said, leaning forward earnestly. ‘I know my father is wrong about your Doctor.’
This mollified her somewhat. She sipped her chocolate. It was deliciously thick and, even though it had come from a machine in the wall, not at all synthetic-tasting.
‘I’m sure we can sort this all out,’ Solin told her.
43
Martha nodded. At least one thing had come good out of tonight’s fracas. She and Solin were on decent terms again. ‘I need to get back to bed,’ she said.
Martha made sure that the house was quiet again before she got out of bed.
It was the dark before dawn and she was determined to use these last few hours of sleep-time to find the Doctor. She slipped nimbly out of her room and into the corridors that took her back to the large drawing room. She moved stealthily between deep pockets of cool shadow, and pale squares of fake moonlight. She dodged past Servo-furnishings and prayed none would burst into life at her approach and demand to know what she was doing. But the robots she passed near kept still and quiet. She wasn’t doing any harm. She wasn’t touching anything vital. They were letting her be, for now, and Martha was grateful.
Carefully, calmly, she made her way through the wide corridors of the house. Don’t let anyone wake and find me, she thought. Not even Solin. He’d be disappointed in her, she knew, after promising to help.
Here she was, going it alone.
But she had to try, didn’t she? The Doctor and Martha: they looked out for each other. They were responsible for each other. Smith and Jones. She couldn’t rest easy with him locked up somewhere deep, deep, deep underground.
Here were the doors to the lifts. Here, the elevator had swallowed the Doctor up, in front of her shocked eyes. He had been taken down to. . . what was it? Level Minus Thirty-Nine?
So many storeys down below the ground. And only one level above.
It was a weird arrangement. Solin had said something about protection, but was that even necessary, what with a huge force shield stretching over the place? He had also said something about the great generators that created power to keep the Dreamhome running.
Martha supposed that must make sense. But she couldn’t shake the image of their strange, sophisticated house being like a giant tooth, with its root reaching deep underground. And that’s where the Doc-44
tor was now. Right at the base of the root, where the rot sets in.
She went straight to the control panel and studied it briefly. The symbols were a little unusual, but the principle was the same as any lifts she’d seen at home. Lifts were lifts, weren’t they? She jabbed the button at the bottom that read Minus Thirty-Nine.
Nothing happened.
There was no swooshing surge of power, or smooth hum of technology coming to do her bidding. Neither were there alarms and crashing klaxons going off, alerting her hosts to her perfidy. There was just silence. She hit Minus Thirty-Nine again and again in frustration. Still nothing, and Martha sobbed with quiet fury.
She knew the house was watching her. Its many devices were monitoring her. Denying her access. Observing her every reaction. She swore.
And then she was aware of a presence at her back. It had rolled up to her silently. She swung around.
Stirpeek’s lights were glimmering with what seemed like faint amusement. ‘It would be better, miss, if you returned to bed. The lift isn’t going to work for you. You cannot rescue your friend.’
Martha knew when she was beaten. She turned and walked back to her room. ‘You don’t have to dog me all the way there,’ she told the robot at her heels.
‘Alas, miss. I rather think I do.’
Martha gave in and slammed her bedroom door in his face. She sat down on her bed. There was nothing she could do for the Doctor just now. She glanced at the clock on the wall, displaying local time.
Less than a day until the Craw hit home.
Martha woke to glaring sunlight, surprised that she had slept at all.
She bathed
This mollified her somewhat. She sipped her chocolate. It was deliciously thick and, even though it had come from a machine in the wall, not at all synthetic-tasting.
‘I’m sure we can sort this all out,’ Solin told her.
43
Martha nodded. At least one thing had come good out of tonight’s fracas. She and Solin were on decent terms again. ‘I need to get back to bed,’ she said.
Martha made sure that the house was quiet again before she got out of bed.
It was the dark before dawn and she was determined to use these last few hours of sleep-time to find the Doctor. She slipped nimbly out of her room and into the corridors that took her back to the large drawing room. She moved stealthily between deep pockets of cool shadow, and pale squares of fake moonlight. She dodged past Servo-furnishings and prayed none would burst into life at her approach and demand to know what she was doing. But the robots she passed near kept still and quiet. She wasn’t doing any harm. She wasn’t touching anything vital. They were letting her be, for now, and Martha was grateful.
Carefully, calmly, she made her way through the wide corridors of the house. Don’t let anyone wake and find me, she thought. Not even Solin. He’d be disappointed in her, she knew, after promising to help.
Here she was, going it alone.
But she had to try, didn’t she? The Doctor and Martha: they looked out for each other. They were responsible for each other. Smith and Jones. She couldn’t rest easy with him locked up somewhere deep, deep, deep underground.
Here were the doors to the lifts. Here, the elevator had swallowed the Doctor up, in front of her shocked eyes. He had been taken down to. . . what was it? Level Minus Thirty-Nine?
So many storeys down below the ground. And only one level above.
It was a weird arrangement. Solin had said something about protection, but was that even necessary, what with a huge force shield stretching over the place? He had also said something about the great generators that created power to keep the Dreamhome running.
Martha supposed that must make sense. But she couldn’t shake the image of their strange, sophisticated house being like a giant tooth, with its root reaching deep underground. And that’s where the Doc-44
tor was now. Right at the base of the root, where the rot sets in.
She went straight to the control panel and studied it briefly. The symbols were a little unusual, but the principle was the same as any lifts she’d seen at home. Lifts were lifts, weren’t they? She jabbed the button at the bottom that read Minus Thirty-Nine.
Nothing happened.
There was no swooshing surge of power, or smooth hum of technology coming to do her bidding. Neither were there alarms and crashing klaxons going off, alerting her hosts to her perfidy. There was just silence. She hit Minus Thirty-Nine again and again in frustration. Still nothing, and Martha sobbed with quiet fury.
She knew the house was watching her. Its many devices were monitoring her. Denying her access. Observing her every reaction. She swore.
And then she was aware of a presence at her back. It had rolled up to her silently. She swung around.
Stirpeek’s lights were glimmering with what seemed like faint amusement. ‘It would be better, miss, if you returned to bed. The lift isn’t going to work for you. You cannot rescue your friend.’
Martha knew when she was beaten. She turned and walked back to her room. ‘You don’t have to dog me all the way there,’ she told the robot at her heels.
‘Alas, miss. I rather think I do.’
Martha gave in and slammed her bedroom door in his face. She sat down on her bed. There was nothing she could do for the Doctor just now. She glanced at the clock on the wall, displaying local time.
Less than a day until the Craw hit home.
Martha woke to glaring sunlight, surprised that she had slept at all.
She bathed
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