The Cadaverites

by ComsatAngel

Trying to find out the truth behind an alleged massacre and The Dark Children, the Third Doctor travels to a provincial Russian town in the Soviet Union in 1969. He is escorted by a UNIT officer. The pair find themselves trapped in a town under siege, fi

6. Chapter 6

The Cadaverites Part Six

ELEVEN

The big desk in the mayor's office hosted a variety of plates bearing food. A samovar stood and steamed on a smaller table nearby. At least a good dozen of the townspeople were sat on chairs around a table dragged away from the wall, eating or drinking or smoking.

A large blackboard stood against one wall, flanked by the Doctor. John, not fully awake yet and full of black bread and cabbage soup, sat dozily opposite the Doctor, still feeling the un-named truth drug pound round his head on steel-shod hooves.

'IF I may have your attention, please,' began the Doctor, causing all conversation to cease. 'Thank you. Lieutenant Izvestilniuk?'

'Yes! Pay attention Izvestilniuk, you lazy – oh,' blurted John, lurching upright from his chair, fully awake. A few sniggers sounded from the audience, who mistakenly thought that John was playing the fool.

'Thank you. Please, pay attention at the back. What we discuss here may mean life or death for millions of Russians.'

Most of those assembled had grown up in the aftermath of the Great Patriotic War and several had actually fought in that barbaric, monstrous engagement. Hearing another description of how similar numbers of Russians were at risk again concentrated attention wonderfully. The silence could have been spread on a sandwich.

'Thanks to the aid of Comrade Zelinski, we now know what the Children of the Night plan. Yes, you heard correctly; Comrade Zelinski is helping us with inside information.'

The Doctor left his audience to think amongst themselves for a few seconds, planning and plotting along the lines of revolutionary or counter-revolutionary opportunity. Let them work in that direction.

'I believe that last night saw the least activity against the town defenders since this crisis began?' and many heads nodded in reply and affirmation. 'Which was ascribed to using silver ammunition.' More nodding of heads.

John took his cue from the Doctor's nod, standing up suddenly.

'Wrong!' he shouted, far too loudly for the confined spaces of the mayor's office. 'Wrong. Thanks to their link with Zelinski the Cadaverites knew they were vulnerable to silver bullets. What really made them withdraw was the collapse of Combine Number One's tunnel system. Doctor.'

The Time Lord took up the tale as though it were an educational lesson.

'Deep within the mine, the cavern roof collapsed. This blocked off the inmates of the cavern from the outside world. For the short-term this was a bad thing, leaving them with no outside access. Longer term, it provided them with protection.'

He stood to chalk an outline of the mine, roughly to scale, with the cavern next to it.

'The cavern is situated about half a mile underground, vertically. That gives them protection against even the biggest nuclear warheads. The tunnels turn back on themselves at several points, which provides protection to a limited degree against the blast wave generated from an explosion outside the mine.'

Next, he scribbled in shading across part of the tunnel near to the cavern.

'Here is where the cavern ceiling collapsed. This block of several hundred tons of rubble prevents any blast wave from reaching the cavern. A perfect defence.'

The Doctor returned to the table, sitting and looking hard at those assembled. Klimentov looked distressed that part of his mine was at risk; Zhadov scowled every time the name "Zelinski" came into the conversation.

'I did wonder why the Karausians simply dumped a collection of their criminally insane on this planet, without any attempt to protect the locals. Humans, that is. Now I know. The cavern is a product of Karausian technology, not simply a big hole underground. The cavern has a lining that is sensitive to tampering, designed to give off a huge pulse of ultra-violet light if it is breached, a pulse powerful enough to kill every Cadaverite in there.'

'Why didn't they simply tunnel their way out?' asked Klimentov.

'Simple. If they breached the cavern walls into the open, the cavern ceiling would give off it's UV blast. Oh, I know what you're going to say – but your miners breached the cavern from the outside, an event it wasn't designed to cope with.'

Zhadov grunted.

'And that traitor Zelinski told you all this? As if you can trust him!'

'As a theory it fits the known facts. It also gives us a method of attacking the aliens; deliberate sabotage of their cavern.'

'Which would also roast anyone who manages the job,' interjected the female doctor. 'Ultra-violet radiation isn't as lethal as gamma rays but enough of them will cook you like an Easter goose.'

'Quite so,' concluded the Doctor.

'Why bother?' asked the mayor. 'If they're stuck down there, good riddance, I say. Let them rot in the dark for another five hundred years!'

The Doctor shook his head slowly.

'You cannot risk it. Before your miners broke through that cavern wall the Greater Will consisted of, at most, three hundred individuals. Now, after breaking loose for the space of five days, they have nearly two thousand aliens and hundreds of humans to feed upon. And, most importantly, an exit to the outside world.'

'Plus all the mining equipment they've been able to lay their scaly talons upon,' muttered Klimentov.

'And they know all about us,' added Zhadov. 'Not just humans, but about the Soviet Union. Who knows where they could emerge next!'

Not that the Doctor felt at ease with his decision about the Cadaverites. Deliberate killing was utterly repugnant to him, and he only brooked this decision because the aliens were so completely amoral. The choice was stark; kill the aliens or they would run rampant across Russia, killing countless millions before they were stopped.

'I have more bad news for you,' he said, taking a decision to reveal more information than the situation called for. 'In forty eight hours the Kremlin will authorize the use of nuclear weapons to destroy Trivelho and Nickel Extraction Combine Number One.'

An immediate shocked silence fell, to be broken by anxious questions; how did he know? Did he really mean it? what about evacuation?

'I cannot reveal my sources. Nothing can change that decision. Our only hope is to be elsewhere when the town is destroyed.'

Another thread came into the tapestry of deceit, delivered by Zhadov. Part of his motivation lay in simple self-preservation, and another part, more difficult to define, lay in professional pride. Besides, he owed those paratroopers a few lumps.

'None of you idlers were counting paratroopers, were you? No, I thought not. Twelve arrived with the Colonel, who left with three bodies and eight live specimens. One man remained behind.'

An error like that irked John, who took issue straight away.

'That's bloody sloppy work! These people are supposed to be professionals? I'm not impressed!'

'I didn't say "left behind", did I?' replied Zhadov, coldly. 'He remained behind, and remained on purpose. We have a spy for the Kremlin at loose in Trevilho, with an unidentified agenda.'

This news came as less of a shock to the Russians than it did to John; they were used to being treated with suspicion and spied upon by various covert agencies.

Nearly a thousand miles away, Colonel Stefan sat at the end of a table polished to a high sheen, facing a parade of faces he recognised from newsreels and papers.

Shrugging nervously, he cast a look around the committee room. Rich brocade curtains, gilt trim on the dado rail, elaborate frames around the obligatory paintings of Lenin, dried flowers arranged tastefully on the lacquered tabletop. A smell of furniture polish hung in the air. Altogether a world away from the messrooms and headquarters he was accustomed to.

His arrival at Chkalevsky's secret airfield heralded a dizzying transfer to another helicopter, a GAZ truck for a short journey by road, another transfer to a limousine, a short drive to the Kremlin, then a hasty journey within. His commanding officer, General Kubinsky, greeted him briefly and worriedly in passing on a staircase.

'Watch your step and your lip, Vasha. Big things are afoot, big enough to bury you.'

The monster's corpse had been taken away the second he set foot on the ground at Chkalevsky. By now, he mused, it was being dissected by doctors and scientists. Perhaps the secrets it held would help to sustain the Motherland's lead over the United States and associated lackeys.

And now he sat, nervous as a schoolboy, facing a dozen men from the very highest positions of the Politburo. General Kubinsky would normally have been in attendance, presenting the information with Stefan merely there to provide confirmation of details. Today the honour – and responsibility – lay solely on Stefan. The Ministers must want the least possible number of witnesses. Indeed, there was no official stenographer, for the first time he could remember. He recognised the Premier, Kosygin, whom anyone across the world would recognise, and from various professional engagements the KGB Chairman, Andropov and the Ministry of Defence chairman, Grechko. First Secretary Brezhnev wasn't there; Colonel Stefan wasn't to know but the head of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union was holidaying at Sochi on the Black Sea coast.

Premier Kosygin began the discussion.

'Firstly, no notes, not from anyone here. If a formal decision is made tonight then I will draw up a memorandum, to be approved retrospectively by you. Until that happens nothing is to be committed to paper.'

No written proof of anything being decided, realised Stefan, also understanding why the stenographer was absent.

'Comrade Scholokov, is the roadblock still secure?' asked the Premier.

Ah, must be the MVD chairman, thought Stefan.

Comrade Scholokov nodded.

'The troops at the roadblock report thirty-two counter-revolutionary elements liquidated,' he said, blandly euphemising the killing of thirty-two civilians. 'A temporary encampment of displaced persons has been established approximately six hundred metres from the roadblock and troop cordon.'

Kosygin's brow clouded upon hearing the news of dead civilians. Sholokov noticed and carried on.

'I have patrols in surrounding towns and villages searching for any Trivelho residents who may have escaped before the roadblock and security cordon were established. So far we have not found anyone.'

'Good, good. We have managed to contain this thing. What about the troops in the cordon?'

Grechko pursed his lips, collected his thoughts and replied.

'Like the MVD troops, the Red Army soldiers have been briefed that the town citizens are carriers of plague, to be executed without warning. The perimeter is established with one man to every six metres, backed up with troop carriers, sniper teams and helicopter overflights. Nobody has yet tried to escape overland, but the soldiers are ready if they do.'

Lastly, Kosygin turned to Andropov.

'What of the rest of the world? Do they know what has happened or is happening?'

The KGB Chairman pushed his glasses higher on his nose. He felt sure he'd heard of this awkward northern town before in a different context and had his Archival Research team looking for information. So far nothing unusual had come to light.

'Put shortly – no. Not that we know a great deal ourselves –' and he cast a sideways glance at Stefan ' – but the Western media are focussing on Eisenhower's funeral and the latest offensive by the anti-imperialist people's army in Vietnam. There are also rumours and speculations about our recent engagements along the Ussuri River with the Chinese. It might be useful to leak information to selected Western media about those clashes. Maskirovskaya. Direct attention east while we act in the west.'

The Premier nodded.

'Make sure that they do not find anything out about Trevilho! I cannot stress that enough. To think, a town in the Soviet Union completely over-run and we can do nothing about it. The Americans must not learn about this; the Chinese neither. It would be disastrous.'

The sole phone in the room rang, to be answered by a man Stefan didn't recognise. The stranger listened intently for several seconds, then sighed and replaced the handset.

'That was the scientific investigation team at the airfield. The doctor put the report briefly – "I don't know what it is but I can tell you it isn't human and it isn't a hoax."

A subtle change in the atmosphere became apparent to Stefan. These men, who held the fate of millions in their hands, had hoped he would be proved wrong. Now, with the facts at last before them, they were being made to face the truth.

Premier Kosygin let out a long breath, running a hand through his short sandy hair and looked directly at the officer.

'So, Colonel, your testimony becomes very weighty. Please begin.'

Stefan described his visit to the insanity of Trivelho; the destruction, the missing hundreds, a people under seige. He described the Children of the Night, the oupir, and how they behaved. The Politburo listened, maybe with a sense of disbelief, but they listened.

'If those things escape from Trivelho and get loose, they will spread like a disease, an intelligent disease. They must be destroyed, the town and mine also, even if it means civilians dying.'

Taking such a step would be an overt acknowledgement that the situation had escalated beyond normal control, and the politicians present didn't want that.

'You cannot casually eradicate a whole town of several thousand people,' said Andropov. 'You make free with the lives of Soviet citizens.'

'Sir, if you wish, I will take a helicopter into Trivelho and remain there until it is destroyed around me,' replied Stefan, a righteous anger driving his response. 'That is how strongly I feel about these monsters.'

Kosygin tutted at both of them.

'Since you have met these things face-to-face and survived, Colonel, sending you back to Trivelho is not on the agenda. Now, Comrade Grechko, how would you plan to eradicate these monsters?'

'Bomb the town and use missiles to destroy the mine.'

Stefan shook his head.

'These things hide in cellars and sewers and any space out of the light. Bombing is not guaranteed to kill them. And you need a positive guarantee.'

'Very well, they shall be gassed first,' added Grechko, acidly. He clearly didn't enjoy being criticised by a mere colonel.

Once again, Stefan shook his head.

'We have no idea whether gas will affect them or not, nor what concentration is required. No, what is needed is a nuclear weapon. Two, actually, one each for the town and one for the mine.'

Predictably, this recommendation did not go down well.

'Two? Only two?' replied Gerchko sarcastically. 'Why not four to do the job properly? Pah!' and he exhaled sharply with disgust, glancing at the man who sat next to him, a burly man with a military mien.

One of the strangers whom Stefan didn't recognise spoke up, a man with pince-nez glasses and a fussy little goatee.

'Let me get the details of these creatures' reproductive practice clarified, Colonel,' he said, in a clipped tone. 'They do not procreate as humans do. Instead they introduce their own genetic material into a host organism. Correct?'

Stefan nodded. A couple of ministers looked curiously at the man with the goatee. The colonel decided he looked like a man with a background in science.

'Then, over an undetermined yet short time-span, perhaps as quickly as forty-eight hours, the host is transformed – metamorphosed, if you like – into one of these alien lifeforms.'

Another nod from the colonel.

'Similar to a virus, then. Your information is that once the process starts, it cannot be reversed? And that over one and a half thousand of these entities have been created by converting human beings?'

The pince-nez glasses came off and the questioner lightly massaged his nose, staring at the tabletop and thinking.

'Your quote about these creatures approximating to an "intelligent disease" is closer to the truth than perhaps you realise. I absolutely concur that they need to be destroyed with nuclear weapons, and as quickly as possible.'

'You cannot be serious!' interrupted Grechko. 'Using gas is the most extreme measure I will consider.'

'If you don't want my advice, don't invite me to your meetings,' snapped the other man in reply, crossly and not the least intimidated by the minister.

'Please tell us why you back Colonel Stefan's desire to speed Soviet citizens to oblivion,' ordered Kosygin, with heavy humour.Once again the scientist removed his glasses to rub his nose.

'Simple mathematical increase on an exponential scale.' Seeing lack of comprehension, the speaker enlarged.

'At present there are one thousand five hundred of these creatures. Within forty-eight hours they can double that number to three thousand. After a further forty-eight hours they would number six thousand. Forty eight hours after that, twelve thousand. Twenty-four thousand. Forty-eight thousand. Ninety-six thousand. Within twenty days there would be over a million of them. They would spread, indeed, like an intelligent disease, across the Soviet Union and across the border into Finland. Even a single one reaching Moscow would be a disaster.'

Suddenly people got nervous.

'This one at the airfield – it is dead, isn't it?' asked Kosygin. 'No question of it spreading?' he added, somewhat ungrammatically.

'Dead as a stone, Secretary,' said the man who'd taken the phone call. 'And ready to be burnt at a moment's notice.'

'Then give the word!' said Kosygin, snappishly, spurring a fervent phone call.

'The Red Army would stop them,' stated Grechko, putting up a straw man. 'Once they came out into daylight.'

'Then they wouldn't emerge from hiding until dark,' replied Stefan. 'Sending any troops against them would merely provide them with more food and converts. Do you really want them able to ride around in tanks and armoured personnel carriers?'

'Action must be taken as soon as possible!' urged the scientific speaker. 'I cannot imagine why these creatures do not spread out from the mine already, but they will eventually.'

'What would the casualties be if the town had – however reluctantly – to be destroyed?' asked Andropov. Scholokov fielded the question, doing quick calculations.

'At the very worst, three thousand people. The cordon needs to be moved back out of the danger zone, thus becoming less effective. Some people might get away, especially those near the roadblock itself.'

Mr Goatee got very agitated at that.

'You need to maintain a hermetic seal around the town!'

'Calm down, Professor,' chided the Premier. 'I take it that we cannot evacuate people for fear of their being infected?' He got a nod from the Professor and sighed ruefully. 'Then our cover story has, in a particularly unpleasant way, come full circle.'

'Not just that,' said Stefan, recalling those awful blank seconds when he'd been a thrall of the monster in the boiler-room. 'The aliens may have implanted commands in the citizens, taken over their minds. Unlike the injuries they inflict on victims for conversion, mental control doesn't show.'

Nobody spoke for a minute after that. The Premier knew a final decision rested with him.

'Very well,' he said, still looking at the table. 'We will proceed in reverse. A cover story for the destruction of Trivelho needs to be created. A restriction on national and local media will be implimented. The Red Army will be tasked to destroy the town, the Air Force will deal with the mine.'

Making sure both services came in for equal praise or blame, realised Colonel Stefan.

The burly plain-clothes officer next to Grechko leant and whispered in the chairman's ear. Grechko listened for a minute, then nodded and motioned the man to continue.

'Comrade Chairman, I have a suggestion for neutralising Trevilho. Rather than use rocketry or missiles, which might alarm NATO or the Americans, we could use nuclear artillery shells. A salvo of ten S-1 rounds would give a combined yield of twenty kilotons, ten groundbursts each of two kilotons. Unlike rockets or missiles an artillery shell can be fired with a very small degree of error at the target. The blast zone would be small enough for the cordon to remain in it's original place. We can send in the howitzer unit from North Western Front resources.'

Premier Kosygin nodded. He already knew that this scandalous affair must be kept totally secret. To date Secretary Brezhnev hadn't called to find out what the hell was going on, which meant it remained secret in the Soviet Union so far.

The phone rang again and the same man answered it. A grim nod, a tight-lipped smile and he told the group what they wanted to hear.

'The monster at Chkalevsky has been burnt to ashes, the ashes mixed into cement, the cement put into an oil drum and the drum will be flown out to and dropped in the Caspian Sea within six hours.'

'Good,' said Kosygin, and meant it. 'Get the surgeon officer there to collect all notes and personally destroy them. Then have the autopsy team split up and sent to different military commands. Now, how will the mine be dealt with?'

Once again the burly plain-clothes officer replied.

'A Tupolev Sixteen bomber, flying from Chkalevsky, will use an AS2 cruise missile to hit the mine. Nuclear-tipped, with a one kiloton warhead. Again, large enough to totally destroy the mine, small enough not to cause problems outside the immediate blast area, Premier. Using both delivery methods allows us to be precise in targetting without having to risk contamination from contact with these creatures.'

For which read that the Americans and NATO will not be certain what has happened, interpreted the Colonel. They may suspect we have been throwing nuclear weapons around, for undetermined reasons. Suspect, unable to prove.

Premier Kosygin seemed to come to a decision and looked long and hard at the various members grouped around the table.

'Very well. We are agreed that the town of Trevilho and Mining Complex have to be destroyed, for the sake of the socialist revolution, the Soviet Union and not least of all, the whole human race.'

His eyes glittered with determination and malice.

'Furthermore, I know all of you. If there are any leaks, any leaks at all, not only will you all suffer, all of you, but your whole counter-revolutionary support structure will suffer.'

Colonel Stefan blinked at this threat, not knowing quite what the Premier meant. "Counter-revolutionary support structure" implied other people involved in – oh yes. Families. Families and relatives. They would suffer.

TWELVE

John was awoken by, of all things, firm pressure on his earlobe.

'AHH!' he yelled, sitting upright abruptly, reaching for a non-existent gun and looking wildly about himself, ready to kill at a moment's notice.

'I see you're with us again,' said a mildly ironic voice at his elbow. The Doctor, of course, wearing an expression definable as slightly smug. 'There's work to be done, you know. Care to join me?'

The officer rubbed his eyes furiously and nodded.

'Go on then. Who do we have to assassinate?'

'Nothing so dramatic. A reconaissance is all. Are you up to it?'

Twenty minutes later John wished he'd said "no" to that last question. The two of them were plodding across snowy fields of nothing outside Trevilho, headed directly south according to the Doctor's compass. On three occasions a helicopter flew nearby, plainly checking the two travellers out.

'So – the nuclear artillery is still going to fall on us?' asked John. 'We didn't stop it?'

Slightly ahead of him and to the left, the Doctor paused in his trek through the virginal snows. They had to be careful to avoid old mine workings hidden under the snow.

'John, history cannot be changed. Or, perhaps, ought not to be changed; even the smallest alteration can have incalculable consequences – Ray Bradbury wrote – or will write, I'm not quite sure of the date of publication – a typically lyric story about just that. Those atomic artillery shells will still fall here in two days time, because that is what historically happened. What we are doing now is moving between the interstices of time, attempting to change details without altering the overall pattern.'

John cast a wondering eye at his companion. So they were attempting to change history on the sly, undermining reality.

'I take it that's a tricky job, managing to make small changes without altering things in the future?'

'Strictly speaking, it's impossible, unless you happen to be a genius.'

'And you're a genius?' asked John distractedly, feeling melting snow slide down the top of his socks.

The Doctor turned in mid-stride and gave a cheerful grin.

'Let's hope I'm as clever as I like to think I am!'

Their pace slowed as the Doctor skirted a suspiciously large hollow in the snow that looked like a crater.

'Possibly old mine workings, when they were after tin. Better safe than sorry.' He cast around and found a stunted tree, from which he broke a branch, which got used as a probe, sounding for holes ahead of them. Twice they skirted dubious pockets where the stick broke through a crust of snow.

'Dangerous. Why don't they mark them or sign them?' pondered John. His travelling companion wagged a logical finger.

'Nobody ever comes this way, John. They use the road.'

By this time they were well clear of the town, and John began to look nervously for Red Army troops making up the cordon, certain that they would be out here. Ahead lay a long stretch of pines, snow dusted picturesquely over them.

'Doctor, shouldn't we start to worry about getting shot about now? If I was part -'

'Stop right there,' came a low and menacing voice, issuing directly from the pine trees. Both travellers stopped.

'Turn round and go back,' growled the voice. 'And be quick about it, too.'

The Doctor tutted impatiently.

'Look, we're not trying to escape, we're only trying to see if there's a route out of town for the people trapped there.'

'Bugger off!' said the voice, plainly rattled. 'You come any closer, mate, and I shoot. I volunteered to come out here because I didn't fancy mowing down kids and women at the roadblock, but I'll shoot if you come closer.'

'Thanks a lot. Really big-hearted,' muttered John.

'Very well. We're leaving,' called the Doctor in a matter-of-fact voice. 'Remember this point on the perimeter,' he whispered to John, who was muttering darkly under his breath about soldiers who'd willingly shoot women and children.

'This is Russia, John,' his partner explained. 'Tsarist, Bolshevik or democratic, it isn't simply like the West with a funny accent. People serve the system absolutely, out of belief or fear. Remember your own statement about shooting striking miners.'

Ahead of them, while they tramped over the snowy landscape, several dark figures moved stealthily into cover, behind a mound atop which long blades of pale grass were visible.

'Did you see them?' asked John, feeling the lack of a weapon – the Doctor had insisted he visit the cordon unarmed.

'Yes. Don't look at them. Mutual disdain is the best solution.'

'You sound as if you know them.'

'They're various deserters, I would guess, from the MVD. Didn't fancy dying in the cause of defending Trevilho at the beginning, before we arrived. And now they're stuck out here.'

John's comments on deserters were nearly as blunt as those about Russian soldiers.

When they reached the town, behind the ruins of a blasted warehouse, the Doctor turned to look back at their route. Behind the copse where the considerate sniper had warned them away, black lumpish vehicles were moving. And, far overhead, a helicopter sped south.

Scratch Plan One, he ruefully reflected. It had occurred to him that they might be able to use the BTR in the town square to ferry townspeople, twenty at a time, out over the snows and beyond the perimeter. No longer possible with helicopter overflights and armoured vehicles lurking beyond the trees.

No; he told himself, that wouldn't work anyway. Moving the population over the cordon merely exchanged a swift death for an ignominous hunt and probable execution. No, he needed to move them out of harm's way in every sense of the word, out of Trevilho and out of the grasp of the Soviet regime.

Or at least this regime, he slowly considered, the germ of an idea forming in his head, and then realising John was speaking.

'I said, Doctor, what now? To survive a nuclear attack the people here need to start digging holes and fortifying basements. Not that I think anyone will survive nine atomic artillery shells arriving one after the other.'

For a moment the statement didn't register with the Doctor, until he realised the import it carried.

'Thank you, John, you've given me an idea. Two ideas, actually.' Much to John's frustration, that was the extent of the explanation he got.

Back in the town square people still clustered in small groups, once family even playing the accordion mournfully. Without counting it was difficult to be certain but there seemed to be fewer people present. Eyes turned to the lanky figure of the Doctor and his large escort, both of whom strode over the cobbles to the town hall.

There were fewer civilians or soldiers in the foyer. One of them hailed John and he recognised Shovels, wearing a bandolier of shotgun shells.

'Any news?'

'Afraid not. We've been out testing the military cordon and there aren't any gaps in it.'

Shovels shrugged, lighting a cigarette after offering one to John out of politeness.

'We reckoned that. Some folk tried sneaking out past the soldiers. They haven't come back.'

John nodded in mutual concern, trotting off to keep up with the Doctor.

'That's dangerous,' commented the Time Lord. 'The army will shoot to kill anyone trying to get past them in daylight and at night any escapees will be easy prey for the Children of the Night.'

The usual two dozen dignitaries in the antechamber of the mayor's office had dwindled also, to a half dozen. The skeptical female doctor sat dozing on a chair, a lit cigarette burning down to her fingers. Kopensky sat on one chair, his legs propped on another, cap pulled down over his eyes. The town engineer, Doctor Pavel, Avtandil and Zhadov made up the rest of the group.

Without knocking, the Doctor opened the mayor's office door, walking in as if the room belonged to him.

'Well well. Just who I least expected to see,' said Colonel Stefan, comfortably posed on the mayor's chair. Another new arrival sat on a side table – a large military-pattern radio.

'Come to gloat, have you?' said John, snappishly.

'Ditto!' exclaimed the Doctor. 'Where's the mayor?'

'Either asleep, hiding or trying to reinforce this building's basement. Somewhat foolishly, I feel.'

An opened bottle of Stolichnaya sat on the table, next to a small glass. A third of the bottle had gone, doubtless into Stefan's bloodstream.

'Why foolishly?' asked John. Stefan narrowed his eyes.

'You didn't ask "why?", I notice. Not only that, you happened to tell the people here that the Kremlin was going to order the town's nuclear elimination. Before they took the decision themselves!'

Oops, thought John. The Colonel might be drunk, but his wits didn't seem addled and he was certainly hostile.

'Zhadov!' shouted Stefan. After a few seconds the burly KGB officer came into the room, looking grumpy at being ordered around by Stefan.

'Yes?' he asked, not bothering to sound remotely deferential.

'Take this – this person, Izvestilniuk, and lock him in prison.'

'Why?' asked Zhadov, sounding insolent. Stefan frowned in angry disbelief.

'Why? Why! Because I order it!'

'Get stuffed,' replied Zhadov, ducking out of the door. John looked in startled amusement at the Doctor. The Doctor was less amused; he saw the beginnings of anarchy taking hold, which would imperil his plans.

'Comrade Colonel, would you mind explaining to me why Izvestilniuk needs to be placed in jail?'

The tone was well-judged. Conciliatory without being patronising or obsequious.

Stefan produced a pistol from one of the drawers in the mayor's desk. Despite being inebriated he retained the sense to avoid pointing it anywhere near his visitors.

'Eh? Eh? Because he isn't who he claims to be. I had a thorough check on him performed in Moscow. The Politburo granted me the authority. A thorough check. He doesn't exist officially.'

'A spy!' declaimed the Doctor, theatrically, turning to John. 'You deceiver!' whose dramatic impact was lessened by the huge wink he gave, unseen by Colonel Stefan. Without giving either man time to react, the Doctor marched John over to the door, opened it and propelled John forward.

'Find out what you can,' he whispered to the puzzled soldier, then continued in a loud, declamatory voice.

'Comrade Zhadov, would you be so good as to escort Izvestilniuk to jail?' to the accompaniement of another large wink.

'Oh, go on, only because it's you,' grumbled Zhadov, lurching to his feet and dragging a baffled John away.

Having shut the door, the Time Lord faced the colonel again.

'You haven't mentioned the spy you left here in Trevilho, Colonel. Your extra paratrooper.'

The Colonel smiled slyly.

'Ah, yes. An officer from the GRU, assigned to me for "special duties". I was told not to ask questions about him or his work here.'

'What about myself?'

Stefan poured himself another shot of vodka, knocking it back in one.

'You. Yes, you. The Party records mentioned you at what we now have to call "Volgagrad". Grechko nearly emptied his bowels when I described your sonic device. You two must have crossed paths back in the Great Patriotic War, eh?'

'Something like that,' admitted the Doctor, sitting down opposite the colonel. 'Your indulging to excess in alcohol is not becoming, Colonel. You have standards to keep up as an officer in the Spetznaz.'

The other man snorted with laughter.

'Aren't you the wit, Kuznetz. Doctor Kuznetz If I were still an officer in the Soviet Armed Forces then you would be perfectly correct.'

Still chuckling, the ex-officer put the gun away and gestured at the radio.

'We both parachuted in by helicopter. I radioed in the resignation of my commission. Not legal, but I wanted to make the point.'

A nasty prickling sensation crawled up the Doctor's spine.

'Resignation. Parachute. You make this sound like a one-way mission, Colonel.'

The other man looked calmly at the Doctor.

'It certainly is, Doctor. I was trained for infiltration and sabotage missions in Germany that I would not have come back from, discharging my duty. This is exactly the same. I intend to be here when those nuclear shells drop.'

A stricken silence hung in the room. The question on the Doctor's lips didn't need pronouncing.

'I condemned the population here to death, Doctor, on the grounds that they could all be under the influence of the aliens. That same risk of alien influence applies to myself. I got taken-over in the boiler room under this room, this very room. It would be akin to cowardice in the face of the enemy to avoid taking responsibility for that.'

No wonder he's drinking himself silly! thought the Doctor silently. Impelled by duty and conscience to commit what amounted to suicide.

'You didn't explain why it is foolish to reinforce the town hall's basement.'

Stefan nodded to nothing in particular.

'The town square is geographical centre of Trevilho. Any artillery shells will range there first. The shock waves will shatter the basement under this building like an egg-box. Still, it stops people from panicking.'

Rather a negative valuation, in the Doctor's opinion.

'Ah – Colonel, would you happen to know how the atomic artillery will be used against Trevilho? In detail? I ask because a man of your rank and specialisation would be more likely to know.'

The flattery didn't hurt. Stefan himself hadn't actually thought this process over and the question sparked a reflective minute.

'Okay. The mine – destroyed by an aircraft with a missile. Only two people involved, they being the aircrew. Very well. Now, the Kremlin, Moscow Centre, the Red Army, all will be keeping the number of people involved to a minimum.' There was a pause whilst the colonel took another shot of vodka, then a spoonful of caviar from a jar hidden in another desk drawer. 'Remember that, that's how they think, these people. So, they will have only one gun firing shells. No, actually, they'll have two, just in case one has a malfunction. So, two guns. Only one gun crew, with the crew selected for political reliability. Oh, the atomic shells. They will be kept separately, delivered and guarded by Spetnaz troops. Two tractor vehicles for the guns, one gun crew, warhead vehicle. Twelve men at an estimate.'

Another pause, more caviar.

'The crew will have a plan of Trevilho and know the blast radius of their shells. I think they are two kiloton yield, can't swear to it. Anyway, they will plot where to fire the shells to destroy the town, using conventional ammunition to get the range. Once the fall of shot is judged accurate, they'll use atomic rounds.'

All of this was absorbed intently by the Doctor.

'You're sure of this?'

Stefan shrugged.

'Artillery tactics aren't my field. My best guess. They might use two guns to fire the shells. What they won't do is fire them all off at once. Takes too many men and risks shell explosion affecting other shells.'

Excellent! exulted the Doctor, careful to avoid the feeling becoming obvious.

By the time he finished describing Trevilho's probable destruction, the colonel's speech had started to slur.

'Thank you for your very valuable information, Colonel Stefan,' said the Doctor, quietly departing.

Outside the mayor's room, he scanned the assembled town citizens. The man he wanted, the town's engineer, looked up at him with dull eyes.

'I wonder, do you have a pen and paper?' asked the Doctor. 'A calculator? No, sorry, I mean a slide-rule.'

The other man shook his head at first, then realised he did have a slide-rule in his coat pocket.

'I have paper and a pencil,' said the female doctor, waking up fully and rubbing a small burn on her fingers. 'Are you making a will?' she asked, joking macarbrely.

'No need to make a will yet,' announced the Doctor cheerfully. His enthusiasm wasn't faked; he had an interesting technical problem to solve with a deadline and limited resources, a situation that satisfied him enormously. If he survived!

First of all he needed to do mental calculations about what equipment he needed. Whether there were the resources actually present in Trevilho was another question; he'd definitely need to compromise when actually constructing his proposed device.

'Do you happen to have any insulated, high-resistance, heavy-duty cable lying about?' he asked. 'Four or five thousand metres will do.'

The engineer goggled mightily. That length of cable could connect them to the next town.

The Doctor carried on, seemingly unaware of what impression he was making.

'Let's see, what else? Portable generating plant, parabolic reflectors, electronic control circuitry, Yagi aerials. Sorry, I didn't ask your name –'

'Vassili Bogdanov,' said the flustered man. 'What – I mean, all this equipment – what are you going to do with it?'

'Well, to be blunt, I am going to create a form of shield, one that will protect all beneath it from attack.'

Vassili merely stared. He knew the reputation of this white-haired stranger already – but really! A shield!

'How will this work?' he asked, curious in a manner not felt since his days at the junior gymnasium.

'By means of an oscillating fractional-Newton micro-mesh in the pico-farad range, layered at ninety degrees perpendicularly,' replied the Doctor. He skated over the finer details with that description.

'And how will it protect us?' asked Natasha Irinovna, the skeptical doctor. 'Already the people here are shoring up cellars, bracing walls, digging trenches. That is practical work. What you are suggesting is – fantasy. A nonsense.'

With a penetrating look, the Doctor responded.

'Doctor Abakumov. I do not deal in fiction. What I have to say is cold hard fact. You may not like it, but it is nevertheless fact.'

The fact that the Doctor used her surname, which she had never mentioned to him, made Doctor Abakumov promptly shut up. Her acute green eyes kept a watch on the Doctor whilst he spoke.

'Also, I need a bulldozer. Or, at least, a means of moving several hundred tons of rubble from a collapsed warehouse.'

Kopensky, wall-eyed from fatigue, waved at the Doctor.

'I – we – can manage that. Simple job, moving a lot of bricks from one place to another.'

The Doctor looked at him with a peculiarly intense gaze.

'The warehouse at Baikalskaya Prospekt. Blown up by one of your roving dynamite squads. You need to uncover a large blue cuboid artefact. Can you manage that?'

The MVD officer nodded maniacally, grinning at his new-found mentor.

'Sure, absolutely, boss. Don't worry.' Off he went, stumbling thanks to fatigue.

The Doctor and Vassili remained alone in the town hall as other persons left to carry on with the business of trying to protect against the anticipated attack.

'They aren't persuaded,' murmured the Doctor to himself. This was worrying. If he lacked enough helpers then he hadn't a chance of completing the work on time.

'Nor am I,' replied Vassili. 'I mean to say, a shield made from bits of cable!'

'How do I convince people. Oh, if only time wasn't so short!'

That last phrase triggered a recent memory of the Doctor's; seeing a film. It had been on television at the Aylesbury mess quarters, and he sat and laughed at it, to the irksome annoyance of the UNIT officers also watching it: "The Time Machine". The Time Traveller in that film had persuaded his audience of his scientific credentials by creating a scale model of his own time-travelling device, a miniature replica.

Vassili jumped when the stranger smacked a fist into the palm of his hand.

'Of course! A scale model - Vassili, can you locate a couple of hundred metres of electrical cable? And metal flan cases? And paper-clips, lots of paper-clips, thousands if you can.'

While the Doctor's mind raced across countless possibilities, John had more immediate concerns: the prison cell he shared with Zelinski. Zhadov had propelled him to the town square, then handed him over to a loitering member of the civilian militia.

'Going for a nice kip, are we?' sneered John in farewell. Zhadov had looked back in puzzlement, not making any sense of the argot.

'Put him in the gaol,' ordered the KGB officer, wondering what a "kip" might be. He ignored the hostile looks from citizens of Trevilho who clustered in the town square, nevertheless wriggling his back as if it was being stealthily stabbed.

The militiaman walked John at gunpoint to the seedy and down-at-heel prison building, where an equally seedy and down-at-heel guard armed with a shotgun took over. Vodka fumes were detectable on his breath from a metre away.

'Geddin there,' slurred the guard, indicating a cell with an occupant. The door stood slightly ajar. John carefully opened it and slid inside.

'Nofugginmessinaboud,' said the guard, locking the cell after five attempts at getting the key into the lock. 'No – no – . Shtaystill,' and he lurched off down the narrow corridor to collapse onto a stool.

'I fear our sentry is inebriated,' joked John to the other occupant of the cell, who lay hidden underneath a thin cotton blanket. There was no reply.

'Are you okay?' asked John, feeling hairs on his neck begin to bristle. He stretched a foot out to kick the other person.

'No! No, I am not okay,' replied the other man, throwing back the sheet and sitting bolt upright.

'Zelinski!' blurted John.

A variety of solid soviet citizens, scientists and townspeople sat in a semi-circle around the improvised podium. The focus of their attention was a flat stage of about six metres squared, presently occupied by a scale replica of Trevilho. Over the model hung an array of wires in a checkerboard pattern, ready for the intervention of the Doctor.

'I understand that certain elements of the populace are not convinced of the efficacy of Soviet science,' began the Doctor, well aware that "certain elements" included everybody except himself, John and Masha. 'So we are here to re-affirm that effectiveness. Comrade Vassili, can you begin the count?'

Vassili, off to one side and not feeling especially happy about it, nodded sternly and began the count. At Zero he pulled the contact lever home. A sudden bright spike of energy illuminated the room, varying in intensity, casting shadows everywhere. The smell of ozone assailled nostrils.

'Regard!' shouted the Doctor, pointing at the streaky pie-lid of energy now poised in a rough hemisphere over the display table. Visible beneath the surging energy waves was the outlay of a miniature town. Impressed noises came from the audience.

'My purpose in creating this scale replica is to demonstrate that a large-scale version is possible,' announced the Doctor, only partially to those present. 'I shall now demonstrate how effective the partial version is.' He nodded to Vassili, who nodded to the person responsible – Semyon, with a ten-kilo sledgehammer. The sledgehammer swung up and down in a rapid arc, hitting the glowing field in the middle and bouncing off equally rapidly. Speechless, Semyon rubbed his hands where the unexpected jar had caused friction. Even more impressed noises came from the audience. Vassili felt his jaw sag open foolishly, knew that he looked foolish and didn't care. The next test involved Semyon and a shotgun.

'A high-velocity weapon would create unpredictable ricochets,' explained the Doctor. 'You may also want to cover your ears,' he added, covering his own.

With a great double retort, Semyon fired both barrels at the energy field, doing nothing more than create a gentle pattering as the deformed lead shot fell to the floor in front of the unharmed model.

'Now,' pronounced the Doctor with a great deal more patience than he felt was merited, 'Can we start to get equipment together for the large scale version?'

Evgeniy Klimentov came to talk to the Time Lord once Vassili had dispersed the watchers with a shopping list of items to acquire and bring to the town hall square. He gave the Doctor a long, hard stare, obviously thinking intensely.

'You say these oupirs are actually aliens, criminals, stranded here a long way from home.'

The Doctor nodded, wondering where the conversation was going.

Evgeniy gestured at the cardboard boxes representing Trivelho.

'That shield – you created it single-handed in a matter of hours. A task the entire science establishment of the Soviet Union cannot master. For that matter, the entire world, not just the Soviet Union.'

'My dear chap –' the Doctor began, before being interrupted.

'I can guess you are also a long way from home, Doctor. But not a criminal.' Evgeniy sighed. 'There are so many questions I would like to ask, and we have no time.'

Vassili returned from speeding his assistants on their way.

'Okay, Doctor, you powered the model's shield from the mains. How can we power the real-life version?'

'That, I'm afraid, is the weak link, literally. We'll have to use power from the town's own electrical supply, cabled in to the town square.'

Evgeniy's eyes widened in alarm.

'Not a good idea, Doctor! It'll be dark soon and the lighting in the town square is all that keeps the monsters at bay.'

'Not tonight,' corrected the Doctor. 'But definitely tomorrow night. In the meantime I need to get a bit of planning done.' He stopped before turning back to the mining engineer. 'Why aren't you down in a basement making it blast-proof?'

'I don't fancy getting slashed to bits by one of the Children of the Night. A few people have stumbled across them, hiding from the daylight. Besides, nothing we can do in the time available would be any use.'

The Doctor wagged a chiding finger.

'Don't be so negative! Positive action is never wasted.'

'Got any smokes?' asked Zelinski, not holding any grudges against the man who nearly killed him with a spade.

'No. I don't smoke.'

'Pity. What are you in here for?'

John sighed. He cast a sombre eye over the dirty, dingy little room, wondering how much of the truth to tell his fellow-prisoner.

'Colonel Stefan think's I'm a dangerous enemy spy.'

Zelinski cocked his head in a knowing way. His eyes narrowed.

'Oh, I wouldn't say that. Not all of it, anyway. You've helped to save lives, killed the Cadaverites, rescued prisoners. That must make you friendly, mustn't it?'

'Yes,' replied John slowly. The KGB officer had an idea he was talking his way towards; what could it be?

'Yes, friendly. Your friend, Doctor Kuznetz, now – an entirely different matter. Entirely different.' Zelinski tapped his temple underneath it's bandage. 'I got to know what the aliens know, you see. And I see that he isn't human. They recognised that straightaway.'

'D'you know what these Night Children are up to, if you know what they knew?' asked John.

The other man made a face and shrugged.

'Smiple enough: they want to possess the Earth. Human beings will exist only as herds of mindless cattle once enough Cadaverites have been created.'

'Great. Very neighbourly. Just what we might expect from them. And in the short term?'

Zelinski laughed shortly.

'The ones trapped outside the mine when the roof collapsed are desperate. They aren't being allowed back into the cavern. If they stay in Trevilho they'll die. There aren't enough of them to try and force the cordon. Besides, the troops on the cordon are ready and waiting for any escape attempts, and they've been using infra-red lights in darkness to illuminate the landscape. The Children don't like infra-red. It isn't fatal, just extremely painful to them. So, they're trying to hide in Trevilho, in places that are out of the sun. Tonight will be bad for them and the citizens. Enough about the oupirs. Back to your friend.'

There was no response from John, who merely sat and stared.

'Not human. An alien. Another alien, I ought to say. What's his agenda, Izvestilnyuk? What brought him here and why does he stay? For that matter, how did he get in? You see, I have lots of questions about Doctor Kuznetz.'

Well you're not going to get answers about him from me, said John silently. Zelinski lapsed into silence as well, brooding whilst staring at his feet.

'Did they search you?' he suddenly asked. 'Before bringing you in here?' he lowered his voice conspiratorially. 'Come on, it's important.'

'Not properly, no,' said John. 'But I already told you I don't have any cigarettes.'

The other man made a dismissive gesture.

'Never mind smoking! What have you got in your pockets?'

A miscellany of items: rivets and screws and washers left over from fixing the ultra-violet light to the bulldozer, a couple of silver 7.65 bullets, a comb, a paperclip, a scattering of loose change. The KGB officer looked keenly at the collection, twirling a pen of his own in one hand.

'Let me see,' he said, reaching out to heft the bullets. Handing them back, he dropped one by accident.

John stooped to pick it up and felt a stunning impact across his neck as Zelinski struck out with a karate blow; the floor rushed up to hit his cheek and he passed out.

When a dazed state of consciousness returned, after who knew how long, John immediately understood: Zelinski had escaped. The cell door swung open and outward, bits of pen and rivet projecting from the lock.

'Forgiving chap, not killing me,' muttered John to himself. He got up, gingerly feeling his bruised cheek and bruised neck. The drunken guard still sat slumped on his stool, as before, except that his shotgun had vanished.

A sore and crestfallen John tracked the Doctor to the town square to report Zelinski missing. Semyon and Misha were in attendance, working away with carpentry tools on a dismounted telephone pole. Masha and Irina sat nearby, helping family members to peel insulation from long lengths of cable at precisely marked intervals.

'Make a cut at the chalk marks first, otherwise you'll rub the mark off. That's it, like skinning a rabbit,' said Masha in a conversational tone. She cocked an eye at the dishevelled figure of John lurching past.

'Drunk, the silly man,' she hissed to Irina, who giggled behind her hand.

'I wish I was,' muttered John. 'Er – Doctor? Bad news.'

He explained about Zelinksi's escape, then about what he'd learnt from the man.

'Interesting. You know, I think he could have escaped from that cell at any time. Why choose that particular moment?' A second of horrid inspiration struck and he snapped his fingers. 'John, you didn't mention the shield, did you?'

'What shield? And what's going on here?'

'Oh, of course, you'd gone before the demonstration. Yes, a shield. An electromagnetic force-field. Given the power restrictions the largest area we can protect is the town square. Those cables will be interlaced to form a grid, which will be propped up on the telephone poles.'

This appeared to be interference with time on a large scale to John, and he said so. The Doctor's look in return had an element of bleakness to it.

'I've already interrupted the flow of time, John. Back at the mine. If I hadn't been present then the roof would not have fallen in and the Cadaverites would not be protected.'

'And those people would be dead.'

'Another interruption.'

'Look, can't we just get back in your police box and leave here? Or go back further into the past and stop things going wrong?'

'I can't leave without correcting the effects of my interference, John. And I intend to try saving at least a few of the people here, if at all possible. As for returning in time for two bites at the cherry, the Blimovich Limitation Effect puts paid to that idea.'

He explained the law of overlapping temporal exclusivity, putting it as simply as possible. John looked stricken.

'Don't worry, young man. I have a plan, willing helpers and nearly thirty six hours to solve all our problems. Things are looking better already!'

A dubious John left to help Kopensky's workers with the excavation of the TARDIS.

Chairman Grechko met General Filipov at the former's dacha, an isolated spot well away from prying eyes and ears, where the staff were all vetted for discretion and loyalty, and where wild parties could be held without any embrassing attendant publicity. The Chairman's wife and daughter were still at the official residence in Moscow, rather than out here; it made for less distraction in this crisis. The General had come alone, in his staff car, and out of uniform, all of which betokened disturbing news.

Grechko ushered the general into the lounge, heavy with the smell of Cuban cigars and rum. He turned on a small table lamp and sat expectantly behind the desk, arranging his dressing-gown.

'I expected a report before this, Sasha,' he remarked, mildly. 'I hope there is a good reason for the delay.'

General Filipov knew very well the consequences of keeping the information he had from other members of the Politburo and most especially Comrade Brezhnev; a serious fall from grace, demotion and imprisonment were all possibilities. Reassuring himself with the prospects of promotion and honours, if his supplying Grechko alone with priviledged information bore fruit, the officer began.

'My agent in Trevilho's not been able to find a secure location to transmit from until now.'

Grechko nodded brusquely, wanting the conversation to move on.

'I'm not sure how to put the next news, sir. Colonel Stefan commandeered a helicopter and used it to get into Trevilho by parachute, with a radio, which he used to inform us that he'd resigned his commission and was awaiting subsequent destruction. He stated that he, too, had been under the influence of one the creatures.'

A silent expression of incredulity from the Chairman was the only response to this news.

'The citizens are trying to fortify buildings, seek out the oupirs, and he kept having to move. He says – well, order seems to have broken down. Drunkeness, fighting, looting, he's seen all that and it appears to be getting worse.'

Grechko held up a forefinger for quiet.

' "Fortify" – against what? Did he say?'

'He implied against attack from these creatures, Chairman.'

'He really doesn't know the town is going to be destroyed?'

Filipov shook his head. The GRU officer had a watching brief, to provide information from within the town. One thing he did not have was information about the nuclear attack due shortly, nor that he would be one of the victims. Moscow Centre simply couldn't allow the possibility of him coming into contact with the monsters and being allowed to leave the doomed town. A necessary sacrifice.

'At least two dozen MVD soldiers have deserted and are living in the zone between Trevilho and the Red Army cordon. Three have been shot dead trying to escape in the past twenty-four hours. My agent thinks they are getting desperate and running out of food or water.'

The Chairman waved a dismissive hand. He didn't care about MVD deserters, not one iota. As traitors they deserved to be shot.

'There is more, sir. The person you mentioned as "The Doctor" is one of the driving forces behind what organisation remains in the town, together with the mysterious Ivan Izvestilniuk. Both of them suddenly appeared four days ago, not telling anyone how they arrived, and promptly got involved with the siege. There is a discrepancy between your description of The Doctor and my agent's, however.'

The Chairman visibly stiffened in his chair, taking a much closer interest. Filipov felt even more under trial.

'You described a small man with dark hair; my agent describes a tall man with white hair. I don't quite - '

'Never mind that, get on with it!'

'Sir. Here is the most startling information of all. My agent got into the town hall and witnessed a demonstration by The Doctor of an electromagnetic shield device which he had constructed himself. A small scale model of the town was protected by an impenetrable barrier, which resisted attack by sledgehammer and shotgun.'

'Oh?' whispered Grechko, leaning forward, very interested indeed.

'Yes, sir. And the plan formed by The Doctor is to build a large-scale replica to protect the town itself.'

Wordlessly, Grechko's eyes glittered with a sudden cascade of ideas for several long minutes as Filipov anxiously waited. Finally the Chairman spoke, with deliberation.

'Regardless of appearance it must be the same man – person - being. Sasha, Sasha – just think what a shield like that could do for the defence of the USSR! Why – we'd be invulnerable to American missiles – American bombers – Chinese missiles.'

Not to mention the kudos accorded to the man who uncovered or discovered such a device, thought Filipov to himself.

The Chairman drew himself upright, in a composed manner. The general could guess what was coming.

'General – we must have that shield! The future interests of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics demands it.'

Stoney-faced, the general looked at Chairman Grechko.

'And what do we do with it once we have it, Comrade Chairman?'

'What do you mean – oh, I see – yes, better make sure this Doctor Kuznetz comes along too, to ensure it works correctly. While they're about it, the men you send need to get hold of that rascal Stefan, too. As if he can resign his commission on a whim!'

"Doctor Ivan Kuznetz" stood back and looked at the scale drawing he'd managed to sketch earlier, depicting Trevilho, centered around the town square.

Really, he'd managed to make a complete mess of the situation here. His abhorrence of violence and evil had led to a transgression of the laws of time at the mine, and – as if that wasn't enough – he intended to commit a still greater transgression. Much more of this and resultant distortions in time meant the Time Lords would detect his meddling. That would be disastrous; the interfering Gallifreyans would carry out a retrotemporal sweep and eliminate everything positive he'd achieved. What he needed was a very large rabbit produced from an even larger hat.

The electro-magnetic shield played the rabbit's part. The scale drawing in front of him showed where cobbles from the square needed to be removed, allowing telephone poles to be stepped into the resulting hole. The cable grid would then sit on the poles. The aerials needed to be modified, and the parabolic receptors installed, and general feedback circuitry gimmicked together from a miscellany of broken radio parts; and the power needed to be fed in from the town's main supply. Merely a matter of schedule, the Time Lord told himself, with good reason. Plenty of time, actually.

Yawning mightily, he perched precariously on a stool and aimed to get forty winks. The Cadaverites might yet have a trick or two to play and he wanted to be fit to face them.

The families now a permanent fixture in the town square set to with gusto, using brute force, tin shears, pliers and hacksaws to alter Yagi aerials into the bizarre, hedgehog-like forms the Doctor had sketched for guidance.

Avtandil moved amongst them, tugging his moustache ferociously, involuntarily scaring the younger children, offering practical help that was frequently rejected. Feeling unloved and unwanted, the victim of his frankly fierce Georgian appearance, he drifted off to the east of the town, eventually discovering a line of men at the entrance to Baikalskaya Prospekt. They were passing rubble down the line, hand to hand, from further down the street.

It's not very academic, nor intellectual, thought the miner to himself. It is activity, which is one way of occupying the mind, and if that stranger Kuznetz is correct – my mind needs occupying.

'Need any help?' he asked the last man in the line, who barely spared a glance.

'Get lost, darkie,' replied the man, sweating and streaked with dust, hefting a long piece of broken beam. 'Don't need any monkeys here.'

Used to this unpleasant Russian attitude, Avtandil prepared to leave, feeling humiliated and with his cheeks burning like coals, until the man laughed to his friend.

The next Avtandil knew he faced the ignorant one, hissing in anger, and a brawl started as the man and three others replied with fists and boots. There would have been deaths and bodies had the Georgian retained the knife he lent to Masha. As it was, he felt a terrific slap to his head (courtesy, he later discovered, of a piece of roof girder) that went straight to his knees, and a boot caught his cheek, making him bite his tongue.

A roar of incoherent rage split the air and one of the attackers went head over heels, twirling balletically above a surprised Avtandil. Another received a stunning blow to the head from a shovel blade, dropping on the spot. The other two ran for it, pursued by a torrent of strange insults.

Avtandil levered himself up off the ground. Typical of him, letting his temper get the better of his sense, picking a fight with fifty Russians. Big hands steadied his ascent to stand upright.

'Are you okay?' asked a familiar voice. Ah, it was that big stranger, the – Ukranian, wasn't he? Izvestilniuk. Perhaps he disliked Russians, too.

A hissing sound came to Avtandil's ears. The Ukranian spun the spade like a baton, making it whistle.

'Keep shifting that rubble! The next squabble like this I come across will end with a burial!'

Izvestilniuk might be big but several of the excavation detail dwarfed him, quite apart from there being several dozen of them. His sheer rage, made concrete in the whirling spade, persuaded them that disobedience was a bad idea.

'You and your spade, eh,' commented Avtandil. 'My heroes.' He stopped abruptly and retched painfully.

'Here, come round the corner. Sit on the kerb. That's it, get some air in those lungs.'

Avtandil looked at Izvestilniuk. No, he didn't look Ukranian. He didn't speak like a Ukranian. He didn't speak like a Russian, either, with all those strange curses.

'You're not from round here, are you?' he guessed, making the other man blink with surprise.

'Er – not sure what you mean.'

Avtandil groped in a pocket for a cigarette, found it, discovered his matches and lit the cigarette. A few soothing puffs later and he cocked a canny eye at his rescuer.

'I never met a Russian yet who would step in to stop his fellow socialist Bolshevik countrymen from beating the bones out of a Georgian. Oh, maybe a militiaman might, that's their job. Nobody else would. Not like that. You must have made those two candidates for the sanitarium.'

Temper gone, the big man looked nearly embarassed.

'Yes. Well. My temper and all. Four against one. Not good odds. Cherish the underdog.'

The Georgian looked even harder at the Ukranian.

'You puzzle me, Izvestilniuk. Your slang is utterly unique. I never heard "toilet-paper" used as an insult before. And now this stuff about the underdog.'

He rose on legs that felt much firmer now.

'I don't know where you really come from, friend. Not the USSR, at a bet. Yet you help us here, you and Kuznetz. You kill the monsters, rescue prisoners, help the townspeople. You are more of a help than our so-called government, who are obsessed with controlling our crisis by destroying the town.'

With night upon them, the workers deemed it unwise to continue shifting rubble from the great jumbled pile which lay on top of the TARDIS; footing was tricky on the smashed building in darkness and the vampires might return. Good progress had been made, sufficient for them to reckon on uncovering the "blue cuboid" next day.