Winner of the 2001 MediaWest*Con Fan Q Award for Best Doctor Who Story.
Disclaimer: Doctor Who is copyright property of the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC).
He screamed, his lips creasing into a full, rictus snarl as he shrank back into the chair, throwing his arms up high to cover his eyes, to blot out the burning light engulfing him from all around.
The white-coated man watched impassively, observing with the detached, passionless calm that one would expect from a fully qualified doctor. His gnarled fingers were wound tightly around a plastic clipboard, on which there was a thick sheaf of paper; scribbled notes scrawled in a spidery handwriting covered ever inch of it. As the subject writhed and thrashed wildly the man pushed his glasses back onto his nose and spun on his heel, grunting with disdain before turning to leave the room.
Almost as an afterthought, he reached for the light switch and flicked it, extinguishing the tiny lamp set high in the corner of the cell and shrouding the room in thick, black darkness.
As the door clicked shut behind him, the man stepped out into the long, gray corridor, and turned to face his similarly cold-looking aide. Pursing his lips, he offered out the clipboard; the aide's beady eyes ran over the notes and he let out a long sigh. Still looking glum, the man nodded. "The subject showed resistance to only the most minute of measures."
"Then we still aren't getting anywhere?"
"No." The man thought to himself for a moment, running a wrinkled finger around his thin, pale lips. "This subject is useless now: we have learnt all we can from him--except for one vital thing, of course. Increase the lumen at regular intervals until you observe total loss of consciousness. Record the findings, then meet me in my office. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," replied the aide, stooping low to look back at his instruments. He took one last glance through the one-way screen that granted him a view of the plainly furnished interior, then reached out for the long lever and pulled it.
Inside, the screams began again, only this time they were much, much louder.
This was somewhere deep in the middle of a forest, where the final remnants of the long lost, battered paths were blanketed by layers and layers of thick, trailing foliage. Tall trees loomed above the soft turf; slants of light streamed down through dotted chinks in the high green canopy.
A pair of green eyes, open wide in innocence, watched as a butterfly glided smoothly from the lower branches and hovered above the clusters of bright flowers that lined the paths, a blissful smile creeping over the handsome face of their owner. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"
Beside the innocuous-looking man stood a tall, brown-haired woman, whose dark skin gleamed in the bright sunlight. She smiled at him indulgently, in the manner that a mother might at a particularly naive child. Her own green eyes flashed down to the insects scrabbling along the patches of grass below her; trying to avoid them, she stepped over to her friend.
A nod. "Yes . . ." Then, a patient sigh. "You never got around to explaining just why we're here."
The man frowned as he grasped the woman's outstretched arm and hauled himself to his feet. "I didn't?"
She shook her head, dusting down her dark-blue jeans.
"Tamara! I'm so sorry!"
She held up a hand. "Really, Doctor, it's okay."
"Oh well, there's no time like the present, I suppose!" Grinning at her inanely as he stood there in his grey trousers, white shirt and midnight-blue waistcoat, he did look very much like a little boy, dressed as though about to narrate the local nativity. She handed him back his red trenchcoat, which he hung over his shoulder.
"This," he continued, swinging his arms out majestically wide, his sweeping gesture managing to take in the clusters of tulips and primroses, the tall majestic pines and the deep blue, cloudless sky all at once, "is Minaki."
"Naturally."
"Quite." He delved deep into his capacious breast pocket and snatched a pair of jet-black sunglasses, which he proceeded to swing by the handle around his little finger. "We're in Canada, Tamara, just a few miles from-"
"The Ontario/Manitoba border, yes."
He met Tamara's level grin with an almost hurt expression. "Of course."
The incessant chirping of the wild insects buzzed at her from the dense clusters of towering oaks and birches as she followed him with long, quick strides, tapping him on the arm when at last she caught up with him. "I'm sorry, Doctor."
He sighed, spun on his feel to face her, then continued. "I just thought you might appreciate a chance to look around here, that's all!" He beamed at her happily. "We shouldn't find too many monsters here.'
As the Doctor marched off into the forest, Tamara found her eyebrows rising surreptitiously.
As the two figures marched along, many clicks and whirrs emanated from the thick undergrowth: ticks and grasshoppers chittering as they boosted themselves around the entwined weeds and the flowers.
There also came a stiff, mechanical creak. Any observer would have called such a sound--deep in the middle of a Canadian forest, anyway--strange to say the least.
The pole of the camera swiveled around as the figures passed. The electronics, which had not been used for some years, crackled as the lens on the front whirled into life. Short, sharp snaps sounded as many, many pictures were taken in quick succession. Data was relayed down the long, winding cable, the green and brown casing of which merged in perfectly with the twisting undergrowth.
On the other end of the line, spindly fingers stabbed down hard onto the keys of a small computer, their owner's thin lips creasing as the decoded images flashed up onscreen.
Then, for now, the lights on the camera dimmed and the device lay sill and inert.
A grin split the Doctor's face as Tamara and he stumbled onto the large, spherical clearing. "The Minaki Lodge," he said proudly, stepping aside to allow Tamara to take the lead.
She smiled charmingly back at him. "So this is why you brought me here?"
"Indeed! A very pleasant little place, this; perfect for a little holiday . . ."
Nodding at the sound of his voice, Tamara, standing tall with her hands in her pockets, allowed her gaze to drift around the scene: tall, wooden huts, into which stretched long low buildings of grey concrete and tall towers bordered by metal railways; the terrain was soft and flat, covered in short, cropped grass. The huts, complete with sloping, slated roofs and tiny glass windows, were identical to those in most holiday lodges, but the stone extensions were slightly out of place. Her eyes narrowed: the chain link fence, topped by sharp, barbed wire looked particularly conspicuous.
". . . Fishing, hunting, tennis--I suspect--bowls, swimming, cycling, shooting . . ."
And was that a door in the side of the concrete? It was, she realized, as it slid smartly open.
" . . . golf, too, if we're lucky! I've never felt so relaxed in ages!"
Scores of uniformed soldiers flooded out from the building, each one gripping a long, black rifle, barrels leveled menacingly towards the two of them.
Seconds later, they were surrounded.
"And that was Bad Moon Rising by-"
The irate receptionist flicked a switch and let the radio-announcer trail off as two strangers were prodded into the waiting room by a young soldier. She peered at the intruders over her round glasses: a haughty looking coloured girl, a black jacket pulled defensively around her body, and a strange man wearing the oddest of waistcoats, midnight-blue with zebra-stripes of silver stars.
Pushing them into the small chamber with the end of his gun, the soldier turned to face them, his eyes narrowing and his lips creasing into what Tamara thought was meant to be a scowl.
"Stay here," he said, as forcefully as he could in his squeaky voice, before slamming shut the door, spinning on his brightly polished boot and marching stiffly away.
"Hmm . . ." muttered the Doctor, looking around the room in disdain. It was small and uncluttered, furnished by a single desk in one of the corners and a long table drawn across one wall. There were two seats, one padded with a cushion, the other bare. A plastic window was set next to the door, affording them a glimpse of the reception area; the languid receptionist looked at them through the screen, tutted and picked up her mug of coffee. Grimacing when she found it empty, she flashed them one last piercing glance, struggled out of her seat, then strode off down one of the many white corridors.
"A resort? Looks more like some sort of hospital."
He turned to Tamara apologetically. "Yes . . . Never mind, though: I've got out of far, far worse places!" Beaming, he began to fiddle inside his pockets.
"So have I . . ." muttered Tamara, turning to the door and stooping down by the lock. Not exactly one of the latest models, she reflected. Frowning, she reached into her breast-pocket, pulled out a long, thin stiletto-like blade, pushed it into the square hole by the door handle, drew it back sharply, then tucked the device back away.
"Ah ha! My sonic-" The Doctor's mouth dropped open as he saw Tamara gently nudge the door. It swung invitingly on its hinges.
Fifteen minutes later, as they were creeping stealthily down one of the corridors that neighboured the reception, bodies drawn tightly against the wall, he consented to speak to her again.
"Obviously," he said quickly, sounding ashamed, "I made a slight error of judgment . . ."
"Really?"
"Yes. I don't think this is the Minaki holiday lodge, myself."
"No?"
"No. I've been to a fair few in my lifetimes and I'm not normally assailed by gun-totting soldiers. Well," he admitted guiltily, "there was Shangri-La . . ."
"What do you suppose this place is, then?" The corridor split into two at a narrow T-junction; the paths seemed to be darkening, now--the strip-lights strung along the ceiling were growing dimmer and less artificial. And after the moderately plush reception-area, the rooms they passed were becoming barer and barer. Oddly, the floors under their feet were fully carpeted, and brush and watercolor paintings lay hanging stringed to the walls. It gave Tamara the impression that someone was trying to create a softer, relaxed atmosphere . . .
"As I said, it looks to be a hospital of some sort." He spun to the right and began to march in long strides. "I haven't seen any patients yet, though. And is it me, or is it getting darker?" His lips twitched; the guards' confiscation of his sunglasses had left him feeling rather sour. "We need to find some sort of . . . of office, perhaps."
"Doctor"
He spun around, alert. Tamara was standing some metres behind him, gazing into a small square room, furnished similarly to the one in which they had been locked save for the tall metal filing cabinets.
"Something like this you mean?"
He tried to fume at her, but her smile was just too charming.
Seconds later, she had the door unlocked and the pair of them were inside the room, pulling open the metal drawers and taking out the thick sheaves of paper, laying them haphazardly over the metal table.
"Hey, look at this." Her forehead creasing, Tamara reached over to the alcove behind the cabinet. Inside sat rows of glass jars, stopped by rubber bungs, home to a wide variety of gruesome-looking objects. One in particular caught her eye: inside sat a large, grey, rounded mushroom.
"Now that is interesting . . ." he muttered, snatching the jar from her hands. "It looks poisonous . . ." He held the jar up to the light, a circle of gently glowing yellow set high into the ceiling, squinting at it through narrowed eyes. He stared hard at the base, on which was stamped a minute sticker speckled with black writing. "Ah . . . an item number?"
"Could be."
"L-392"
"Got it." Bent almost double, she stooped over the table and rifled through the papers. There did seem to be some sort of method to the filing; the numbers printed along the margins referred directly to the archived objects behind the cabinet. "Right," she said triumphantly, showing the right page to the Doctor, "L-392."
His eyes ran quickly over the paper. At the top, in a bold, black typeface, was the word "Luna"; at the sight of this, his eyes widened in concern. Below this, to the left, sat an enlarged illustration of the mushroom; beside it was a detailed written piece, stapled to a shorter cataloguing-description by the same author.
Faint tapping throbbed from the corridor.
He shook his head slowly. "I might just know what's happening here."
His voice was cut off sharply by a loud cry from the doorway. They both spun around. Standing there, hands on hips and flanked by two armed guards, stood a small, balding, inofficious looking man, sporting a white labcoat.
"In this establishment, we prosecute burglars."
"Look," said the Doctor sharply, waving his arms at the man as he was pushed back down the corridor, "we only came here for a holiday!"
Tamara rolled her eyes as she heard someone behind her snigger. Her curt tut somehow managed to shut him up. She spun quickly on her heel, ignoring the long rifle that was leveled across her path, fixing the first soldier--a lanky young man dressed in a plain gray uniform, simple but tarnished by not a single crease--with what she hoped was a fiery, penetrating glare. "Where are you taking us?"
He prodded her sharply with the butt of his gun; she winced and turned away, resuming her march, the Doctor looking to her with what liked reproach. "We don't like break-ins," said the guard with a slight smile. "You'll have to be questioned by Security. How you got into this place is anyone's guess." He shrugged as though indifferent, and his calm face broke with the first ripple of a smile. "Now, though, you're off to see Doctor Carson."
The Doctor stopped dead. "Oh please, no!"
The man looked as though he may have been handsome once; but now age and the pressures of work had scratched deep lines into his round face, his forehead a gorge of worry and indignation. Patches of gray hair clustered around his balding skull, pale white skin gleaming under the harsh lamplight. Scratching at his bushy white beard, he leant forward to peer through the small microscope, placed delicately over a specimen slide on the rickety table in front of him, his brown eyes burning with a fierce intelligence.
"Uh, Carson?"
He moaned and wheeled around sharply, his instruments dropping to the hard metal floor. "What is it?" He gripped the lapels of his trailing white labcoat and stared at his elderly assistant over the cluttered laboratory. She shrunk back, looking around to the tall cabinets filled with vials and test-tubes, the large unit housed in one corner that looked just big enough to hold the average human--anywhere but him and his mad gaze.
"I'm sorry." He gave a gentle sigh and reached up to straighten his tie, his lips pursing. "It's just that I'm very busy right now . . ."His face took on a fevered sheen. "They're still dying . . ." Suddenly he brightened, a smile splitting his brazen features. "What was it you wanted?"
"There's been another break-in . . ."
He growled irascibly. "Another? I will have to have words with Sec-"
"The man seems to know you . . . He seems to call 'himself the Doctor.'"
Carson's arms dropped to hang limp by his side. "Well, well, well..."
"You've heard of the CIA, I presume."
Tamara sighed and looked away. The soldiers were marching them down another long corner, which--she presumed--led deeper into the facility. It was getting gradually warmer--she felt layers of sweat begin to creep onto her skin--and the lights were growing dimmer still, subtly, leaving long shadows that trailed across the darkened walls. "Yes, Doctor. I have."
"Oh good!" he replied, flashing her that bright, cheery smile that made her want to both hug and strangle him. "Mec-cull-tra?"
Her soft voice turned vague and distant. "MKULTRA? Yeah . . . some time ago, wasn't it? I can tell you're dying to enlighten me."
"Oh well," he chipped in, giving a modest shrug, "I wouldn't say that exactly." His eyes narrowed in an instant; his tone grew dark. "It happened in the fifties, I believe. The CIA conducted some quite terrible experiments in behavior modification, supposedly to combat chemical and shock warfare." He shook his head sadly, his eyes shining with anger and regret. "The way they treated their patients was unforgivable, the men running it totally immoral, hiding under lies of long-term benefits. I stopped them in the end, uncovered their little project for the world to see."
She nudged him gently with her elbow; he spun around and stared through wide, innocent eyes. "And this Carson?"
"Oh, a brilliant researcher; one of the best physicians I've ever had the pleasure of meeting. He was the man in charge of the experiments."
An elderly couple sat drinking tea in a room home to tongues of darkness, flickering drunkenly around the panelled walls and ceiling as they sprouted from the long-boarded window and the door, locked shut.
The man sighed contentedly, placed his cup down onto the round china saucer and snuggled back into his armchair, reaching for his pipe and twirling it in one hand as he lit it. His wife, though, was looking at her watch, squinting through two beady eyes shrunk unnaturally into thinning sockets at the dimly lit display. He faced her, his bony parchment forehead wrinkling into a gnarled frown. "What is it, dear?"
Fear fluttered across her papery face. "It's almost time."
He smiled, showing rows of false teeth, his grin that of a hound hungering over its prey. "Good. Our doctor is such a nice man."
"I--I don't think I can go through it again . . ."
"Nonsense, my dear. Think of all the good it's doing you! Soon we'll be happy . . ." He wrung his hands together and let them sit across his lap. "Yes, soon . . ." His mind flashed quickly back to when it had first happened, so long ago now. A lost, youthful part of him smiled wryly; a letter from his father had been out on the table. He hadn't been able to read any more of it, of course, but it must have held something important: the old man had died from the festering tumors just days later. Des wanted nothing more than to be able to take that letter out now and read the final paragraphs; so much had been left unsaid, so many good-byes had been lost to the daily night. His doctor would have done it for him, in the light; but this was too personal to let outsiders pry. It was the only link he had.
". . . And I've heard stories."
"Sorry, dear? I . . . slipped away."
"That Harry Ashford!"
"Yes . . ." His frown burrowed deeper. His arm was itching badly; it became harder and harder to hang onto a single thought as each day passed.
"Where is he now, then? Answer me that." The woman crossed her arms defiantly. "I haven't seen hide nor hair of him for the past week! He's gone, I tell you. People are leaving."
"I . . ." There had been a Harry, hadn't there? "Perhaps he's been cured . . ."
"Without telling us?"
"Perhaps . . ."
"The Trents, then?"
He spat angrily onto the wooden table, droplets slipping to stain the woolen carpet stretched across the oak floor. "There never were no Trents..."
"Oh, Des! You were speaking to them little more than two weeks ago!"
"No I wasn't . . ."
"They've gone I tell you!"
"No--you're just getting faces confused again. I suppose a few may have left; perhaps this condition isn't as bad as it seems." He scratched at his arm, gritting his teeth as pain shot along its length.
She shook her head sadly. "Sometimes, if I strain my ears, I can hear screams coming from down the corridor." Ghosts? No--no ghost would ever sound so terrified.
"Oh shut up will you!" His head dropped sulkily to the floor. "Don't go if you don't want to . . . The treatment is for the best!" His eyes flicked shut and he muttered curses under his breath. "Just hang on in there, dear; everything's going to be just fine." He looked to her with a slight grin on his face, reaching out to take her trembling hand in his own. "Isn't that what Mr. Carson keeps telling us?"
The shapes under the microscope, majestic swirls that had once seemed clear and distinct, swan worryingly; light rippled over them, and they shrank back from its gentle touch, thinning to single slivers.
Carson's reddening eyes were narrowed to thin slits, but still he could not focus. His squint observed the swirls fading into black puffs then dying altogether, retching out one sudden cloud of smoke before evaporating. He swore loudly, looking down ashamed as he heard his assistant jump with a start behind him. "I don't mean to be quite so tetchy, you know."
She gave a sad smile. "I know. You should stop this."
"It's not that easy . . ." He straightened and reached up for his tight-fitting glasses, removing them just long enough to rub at his bleary eyes. "They're dying, still."
"And?"
He turned away, offering only a sharp tut, then added to himself, in a quiet, bitter hiss: "And I'm still no closer to understanding this Luna."
A loud knock on the tall plexi-glass doors that hung across the far wall broke him from his thoughts. He reached up to straighten his tie and brush back his collar as the doors slid open with an electric hiss, admitting the posse of guards into the laboratory. They stepped down the clinical white steps, onto the floor of the spacious laboratory where Carson was working, boots tapping against the hard slabs, filing out to reveal the man that he least wanted to see.
"Doctor . . ."
A taller, lithe woman pushed in front of the man and greeted Carson with a cold stare. "And this would be one of those friends that you were telling me about, last time we me."
Tamara stepped forward lightly. The physician was taken aback by the formality of her smile, charming and serene both at once. He muttered under his breath; she seemed immediately to be the more dangerous of the two intruders. "Now," he said, his eyes flashing with fire, "what do you think I should do with you two?"
The Doctor shrugged modestly, stepping briskly away from the soldiers and allowing his gaze to wander over the many tables and the menagerie of equipment. He noted another of those mushrooms, sitting in a stoppered conical flask in a darkened corner, wrapped in shadow. "You could start by explaining your plan, or by telling me how you've been such a genius and come up with another hair-brained scheme. Isn't that how this usually works? You might also want to stir in the numbers of men that are dying to make it all possible."
Carson's icy grin cut into the Doctor's hearts. The man chuckled to himself as he slunk back into the shadows around the operating table. "You don't think very highly of me, do you?"
"No."
"Perhaps," The physician continued, muttering, "your opinions are justified." He now seemed, of all things, rather chagrinned. "But I urge you to take a quick look around." His arm swept out across the room. "This is a hospital."
The Doctor tutted quickly. "It may well be--but I know you, and you're hardly one to let slip an opportunity for profit."
The man shrugged. "Your opinion hardly matters." His heart sank inside. Profit? No, it's gone beyond profit . . . His aide flashed him a glance of concern; he straightened himself before the Doctor could notice his discomposure. "Doctor . . ." Suddenly, the man seemed almost hurt. "Allow me to offer you a tour of the facilities here." He allowed a smug smile to creep onto his weathered face. "I think that that may convince you of my good intentions."
"I'm sure . . ." The Doctor now seemed more relaxed, though his voice still carried that hint of suspicion. Tamara's features carried no hint to her feelings whatsoever, glazed over with a passionless calm--but perhaps a faint trace of hostility lay under those fierce eyes . . .
Carson quickly composed himself. "Excellent." He wrung his hands together and nodded to one of his white-coated assistants. "Mr Adams? If you could please give these two the tour?"
The surly man replied with an artificial smile as he gestured for the couple to move out ahead of him. Grinning pleasantly, the Doctor took the lead. He flashed Tamara a mischievous glance, revealing his sunglasses. "A little sleight-of-hand. Besides, what use would they be to our guard friend?"
Once they had gone, Carson let out a long sigh, running a hand through his thinning gray hair. His assistant strode over, all worry. "Are you sure that you're okay, Mr Carson?"
Nothing seems to have changed since the day we first met . . . Odd. I suppose nothing ever changes for him--nothing.
"Yes," he cut in sharply. "I'm fine!" His hands, their dexterity belying the shrouds of heavy wrinkles, moved across the bench to pick up more of the powdery black material. It fell into place under the microscope; on top of it, the physician poured a different substance, clear and thin. As the light from his lamp played over the concoction in ghostly waves, the powder hissed and shriveled into a single dry lump, before fading to mist and dissolving altogether.
Carson sniffed, shaking his head rapidly, pinching his nose. Then he turned away in disgust.
The Doctor will help me . . . once he knows more of my work . . . He must . . .
Not even he himself noticed the first glint of a tear as it shone in his pale eyes.
The pain was all that she could remember. Not short stabs, either, as she had associated with treatment before all this, but one single red burst that drove out everything else, flung all pleasure and comfort from her mind. Total pain, coming in from all angles, pushing out all the good she had felt, hammering in misery and fear. The skin around her wrists burnt, as though on fire, and had been doing so for days--there was enough suffering in her new life already. It hardly needed another visit to Carson.
Des was too naïve--bless him!--to think that there would be anymore to this. He bore the pain, shouldered it with brave smiles, not thinking that there might be things deeper than he could see. She knew it though: years and years of living in darkness had bred suspicion in her veins.
Her friends disappearing, one by one, fading to whatever lay outside, had not helped. The assurances of her doctor became worth less and less each time. Sometimes the cries at night rang on until morning light pierced the dense blinds to lick at the walls of their room.
It will be all right . . . Do you want out?
She nodded. Something inside her smirked. Her arm tingled.
You can do anything. Just focus on what you want. We can do anything.
Margaret pulled free from her escort of guards and screamed.
"What's that?" Suddenly the Doctor was alert, his eyes spinning quickly over every inch of the long, wide corridor. Nothing seemed out of order.
The guide's features split with fear. Tamara pushed past him, stepping lightly into the centre, her eyes narrowed. The Doctor strode in front, holding out a hand behind him to shush his companion as he sped away, his footsteps not making even the slightest of sounds against the patterned carpet. Only dim light, flickering down from the ceiling, marked the way. She was still amazed by how quick the transformation was; the end of the hallway was bathed in pitch-blackness.
The wooden floorboards around the next corner were creaking stiffly. Faster and faster came the sounds, until a strong, frenzied puffing mingled in with it. The heavy footsteps pounded down harder and harder. Tamara found her breath catching in her throat.
Carson wiped his eyes, his vision misted by a shower of tears as he sobbed and shrank back against the wall. His choked sniffing was the only noise, now that his aide had gone.
The water ran freely down his cheeks, staining his spotless suit. He drew himself up hard, clutching his knees. Metres away, splinters of glass from his broken slides, hurled across the room in rage, glinted at him.
One hand reached up to grasp his forehead. He felt so alone--like a little boy again. He looked down at the viscous liquid staining his trousers and wondered what his mother would say when he finally got back home.
Everything happened in an instant.
A frail old woman growled as she flung herself around the corner, throwing the guide aside with a low snarl creasing her lips. A heavy crack sounded as he slid down the wall. Tamara stepped back slightly as the woman turned to face her, her eyes narrow, black pools.
"Hmmm . . . It looks like one of the patient."
She roared, charging towards the Doctor. At the last moment, he ducked back, crouching low. Tamara froze, watching as the woman turned, the wrinkled features clouded by fear--or shock. Just when she thought the woman would renew her attack on her companion, she turned, and--not pausing for a second--threw her body at the wall
Tamara braced herself for the sudden snap of the woman's bones. Seconds fled as everything hissed out of focus. The air around them crackled, rippling, distorting out of perspective. Suddenly, the woodwork and the paintings were gone, and beyond the space, in amidst a swelling haze, she could make the faint shapes of trees and hanging foliage, cackling plants and undergrowth.
"Oh my . . ." the Doctor was on his feet again before Tamara could say a word, dusting down his trousers, looking out through the mist where the wall once stood, concentrating on the woman as she melted into the horizon.
Though it struck her what he was about to do, she barely had the time to hold out an arm; he pushed it aside as he leaped through the currents of undulation, into the forest, sprinting with his arms wheeling out wildly.
"Give my regards to Doctor Carson!"
Then there was a pop. A sudden gust of wind brushed her long, tousled hair as it danced down the corridor, then vanished. In front of her was a once-again perfect wall.