075 - Doctor Who - Meglos

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DOCTOR WHO

MEGLOS

By Terrance Dicks

1. Abduction of an Earthling

People disappear.

There's nothing illegal about walking out of your old life, changing your

name, getting another job in another town or another country.

Sometimes there may be a more sinister explanation. In criminal circles

people have been known to drop out of sight - and never reappear. There are

rumours that the concrete pilings that support some of our new motorways

are hiding grisly secrets. Even in a small country like England there are

wild stretches where a body can be hidden and never found.

Some disappearances have far stranger explanations - like the disappearance

of George Morris.

Mr Morris was an assistant bank manager in a small country town. Tall,

slim, with horn-rimmed glasses and pleasant open face, he was about as

average a specimen of his kind as you could wish to find.

He was fortunate in that he lived close to his work. Most days he didn't

even take the car. Twenty-minutes brisk walking across the common took him

from the front door of the little High Street bank, across a pleasantly

wild and unspoiled common and up to the front door of the big house in a

quiet country lane.

On this particular evening he telephoned his wife just before he left the

bank and told her, as he told her every weekday evening, that he would be

home in twenty minutes. Mrs Morris said, 'Yes, dear,' went to the drinks

cabinet and poured him a glass of medium-dry sherry. Twenty minutes later

she would hear his key in the lock.

Sometimes she found herself wishing George would be a little less

predictable.

As it happened, George Morris's life was about to become very unpredictable

indeed.

He strode briskly out of the town, across the common and followed his usual

path which led through a clump of trees, down into the little hollow and

then on home. It was a fine summer evening, he wasn't taking work home, so

he was quite unencumbered, no rain coat, no brolly, not even a briefcase,

and he marched smartly through the green countryside, a faintly incongruous

figure in his dark business suit.

At the top of the little hollow he stopped in utter astonishment. There was

a square metal shape, squatting there in the centre of the hollow. At close

range it looked enormous, the size of a small building. It seemed to be

made of heavy steel plates, scarred and pitted with rust. Morris walked

cautiously up to it.

There was a clanking, grinding sound, and a door slid open in the side. A

group of men came out, extraordinary men in wild, barbaric, vaguely

military-looking clothes. The leader was big-bellied and bearded, with

cunning little eyes in a piggy face. The man behind him was taller, with a

stubble of grey beard on his chin. More men appeared, tough savage-looking

types with oddly shaped weapons in their belts.

To Morris's indignation two of them darted round behind him, gripping his

arms. He struggled wildly, but found he was quite helpless. 'What's going

on?' he demanded indignantly. 'Is this some kind of student rag?'

No one answered.

The burly, bearded one, obviously the leader studied Morris thoughtfully,

as if checking him off against some mental specification. Then he nodded.

The tall thin one took a small silver cylinder from his pocket and pressed

it to Morris's neck. Immediately, Morris became quiet and still. He was

more or less asleep on his feet as they led him into the space-ship.

Slowly, lumberingly, the ship took off. It gathered speed, dwindling

rapidly it shot up into the summer sky, then vanished completely as it

entered hyperspace.

Morris remained under electronic sedation for the long voyage across the

galaxy. It was when he awoke that the nightmare really began.

As it happened, the kidnapper's space craft was converging with another,

even more extraordinary ship, a space/time craft in the form of a square

blue box with a flashing light on top - a police box of a type used on

Earth in the twentieth century.

It was called the TARDIS and it was the property - or at least it was

currently in the possession of - a wandering renegade Time Lord known as

the Doctor.

The TARDIS had many unusual features, among them that of being

dimensionally transcendental, small on the outside, infinitely larger on

the inside.

In the brightly lit central control room of the TARDIS, the Doctor was hard

at work. At this time in his lives, he was a very tall man with wide

staring eyes and a mop of curly hair. Much of the time he wore a long

elegant coat, something between overcoat and smoking jacket, made of some

reddish, velvety material and cut in a vaguely Edwardian style.

Just now the Doctor was in his shirt-sleeves, and wearing an apron round

his waist. The coat, together with an incredibly long multi-coloured scarf

and a broad-brimmed soft hat were hanging on an old-fashioned coat-stand,

that looked strangely out of place in the control room.

At this particular moment, the Doctor wasn't actually controlling the

TARDIS. He was leaving this to his Time Lady companion, Romana, a fair-

haired, classically good-looking young woman with an impressively high

forehead and an air of aristocratic hauteur. Romana had a great sense of

her own dignity - which sometimes suffered in her association with the

Doctor.

The task presently occupying the Doctor was the repair of K9, who had been

temporarily immobilised by a rash dip in the sea. In appearance a kind of

robot dog, K9, as he would be the first to tell you when in good health,

was a self-powered mobile computer with defence capabilities. If anything,

the little automaton had an even greater sense of dignity than Romana.

For the time being however, K9 was lying mute and immobile on a table, his

circuits corroded by brine. The Doctor, who loved a good tinker, was

happily working away at K9's innards with his sonic screwdriver, leaving

Romana in charge of the many-sided central control console.

The Doctor worked absorbedly for some time, occasionally muttering to

himself, odd, disjointed phrases like, 'Aha!' 'That's it' and 'Where did I

put those electro-pliers?' In between times, he whistled an old Martian

lullaby between his teeth.

For some reason Romana found all this very irritating. She moved around the

console, adjusting controls and checking dials, shooting the Doctor an

occasional glance of irritation.

At last the Doctor looked up. 'Nearly there, Romana. This is the delicate

bit. You'd better stop the TARDIS, we don't want any nasty jolts.'

Romana studied the navigational console. 'We seem to be in the Prion

Planetary System at the moment. We'd better land.'

The Doctor frowned. The Prion Planetary System sounded vaguely familiar,

but he couldn't remember whether what was familiar was good or bad. 'Never

mind, hovering will do.'

As always, Romana felt her way was best. 'You're sure, Doctor? There's a

planet called Tigella that looks quite handy.'

The Doctor was brooding over K9's circuits. 'Tigella? Never heard of it.'

'Well, there's one called Zolfa-Thura as well. You must have heard of that,

it's in all the history books.'

'They're all in someone's history books. What's so special about Zolfa-

Thura?'

'A great technological civilisation. Supposed to have made incredible

breakthroughs in energy-matrix technology. Destroyed itself in some

mysterious internal war. A whole great civilisation blown away to sand and

ashes. Now all that's left is the screens.'

'Quite. What screens?'

'Enormous metal screens, five of them set up on the surface of the planet

for some long-forgotten purpose. The Screens of Zolfa-Thura.'

'Oh, those screens . . .' The Doctor's head popped up. 'Of course! I've

been to Tigella. You did say Tigella, didn't you?'

'That's right.'

'Well, I've been there.'

Romana looked at him in exasperation. It was understandable that the

erratic course of the Doctor's many lives should sometimes leave him

confused about when and where he'd been. But did he really have to be quite

so scatterbrained? 'You've been to Tigella? When?'

'Oh, some time ago. Terribly nice chap called Zastor showed me round.

Remind me to get in touch with him some time. Tell you what, I'll do it

now!'

He made for the control console, but Romana headed him off. 'Can't we just

do one thing at a time? I'll set the controls to hover, Doctor, you finish

repairing K9, then we'll send a message to Tigella.'

'First things first, eh?' said the Doctor approvingly.

'Exactly.'

'Though not necessarily in that order.' With this baffling observation, the

Doctor went back to his work.

Deep below the surface of Tigella they were in trouble. It is no easy

matter to move a whole civilisation underground. Without the natural

resources of sun and air and running water, you need power, a great deal of

it - power for heat and light and air-conditioning, power for hydroponic

farms, for food storage and a hundred other needs. Fortunately, the

Tigellans had power in enormous quantities, power from a unique

inexhaustible source, that was the centre of their religion and basis of

their civilisation, the Dodecahedron. A great crystal had mysteriously

descended from the skies in the distant past. Now enshrined in the Power

Room, the Dodecahedron was the mystic, glowing core of all Tigellan life.

But the Dodecahedron was failing. Not completely of course, or even

continually. Some of the time it glowed as brightly as ever, powering the

entire underground civilisation. But recently, the power had begun to

fluctuate. Sometimes it would suddenly fail, sometimes, even more

dangerously, there would be an unexplained surge. And the fluctuations were

getting more frequent...

The whole of the interior of Tigella was honeycombed with caves and

tunnels. Over the years these had been extended and developed by the

Tigellans as their civilisation grew. The Tigellans called them walkways,

and here or there one might still see a patch of exposed rock behind the

metal cladding of the tunnels, or the occasional rock-walled chamber, still

in its natural cave-like state.

At the end of one of the service tunnels, close to the Power Room, an

attractive young woman called Caris was frantically at work on a smoking

control panel, watched by a terrified, white-faced technician. The panel

had suddenly gone into overload and Caris had been sent to deal with it.

She was a Savant, one of the scientific and technical caste of Tigella, and

like the rest of her Guild she wore a neat white quilted jacket, trimmed

with black at the belt and collar, black trousers and boots. Her shining

yellow hair was neatly trimmed in a plain functional style.

Working against time, Caris struggled frantically to replace a burnt-out

power unit and prevent a major overload. She had almost succeeded when

another inexplicable power surge made all her work in vain. She looked at

the power gauge and shouted, 'Look out, it's going to blow!' Covering her

face with her hands Caris threw herself backwards, just as the panel

exploded with a blinding flash.

The technician at her side was not so quick, or not so lucky. He fell

screaming to the floor, his hands to his face.

Caris operated her portable communications set, relieved to find it still

working. 'Emergency, emergency! Burn-out on walkway nine. Medical and

lighting assistance needed immediately.'

Not far away in Central Control Caris's voice came crackling out of a

loudspeaker. The enormous control room, lined with instrument panels from

floor to ceiling, was the nerve centre of Tigellan civilisation, monitoring

and controlling the energy flow produced by the Dodecahedron in the Power

Room. Now the power was out of control, and here too lights were fading and

brightening again, dials flickering wildly.

At the main control desk sat Deedrix, one of the inner group of Chief

Savants, monitoring the flow of emergency messages, and issuing orders to

deal with the crises that constantly arose. He wore the same neat black-

and-white uniform as Caris, and like her, his blonde hair was trimmed short

and neatly brushed. There was a close resemblance between all the Savants -

their enemies said they all looked and thought alike.

Deedrix acknowledged Caris's message and issued a rapid stream of orders.

He switched back into Caris's circuit. 'Are you hurt, Caris?' There was

more than professional concern in his voice. He waited tensely until

Caris's voice came back.

'No. One of my technicians got a flash-burn, but it's not too serious.'

'Good. Medical detail has been despatched.'

Another message came through. 'Air Purification Unit One is

malfunctioning.'

Deedrix switched to another channel. 'Open air vents three to eight in Unit

One.'

A shadow fell across the control desk, and he glanced up to see a cowled

figure standing over him. Deedrix jumped to his feet. Despite the

simplicity of his monk-like robe, this tall white-haired old man was

perhaps the single most important person on the planet. This was Zastor,

Leader of all Tigella.

'Forgive me, Zastor, I did not see you enter.'

'Be seated, Deedrix, this is no time for ceremony. You must continue with

your work.'

Another message came through, though this time a reassuring one. 'Power

levels steady on all fronts. Irrigation levels holding.'

Deedrix gave a sigh of relief. 'Thank you. Clearing all channels.' He

slumped back in his seat. 'That seems to be it - till next time.'

Zastor looked compassionately at his weary face. 'Well, Deedrix, how bad is

it?'

Deedrix said steadily, 'Very bad indeed, sir. We can't control the power

levels much longer. If these surges go on there'll be complete breakdown -

and the end of all Tigella.'

2. The Deons

Zastor looked worriedly at Deedrix for a moment. The young Chief Savant was

one of the most brilliant members of his Guild - and one of the most cool-

headed. A man to underplay a crisis, rather than exaggerate…

Zastor glanced round the gleaming control room with its multiplicity of

multi-coloured control panels, their lights winking steadily. 'All this,

and yet you are helpless? So much for science.' Even as he spoke Zastor

knew the criticism was unfair.

Predictably, Deedrix sprang to the defence of his Guild. 'We can do nothing

without a detailed investigation of the Dodecahedron, and that the Deons

will not permit!'

'That is so,' agreed Zastor, sadly and a little helplessly.

Although Zastor was Leader of Tigella, he ruled over a divided people.

Everyone on Tigella belonged to, or at least supported, one of two groups -

the Savants and the Deons. Evenly matched in size, power and influence, the

two groups were irrevocably opposed over one crucial factor - the

Dodecahedron. To both parties the Dodecahedron was a kind of miracle,

mysterious and all-powerful. Even its arrival on the planet was shrouded in

mystery. Legend said simply that it had descended from the skies.

To the Savants, however, the Dodecahedron was a miracle of science, to be

studied observed and ultimately used to benefit Tigellan civilisation. Most

leading Savants agreed that the energy they were drawing from the

Dodecahedron, sufficient though it was to power the entire planet,

represented but a fraction of the device's potential.

And there was the difference. To the Savants the Dodecahedron was a device.

To the Deons it was a god.

Now that the Dodecahedron seemed to be failing them, the reactions of the

two parties were more opposed than ever. To the Savants the power surges

were a malfunction, to be investigated and corrected. To the Deons, they

were punishment for the sins of Tigella, to be dealt with by penitence,

meditation and prayer.

The only link between the two factions was Zastor - a Leader with no real

power to act, since he had always to balance one side against the other. At

the same time Zastor was a figure of supreme importance, since he alone

could save Tigella from a bitter civil war. It was not an easy position.

Zastor looked sympathetically at the angry young Savant. 'I understand,

Deedrix. Believe me, I understand.'

'I've always argued -' began Deedrix.

Zastor chuckled. 'That is most certainly true!'

Deedrix gave a reluctant smile - trust Zastor to defuse the situation - but

he was not to be distracted. 'For thousands of years our lives have been

dominated by a mystery. The Dodecahedron belongs to all of us, not just to

the Deons.'

'Whatever you think of their opinions, their religion deserves respect.'

'Religion,' snorted Deedrix. 'I might just as well worship this control

console.'

'Perhaps you do in a way,' said Zastor gently. Deedrix sighed and gave up

the argument. He touched a control. 'Control to walkway nine. Update on the

burn-out, please.'

In the walkway, Caris straightened up from her work, mopping her forehead.

The burned technician, a dressing on his face, was being lifted onto a

stretcher by the medical team. Caris and a replacement technician were

working under emergency lighting from portable power packs, welding a new

transformer into place.

Caris spoke into her com-unit. 'I'm replacing the transformer now, Deedrix.

There'll be no power for about three hours.' Bitterly she added, 'Now will

you believe I'm right?'

Deedrix said formally, 'Thank you, Caris. Acknowledged and understood.' He

looked challengingly at Zastor. 'Caris seems to feel that recent events add

weight to her arguments.'

'This ridiculous scheme of hers to re-inhabit the surface, face the attacks

of the vegetation?' Zastor shuddered. 'It would take years of preparation.'

'Decades, more likely.'

'So, we agree for once?'

'As it happens I don't much favour the idea myself,' admitted Deedrix.

'There are better ways in my view - like learning to use the full power of

the Dodecahedron.' He leaned forward urgently. 'But at least Caris and her

friends have a plan - a rational, scientific plan.'

'A plan which the Deons have declared a blasphemy.'

'You could over-rule them, Zastor!'

'And how long would I remain Leader if I did?' It was the old dilemma. If

Zastor was seen to favour either side he would be instantly overthrown, to

be replaced in all probability, by someone far worse.

'I know your problems, Zastor. But I tell you this, and I speak as a

Savant, one who has worked all his life to understand these things. Unless

somebody does something soon, our safe and bountiful city may well be on

the edge of total extinction. You are leader, Zastor - the responsibility

is yours.'

Zastor brooded for a moment, and then bowed his head. 'Very well. I will

send a message to Lexa.'

In the cathedral-like hush of the huge Annexe to the Power Room, Lexa, High

Priestess of the Deons, was deep in meditation, surrounded by her purple-

robed acolytes. They were grouped round the great triangular rock that

dominated the centre of the room.

Lexa was a tall handsome woman, sumptuously dressed in the elaborate

regalia of a Deon priestess, her long hair hanging free from beneath her

high-crowned ceremonial head-dress.

It was dark and silent in the huge circular chamber, lit only by flames of

the ceremonial torches in their brackets on the walls, and occasionally by

the fitful glare that came from the arched doorway to the Power Room.

The acolytes, robed and head-dressed like Lexa, though less elaborately,

sat around her in a semi-circle, soothed and half hypnotised by the low

energy-hum that came from the Power Room. This was the Ceremony of

Concurrence, the most important ritual of the Deon religion.

Lexa looked up in annoyance when the black-uniformed, black-helmeted guard

appeared in the doorway of the Annexe. 'Well?'

The guard approached, bowed deferentially and handed her a scroll, bearing

Zastor's seal.

She opened it, read the lengthy message and rose angrily to her feet. 'No!'

The acolytes crowded round her, but dared not speak.

'No!' said Lexa again. 'Zastor is our Leader, but he has no right to lead

us into sacrilege!'

She waved the acolytes back to their places. 'Resume the Concurrence. I

shall explain this matter to Zastor and the Savants - yet again!'

The acolytes bowed their heads. Lexa strode determinedly from the Annexe,

and along the walkway to the stairway that led to the higher levels. As she

reached the bottom of the staircase, she saw Zastor waiting at the top. It

was typical of him that rather than waiting for her to attend him, as was

his right as Leader, he had come to escort her.

When they reached the top of the staircase, Zastor said disarmingly. 'I see

that you are angry, Lexa.'

'It is not me whom you have angered, it is the Power,' replied Lexa

forbiddingly.

'For the moment at least, its anger seems to be under control. And so

perhaps should ours be.'

They began walking along together. 'The Savants have some proposals,'

Zastor went on. 'Proposals that will help to solve our problems, or so they

believe.'

'Belief!' scoffed Lexa. 'It is a word too great for their small minds. They

are children, wilful, ignorant and lost.'

'We shall all be lost, Deons and Savants alike - if the Power fails us.'

'Where are we going?' asked Lexa.

'To the debating chamber, to listen to the proposals of the Savants,'

replied Zastor placidly.

'I warn you, Zastor, this is not a matter for compromise.'

'Lexa, I'm an old man, with less faith, perhaps, than you. Yet I think you

trust my judgement, do you not?'

After a moment's pause Lexa said grudgingly, 'Yes...'

'Then hear the proposals of the Savants. They ask only to be allowed to

make a few measurements, some calculations. They will not even touch the

Dodecahedron.'

'They will not even enter the Power Room,' said Lexa grimly. 'No one can

revoke our ancient laws - not even you, Zastor.'

It was unfortunate that at this precise moment they were passing the door

to Central Control just as Deedrix came out on his way to the Debating

Chamber, and he joined in the argument. 'And not even your precious

Concurrence, Lexa, can revoke the laws of science.'

Lexa rounded angrily on him. 'Now see here, Deedrix - '

Zastor stepped between them. 'Deedrix, Lexa, enough of this squabbling. Try

to act like leaders.'

'Then lead us by example, Zastor. Make a decision!' urged Deedrix.

For a moment Zastor looked tempted, then he shook his head. 'I cannot

choose between one side and the other.' He sighed. 'I was afraid it would

come to this. However, I have taken a decision of another kind.'

Deedrix and Lexa looked at him in astonishment.

'Some fifty years ago,' said Zastor, 'I knew a man who solved the insoluble

by the strangest means. He seemed to see the threads that bind the universe

together, and have the ability to mend them when they break.'

'A Savant?' asked Deedrix sceptically. 'Or a mystic, like Lexa here and her

acolytes.'

'A little of each, I think, and much more of something quite different. As

it happens he is near by, and he has asked to visit us. I have invited him

to do so.'

Deedrix frowned suspiciously. 'You've invited an Alien - here?'

Zastor nodded.

'Why?' demanded Lexa.

'I think this situation needs his delicacy of touch.'

At that particular moment, the Doctor's delicacy of touch was being used to

make a few final adjustments to K9's circuitry. 'The reflexes seem to be

all right now… but he'd better stay out of the sea in future, or he'll find

himself in deep water.'

'It's hardly his fault if someone forgot to sea-proof him!'

'Yes, quite,' said the Doctor vaguely. 'Do you know where I put his

manual?'

'Yes, Doctor.' Romana went to retrieve the manual, which was wedged under

the too-short leg of the hat-stand, another of the Doctor's emergency

repairs. She handed it to the Doctor.

'K9 had better be all right, we may need him on Tigella.'

'The Tigellans aren't hostile.'

'The plants are, Doctor. According to my intergalactic guide and history,

the surface of Tigella is covered with lush aggressive vegetation.'

The Doctor flipped through K9's manual, 'You don't want to believe all you

read in books, you know.'

'According to the history books, Doctor, it was the lush aggressive

vegetation that made the Tigellans retreat beneath the surface. Didn't you

notice it when you were there?'

'It was reasonably friendly to me, I think. Mind you, that was quite some

time ago.' He looked up from the book. 'Post Repair Test Questions, it says

here. Number One: Can you hear me?' He leaned towards the little

automation. 'Can you hear me, K9?'

'Affirmative - Mistress.'

The Doctor sighed. 'Not the most promising start. Pass me my sonic

screwdriver, would you Romana?'

In the Debating Chamber on Tigella the debate, or rather the row, was in

full swing. The tiered ranks of seats were packed, Savants on one side,

Deons on the other, and in a very short time the debate had degenerated

into a shouting match.

Zastor was on his feet. 'Savants! Deons!' he shouted. 'Remember the dignity

of this place. Have we come here to squabble? If we cannot have agreement,

let us at least have order!'

He sat, and for a moment, there was a rather chastened silence.

Then Deedrix jumped up. 'I've said all I have to say. I'm just wasting my

time here. I'm needed back in Main Control.'

Before he could leave, Lexa was on her feet. 'Do not let him leave. He

should be arrested for heresy.'

'And crushed to death, no doubt,' sneered Deedrix.

Lexa glared furiously at him. It was unfortunately true that in the early

days of the Deon religion, offenders had been punished, or sacrificed, by

ceremonial crushing beneath a huge rock. There had been no sacrifices for

many years now, though in view of the recent troubles, some of the more

conservative Deons were in favour of reviving the custom.

'You will respect the Deon laws, Deedrix,' said Zastor sternly.

'How can one respect a creed that practices the cruel and primitive rite of

human sacrifice? Is that how you propose to deal with our present troubles,

Lexa, by making sacrifices to your monstrous myth?'

'Remember where you are, Deedrix,' said Zastor wearily. 'Be silent!'

'No! This should be said - and before all Tigella. The Dodecahedron is no

god. It is an artefact. It was engineered!'

This horrifying blasphemy drew a howl of protest and rage from the Deon

acolytes. Fierce and exultant, Lexa's voice rose high above them all. 'The

Dodecahedron descended from the heavens. It is our god!'

'Not from the heavens,' shouted Deedrix desperately. 'From somewhere -

anywhere, but not the heavens.'

Triumphantly Lexa confronted him. 'Then from where, Deedrix? Where?'

It was the one unanswerable question. Defeated, Deedrix turned away.

3. The Screens of Zolfa-Thura

A fiery red sun blazed out of a clear blue sky onto burning yellow sands.

Barren and featureless the desert stretched away in all directions. Only

one thing - or, to be strictly accurate, five things - dominated the empty

landscape: the screens. Five colossal metal screens of gun-metal blue,

tilted at an angle to the heavens, propped up by massive metal supporting

struts: the Screens of Zolfa-Thura.

A squat ugly shape appeared out of the clear blue sky. Down and down it

came, revealing itself as an ancient star-ship, a blunt square shape of

pitted and rusted metal plates, a flying junkyard, an intergalactic

scrapheap. It thumped clumsily down on the wide expanse of sand between the

screens.

The door creaked open and General Grugger swaggered out onto the sands;

Grugger the Gaztak, burly, big-bellied, in boots and breeches and a long

military overcoat covered with decorations, to none of which he was in the

least entitled, with an extraordinary hat on his head, a cross between a

Roman helmet and a flower-pot, all jewelled and spiked. Little squinting

eyes in a cruel piggy face glanced round cautiously, alert for ambush.

Behind him was Brotodac, his second-in-command, a great creaking skeleton

of a man, with a stubble of white beard covering a long bony toothless

chin, and wearing an assortment of military finery even, more tattered than

that of his chief.

Behind these two came their men, a motley, ragged, fierce-looking band.

Gaztaks - the scum of the galaxy. Dressed like their chiefs, in whatever

scraps of uniform, they could lay their hands on, wearing an assortment of

knives, swords and blasters of all shapes and sizes, murderers, mutineers,

space-pirates, thieves, deserters, the criminal ragtag and bobtail of the

cosmos.

There were hundreds, perhaps thousands of Gaztak bands like this. They

roamed the galaxy in their battered old space-ships, living on whatever

pickings they could find, looting and stealing from anyone weaker than

themselves. Grugger's band was typical enough, though perhaps rather

smaller than most. General Grugger had once led a little mercenary army,

carried in a mini-fleet of battered space-cruisers. He had hired out to a

local warlord on a primitive planet on the edge of the galaxy. Things had

gone well for a while, but Grugger had made the mistake of choosing the

wrong side.

After the last disastrous battle he had been lucky to escape with just one

ship and a handful of men, and of course the faithful Brotodac, the one

person who never lost faith in Grugger's military genius.

That was why General Grugger and his band had been reduced to accepting

what was little more than an odd-job. The pay offered was good though - not

that they'd seen any of it yet.

Brotodac looked disgustedly around him. 'Sand everywhere, nothing but sand.

The whole planet!'

Grugger squinted thoughtfully up at the nearest of the towering screens.

'There's these things.'

'“Bring an Earthling to the Screens of Zolfa-Thura”', quoted Brotodac

scornfully. 'I never liked this job.'

Grugger beckoned to two of his men, and they led the still-dazed Morris out

of the ship. He was conscious now, in a confused sort of way, conscious and

terrified.

Grugger looked at him. '“Male human, Caucasian, about two metres tall,”' he

said in a satisfied voice. 'Just what the client ordered.'

'All right, we've delivered him. So who pays us?'

Strange choking sounds were coming from Morris's throat.

'Seems to be trying to say something,' said Grugger without much interest.

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DOCTORWHOMEGLOSByTerranceDicks1.AbductionofanEarthlingPeopledisappear.There'snothingillegalaboutwalkingoutofyouroldlife,changingyourname,gettinganotherjobinanothertownoranothercountry.Sometimestheremaybeamoresinisterexplanation.Incriminalcirclespeoplehavebeenknowntodropoutofsight-andneverreappear.Th...

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075 - Doctor Who - Meglos

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