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In frustration Jamie had attempted to up-root the control console and toss it like a caber at the mop-haired scientist who had had the audacity to remove the young Gael from certain death on a highland battlefield.
In an act of appeasement, the Doctor had presented his young assailment with some bag pipes given to him by his old friend Robert-the-Bruce and thus he and Zoe had become the unwilling audience of nightly concerts of Jacobite tunes lasting into the wee hours of the morning.
The Doctor strained his eyes at the blank TV. screen set in one wall of the bridge.
'Black,' he muttered.
'Could be the London Underground,' came a voice form behind.
'Oh, I hope not, Zoe.' He did not relish playing 'Mornington Crescent' with the Abominable Snowmen again. Rolling up his shirt sleeves he removed a small service door beneath the screen and began to search around inside with his fingers.
Zoe searched inside the cupboard for her boots. The Doctor removed some cobwebbed cog-wheels. 'That's the trouble with clockwork television,' he muttered. Zoe seemed not to be interested so he continued without her inquiry- 'Sometimes you have to go outside and see for yourself.'
Ned hung in the re-erected deck chair strumming for inspiration, his shirt showing only perspiration. Where was the song he was looking for? Where was the musical message from the unknown of his brain? No point in fretting over it!
He quit doodling on the strings and listened to the creaking of the boat as it rocked in the water. Which part of the boat did the noises come from?
More transmissions from the dark unknown.
The creaking began to grow louder and more violent. The boat's movement increased as if some weight had appeared on board from nowhere disrupting its balance in the water. The creaking grew louder and strained, transforming itself into a horrible screeching sound echoing in vibrations through the timbers.
The deck-chair and Ned re-collapsed and it seemed that the boat would fall apart. Perhaps it was the same boat he had seen in the Laurel and Hardy picture.
The movement stopped.
Ned pulled himself up and looked out to his friends on the beach. He knew there was something on board but he was afraid. Maybe he should call for help, but Valerie was with them and he'd feel such a fool. No, he would face whatever it was down there...down below deck...down there in the cold, damp, silent, creepy darkness on his own. If only Valerie could be here to see him do this brave thing.
Asserting his green woolly hat, he opened a door onto a stairway and went down, step by step...and then back up a step. There was a light flashing in his eyes, slowly and regularly.
Alone and single-handed, he took a giant step and bravely quacked into the hold ( I think that is what it is called ).
Before him stood a tall, dark blue wardrobe with 'Police' written all over it. So! They had found him! The 'men in black' had arrived to take away his Johnny Cash records and abduct Ned to some secret interrogation centre. They would brainwash everyone who ever knew him and destroy all records of existence; all his friends would forget him...even Valerie. It was indeed sinister how this cupboard had come aboard. It could be a new type of Police submarine, he thought.
He peered through the bars of one of the portholes. A face looked back from inside, grinning. Ned stumbled backwards as a door opened in the side of the sub and a Police Officer shuffled out. He wore a baggy coat with baggier trousers on braces and a spotted dicky-bow! He had a rough face, yet youthful middle-aged flexible face. Ned no longer cared for specification. He noted the officer's Beatle haircut. Clearly, the F.B.I. were taking the notion of working incognito too far.
In a spurt of bravery, Ned spoke out. 'They have moustaches now too, you know!'
'Do they?' smiled the little policeman. 'I'm the Doctor.'
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boat of the cybermen page2
