'Have a look at the radar, man. You're the navigator.'

Sheepishly, the Brigadier examined the radar. A cl.u.s.ter of blurry, stationary reflections were the mountains; there was something to the west, but it wasn't moving; otherwise the scope was clear.

'I think so,' he said eventually. His head and limbs felt curiously wobbly, as if they weren't quite attached to his body properly any more. He'd been through centrifuge training when they'd set up UNIT, but he could swear that the last fifteen minutes had been worse.

'That's interesting,' said the Doctor suddenly. The plane swerved to the right, knocking the Brigadier's helmet against the padded side of the c.o.c.kpit.

'What is?' The Brigadier could see nothing ahead but a wall of mountains.

'That black spire there - it seems to be made of something other than the local rock.'

The Brigadier craned his neck, was forced painfully against his flight harness as the plane suddenly started to decelerate. But he could see that there was indeed something dark amongst the rocks. 'I wonder if that's what was on Yates's satellite photos?' he said.

'What satellite photos?' asked the Doctor sharply.

'The ones that showed the anomaly. A black blob that had suddenly appeared in the mountains. That's what Anton Deveraux was looking into when he died.'

'Brigadier, you told me that Deveraux died of some mysterious disease and that Yates and his team had gone to Kebiria to investigate. You didn't mention anything about a construct of this sort.'

'I didn't know very much about it,' admitted the Brigadier. 'I didn't see the photographs. I'm a busy man, you know.'

'Good grief, man! Look at the thing! And you didn't think it was important?'

They were close enough now to see detail: a rough tower, several hundred metres high, tapering towards the end, and around it what looked like extensive excavations. As they pa.s.sed overhead, the Brigadier thought he saw a helicopter on the ground.

'It's some kind of military base,' he said. 'Probably Kebirian government.'

'Maybe, Brigadier. But there are other possibilities. Let's take another look, shall we? I'll slow her down a bit more.'

There was a short silence. The mountains were getting dangerously close.

The Doctor pulled the plane up sharply, began to turn. There was a beeping noise, and a red light began to flash on the panel in front of them. The Brigadier looked at the readings, said, 'Doctor, we're almost out of fuel.'

'But that's impossible. Flight Lieutenant Butler told me that the wing tanks held enough fuel to get us all the way to Kebiria and back again if we had to.'

The beeping became a continuous angry note. With a sinking feeling, the Brigadier realized what the popping noises had been.

'The fuel lines to the wing tanks have broken on both sides, Doctor.

All that manoeuvring must have been too much for the joints. We're spilling fuel like a leaky teapot.'

'We wouldn't have had this kind of trouble in a Martian Exploder,'

said the Doctor irritably. The engine note changed as he throttled back. 'Hold on tight, Brigadier, this could be a rough landing.'

After that things happened very fast. A silver speck appeared in front of them, rushing along the curve of a mountain valley. It came closer with astonishing speed, until the Brigadier could recognize the tiny, clear shape of a Kebirian Air Force MiG. He saw a bloom of flame under each wing, and for an instant he thought it was on fire.

Then he saw the two missiles accelerating towards him.

His stomach lurched as the Superhawk dropped. The aircraft shuddered, then the roar of the engines faltered and died.

'Sorry, old chap,' said the Doctor. 'I think we're going to crash.'

Ten.

FJo tightened the tourniquet around the young man's arm, then lifted the makeshift dressing from the wound. Some blood still leaked from it, but it didn't look too bad.

As long as it doesn't get infected, she thought.

The hospital's supply of antibiotics had been destroyed in the raid, and it was unlikely that more would arrive in time to save the young man. She tied a fresh dressing around the wound, then used some of the same clean, disinfectant-smelling cloth to wipe her hands, as the nurse had shown her.

The next patient was beyond help with the little they had left: a shrapnel wound in his stomach was still bleeding steadily. With every breath he clenched his fists and gave a little moan of pain.

Feeling sick, Jo dispensed another couple of aspirin, held his cold, sweaty hand for a moment. She tried not to think how many people she had seen die this afternoon.

There was a metallic click behind her, followed by a buzzing noise.

Jo jumped, almost dropped the man's hand. Then she turned, saw Catriona. She managed a slight smile.

'h.e.l.lo.'

The reporter was clutching a large camera and flash gun. She winked. 'I promised Vincent headlines, and headlines he's going to get.'

'Where did you get the camera?'

'One of the aid workers. She's got a broken arm, anyway, so she won't be using it for a while.'

The reporter seemed remarkably cheerful, considering what she must have been taking pictures of, Jo thought; but then she thought again, realized that Catriona had been doing her job. Getting the story out. That was bound to make her feel better. Jo wished she had a job that could be of some help in this situation. 'The Doctor's a.s.sistant'

was all very well, when the Doctor was around. It wasn't a lot of use the rest of the time. Holding the hands of the dying and giving them aspirin felt so useless useless. Yet she knew it was all that she could do.

She wondered if she should have trained as a nurse instead of a spy. Not that it would have made much difference, in the present situation.

She realized that the man's hand was clutching hers tightly. She turned, stared as his breathing faltered and stopped, and his eyes glazed over.

'No,' she whimpered, tears streaming down her face. 'No, no, no, no, no no!'

'I think you need a break.'

Jo felt Catriona's arm go around her shoulders. Every muscle shaking, she allowed herself to be hugged.

'Come on, we can go to Vincent's tent.'

They picked their way through the ruins with care: there were still unburied bodies around, and dark pits of shadow that might have hidden anything. As they approached Vincent's tent, they heard the sound of raised voices. Jo couldn't make out what was being said - she was fairly sure it was in Arabic - but the voices were angry.

She looked at Catriona. 'Perhaps we'd better not go in.'

The reporter nodded. 'He's having a discussion with the local Giltean commanders, I think. They don't like him very much.'

The voices were raised even further. Catriona took a step forward, then seemed to think better of it.

'Isn't Vincent a Giltean, then?' asked Jo, lowering her voice to a whisper.

'No. He's just a sort of - well, general-purpose international freedom fighter, really. He was Egyptian to start with, but he calls himself a Pan-Arabist. These people are supposed to be Pan-Arabists too - the Giltean Arab Front - but they're just Gilteans really. The GAF put up with Vincent because his name gets them money and weapons from the Libyans; they'd ditch him if they won, and probably the Libyans too. There's another group, the FLNG, who won't have anything to do with him at all, and just want autonomy for Giltea.'

Jo blinked. 'It all sounds a bit complicated.'

'Arab politics are complicated, Jo. There are hardly two people who want the same thing.' She paused, gestured at the tent where there was a renewed outbreak of shouting. 'They're probably blaming him for the raid.'

'And is it his fault?'

Catriona stared at the ground.

'I don't know,' she said at last. 'They might have been after him, they might have been after me; they might have been after you, for that matter. Or they might just have been angry and b.l.o.o.d.y-minded, or doing a bit of target practice. Who knows?' Her voice was shaking slightly.

Jo put a hand on her arm. 'It was their fault,' she said simply. 'The Kebirian government. They decided to do it. The reasons don't matter, do they?' Like Vincent and the Cairo bombing, she thought; but she didn't say it.

Ahead of them, a figure emerged from the tent. Jo recognized Vincent. She noted with relief that he didn't appear to be under arrest, in fact was carrying a gun.

He walked up to Catriona. 'They want to stage a reprisal raid on Kebir City! Tomorrow! In daylight!'

'They're mad,' said Catriona flatly.

'I know, but how do I stop them? They say I am not a Giltean, I do not understand. Of course I understand! I am as angry as they are - but this will not work!'

'What are they planning to do?'

Vincent glanced at Jo, seemed to see her properly for the first time.

He turned to her. 'I can't very well tell the United Nations that, eh?

Sorry, Miss Grant.'

'I won't tell anyone!' protested Jo, but Catriona shook her head, led Vincent away.

Jo stared after them, baffled. Why was Vincent willing to discuss with a reporter what he wouldn't talk about in front of a member of UNIT?

Then she saw the way they were talking to each other, quietly, in the shadows near the tent, and realized that Vincent was appealing to Catriona as a friend - and was trusting the reporter in her to keep silence.

Jo looked away, let her eyes run along the intact part of the settlement, the mud-brick houses and the wall around them stained ochre by the setting sun. Suddenly she saw a familiar shape, black against the amber glare of the sunset, moving towards the settlement.

Another behind it. And another.

She ran towards Vincent and Catriona, shouting. 'Helicopters!'

Vincent's head snapped round. He stared at the sky for a moment, then started swearing in a mixture of Arabic and French. He set off at a run for the boundary wall. 'I will kill them myself!'

Catriona started after him, shouted, 'Vincent! No! You'll get yourself killed!'

Jo hesitated, then followed them. The helicopters were already rushing towards the perimeter wall. Part of her mind told her that they would start firing at any moment, that she should take cover - Then one of the 'helicopters' turned towards her, and she saw the scorpion-like sting on the end of the tail, the legs bunched under the body, the huge eyes staring at her.

'Oh-oh,' she muttered. She looked ahead, saw Catriona standing by the sandbags that ringed the one remaining anti-aircraft emplacement, staring upwards. Vincent had disappeared. Jo supposed he was inside, behind the guns.

'They're not helicopters!' she began shouting.

Catriona looked up, opened her mouth to say something, was drowned out by an explosion of gunfire from behind her.

Jo ran up, caught hold of the reporter, shouted in her ear. 'We've got to get him out of there! They're not helicopters! They're aliens of some sort - they could do anything!'

'What?' bawled Catriona. But the expression on the reporter's face told Jo that she hadn't heard enough to understand over the thunder of the guns.

'ALIENS!' screamed Jo. 'FROM ANOTHER PLANET!' But Catriona only stared at her.

Suddenly the guns stopped. There was a moment's silence, then something bellowed, an enormous, musical sound, like a discordant tuba. Jo saw something huge and dark fall across the road in front of them, the tail writhing like a wounded cobra. There was another tuba-like groan, an immense thud, the clatter of falling earth.

Silence. Jo's ears rang, but that false sound slowly faded and was replaced by the distant wails of women and a strange metallic ticking.

Jo saw a second alien wavering across the roofs, its tail thrashing. As she watched, its body crumpled and it fell to the ground with a distant thud.

Then the guns started again. The ground trembled beneath Jo's feet.

Catriona was staring at the thing in front of them, shouting something. It sounded like 'perfume', but that didn't make any sense.

Jo followed her gaze, hoping for a clue from the alien. On the ground, it didn't look much like a helicopter, more like a gigantic insect. The bulbous body was coloured an iridescent blue-black, as were the three pairs of legs and long, scissor-bladed arms. The tail was like a scorpion's: jointed, and tipped with a huge, deadly-looking sting. The eyes were closed, covered by shutters like Venetian blinds. Two 'rotors' were still intact: glimmering, almost transparent vanes about ten metres long. Jo noticed that they were much wider at the ends than at the roots, like an insect's wings. The creature leaked a honey-coloured fluid from numerous holes in its carapace and from a long gash along its side.

Suddenly, the sound of the guns stopped.

'Well, Miss Grant,' said Catriona. 'You're our resident expert on Things From Outer s.p.a.ce. What is it?'