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.He refolds his piece of paper, a quick well‐practised routine.And he reaches out to replace the book on the shelf.The book slides easily back into its dusty place.But the Doctor hesitates, the book half‐in and half‐out.A decision, a turning point.If he leaves it now, he will never know for sure.And what does he have to lose?He pulls the book out again, and turns to smile at the old woman counting the money.* * *12: RealisationThe only way out of the ice cavern was back up the sloping passageway they had arrived through.It was glassy with ice, impossible to climb.And the sound of the creatures outside, calling to each other, perhaps readying themselves for another attack, was hardly an incentive to try.‘An invidious choice,’ George had remarked.‘We can freeze or starve to death in here, or get eaten alive outside.’Fitz sat cross‐legged, numb from the waist down, staring at the ice sculpture.There was no doubt about it – the form that jutted from the clear wall was the TARDIS.It was carved, gouged from the ice.The exterior was slightly misshapen and lumpy, icicles dripped down from the ledges and the panels of the doors.The handle was a bump in the ice.It was frosted and opaque in places.But in those areas where the ice was clear as glass, he could see the frozen flames inside.They illuminated it from within.He had once seen a large alabaster vase at some country house, on a visit with his mum, he guessed.There was a lamp inside the vase, so that it seemed to glow softly in its alcove.The effect here was similar.The ice‐TARDIS was imbued with an inner life as if it were alive…He pulled the journal from his pocket and smoothed out the loose pages that had torn away from the binding earlier.He spent some time slotting them back into their right places, annoyed that several were missing – including the last page.Was this how his life would be seen he wondered? A half‐written book with the final page missing? Perhaps someday someone would find the journal and his body: frozen in the ice like the creatures trapped in the other wall – preserved in the moment of death; timeless.Or maybe they would only find the pages that had fluttered away from him on the tundra outside.Or nothing at all.He was leafing through the book as he thought.His eyes scanned the scrawled pencil text, reading without consciously absorbing; seeing but not remarking.‘I expect they’re waiting for dark.It won’t be long.’ George was landing looking up the passageway.The howls and roars of the animals outside echoed faintly down it.He turned away.‘I should make some notes,’ he said.‘Can I have some paper, and borrow your pencil?’‘Help yourself.’ Fitz tore a page from the back of the book and handed it to him together with what was left of his pencil.‘I don’t have a knife, I’m afraid.’ Just a grenade, he thought as he felt the cold lump in his pocket.And that would hardly be the best thing to sharpen the pencil.The journal lay in front of him, fallen open at one of the loose pages he had replaced.And as Fitz scanned the words, another piece fell into place and he felt an icy finger tracing its way down his spine.Tingling and pins and needles were inching through his legs.It was his account of Galloway’s death.It was his description of how he arrived at the tent, found George there already.‘Unfortunately, George could not give me an alibi as he had not looked to see that I was in my tent when he heard the cry.Like me, he ran straight towards the noise, not pausing to check who else was around’And there it was.He stared at the words without seeing them.George had not checked that Fitz was in his tent any more than Fitz had checked that George was still there.In fact, George had been at Galloway’s death scene before Fitz had.He could only have been moments ahead of him, yet Fitz had not seen him, had not heard his hasty awakening or his scrabble to get from the tent and to his feet.He had found him with the body.Unable to vouch for Fitz.Of course he was unable to vouch for Fitz – George had no idea when Fitz had got up, if he had been in his tent at all.Because George had not been in his.George Williamson – the one man Fitz knew had a motive for killing Galloway – had been there already.Not only that, but when Caversham disappeared, it was George who had run after him down the corridor; George who was the last the see him alive.He turned slowly and looked at his friend.He was leaning back against a large chunk of ice, sketching the bizarre scene in the cavern wall.The edge of his tongue licked out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrated on the detail of the ancient animal embedded in the ice.George Williamson palaeontologist, geologist, Fitz’s friend.George Williamson the murderer.Seeming to sense Fitz’s attention, he looked across, smiled.But, with the sound of the creatures outside calling to each other, gathering themselves for a final assault, Fitz could not bring himself to smile back.And it seemed to him that George’s expression froze and hardened like ice As if he realised what Fitz was thinking.What Fitz now knew.* * *11: Bargain‘Show me the fire,’ the Doctor had said.George had apparently understood what he meant immediately, and indicated an area in one of the ice walls.The Doctor was now scraping away the frost and polishing the icy surface.‘Doctor.’ She tried not to let her anger show too obviously.‘Do you mean to tell me that you’ve known about Fitz’s death since 1938?’He continued to wipe at the ice with a grubby hanky.George looked from Anji to the Doctor and shuffled his feet with embarrassment.‘Well,’ the Doctor said at last, pausing to breath heavily on the wall and give it another polish.‘Well, not exactly.I mean, I didn’t know it was that Fitz – our Fitz.’‘How could you not know?’He glanced at her, a hurt expression etched on to his face.‘I hadn’t met Fitz then.Not as far as I knew anyway.And anyway, the journal didn’t seem to be in his handwriting.I had this note, you see.From Fitz.’‘In different handwriting.’‘Yes.’Anji was about to tell him how ridiculous this sounded when an Image rose unbidden in her memory.A small room.The Doctor sitting on a bed, holding a battered copy of The Age of Reason.‘Is that his writing inside?’ she heard him ask in her mind.And she recalled how he had seemed to sag at her reply.‘The note you had wasn’t actually written by Fitz, was it?’ she said huskily.‘No,’ he said simply.‘But, if you bought the original journal…’ This still didn’t make sense.‘Exactly,’ the Doctor said before her brain could catch up with it all.‘Look in here.’Anji stared into the polished ice, at the tiny flames within.They did not seem to be moving at all.‘What is it?’ she asked.‘It can’t really be fire, not trapped in the ice like that.Can it?’‘Frozen in time,’ the Doctor murmured.George was peering over Anji’s shoulder.‘They look smaller’ he said.‘Much smaller.’‘The fire’s going out?’ she suggested [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]