Professional instinct took over and Harry bent over the alien and began hauling away the debris. There was a blood-soaked gash in the trouser over the soldier's left upper leg.

Harry pulled out his penknife and cut the fabric away. Bright arterial blood pulsed on to the floor from a deep wound in the smoothly furred flesh. He hacked a length from the alien's webbing harness and looped it about the leg above the injury.

He scrabbled about in the debris with one hand until he found a short length of broken metal channel, pushed it through the loop and twisted it tight. The flow of blood slackened to a gentle oozing as the improvised tourniquet took effect. The alien stirred and his head lifted. Shocked and pain-filled eyes looked at him over a long muzzle.

'It's all right, old chap,' he said rea.s.suringly. 'I'm a doctor.

Any bones broken, do you think can you move?'

The bewildered soldier shook his head slowly.

'Right. I'll give you a hand and we'll get you some proper treatment. Hold this tight.' He placed the alien's left hand over the bar of the tourniquet and helped him upright. Pulling his free arm across his shoulders he supported him as they made their way down the stairs. The main hall was a mess, strewn with rubble and bodies and a dozen dazed soldiers trying to salvage both comrades and equipment. Such was the confusion that it was actually several seconds before they registered the stranger in their midst. 'No time to explain,'

Harry snapped crisply in his best authoritative tone. 'Where are your medics?'

One of the soldiers, jaw still hanging open, mutely pointed to a couple of still and b.l.o.o.d.y forms in the corner. d.a.m.n, thought Harry, this is going to be awkward. He took a deep breath. 'Who's in charge?'

Heads turned about in rapid a.s.sessment and one spoke up: 'I suppose I am...Who are '

He wished he could interpret their insignia. 'Name and rank?'

The soldier stiffened. 'Arken'rek, pentdekander Fourth Company.'

Pentdekander, Harry knew, though he would never understand exactly how he knew, meant 'leader of fifty men', but unlike the rest of the alien's speech it did not readily translate into a less c.u.mbersome or familiar phrase. What was the nearest equivalent: a corporal? Oh, for a hardbitten sergeant or better yet a CPO. 'Can you call up for replacement medical a.s.sistance?' He sensed their confusion and knew order had to be restored quickly.

'Out with the other section...and the communicator's smashed...Who are you?'

'Surgeon Lieutenant Harry Sullivan,' he said grandly, making it sound only one step removed from G.o.d and omitting to mention in which service. 'If you will salvage what you can of your medical supplies and clear a s.p.a.ce I will endeavour to treat your wounded. Then you'd better send some men upstairs to see who else needs help. Well, jump to it, man!'

Arken'rek jumped.

A s.p.a.ce was cleared, a table set up and the dead medic's kit recovered. Wounded began to arrive from outside. The battle continued around the town, but for the moment they were spared further missiles as murderously accurate as the last salvo. Harry was dimly aware of startled looks and whispers cast in his direction, but he paid them no attention. He had a job to do. Although working in makeshift conditions with unfamiliar equipment and medicines on patients with an alien physiology, he was going to attempt to save lives. Normally he would never have contemplated such a risky undertaking but this was an emergency. Fortunately the medicines were marked out for quick and easy use and unit doses were specified. 'Medicine by numbers' he remembered saying to Sarah while using the advanced medical kit on the Nerva s.p.a.ce station, and the recollection helped straighten the principles out in his mind. Some of the labelling he only half understood, but intramuscular intramuscular and and intravenous intravenous translated easily enough in his mind, as did translated easily enough in his mind, as did anaesthetic anaesthetic and and antiseptic antiseptic: all fundamental concepts apparently. Bandages were bandages, and a staple suture gun was recognizable, even if the grip was designed for a hand with an extra finger. A wound was a wound and this was strictly emergency surgery.

Keep the patients alive long enough to ship them back behind the lines for more specialized care.

He took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and set to work.

The interminable b.l.o.o.d.y day drew to an end.

Harry had worked almost without a break for fifteen hours.

And then the stream of casualties tailed off and the sounds of battle faded. He looked around stupidly, numbed by his labours, even as soldiers helped him to a chair. A drink and a ration bar were put into his hands. Some indefinite time later he became aware of an older soldier, with a grey muzzle and grander insignia on his uniform, sitting on another chair facing him. Arken'rek introduced him as 'Dekkilander Ch.e.l.l'lak'.

Leader of ten thousand men, Harry thought dully: a general?

He should probably salute but did not have the strength.

'I understand many men are alive today who would otherwise be dead,' Ch.e.l.l'lak said simply. 'On their behalf I thank you.'

'Just doing my duty, sir.'

'You did it well. We did not know any of our human allies were on this part of Jand. Did you come from the squadron that intercepted the escort of the Nethra.s.s fleet? Some ships were sadly lost, I understand.'

'In all honesty, sir, I'm not sure how I got here. I may have had a bit of a b.u.mp on the head recently. Not too clear about some things. Uh...but I do remember looking for a couple of friends of mine, though. Has there been any news of other, er, strange arrivals?'

'Not that I am aware of, but I will have enquiries made.

Though you realize in the circ.u.mstances...'

'Of course, sir. Duty first. How's the battle going?'

'We've pushed the Nethra.s.s back almost to their beachheads in places,' Ch.e.l.l'lak said with satisfaction.

'Tomorrow we're going to...but I had better let you get some rest. We'll talk further in the morning.' He made to rise, then hesitated. 'May I ask: do you come from an outpost, or were you from Landor?'

The question was loaded in some way Harry could not fathom. Was it safe to reveal he was a complete outsider? He tossed a mental coin before replying carefully, 'I can honestly say I'm not from an outpost.'

As far as he could judge native Jand features, Ch.e.l.l'lak looked at him with a strange mixture of respect, yet also incomprehension. 'I understand you treated a few Nethra.s.s prisoners today.'

Harry nodded, dimly recalling a couple of beings like man-sized hairless weasels with six legs in the tattered remains of uniforms. Not knowing who they were and unwilling to reveal his ignorance, he had simply dealt with them along with the others as best he could.

'I marvel at your tolerance,' said Ch.e.l.l'lak. 'After what the Union did to Landor.'

'Quite,' said Harry, not understanding at all. 'Well, caring for the sick without favour is still my duty even after Landor.'

He would have to learn some local history as soon as possible before the Jand learnt the truth about him.

6.

Work or Die!

arah regained consciousness gradually, feeling sick and Svery confused. The pins and needles of returning sensation were playing about her body. Irritably she tried to rub the life back into her limbs, but something held her back. Why couldn't she move, she wondered vaguely. It was some moments before she became aware of the residual ache in her arms and the tight bands around her outstretched wrists and ankles which were holding her forcibly upright. Then recollection dawned like a douche of cold water, and with a fearful gasp she blinked her eyes open.

She was fastened to a vertical frame in a chamber that was quite dark except for a large flat screen. On the screen the image of an alien sat patiently observing her.

It was a humanoid reptilian with greenish-blue finely scaled skin, iridescent where the light glanced off it. Large vertically slitted intelligent eyes, presently regarding her with apparent distaste, protruded from the top of its head, which was also crowned with a ridge of small bony plates. Below this was a small snout with narrow nostrils and a broad frog-like mouth.

Its ears were curious furled tubes, held erect and open towards her. A loose wattle of flesh hung below its chin, while slits around the top of its neck might have been gills. About its narrow, sloping shoulders was a loose silvery tunic of vaguely Grecian appearance. Webbed and clawed hands were folded neatly across its lap as it reclined in a high-backed and ornately decorated chair.

Apparently satisfied she was now fully conscious it said,

'Are there any more survivors skulking up in the wilderness, human?'

Its speech had a throaty sibilance to it, but Sarah understood the words well enough. Swallowing her fear she tried to reply calmly but was aware of the tremor in her voice.

'I don't know what you're talking about. Who are you? Why are you keeping me like this?' She tugged futilely against the straps that held her.

The alien blinked slowly, as though surprised. It leant a little closer to the screen. 'Do you not know who I am?'

Sarah shook her head vigorously. 'No. Should I?'

'I am Baal Garikth-tal.' As Sarah continued to look uncomprehendingly at him he added, 'You are on the prime moon of Averon. Are you not afraid? Do you not hate and fear me?'

Striving to keep the catch in her voice under control, she answered the strange question. 'Why should I? I've never heard of Averon, and I've never seen you or anyone like you before.'

Baal appeared momentarily indecisive, then flicked an impatient claw. 'How did you survive so long in the wilderness?'

'I'm not sure. Really, I don't remember properly.'

'What do you remember?'

She remembered walking: laboured breathing and the tightness in her chest, her parched and dry throat, eyes that felt sandpapered from within, her scratched hands and the b.l.o.o.d.y gash in her right knee, which stabbed every time she put too much weight on that leg. The terrain did not help. Beds of treacherous loose rocks that turned under her feet alternated with drifts of soft powdery sand which she waded through heavily. But she struggled determinedly on. Another wave of dizziness caught her and she fell forward with unnatural slowness on to her hands and knees again, wincing as she reopened her wound. With an effort she rose and continued on her way. Step, step, step: one foot in front of the other. Where was she going? She must have had some goal when she started, but now it had been lost somewhere in her muddled thoughts. She plodded on, trawling her unreliable memory.

She recalled a war, huge domes, and misshapen people.

Sinister conical shapes and harsh grating voices; a dash through tunnels and a final explosion and then?

She halted, swaying dangerously. Amidst the dark rocks ahead of her was a glitter that seemed familiar and somehow very important. She took another couple of hesitant steps and squinted through reddened eyes. Water? A shallow pool, green-sc.u.mmed at the edges, nestled in a hollow within a curving arm of jagged rocks. She staggered forward and dropped on to her knees in the damp sand by its edge, cupped her hands together and drank. The finest wine could not have tasted sweeter.

After several mouthfuls she began to splash some over her face. Gradually her head began to clear and life flowed back into her aching limbs. Sitting back she inspected the cut on her knee, then carefully washed that as well. As she did so she took conscious note of her clothing for the first time. Her trousers were patterned in patches of dull yellow, green and brown, while over a tan T-shirt she wore a lightweight bottle-green jerkin of military pattern. They were distinctive, but she couldn't remember where she'd acquired them.

Then she realized she couldn't even remember her own name.

She stared about bleakly, hoping for inspiration. How could you forget your own name? Trying not to panic yet feeling faintly ridiculous at the same time, she searched her clothes for a name tag, but there was none. In fact her costume did not seem that familiar. Dirty and torn where she had fallen, but otherwise quite new. Or at least new to her. Where did it come from? Think, think!

Skaro.

Her name? No: a place. A planet. Yes, she had acquired these clothes on Skaro, during the war between the Thals and the Kaleds. And her name was...Sarah. Sarah Jane Smith, and she was a journalist. She gasped with relief and shouted her name aloud several times just for the pleasure of hearing it, until her voice cracked and she broke into a fit of dry coughing. She drank some more, sat back against a rock and tried to think soberly, as the key of her name unlocked the past.

UNIT, Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart, the Doctor, Harry Sullivan, the TARDIS, that was it. The Doctor, Harry and herself had all been holding on to the Time Ring. It had been transporting them, via some interdimensional shortcut through time and s.p.a.ce, away from Skaro and back to the TARDIS.

But a sudden mistiness had enveloped them accompanied by a flash of intense light, as though they had flown through a thunder-cloud. The Ring tingled and became a ghost in her hand. She saw the others tumbling away from her, clasping at emptiness and calling out soundlessly. She fell on alone into darkness. Then she was in this wilderness. But where were the Doctor and Harry?

Sarah took another draught of water, climbed slowly to her feet, and made her way cautiously up the side of a long sloping face of rock, panting in the thin air. She seemed unnaturally light on her feet, which suggested a smaller world than Earth. However, the thin air sapped her strength in equal measure, giving her little more agility. She scrambled on until she had an uninterrupted view.

A harsh sun cast equally harsh shadows over a wilderness of pits and gullies and jagged rocks, some wind-carved into strange sculptural shapes, that stretched away to an oddly shrunken horizon. Fans of dust formed miniature dunes and trailed in the lee of larger boulders or pooled in the scattering of shallow craters that stippled the landscape. A few straggling and desiccated plants were the only signs of life. She shielded her eyes and studied the sky. It was a deep blue shading to purple, with a faint scattering of stars. Within it, about halfway to the zenith, hung the globe of a planet close to full phase. It was about five times as wide as the Moon appeared from Earth, and reflected the light brilliantly from an apparently unbroken layer of cloud that concealed its surface. What was beneath it: another wilderness or a world teeming with life?

She cautioned herself against pointless speculation and continued her sweep. The last quarter was more rewarding. It was hard to judge distances in the thin clear air and the close horizon, but about a mile off the ground seemed to fall away sharply, as though a long slice had been cut from the edge of the world. What lay beyond?

Even as she pondered the risk in leaving her precious water hole to explore, she realized that a twinkling light had emerged from the glare of the sun and was rapidly descending in a long arc. Sarah narrowed her eyes and could just make out a silvery globe with splayed spidery legs. She followed it down until it vanished beyond the sharply curtailed rocky horizon. After a few moments there came from out of the sky a long drawn rumble of displaced air, which gradually faded into silence.

A s.p.a.cecraft had just landed.

Taking careful note of the rocks about the water-hole so that she would recognize them again, she set off.

It took her almost an hour to wend her way across the rugged ground to the spot where the craft had disappeared from view. But finally she entered a twisting gully that opened out on to clear sky. Getting down on her hands and knees she crawled cautiously forward to its lip and peered over.

Her vantage point was at the top of a steep escarpment of bare rock, its base softened by numerous conical heaps of scree formed by the gradual acc.u.mulation of loose material from the upland. Five or six hundred feet below, a level plain stretched away to the distinctly curved horizon, broken only by a few distant upthrust rocky mesas. It resembled the landscape from a western film, except that this plain was floored by an ancient wrinkled lava flow, stippled in places with small craters and occasional patterns of interlaced cracks like those in dried mud. Clearly it made an excellent landing field, for not only the craft she had seen arriving earlier, but two others of more slender design were standing a couple of miles out from the base of the cliff. Closer to the cliff was a cl.u.s.ter of buildings. There was a tall latticework mast with some oddly shaped antennae mounted on it, surrounded by several domes of varying sizes, and five large low flat-roofed buildings with many roof lights. The structures were separated from one another by a network of tall wire fences, linking up with a perimeter fence that surrounded the entire complex.

Pin-like forms of people, or at least humanoids, were moving between the buildings, and a couple of vehicles could be seen travelling out across the flats towards the landing field.

For perhaps ten minutes she observed the activity, wondering if she should make contact with whoever operated the base and, if so, how she would manage it. The climb down would be a somewhat hazardous undertaking. Perhaps it would be simpler if she just stood up and waved and shouted.

In the event the decision was made for her.

Out of the corner of her eye she noticed a small craft flying level with the summit along the line of the escarpment. It was heading towards her, making a slight humming sound. As it drew closer she saw it was a flat disc ringed by a guard rail and manned by two large, oddly proportioned figures. Struck by sudden doubt she eased herself back from the gully mouth, scrambled to her feet and retreated into the cover of the rocks.

Perhaps she had better watch a little longer before making contact, just to be on the safe side. The distant hum of the flying disc faded away unexpectedly. She strained her ears.

Had it turned back to the base? Suddenly the hum returned, swelling to a loud purring drone and the disc skimmed the rocks not ten feet over her head and came to a halt hovering in mid air. Armoured figures with strange mask-like faces looked down inscrutably at her, their eyes glowing redly.

She took to her heels.

There was a flat cracking sound and a nimbus of electric blue flame enveloped her, causing every muscle to convulse in shock. The light died, a dull numbness replaced the pain and the world grew dark about her. With a curious sense of detachment Sarah collapsed insensibly to the ground.

'And then I woke up here,' Sarah concluded. She had abridged her account somewhat, and hoped desperately that her genuine and unfeigned ignorance of where she was and what Baal represented would deter him from probing further. 'Now please will you let me go?'

Baal Garikth-tal shook his head in an almost human manner. 'She still expects freedom,' he said, as though speaking for the benefit of others. 'And shows none of the natural responses to her situation. Her mind is clearly damaged, but she may be useful for basic labour. Undoubtedly she is from a human outpost: a survivor of the recent freighter crash. That's the truth, isn't it, human?'

'I honestly don't know exactly how I got here,' Sarah replied carefully.

'The ship's manifest is no longer on file so her ident.i.ty cannot be confirmed, not that it matters. Guards.'

Two large forms stepped forward out of the darkness, red eyes glowing. Sarah recognized the things that had piloted the disc: robots, of course, their faces shaped in a parody of their alien master's, cowled eyes on top of their heads and broad speaker grilles mimicking the wide mouth.

'Confirm records for past three work cycles: have any unauthorized craft been detected?' Baal queried.

'None, Master,' one of the robots replied, its voice flat and toneless.

'Double the patrols over the wastelands as a precaution.