Part Four: First Encounter

Settling down to a new routine at Aylesbury wasn't too difficult, since the UNIT force there followed Regular Army routines and customs. The icing on the cake was that the soldiers there might be called out at short notice to deal with alien invasions, mad robots or intelligent reptiles reclaiming the Earth, and that took a little getting-used to. Not as much as one might imagine. Having toured UNIT's black museum at Swafham Prior enabled sprogs like me to get up to speed pretty quickly; coming face-to-face with motorised dustbins like the Daleks helps the new chap adjust smartish.

Having Nick Munroe around helped. He was an Army officer from an Army family, with relatives scattered throughout the Army, overseas and in the MoD. His first name doubled as a nickname, since he claimed to be able to get anything you wanted, for whatever the market would stand. This wasn't idle chatter; for twenty-five pounds he obtained one hundred and forty four .45 calibre ACP rounds for my personal pistol, within twelve hours of being asked. Normally it takes me a trip to a gunsmiths, a special order and a week to get anything. Being in UNIT cramped his freewheeling operations a little, but only a little.

There were also a number of civilian specialists based at Aylesbury, recruited into UNIT, willingly or not. Several of the military personnel worked in plain clothes on occasion, meaning you might meet a burly, short-haired young man in denim, nursing a copy of the New Statesman in one hand and a Browning Hi-Power in the other. Or, a ditzy young lady in a mini-skirt, who would manage to trip you up or fall down the stairs at the most inappropriate moment.

Thus, I first met a person who figures largely in the annals of UNIT. It was not, as literary folks say, an auspicious beginning.

My rota for the morning included touring Aylesbury to check the blood group, medical history, tissue type and nearest living relative or significant other of the staff there. Boring work, hardly in the forefront of fighting alien invasion, yet just the sort of task fobbed off to the most recent inductee. I wandered the corridors, the stairways and the various rooms, ticking off boxes on my clipboarded chart, annoying one and all. The Brigadier was especially prickly, his moustache twitching indignantly when asking about "significant other".

'That, Lieutenant, is entirely none of your business, official or otherwise! My personal details are on file under GS142 in the War Office. Good bye!.'

One to file under experience, John lad.

Which brought me to B2 corridor, between the Quarter Master's offices and the rest of the pre-fab offices attached to the rear of Aylesbury. As I walked through the door at one end, another customer walked through the door at the opposite end. He would have been hard to miss in civvy street, and much less so here, at least six feet tall, with a wild array of white hair, clad in what looked like a cloak and smoking jacket.

'Can I help you, sir?' I bristled, thinking that this wierdo had strayed out of their own quarters and into the military section.

'Yes, you can, young man, by getting out of my way and letting me through,' he replied, nonchalantly.

'Indeed, sir, and why might I do that?' I replied, with a slight edge to my voice.

'Because I am the doctor,' he replied, simply. Instantly, visions of Lt Walmsley being subject to court martial for failing to allow medical access sprang to mind.

'Good Lord! Go right through! I'm sorry, sir, nobody warned me.'

Only afterwards did I wonder why a civilian doctor would be in attendance at Aylesbury. Nor did he look the part – most doctors wear a suit and tie, not cast-offs from Victorian stage productions. I sought out Captain Yates, who was laboriously typing up reports in his office.

'Got a minute, sir?' I enquired. He pushed his chair back on it's castors and looked grateful for the interruption.

'Any good at typing, John? Damn. We can't afford to get trained typists with clearance, you know. Cigarette?'

'No thanks, sir. Allergic to tobacco.'

'Really? That's unfortunate. Well, what did you want to see me about?'

'I just met a civvie on the way back into the main buildings, sir. He said he was a doctor, and I hastily got out of his way. Then I wondered why he wasn't carrying a little black bag, and where he got his dress sense from, because as far as I know Surgeon Lieutenant Sullivan is the MO on strength.'

The captain looked at me shrewdly.

'Tall chap, distinguished-looking, lots of white hair? Yes? Then you've met the Doctor. Not "a" doctor, small "d", just the Doctor. Don't worry, he isn't up to anything sinister.'

'I didn't think so, sir, or he'd never have gotten in here.' Curiosity got the better of me. 'What is he? A consultant like Liz Shaw?'

A smirk and shake of the head from Yates said no.

'Officially, he's UNIT's Special Scientific Adviser, Doctor John Smith. Liz Shaw actually used to work with him, before going back to Cambridge.'

He took several seconds to exhale cigarette smoke, making me wait for the rest.

'Unofficially, he's an alien, with the same origin as the Master. Working for UNIT gives him protection, a roof over his head and all the equipment he can lay his hands on.'

An alien? For an alien he looked amazingly human.

'There's more about him, which I'll let you learn for yourself. He's frequently here, or at Haylings, so the odds are that you'll encounter him again.'

Weeks before, my reaction would have been incredulous scorn, followed by a good laugh at the captain's expense in the mess. Now, I left him tapping away two-fingered on his typewriter, wondering if this Doctor John Smith would cross my path again. An alien? Reposing behind the sensible wooden doors and mock-Georgian façade of Aylesbury was a being from another world?

Of course, John, you need to get personal details from this mysterious alien. Complete your charts. Satisfy your nosiness.

A check with the Guard Room informed me that the Doctor would be "where he always is – in his lab." A check on a corridor wall display showed where the laboratory sat – in a basement, accessed via a spiral staircase, part of the establishment unvisited by me to date.

The double doors to the lab weren't locked or barred, so I boldly went in, not knowing what to expect. The thing that immediately struck a visitor was a battered blue police box over in a corner of the room.

How did that get here! I wondered silently. Getting it down the spiral stairs and into the basement must have been an awkward job.

There was no visible sign of Doctor Smith at first, although he had many benches, racks of chemicals, retort stands, shelves and miscellaneous scientific gadgets to hide behind.

'Hello?' I called out. 'Doctor Smith?'

Abruptly, he stood up from behind a set of benches, clad in a dark lab coat, not looking especially pleased to see me.

'Aha! One of the Brigadier's little tin soldiers, eh? What do you want this time? Predictions about the future again? Military technology of the year 2000? Out of the question!' he finished, fiddling with a complex, miniature electronic component. Apart from the first second of our meeting, he didn't bother to look at me.

'Ah. You have me mistaken for someone else, Doctor Smith. I'm here to get personal information about yourself for future use in emergencies. Er – no need to predict anything.'

This time he looked at me, seemingly interested.

'What kind of personal information, might I ask?'

I explained briefly. Part of my attention focussed on what Doctor Smith looked like; incredibly human, actually.

'There is only one person on this planet with the same blood group as myself, Lieutenant, and since he would dearly like to see me dead, I can't count on him.'

'The Master?' I guessed. Doctor Smith nodded.

'Well, sir, if you really are a unique group I strongly recommend that you donate your own blood on a regular basis for any future emergency,' I sternly warned him.

'Hmm. Yes. Do you know, that's what Liz told me to do. Never quite got around to making time for it,' he said, scratching his eyebrow in a tic, almost embarrased at the admission.

A tick in the "N/A" box for "Blood Group", then. Similar for tissue type.

'Er – medical history, Doctor Smith?' I prompted. He wagged a finger at me.

'Tut tut, Lieutenant! My medical details will be on file already. You remember? From my time at the Ashbridge Cottage Hospital, when I returned here.'

No, I didn't remember, but I made a note of the hospital name for future reference. So Doctor Smith was already a client of the National Health Service? Then he must be stuck on Planet Earth, if that experience hadn't made him want to leave urgently.

'Sorry, sir, last question. Next of kin.'

His brows darkened and he glared at me.

'Really, Lieutenant! I must protest at this intrusion! You are disturbing and delaying important research work, and I refuse to answer any further questions. Good day!'

Bundled out of the laboratory, my return to the main building was not exactly crowned with glory. Captain Beresford took my collated details when I reported in.

'Sorry for a couple of exclusions, sir. Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart stated that his personal details were already on file at the War Office, and Doctor Smith – er – well, Doctor Smith –'

'I quite understand, John,' stated the captain, mildly. 'We can get the Brig's details from Whitehall easily enough. The Doctor is another matter. Are you up to chasing his details? Sorry to palm this off on you. He's the Brigadier's personal responsibility, you see, since he has no official existence, and he can be extraordinarily stubborn about yielding to authority.'

Apart from a few ineffectual phone calls, any chasing of Doctor Smith's details got delayed indefinitely, since the new arrivals were due to attend a weapons lecture in the Armoury at eighteen hundred. The trainer in question turned out to be Sergeant Benton, whom I treated with wary respect. He struck me as a man soft on small children and lost dogs; enemies of the Crown on the other hand, extra-terrestrial or otherwise, he would stamp into the floorboards until they were a sticky red smear.

'This is our Emergency Response Kit,' he announced, his voice echoing through the dank, smelly tunnel entrance that constituted the user portion of the firing range. The Kit looked like a briefcase, with combination locks. Sergeant Benton dialled up the numbers on the two locks and opened the case, to reveal what looked like a tape recorder inside, complete with a microphone on a long cord.

'Short-range, ultra-high frequency radio transmitter, working on the megahertz wavelengths. Used against Autons, or Nestenes, call them what you will. Effective range is about six feet, so it can only be used as an ambush weapon.'

Next on display came a child's air pistol

'This is an adaptation of a wartime pistol called Wel-Rod. Silent, and the ammo is made of gold. Special low-velocity stuff that dum-dums on impact, the better to affect a large area. Used against –' and he pointed at me to see if Lieutenant Walmsley had done his homework.

'Gold – has to be Cybermen,' I replied.

'Correct, sir. Cybermen. Each bullet costs a tenner, so you have to be careful with them and we only issue steel versions for training shoots.'

Next was a chalky block about half the size of a house-brick, with one face covered in green baize. A slim metal cylinder had been taped to the green fabric.

'Plastique. The fabric covers a special kind of glue, and this is a pencil fuse, adjustable from thirty seconds down to five. To use it you insert the fuse, rip the fabric off, set the fuse and stick to your target. Intended for –' and he pointed again.

Nick frowned.

'Glue? Not magnets. Not for metal, then. Oh – a Dalek?' he guessed.

Sergeant Benton nodded.

'Yes, sir. Specifically for them, given that they have weird non-metallic armour. The face under the fabric is shaped and lined with aluminium.'

'You'd have to be right up next to them,' observed Private Ely with disapproval.

'Another ambush weapon,' agreed the sergeant. 'Imagination will allow you to plan other mayhem with it.'

A clutch of nine-millimetre bullets were next, alongside a clip of seven six two rifle rounds.

'Silver bullets,' explained the sergeant, deadpan. 'Not as costly as the gold ones but pricey enough.'

'What do you use those for?' asked Nick.

'No idea myself, sir, not used them yet. Werewolves, I suppose.' He might have been joking. Or, he might not.

All officers on detached duty needed to sign for an Emergency Response Kit, which they had to then heft about until returning. There were several dotted around Aylesbury, and all vehicles needed to contain one when in use.

'Sergeant, this is all small arms equipment, for close range. Don't you have any heavy weapons for engaging at a distance?' asked Nick, a thoughtful expression on his features.

'Barring a couple of pintle-mounted Jimpy's and a pretty ropey bazooka dating from the Korean War, no sir. We did have a two-inch mortar but that went up with Auderly House. Emergencies have to be dealt with what we've got available at the time, which tends to be what we're carrying.'

Nick's face expressed what we later learnt to call "financial divining"; he'd spotted a business opportunity.

Once issued with ear protectors, we got the opportunity to loose off five rounds each with the special pistol at a dummy Cyberman, nicknamed "Elton", who rocked back on his metallic heels quite satisfactorily at each strike. The real thing, however, might not be so obliging.

We were also allowed to slap a block of plasticene coated in glue against a plywood Dalek chassis, dodging back and forth between the pillars of the underground tunnel, discovering that ambushing a Dalek wasn't very easy in real life.

'I don't think I can tell the lady wife what an exciting day I've had, sir,' commented Corporal Horrigan afterwards. 'Shooting cybernoids and blowing up Garlicks. She wouldn't understand.'

His words came back to me later that evening when making a call to my fiancee, Janine.

'No, no, I can't tell you what I'm doing. Terribly secret? Not half. If I told you the pair of us would be in prison. I miss you as well, but I don't have any choice, Jan. Look, I am due a two day pass in a week, so start planning, hey? Yes, I will even go shopping in Manchester with you. Love you too. Got to go, someone else wants the phone.'

They didn't really, it was just Nick Munroe, hovering.

'No mention of leggy Liz, was there?' he smirked.

'No, and I rang off because it's a given you'd start yarking in the background about her.'

'Your Jan can't trust you very much, then.'

I made a rueful face.

'Janice is the jealous type with a short fuse. Shoots first, apologises later.' He hadn't mentioned any significant female other in his life, had Nick, and he kept banging on about Liz Shaw. My suspicions were aroused.

Feeling fagged out, I went for an early night, taking care to write a postcard out to Jan before falling asleep over a copy of the Lancashire Lad.

Next morning, on duty at the unpleasant hour of oh six thirty, I encountered Doctor Smith in the canteen, staring at a bowl of porridge with furious intensity. Other personnel knew enough to give him a wide berth, something that came with practice, seeing that he was deep in calculation.

'Good morning, Doctor Smith!' was my cheerful opening greeting. He looked up at me with a disdainful expression.

'I fail to see what is good about it, Lieutenant. Word has reached me that the Sontarans are prevailing in their endless war against the Rutans. Driven by desperation, the Rutans are bound to try a gambit involving Earth, given that it exists in their arm of influence in the galaxy.' He turned over a spoon of porridge oats.

Digging into a plate of bacon, mushroom, sausage, beans and fried toast, I made what I hoped were encouragingly impressed eyes. Privately, it sounded like Battle of the Cough Mixtures to me.

Doctor Smith wasn't fooled by my expressive eyes.

'I suppose that sounded like gobbledygook to you, lieutenant?' he asked. I nodded, more concerned on finishing off breakfast before it got cold.

'Yes, well, I suppose I can't really blame you. Come the year 2075 and you will think differently, I assure you.'

'Oh? Why would that be?' I asked. The Doctor instantly coloured in embarassment.

'Er – nothing – never mind. Forget I mentioned it. Ah! Jo!' he exclaimed, in relief.

I expected Joe to be a burly soldier bearing a box full of electronic components. Instead she transpired to be that mini-skirted girl with the errant feet.

'Jo, can I introduce Lieutenant – actually I don't think you told me your name –'

'Lieutenant Walmsley,' I explained.

' – Lieutenant Walmsley. Good Grief! Not that Walmsley!' he added, in what appeared to be genuine surprise. 'Say hello, Jo,' he continued, having regained his composure.

He appeared to know more about me than I did, which was worrying.

'While we're here, Doctor,' I mumbled around my food. 'Can I ask a favour from you?'

Without speaking, he cocked his head inquisitively.

'You said the NHS will have your records on file, from Ashbridge. To get them means obtaining your permission in writing, because I can't get those wretched bureaucrats to release their claws from the paperwork. You'd think it was written on hundred-pound notes.'

That amused him; he flourished a fountain pen and I passed over a sheet of headed paper, to which he wrote a full and unequivocal agreement that I could access his records on his behalf.

' "Doctor John Smith",' I read. 'Congratulations. You are the first John Smith I've ever met, for all that it's supposed to be a pseudonym. Thanks for the permission.'

'Not at all, Gen – ah, Lieutenant. Come on, Jo, we've work to do.' He got up to leave, then turned back for a parting shot.

'And do just call me "Doctor", dear chap. Everyone else does.'