The plot and its presentation is (hopefully) unique; as for the characters, universe, and related minutiae,
the British Broadcasting Company owns (most of) that. I gratefully acknowledge their copyright.
It is a proven fact that wild animals that are brought in by "civilized" human beings are almost always ostracized upon re-entering their natural environment. Not a very comforting thought to the captured animal, but a truth none-the-less.
She supposed that was why she was being treated like a pariah by the other passengers on the autobus. It wasn't the fact that her clothes were nearly two years out of style. No, it was something else, something the other passengers could only sense. These were average people, who had never had an experience beyond their ken, and as such, they backed away from her.
"'illview Road," came the gruff voice of the driver.
She was thankful to be getting off the damned autobus, but some little sprite caused her to stay a few seconds more and pass a parting shot at these pedantic people. "Thank you very much, and I hope you all have a pleasant day."
She laughed as the door closed behind her. She didn't think she still had it in her.
Looking about her, she realized that nothing had changed in the two years she had been away. Then again, nothing had changed in South Croydon in over thirty-five years. Rows upon rows of semi-detached houses. All post-war, all built in a pre-war style reminiscent of what an American might design in imitation of an English style. It was typical of most London suburbs in that it blended middle class suburbia with middle class squalor. But, it was home.
She wondered if she could ever again get used to a Monday to Friday job, shopping for groceries, and fighting the crowds in Victoria Station. Those things could wait, however, all she wanted right now was a hot bath and a cuppa.
As she approached the gate to the walkway, she stopped. She had been away two years, and the lawn and hedges were manicured? Suppose the house had been sold? It was possible; there was, after all, a small mortgage. What would she do? Where could she go on £1.32?
Forcing herself to block out such thoughts, she opened the gate and headed for the door. So far, so good, she thought. No little old lady or yapping terrier had come out to chase her away.
Taking the latchkey from her pocket, she tried it in the lock. It turned. After two years, Sarah Jane Smith was home.
Exhausted was not the only word to describe how he felt. Another, would be defeated.
Give over ten years of your life to something, and in less than six months, they're ready to take it from you.
He had spent the last six months flying between the United Nations in New York and Geneva begging for additional support, as well as, commitments of men and equipment. It had all proved a waste of time.
Oh, there was a promise of token support from the United States, as long as he could guarantee the United Kingdom's support in the deployment of missiles in West Germany.
The Common Market countries had been far less demanding. All they were asking for was the elimination of certain trade restrictions, and a banding together during OPEC meetings.
He was still laughing over the Soviet ambassador's answer. On the floor of the General Assembly, their representative had emphatically called for the disbanding, or total re-organization of this "imperialistic tool". However, in a private meeting, the same representative had guaranteed that he would see what could be done, provided certain conditions were met. Those conditions being: five of the most recent Elton John records, twenty pairs of Levi's blue jeans, one kilo good- to pure-grade heroin, and a video tape copy of the "Who Shot JR?" episode of Dallas. All to be delivered to a certain address in West Berlin.
That address was still in his pocket. He wondered if he might be arrested by MI-5 upon landing at Heathrow. At this point, he didn't think he would care.
The other countries in the United Nations had decided that transmundane situations were Great Britain's problem; no matter the global repercussions. Now, he had to return to 10 Downing Street and explain that the UK was going to be bearing most of the cost of an United Nations' organization. Hell, he'd rather face an angry Yeti, than that she-lion. He was no diplomat, and didn't intend to start being one.
"Another drink, sir?" The stewardess had to repeat the phrase before he was even aware of her presence.
"No, thank you."
"Last chance before we land."
He shook his head.
She smiled, and removed his tray; casually dropping a piece of paper on his tray-table.
Waiting a discrete few moments, he picked up the paper. It was what he had thought. Name, address and telephone number. Not a bad looker, either.
He smiled inwardly. He might never master political intrigue, but Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart had not lost his touch with the ladies.
The whole situation was ludicrous.
For the last six months, all they had been doing were parades and general orderly work. He was going out of his mind with boredom.
Already, they had lost twenty good men, some to other services, most just resigned, though.
That damned ass who was running things could not seem to get it into his head that the men of the United Nations Intelligence Taskforce were not like the men in the regular services. They couldn't be. With what they were forced to deal with, they couldn't act like a bloody peace-time army.
He thought back to UNIT's inception; he had been there at the beginning. Except for the Brigadier, himself, and a few others, most of UNIT's recruits had hoped to be joining an easy do-nothing operation. It didn't turn out that way.
As fast as her ranks swelled in the beginning, they dropped just as quickly.
UNIT was hard work. You had to be ready to go into action at any time; off duty did not exist.
UNIT was dangerous work. You were as likely to be killed by a giant mechanical man, as you were a yellow daffodil.
UNIT was top secret work. You were forced to sign the Official Secrets Act; forbidden to talk about what you did with your family, your wife, or your lover. They'd never believe you anyway. And, even if they did, could you burden them with the same worries you faced every day?
Seventy-five percent of recruits went right back into the Royal Army, and another two percent were discharged on psychological grounds -- they had nervous breakdowns.
From then on, each man who signed on was thoroughly checked. The Royal Army might do medical and psychological tests, but if they didn't pass muster with the Brigadier, they were rejects.
They were hand-picked men; chosen for their abilities. As such, they were a close-knit group. Every man loyal to the Brigadier, God, Queen and country, in that order. That was why they functioned so well in a crisis.
Well, Colonel Leslie Faraday had so far done an excellent job of destroying morale. Unless the Brig was intending -- God forbid -- to keep the man on as adjutant, they would be free of him in about two hours.
Having waited nearly six months, two hours more of the man was about all he could take. If the Brigadier was not back for good this time, Warrant Officer John Benton was also seriously considering deserting this sinking ship. He folded his request for transfer, and put it into his pocket. It would be ready, if need be.
He was beginning to wonder why in God's name he had requested a transfer to UNIT. Was it because he wanted some interesting work? No, it couldn't have been that. All he had been doing lately was the same thing he had been doing in the Royal Navy: handing out rubbers, penicillin injections, foot inspections, and of course, the damned paper work.
According to UNIT's acting commander, a medical officer was just that. The fact that he was RNs didn't sit too well with the old man, either.
Ever since the incident with the robot, MI-5 called on him to play undercover agent; that is, whenever they needed someone to play an undercover doctor. Colonel Faraday was only too happy to volunteer him.
If he was Matt Helm and making a cinema star's salary, those assignments might not have seemed so terrible. Instead, he was Lt. Harry Sullivan, pulling a UNIT salary, with most of his time being spent lurking around London's sewers looking for possible bacteriological time-bombs, while the rest of his time was spent bathing in carbolic.
Not once since Faraday was in command had UNIT done any official investigative work. Men were sent to answer calls about little green men, giant killer tomatoes, and noises in garages. Reports that were normal, logical or scientifically possible were completely ignored. UNIT was becoming a laughing stock among the other services. Their nickname was now "The Little Green Men People". No wonder men were requesting transfers.
He could only hope that when the Brigadier returned, UNIT would be turned around, becoming what it once was. Otherwise, he had a promising career in National Health.