central hole with jagged patches along the edge where the snow sank away. 'Now,' the Doctor said as they both stared after the water, 'lick your finger.'
'I beg your pardon?'
'The wet one. Lick it.'
Reluctantly, Dobbs licked at the tip of the finger with which he had tested the water. He frowned. 'Acidic?'
The Doctor nodded. 'That's what I thought. Interesting, wouldn't you say?'
He saw the man's shadow cast across the snow before he saw the man himself. Gaddis looked up in surprise.
'What are you doing? I've been watching you.'
'I'm sorry, I didn't see you.' Gaddis gulped. 'If I have strayed on to your land, sir, I do apologise.'
But Lord Urton's tone was one of interest rather than accusation. 'What are you doing?' he repeated. 'Are you looking for something?'
'Yes, in a way, sir.' As his apprehension faded, Gaddis became eager to explain. 'You see, I'm using the key as a pendulum. I'm dowsing, looking for hidden paths and lines.'
'What sorts of paths and lines?' Urton was standing with his hands behind his back, regarding Gaddis intently.
'Well, I'm not sure really, sir.'
'And have you enjoyed any success?' His hands were in black leather gloves as Urton stepped forwards, towards Gaddis. 'You did seem to be following a path of sorts.'
Gaddis nodded. 'I'm not sure what it is, some line of power, of influence. There are several.'
Urton was still approaching him. He was slowly teasing off one of the gloves.
'The strange thing is,' Gaddis went on, his attention on the hand as it emerged from within the glove. What was that hissing sound he could hear? His imagination? 'The strange things is,' he repeated through dry lips, feeling the skin stick as they pulled apart, 'that all the lines seem to lead towards the same place. Towards '
But Urton cut him off. 'Yes.' His voice was still quiet, still reasonable and calm. 'Yes, I do know.'
The hissing was louder now. There was no mistaking it. Like boiling water hitting ice. Urton raised his other hand, and slowly pulled off the remaining glove. Gaddis watched, fascinated, transfixed, as Urton let both gloves fall to the ground. A cloud of steam exploded from the light snow as the gloves landed, scorched their way through.
Now Gaddis did did take a step back. But too late. Urton's bare hands hissed towards his face, spitting and steaming in the cold air. Gaddis felt the heat of them as they closed on his neck. He opened his mouth to speak, to cry out. But already the air was squeezing out through the hole in his windpipe and all he could manage was a dry rasp of pain. His nostrils were full of the stench as his flesh seared away. Steam choked out of his ruptured throat, rising in front of him and obscuring his vision, smearing out Urton's smiling face. take a step back. But too late. Urton's bare hands hissed towards his face, spitting and steaming in the cold air. Gaddis felt the heat of them as they closed on his neck. He opened his mouth to speak, to cry out. But already the air was squeezing out through the hole in his windpipe and all he could manage was a dry rasp of pain. His nostrils were full of the stench as his flesh seared away. Steam choked out of his ruptured throat, rising in front of him and obscuring his vision, smearing out Urton's smiling face.
The cold was eating through his boots. Dobbs stamped his feet hard on the frozen ground as he walked, trying to work some life and feeling back into them. They were beside the fissure again now, walking along its widening length.
'But to raise the temperature of the water in that inlet,' Dobbs said, 'the whole reservoir must be affected to some extent.'
'Heat cannot of itself pass from one body to a hotter body,' the Doctor agreed. He was walking briskly, but otherwise showed no indication that he was feeling the cold. 'Which does rather suggest a source of extreme heat somewhere below the surface.'
'Or on the shore, perhaps?' Dobbs suggested.
The Doctor shook his head. 'We would see it. Melted snow, smoke. At that sort of heat there would be combustion.' He paused, peering into the distance ahead of them. 'No, no, no,' he decided. 'It's in the water. Or below the bed of the reservoir.'
Dobbs blew out a long misty breath. 'But to generate that sort of temperature, Doctor?'
The Doctor was walking forwards again, slowly, cautiously. 'I know. Extreme heat like that might come from the very heart of the planet itself.'
'This fissure?' Dobbs nodded towards the smoking hole beside them. 'It is hot, I grant you. But not so hot as you are suggesting.'
'But who knows how deep it goes? Maybe it runs under the surface, under the reservoir, heat bottled up and looking for an outlet of some sort.'
'Leaking into the reservoir? Is that possible?'
'Anything is possible.' The Doctor pointed across the snow, away from the fissure to their left. 'What's that?'
Dobbs turned to look. 'Wouldn't the water leak back into the fissure?' he asked. But the end of his question dried as he saw what the Doctor was pointing at. 'Good grief.' Dobbs broke into a stumbling, unsteady run.
Dobbs arrived at the body first, glancing back to see the Doctor apparently in no hurry to catch him up. The corpse was lying in an island of grass. The snow seemed to have retreated from it, as if trying to distance itself from the death. The ground was hard and parched, the grass dry and dead. The body was lying on its back. It was charred almost beyond recognition, the clothing fused to the blackened remains, the dark brittle bones visible where the flesh had peeled back. The head was a dark wreck of bone and cartilage, teeth grinning up at the sky.
Retching suddenly and dryly, Dobbs sank to his knees beside the body. His hands were knotted about his walking stick, as if he were planting a memorial to his friend. The Doctor's shadow fell across the dry ground.
'The leaking water would be vaporised by the heat,' he said. His tone seemed unchanged from their earlier conversation.
'What?' Dobbs barely heard the words.
'We have more evidence here of the extremes of temperature' The Doctor knelt down beside Dobbs, poking a finger into the side of the corpse. The black flesh crumbled like charred paper, flaking to the ground. The Doctor held up his finger, and blew. A mist of fine black soot was carried away by the air and sprinkled itself across the brilliant white of the nearby snow.
'He's dead, Doctor.' Dobbs's voice was a hoarse whisper of disbelief. 'Dead.' He shook his head and stifled a sob.
'Very dead,' the Doctor agreed, standing up. 'Nothing we can do for him now, but it suggests that there is a degree of urgency to our investigations.'
Dobbs pulled himself upright beside the Doctor. 'Don't you understand?' he pleaded. 'Gaddis Alistair. He's dead. I can't...' He was trembling. 'I don't...' He stared back at the blackened wreck. 'Dear God, what will I say to his mother?' His hand was at his mouth. He swallowed, his throat dry and dusty.
The Doctor was staring off into the distance, back towards the dam. He seemed unaffected by the grotesque discovery. Suddenly, Dobbs was angry at that. 'Have you no feelings, sir?' he demanded. 'Damn it, answer me!' He grabbed hold of the Doctor's sleeve.
When the Doctor turned, he seemed surprised, eyebrows raised. Almost in embarrassment, Dobbs let go of the Doctor's coat. He felt drained, empty. Cold and numb inside.
The Doctor glanced back at the body. He leaned down and carefully brushed a fleck of dust from the charred remains of a lapel. 'Intriguing, isn't it,' he murmured.
Chapter Eight.
Curio The sun was low in the sky. The snow on the streets had turned to dark slush beneath the carriage wheels and horses' hooves. Outside the barracks, soldiers wheeled and turned on the parade ground as the drill officer barked orders through an exhalation of mist.
The Doctor paused to watch the patterns the identical troops made as they marched back and forth, followed instructions, kept in step, responded immediately and mechanically.
Further down the same street he passed the entrance to the station. The cabs and carriages drawn up outside were a counterpoint to the parading soldiers a medley of shuffling, stamping, haphazard vehicles and animals. The patterns they made were non*patterns, chaotic and indiscriminate, yet there was an underlying order to it.
The figure ahead of the Doctor was dressed in a long grey coat that reached almost to the ground. His gait was purposeful as he continued down the street and he carried a leather holdall. The Doctor waited until he was almost lost amongst the people on the pavement, then followed.
They walked for ten minutes. The figure did not once look back, gave no indication that he thought he was being followed. Or if he did, he did not care. Eventually, he stopped outside a shop. He looked in at the window, then pushed open the door.
The Doctor watched, expressionless. The shop was one of the larger antique dealers in Ambleton. It also dealt in second hand books and other curios. Through the window, the Doctor could see the grey man as he walked round the shop examining the items on display.
Crossing the street, the Doctor went instead into the shop next door. Give the grey man time to make his pitch. He did not look to see what sort of a shop it was, and once inside he paused to look around. It was dim and dusty and smelled of machine oil. At the back of the shop a small man wearing a smeared apron looked up from his work table. He had a jeweller's glass in his eye, as if filtering his view of the Doctor. The only light came through the stained windows and from the lamp that burned on the table, illuminating the man's work.
At once the man returned to his task. 'Feel free to look around.' His voice was husky and grating, as if the mechanism were worn. He waved a hand dismissively in the air. 'If there's anything in particular...'
'I shall ask,' the Doctor assured him. He approached the table, looking to see what the man was working on. Beside him, arranged along the aisle that led to the table, shadowy figures and shapes held their peace. Across the table small pieces of machinery were arranged. Cogwheels and springs, half*assembled mechanisms, drilled metal plates and a collection of brass screws.
There was a sudden metallic click from beside the Doctor, and he froze. Slowly, he turned towards the sound. In the shadows he could make out a figure as it leaned towards him. Its movements were jerky and uneven. A scraping, mechanical sound accompanied the movement and the Doctor saw now that the small figure was a monkey. Its eyes shone out of the darkness as it lifted a paw towards him. There was something clutched in the paw, the Doctor noticed. He saw also that the creature was dressed in a dinner suit. There was the stump of a cigar clamped in its mouth.
'The spring slips.' The man's voice carried apologetically above the sound of the monkey's mechanism. 'There is a loose floorboard there somewhere. It is enough sometimes to set him off.'
'That's fine.' The Doctor watched in fascination as the monkey's hand reached its mouth and he saw that it was raising a lighter. The flame flared for a second, then died. The monkey's paw dropped slowly away, clicking back to its original position. 'What would you evolve into?' he wondered out loud. As if in reply, a stream of smoke blew out from the automaton's mouth. enveloping the Doctor in a purple haze. He cleared his throat and continued towards the table.
'This will be a music box,' the man explained. He swept his hand over the table to indicate the parts. 'A dancer inside. She stands up when the box is opened.'
'So she will appear to emerge from the box to dance.' The Doctor nodded enthusiastically. 'Very clever.'
The man shrugged. 'Straightforward enough. It is amazing how small we can make the mechanisms now.'
'Is that so much of an advantage?'
'It means we can better conceal the workings. And we can make the automata smaller also. People prefer smaller ones these days.'
'And they say bigger is better,' the Doctor mused.
'Do they?' He did not seem interested.
The Doctor watched the man work for a minute. 'I was in Turkey once,' he said. 'Well, I think it was Turkey, I have trouble remembering.'