Part Three: The Black Museum

Next morning meant an early start for us four newcomers, assembling at the transport pool by oh seven hundred for our trip to Swaffham Prior. We went by Landrover, Captain Yates driving, me in the front seat and all others on the hard seats in the rear. With such an early start we'd missed breakfast, so outside Bedford Yates found a roadside café and bought tea and bacon butties.

'It's a long journey,' complained Corporal Horrigan. 'Why don't they store things at Aylesbury?'

'Security,' said the captain around a mouthful of sandwich. 'The stuff up there needs to be kept away from the public. Our museum is in the middle of an old World War Two aerodrome, miles and miles from anywhere, securely fenced off, patrolled and garrisoned by UNIT. It's also close to Cambridge, so the University sends up boffins to nosey around the relics. Quite what they hope to get out of them I don't know.'

Our second leg of the journey took ages again, so we finally reached the barrier across the road to "UNIT Storage Swaffham Prior" at eleven o'clock. The sentries checked each of us, saluted Yates and motioned us into the base.

'I haven't said much about what you'll see here because, quite frankly, you wouldn't believe me,' he commented. Whilst he drove, I looked at the scenery outside, which was bleak and depressing: mile upon mile of deserted, cracked, weedy runways, a broken-windowed brick control tower covered in dirt, and aircraft hangars situated well away from the gate. Once the Landrover got closer we saw half a dozen civilian cars parked outside one of the huge green buildings.

'Ah, that means Cambridge have sent up their scientists today. These people have all been vetted by UNIT, so you can actually talk freely to them.'

'Unlike normal civilians,' quipped Nick from the rear.

We drew up alongside a Cortina and debussed. Captain Yates did a double-take at one of the cars, recognising it and not seeming happy about the vehicle.

'Oh dear,' he muttered in a low voice, which only I was close enough to hear.

The enormous hangar doors stood slightly ajar, wide enough for our party to enter. Lighting strung inside from cables and girders made the interior less dark than might be imagined, with spotlights picking out different sections of the floor.

A muted, rapid thud-thud-thud came from outside, and we all cocked heads with mutual professional interest.

'Ah! Captain Yates, with another band of tourists,' called an officer from the hangar depths. A figure strode towards us, gradually resolving into a Major.

'Major Crichton, may I present Lieutenants Walmsley and Munroe, Corporal Horrigan and Private Ely. Here for the familiarisation routine.'

Major Crichton had a no-nonsense look about him, a narrow and chiselled face, and a cool character.

'Get them around smartly, Captain Yates. In case you hadn't noticed, the dons are here in force.' He added more in an undertone, which sounded rather uncomplimentary, though nobody caught the content.

'Right, follow me,' announced Yates, leading us to the right. The floor of the hangar at this point was divided up into large cubicles by sheets of plywood, and we were led into the first enclosure.

'Art deco dustbin?' commented Nick.

'No, it's a giant's pepperpot,' I riposted. Horrigan and Ely remained wisely silent.

Our descriptions referred to what did, indeed, resemble a giant silver-grey pepperpot, one studded with dozens of small blue hemispheres, absent the top.

'This is the remains of a Dalek,' announced Yates. Aha! Now I recognised it.

'Where's the turret gone? And the sink-plunger?' asked Nick. True, this thing did resemble the photographs in our information dossier, yet it lacked exactly what Nick remarked on.

'Well, this article was recovered three-quarters of a mile from Auderly House after the explosion, buried to the bottom of the chassis, in the middle of a flower bed. We never found the "turret", as you call it, and the gun and prosthetic were smashed to bits. The occupant had been reduced to a thin green slime by the blast. It's been cleaned out several times, for all that's worth. Still stinks to high heaven.'

Nick felt the need to test that out. His wrinkled brow and hasty withdrawal confirmed Yates' statement.

'And over there in the corner are more Dalek remains.'

Over we went, for a nosey. A turret unit, as Nick described it, sat on the floor, next to an array of detached prosthetic weapons and manipulators. There were several more of the art deco pepperpots, in different colour schemes, missing various vital parts of their anatomy.

'These characters are the scourge of the galaxy, if you believe the Proctor,' commented Captain Yates, or so I thought at the time, not paying full attention. 'Utterly ruthless imperialists. Make the Nazi's look like cub scouts with kindly intentions.'

The shell of the Dalek measured about half an inch in thickness, and consisted of a curious material that didn't seem to be either metal or plastic. The numerous hemispheres on the exterior of the artefact had corresponding interfaces on the inside, incredibly elaborate sockets that had once lead to the creature living inside this mobile prison.

'Who's the strongest person here?' asked Yates, smirking. Well, it had to be me. Eighteen stone and six two, rugby player, in prime condition. Yates nodded towards a sledge-hammer off in the corner. 'Perhaps the Lieutenant might like to test his strength against the Dalek unit?'

The sledge weighed about twenty pounds, so I took a good long step back from the grey pepperpot, whirled the hammer around my head and leapt at it, full tilt.

With a penetrating clack! the head of the hammer broke from the handle, striking sparks from the Dalek, allowing me to complete an undignified pirouette and almost impale Private Ely on the sharp end of the hammer handle.

'Nice dance steps,' commented Nick.

Recovering both my balance and dignity, I inspected the Dalek base unit. It bore no trace whatsoever of my sledgehammer assault.

Captain Yates gave an impressed nod.

'Never seen anyone hit it quite that hard. Hmm. I suppose we'll have to indent for another sledgehammer. Anyway, my point has been made. You only knock a Dalek out with a shaped charge or a Chieftan tank. A Wombat will kill them, a Jimpy won't.'

He pointed over at the assembled weapons.

'Those are area-effect weapons, which the lab boys have called "blasters". Effective range is about fifty yards, and they'll affect anyone in a beaten zone of ten square yards. Oh, they can also be adapted to either kill or paralyse.'

Neat trick. Inflict death or hangover at the flick of a button. We were given a little time to pick up and handle the weapons, which possessed a convincing weight and realistic detailing.

'Time to move on to Exhibit B,' announced Yates. Out we marched, from one cubicle to another, one decorated with silver robots. Big silver robots, at least seven feet tall.

'The Cybermen,' introduced the captain. 'Which, despite appearances, are not robots.'

By now my prejudice against judging a book by it's cover had been well and truly worn down. Very well, they weren't robots.

'If they aren't robots, what are they?' asked Horrigan.

'They look like robots,' muttered Nick, who was dwarfed by the nearest mechanical monster, which appeared to have a miniature searchlight set on top of it's head. More upright versions over in a corner possessed big hand-grips where a human had ears. They all bulged with plastic and alloy and metal cables that mimicked muscles, with complex chest units, and yet again there were weapons, stored on a trestle table. I experimentally lifted one, only to drop it heavily back onto the table, surprised.

'Weighs an absolute ton!' I exclaimed.

The device was no more than a long rod with cabling at one end and a small parabolic dish at the other. Lifting what should have been only a few ounces in fact turned into lifting several pounds. Nick gestured at what looked like a kid's idea of a ray-gun, all silver struts and rods with a flaring muzzle. The handle looked battered, and the surface had been scored and pitted down one side.

"OPERATION MERLIN recovery, International Electromatics. Cyberweapon. Damaged in action, non-functional" read the label below it.

'Think you can lift it, Hercules?' asked Nick.

Captain Yates looked on with amusement. The damn thing weighed as much as a Jimpy and it was a struggle to even level it. When I dropped it, the table creaked.

'Non-human technology, you see. Not designed for human muscles. Don't get too close to them, they stink appallingly. You asked what they were, Corporal? A combination of machine and a humanoid creature within it. They very possibly looked like you or me, until a lot of surgery and mechanical mucking-about made them look like this. The humanoid bit is still sealed in those machine exteriors, which we are loath to crack open. Cybermen share a few qualities with the Daleks – utterly ruthless, aggressive imperialists, no emotions whatsoever. Entirely logical. They only attack those they can overcome. For reasons not entirely clear to me, they also have a long-standing hatred – if that's the right word – of the Daleks.'

We kept a safe nasal distance from the silver giants after the warning. I looked at them with a degree of wonder. Why would you transform yourself from a living, breathing near-human being into these metal monstrosities?

'Do they get special advantages from being tinned-up like this?' asked Horrigan.

Yates laughed out loud at the newly-coined term.

'Yes. Yes, they do. Any damage that isn't terminal can be replaced. If Johnny Cyberman loses an arm, no problem, he just pops down to Stores and gets another.'

'Where do they come from?' asked Nick, peering up at the mouthpiece of the Cyberman mounting his own private searchlight.

'Need to know, I'm afraid, as none of us has clearance. I know how they recruit.'

He left a dramatic pause for effect after speaking. We all paid attention.

'They kidnap human beings, drug them, brainwash them, chop out parts of their brains, replace the missing bits with computers and then replace all their body parts with machinery.'

My brow wrinkled in distaste at this. Pretty repugnant characters, these Cybermen. Not the sort to take home to meet Mother.

'As I mentioned before, they can replace their body parts the way your or I swap a fuse. Being cybernetic rather than flesh and blood means they are far less affected by blast, shrapnel, gas, atmosphere or lack of it, heat, cold, hunger or thirst.'

'I take it we're seeing different versions of the same basic thing here,' commented Nick. His attention was directed to a peculiar construction over in another corner of the cubicle, a seemingly purposeless collection of components in a framework six feet high, which I can only compare to a futuristic version of the Apollo lunar lander. Like the other cybermen, it consisted entirely of silvered metal pieces, with the central core being blackened and warped.

'Ah, that. Once again, I can't tell you, except this time it's due to genuine ignorance. Nobody is quite sure exactly what it is, not even the doctor. It uses a human brain, which was in the central section, and is able – was able – to communicate on ultra-short wavelengths over interplanetary distances. File under "Miscellaneous".'

"OPERATION MERLIN recovery, International Electromatics, office suite. Cybertechnology, purpose unknown. Destroyed in action. Non-functional." said the label.

'No need to hit anything with a sledgehammer this time,' commented Yates. 'The chest unit is a Cyberman's vulnerable spot. Smash that and they die, or throw some gold dust in and they die.'

Gold dust? I'd need to re-read that dossier, it didn't mention gold that I recalled.

The four of us took a good look at the static displays, big silver non-robots looking hostile even if they were dead, at the table of discarded weapons and the mysterious disabled whatsit in the corner. Yates had been right when he'd told us the museum would be a convincing tour, persuasive enough to make us take UNIT and it's foes seriously.

The third section of panelled displays was devoted to my old friends the Autons, dozens of them, split evenly between those in blue boilersuits with only the crudest human features, and the grotesquely incongruous versions wearing cheap yellow jackets and huge boaters. On the now familiar trestle tables sat a huge block of resin, encasing a dark brown object. A smaller block of resin held a –

'That's a daffodil!' exclaimed Nick. Yes, it was, just like the one in our dossier. That would, in fact, make it a plastic daffodil. Obviously, an evil, wicked, thoroughly degenerate daffodil that you couldn't trust on it's own.

'What's this grotty little gnome?' asked Horrigan. The captain frowned darkly, making me think he was going to snap at the corporal. Instead he sighed and nodded.

'A little something the Master dreamed up as an – well, an assassination device would be closest to it.'

Curious, I stood closer to see exactly what lay encased in the resin. Horrigan's "grotty little gnome" just about summed it up properly – a two-foot long, dark brown figure, with crudely anthropomorphic features and big white fangs. Whilst whoever put it in the resin had been careful, it still displayed several holes and fracture lines, suggesting a broken vase put together with glue.

'It's activated by heat, which is why we stuck it inside a block of resin. I have to say it probably won't manage anything ever again, since I shot it full of holes when it tried to attack Miss Grant.'

Ah. Holes in grotty little gnome explained.

'Okay, so it's a small, repulsive assassin. I can see why you stuck it in a block of plastic. What about the flower next door to it?' asked Nick.

Yates smirked at us.

'Thought you'd ask that. It isn't a flower. Oh, it certainly looks like a daffodil, but in fact it's entirely plastic, and the Autons programmed it to spray a plastic film over the nose and mouth of whoever was in range.'

Ah. Encased flower explained.

My comrades toured the Auton artefacts with curiosity, a feeling I didn't share due to my earlier involvement with them months ago. In fact my feet took me to the open front of the cubicle, from where it was possible to look across the hangar at other cubicles on the far side. Light from both ends of the hangar streamed in, illuminating a small party of people in civilian clothes walking towards the far end of the hangar. Deduction meant they must be the dons from Cambridge the captain and Major Crichton had mentioned in not-too-flattering terms.

'Coming with us, Lieutenant?' asked Yates, from behind me. The Auton tour had finished, so we moved on to the next cubicle, starring Giant Killer Teddy Bears. Except these were Yeti. Yes, those Yeti, the ones from the Himalayas, who had flown into London on a package tour from Khatmandu. Frankly, the explanation Yates gave was so convoluted I couldn't make any sense of it at all, and was glad when we left for a tea break.

The facilities amounted to tea urns set up on tables in the very middle of the echoing hangar floor, flanked by plates of biscuits and wads, fronted by big enamel mugs. We'd been beaten to it by the Cambridge lot, half a dozen people including two women, who looked at us with undisguised dislike. The tweedy males in the party turned their backs on us, chatting sotto voce; the two women, a brunette and a longer-haired brunette, looked us over with cool appraisal, found us wanting and exchanged gossip between themselves. Being British Army officers, we naturally had to chat up these ladies; tradition and custom demanded it.

'Bags the strawberry blonde,' hissed Nick in my ear.

'You'll be lucky,' I warned him, reading body language in our civilian opposites. 'They don't want to know.' A shame, really, the long-haired one wore a short skirt and had nice legs. Her brunette friend, with unflattering National Health glasses and hair in a severe bun, glared at Nick and myself, so I sent her a high-watt smile, just to be contrary. Predictably she turned away, and hissed poison at her friend, if I knew women.

Nick, displaying bravery and foolishness in equal parts, went over to chat, and returned minutes later crestfallen, shaking his head.

'Fresh from Norway's glaciers,' he complained. 'No interest in men at all.'

Call me an opportunist swine, but Nick had given me an excuse to approach the ladies. The distance between us was only ten feet or so, yet it felt like the whole Atlantic when I crossed it. Mrs Bob noticed and hissed a warning to her friend.

Avoiding a salute, my first impression was that neither woman really wanted to talk to me.

'Sorry to intrude, Professor, Ma'am. I felt it incumbent upon myself to apologise for my idiot subaltern comrade. He is driven by his regimental tradition, not to mention a severely swollen, ah, self-opinion.'

Mrs Bob stifled a smirk at what she thought I was going to say. Her friend turned to look at me with more curiosity than hostility.

'How did you know I'm a professor?'

'Logic and deduction. Your age implies at least having a Master's in a specific field. Nobody out here at Swafham for research is going to be anything less than a specialist in a very rarefied area. We are talking about alien technology several centuries in advance of human science, after all, and you don't send out a few undergraduates to investigate that.'

She had a long, intelligent face, which crooked in a quizzical smile after my recounting.

'Thank you, mister –'

'Walmsley. Lieutentant John Walmsley, late of the Queen's Lancashire Regiment, now somewhat reluctant recruit to UNIT.'

Both women exchanged looks.

' - mister Walmsley. I am Liz Shaw, once upon a time also a reluctant UNIT recruit. This is Mrs Elaine Valdupont, on attachment from the University of Lyon.'

'Enchante, madamoiselle,' I replied, not sure if the accent was quite right. Mrs Valdupont's eyebrows rising into her hairline suggested it was.

'Why did you feel the need to come apologise to us?' asked Mme Valdupont in precise English, putting a sharp intonation to the question. 'You do not know us. We have never met.' And never will again, she must have been hoping.

'Common sense, and self-preservation. You are the people researching our hideous alien foes. As one who might be fighting those very same hideous alien foes, I'd like to feel you had our best interests at heart, instead of being embarrased by hormonally-driven lotharios.'

Liz Shaw sipped her tea, thinking of a reply. Mme Valdupont shook her head in disapproval.

'Too many long words, Lieutenant. You need not impress us with your loquacity.'

Who was using long words?

'Ah, Mme Valdupont. I try hard to articulate, having only graduated in Political Science, which lacks the artistic depth of the humanities. Anyway, au revoir, and good bye, Miss Shaw.'

Back to our little khaki group, where Nick glared at me with ill-concealed competitive dislike.

'Oh, you fancy Miss mini-skirt, don't you, matey! Bloody show off. Remember your girlfriend.'

'It helps if you treat her as an equal. I bet you thought she was the office secretary!'

'If we've quite finished?' enquired Captain Yates. 'Er – nice to see you again, Liz,' he finished, almost looking at Miss Shaw.

'Good bye, Captain Yates,' she replied, in a totally neutral tone. Well, she did say "a reluctant UNIT recruit", didn't she.

Back to the wooden cubicles again. Axons, Silurians, Primords, Mind Parasites, Daemons – the tour took another four hours, with a whole panoply of bizarre creatures and machines to take in.

Captain Yates seemed equally fagged out by evening, especially since he must have seen everything several times and even fought the Autons at close range pretty recently.

'Rather puts things into perspective,' he stated when we got back to the Landrover. All ideas about UNIT carrying out silly, pointless cloak-and-dagger poncing around had indeed gone out the window.

'What's the deal with Professor Shaw, sir?' I asked, being cursed with a nosey nature. 'Ex-UNIT, from what I could gather.'

Yates seemed a little embarassed.

'Ah, yes. Liz got inducted into UNIT under an obscure part of the Emergency Powers Act, and wasn't too pleased about it. We parted company under a cloud. A shame, really; we all liked Liz.'

Nick pointed a thumb at me.

'Lieutenant Walmsley's fallen for her charms, sir.'

I paused in the act of opening the door.

'She may be brunette and leggy – and mid-thigh isn't a mini-skirt, Nick – but she has the invisible attraction –' and here I wondered why that went down so hideously with Nick, who pulled a horrified face ' – of intelligence, which I find sexy in a woman. Sir?', I plunged on, the last word addressed to Captain Yates, who looked as alarmed as Nick had. Nick rolled his eyes and pointed over my shoulder.

Of course, inevitably, when I turned round, Liz Shaw stood there, looking – well, maybe annoyed, maybe amused. My face went crimson, hot enough to toast bread on.

'I heard my name mentioned, Lieutenant Walmsley, and came to investigate. Imagine what I heard!'

My tongue unfroze.

'Ah – yes. Sorry if it offended you. Er – intended as compliment only. Stout party collapses and retires to Landrover.'

Suiting action to words I swung into the passenger seat, knowing that everyone else was grinning delightedly at me in my hour of humiliation.

Liz Shaw tapped on the window, which I wound down, anticipating a cutting despatch.

'As a scientist, I shall have to analyse the data to determine a response, Lieutenant. Goodbye!' and she stalked off to her car, where Mme Valdupont stood like a vulture.

There came a burst of laughter from the rear of the vehicle, which got several seconds of blunt Anglo-Saxon repartee in reply from me. Captain Yates drove away, grinning like a Cheshire cat. When we got nearer the gates he leant closer to me.

'You got off lightly there, you know. If Liz is annoyed, you know about it. Terrific left-handed slap,' he finished, quietly.

Since our return to Aylesbury would be long after the mess closed, we stopped off at Bedford on the way back again, dining on chips and bacon barms. The car park at UNIT lacked the yellow antique roadster of yesterday. Must have gone for it's MOT.

'Okay, report to the QMS tomorrow at oh-nine-hundred for issue of weapons,' instructed Captain Yates.

Corporal Horrigan and Private Ely saluted us and went off to their quarters, as they'd been planning a game of poker on the way back.

'Have a quick one in the mess?' queried Nick. 'It'll help you get over lovely Liz Shaw and her short dress.'

He got a punch on the arm for that, and the first round in, too.