R E : C O L L E C T I O N S

THE BEST OF

SHORT TRIPS

BIG

FINISH

Published by Big Finish Productions Ltd

PO Box 1127. Maidenhead. SL6 3LW

Range Editor: Xanna Eve Chown

Managing Editor, Jason Haigh-Ellery

Doctor Who original series broadcast on BBC Television. Format copyright BBC 1963.

Doctor Who. TARDIS. Dalek and the Doctor Who, Dalek and TARDIS logos are trademarks of the

British Broadcasting Corporation and are used under licence. Daleks € BBC/Terry Nation 1963.

ISBN: 978-1-84435-419-1

Cover art by Alex Mallinson

Original sleeve design by Clayton Hickman

First published May 2009

'I Was A Monster!!!' £ Joseph Lidster

Apocrypha Bipedium £ Ian Potter

Face-Painter £ Tara Samms

The Glass Princess £ Justin Richards

Ruins of Heaven € Marc Platt

The Thief of Sherwood £ Jonathan Morris

The Age of Ambition £ Andy Campbell

The Dead Man's Story € Andy Frankham-Allen

Flashpoint s Matt Grady

Thinking Warrior £ Huw Wilkins

All Our Christmasses £ Steve Lyons

Suitors. Inc Paul Magrs

How You Get There £ Simon Guerrier

Venus € Stuart Manning

The Lampblack Wan € Matthew Sweet

Life After Queth £ Matt Kimpton

Checkpoint € StelStd Pavlou

The Avant Guardian £ Eddie Robson

Museum Peace $ James Swallow

Midnight in the Cafe of the Black Madonna € Sean Williams

The Glarn Strategy € Brian Dooley

Dear Great Uncle Peter £ Neil Cony

Losing the Audience £ Mat Coward

The Spindle of Necessity £ Allyn Gibson

Lonely £ Richard Wright

Lares Domestic § Anna Bratton

Lost and Founded £ Andrew Pidoux

The Fall of the Druids £ David N Smith

The Gravis was created by Christopher H. Bid mead and is used with kind permission.

With thanks to all the editors

Special thanks to Neil Cony. Ian Farrington and Gary Russell

Typeset in Quadraat

The moral rights of the authors have been asserted. All characters in this publication are fictitious

and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No

part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any forms by any means, electronic or

mechanical .including photocopying, recording or any information retrieval system, without prior

permission, in writing, from the publisher. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by

way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the

publishers prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and

without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Printed in Great Britain by MPG Books Group, Bodmin and King's Lynn

www.mpg-books.co.uk

Recollections

The best of Short Trips ... chosen by the editors.

Short Trips is a series of 28 short-story anthologies featuring contributions

from many of Doctor Who's most popular authors from the worlds of

television, print, comics and audio, as well as new talent and fresh voices.

Recollections brings together one story from each collection, each

chosen by - and with an introduction from - its editor.

CONTENTS

'I Was A Monster!!!' Joseph Lidster

3

Apocrypha Bipedium Ian Potter

19

Face-Painter Tara Samms

39

The Glass Princess Justin Richards

49

Ruins of Heaven Marc Piatt

71

The Thief of Sherwood Jonathan Morris

89

The Age of Ambition Andy Campbell

101

The Dead Man's Story Andy Frankham-Allen

123

Flashpoint Matt Grady

137

Thinking Warrior Huw Wilkins

155

All Our Christmasses Steve Lyons

183

Suitors, Inc Paul Magrs

195

How You Get There Simon Guerrier

209

223

Venus Stuart Manning

The Lampblack Wars Matthew Sweet

239

Life After Queth Matt Kimpton

251

Checkpoint Stel Pavlou

281

The Avant Guardian Eddie Robson

297

Museum Peace James Swallow

317

Midnight in the Cafe of the Black Madonna Sean Williams

331

The Glarn Strategy Brian Dooley

347

Dear Great Uncle Peter Neil Corry

369

Losing the Audience Mat Coward

381

The Spindle of Necessity Allyn Gibson

403

Lonely Richard Wright

425

Lares Domestici Anna Bratton

439

Lost and Founded Andrew Pidoux

447

Short Trips: Zodiac

Zodiac: the first Short Trips collection, and my first solo commissioning project.

How exciting was that? We'd decided that themes were good, and that a nice,

neat, ordered one - twelve stories, each with its own individual theme on top

- was a good way to go. (As it turned out, it wasn't, as I shall explain - but

that's the learning curve for you.) I bombarded everyone I could think of in

the world and invited them to pitch, and a lot of them did, and most of them

for the same slots. And, with the restrictive nature of the subject matter, one

couldn't just swap them around. Oops.

When a short story is done right, it is fabulous. A short story, you see,

shouldn't just be a bit of writing that's not very long. You can do things in

short stories that can't be done in any other medium. Prose can be used to

achieve effects that could never be realised on screen or audio. Yes, but there

are novels, you may point out. True, of course. And I'm not saying you couldn't

sustain a particular conceit for an entire novel, but its appeal may pale, in the

same way that it's hard to eat seventeen slices of even the nicest chocolate

cake. A short story, however, can live fast and finish young. And that brings

us neatly to my selection: ' I Was A Monster!!!' by (the then 'unknown') Joseph

Lidster, an almost perfect use of the form.

Jacqueline Rayner

'I W a s A Monster!!!'

Joseph Lidster

And hence one master-passion in the breast,

Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest.

Alexander Pope, An Essay on Man (1733)

Day One

Saturday morning. Pain and panic. So no change there.

Thoughts and memories all jumbled but starting to file themselves

into...

Left the office and went to Maguires. Then on pub crawl around

Dublin with workmates. Got very drunk and didn't know where I was.

Went to one pub. Like Pizza Hut with a bar. Stood there. Took the

mick out of the place with Billy. Thought that Gloria a 40-something

colleague looked great. Oh God, did I say anything to her? Got chips.

Went to a club. Danced. Drank. Danced. Drank. Danced. Blank.

Just woke up on the sofa fully dressed and still with my bag on my

back. So confused. Hung-over. Grey. Did I say or do anything stupid

or offensive last night? Remember me and Billy were loud but can't

remember if I did anything bad myself. Could have offended half the

people I work with. Was I just wrecked or did I make a real tit of

myself? Darren lost his ticket and couldn't get his coat. Helped calm

him down so can't have been that bad. But did get so lost and nearly

die which is bad. But didn't fall asleep in a shop doorway which is

good. Anyway, I digress. So woke up. Feeling bad. Had tea and toast.

Had more tea and toast. Got quilt cos so cold. Have spent the last

couple of hours watching Student Bodies, USA High, Sabrina and other

teen-American crap. Now know the true meaning of friendship. 'I

remember when you guys were all there for me when I was doing too

much and was trying to organise my life with pills.' Flashback. So

confused. Feel like the world has subtly changed. Things look the same

but everything feels just that little bit out of phase. So I'm watching

city guys from usa high student bodies being saved by the bell while

having california dreams about sabrina the teenage witch, you know,

learning about the true meaning of friendship and how you should

follow your dreams - no wonder there are so many shootings in

America - and Cody is in the comedy guidance counsellor's office.

They're babbling on and I just don't give a toss. Cody comes through

the door when suddenly - I'm there behind him I'm on the TV I'm just

a character. God, I'm fu...

And then I remember. In. Glorious Technicolor. Detail:

The music is hypnotic and euphoric with the lights swallowing all natural

tones as everyone is bathed in a mysterious green and I'm dancing, I'm

dancing because for that moment it is all I know. The vodka coursing

through my body, its energy flowing through me like blood and I'm

looking for my for my workmates, for my bestest friends in the whole

world, but they're not here. Panic! Stumbling through the endless stream

of office workers seeking respite from typing and filing and spreadsheets

and buses and bosses and colleagues - all looking good, all locked in

their own paradises. A writhing mass of angels in suits.

Outside. The cold night air hitting me and my mind beginning to clear.

Thoughts of angels and music and love and magic leaving my mind as

the mundane realities of life beginning to slowly return to me. Still off my

face but here outside it feels wrong not right. Starting to think about that

thing I've got to do. That going home thing. Where am I though?

Walking and becoming fascinated by the cool blue moonlight. Can still

hear the music inside the club but now the tune of my feet crunching into

the gravel beginning to take over. Looking up at the moonlit sky, clear

and full of stars. Watching the tall trees sway gently in the breeze - the

wind passing through their leaves like a thousand whispering souls.

Unnerving. Must be outside of city. No walls. And now the staccato

screech of the music is gone. I had been safe in my electric, false

paradise and I'm not sure how to react in this new natural world. Decide

to stop and have a smoke. Gliding over to a small stream and sitting

down. Could have been there minutes, hours or years before

remembering why I stopped.

Reaching into my pocket, taking the last cigarette from the packet and

lighting it. The flame bursting into life, its warmth flashing across my

face. Looking into the stream, my eyes staring into my reflection's.

Inhaling, I see a whole other world reflected in the flowing water. This is

the most peaceful, the most real moment in my life. Me, my reflection, the

whispering trees, the bright silver moon and the glowing end of my

cigarette. This is how I feel -

And I jump (fall?) off the sofa as I remember what happens next.

* * *

'Got a spare cig?'

My solitude being interrupted by a voice. Despite my state of mind, or,

perhaps, because of it, I'm immediately noticing what's wrong. Can feel

the presence of another person standing behind me. Wisps of red fabric

darting in front of my eyes. There is someone standing behind me. Yet I

know from the reflection in the water that there is no one standing behind

me. Whoever this girl is, she isn't real.

And my head pounds as, collapsing on to the floor, I switch off the telly.

Switch off the fake kids. Switch off the stars.

'Its my last one but you 're welcome to share it.'

Am speaking which is good. She is sitting down beside me. Pale white

skin, red hair, the same colour as her dress. A devil, tempting me.

Beyond beautiful, she is breath-taking.

'What are you?' I'm asking as I pass her my half-smoked cigarette.

Taking the cigarette, placing it between her lips and smiling as she

inhales. 'Why are you here?' she is asking.

A thousand answers rushing through my mind. Thoughts of offices and

clubs and music and workmates.

'I'm lost!'

'We 're all lost.' She is smiling as she leans towards me. Whispering

into my ear. 'It's a defining characteristic of our generation.'

And I fall against the telly, my hand tingling against the static of the

screen as I remember -

I'm not struggling while she is smiling. I'm not struggling as two of her

teeth are growing smoothly down. I'm not struggling as she is placing

one cool hand on the side of my neck and I'm not struggling as the teeth

are piercing the skin of my neck and puncturing into my veins. Feeling

the blood streaming out of my body and the natural paradise around me

spinning out of all control. Pulling away from me and staring into my

unfocused eyes she is telling me she can taste my ecstasy. She's going in

for the kill but, now, hearing someone approaching, she is pulling back.

She is running and I am falling. Falling backwards, a fall that is seeming

to take for ever and ever. And my head is falling into the soft wet grass.

And my head rests against the hard, solid glass.

And I'm feeling the blood flowing from my neck.

And I feel hope, any hope that nothing happened, pour out of me.

* * *

And I'm lying on the grass and the world stops spinning and I feel

myself changing. And I'm crying as I'm looking up at the stars.

And I turn to look at the screen but the stars are gone.

And I'm crawling to the flowing stream and I'm looking down. Drunk,

tired and without hope, I don't make a sound at the fact that my

reflection is gone. I am no longer part of the natural world.

And on the screen, the stars are gone. And there is just me. And I crave.

Day 12

Murder always takes the victim by surprise. They waste precious

moments of their final day applying lipstick or hair gel. They

look at themselves in the mirror, not realising that they will

never do this again. They grab their keys from their bedside

tables and leave their homes just... just not knowing that they'll

never see their bedside tables, bottles of cosmetics or their own

reflections again. Sometimes, though, the murderer is as

surprised as their victim. They don't realise, as they pick up

their keys, that they're about to step on to an entirely new path.

The Capricorn Killer (from the novel I Was A Monster! based on the

2003 film I Was A Monster! based on the posthumously-published

diaries of the Capricorn Killer)

It's been some time since my rebirth. I have disappeared from society.

I spend my days asleep and my nights in bars and clubs. Safe and

anonymous. But still I crave. I desperately try to block out my hunger

with alcohol and various drugs but, like my shadow, it's always there.

And then...

The crushing reality of what I have become hits me as I leave the

club. I run down a side-street, hardly noticing the lashing rain. I need

peace away from the endless beat of the music but I cannot escape. In

the distance, I hear a group of drunken tourists leaving an 'Oirish' bar

and their laughter fuels my despair. I turn down a black, silent street

and the darkness engulfs me. I lean against the soaking brick wall and

the tears begin. The hunger inside of me is devastating and unending. I

know what I must do. I've no choice. My body shakes with despair and

fear. Can I? Is it possible for me...? But it's what I am. What I am

become. My body shakes more violently now as the bloodlust

consumes my entire body and I look to the stars and scream. An

unending scream of rage and anger and hunger and... and someone is

walking past me and -

he's wearing a Roy Keane football shirt and tracksuit bottoms. He's

slightly taller than me and skinny. He's feverishly smoking a cigarette

as he strides through the rain. He's looking at me through tiny black

eyes. He's looking at me as I scream to the stars. He's looking at me -

'Freak,' he mutters as he sloshes through the rising puddles.

FREAK? My limbs are shaking uncontrollably as I launch myself at

him. I jump on his back and we fall to the ground. FREAK? He's taller

than me and been getting into fights since he was three but I am

hungry. He's winded but rolls over to look at me. And I grab his ears

and I pull his face towards me and I slam it into the -

his head... the rain pours... and his head jerks... and pours... and his

head jerks back... and pours... and his head jerks back... and pours...

and his head jerks backs and explodes into a red mist and the blood

gushes out and there's a torrent of red flowing. So much red! And my

face is streaming with red rain and I panic. Rising panic - I can't see! I

hear a sound like crunching gravel and I wipe my eyes dry on the

sleeve of my jacket and look down at my...

and his cigarette is extinguished in the puddle. The crimson puddle.

The puddle that's becoming more blood than rain. FREAK? And I

bring his head up once more and smash it down once more. More

blood. I do this again and again and again and the back of his head just

disappears. His left ear comes away from his face with a terrifying

tearing sound and I'm left holding it. The fear in me is overtaken by

something else as I, laughing hysterically, hold the ripped-off ear to my

lips and whisper into it:

'Who's the FREAK now?'

Then the hunger takes over and I scramble over him and begin to

drink. I crawl through the puddles drinking the diluted blood. And as I

gorge, the rain and blood soak through my T-shirt and designer jeans

but I just don't care. The blood fuels my body and soul and I feel alive.

I have never felt so EUPHORIC as I do now - slurping the blood of

my kill from the back of what used to be its head.

And now I am full. I reach into his pocket and pull out a soggy

packet of Silk Cut. With difficulty I light one, inhale and then fall, that

unending fall to the pavement, content.

Day 13

The following morning my heart hurts but I suspect it's more the

cigarettes than guilt.

I am not me. I stare into the mirror but there's no reflection. I no longer

exist except on the TV. Watching the news.

'...has not been available for comment since escaping the Big

Brother compound. In other news, police say that the murders of

Lorcan Murphy, Sonia Fusciardi and Shane Fisher are, indeed, related.

The three victims, all aged in their early twenties, were attacked and

viciously murdered as they travelled home from the city centre at

different times during the last week. The murderer, whom the press

have dubbed the "Capricorn Killer" struck... '

The Capricorn Killer. That's who I am now.

I am not me. I am whatever you say I am and -

and his eyes stare at me dispassionately as I nail them into the wall -

next to the photos of me in pubs and a joint-rolling mat. 'Why are you

called the Capricorn Killer?' asks Kirsty from the photo in Mullingar.

'Yes, tell us!' asks the bar owner in San Antonio. 'Tell us!' ask my

unblinking audience. 'Why shertainly,' I reply, putting on my best

Sean Connery impression.

'The reason I am known as the Capricorn Killer is because of my

goatee! I know - a crappy link, isn't it? But that's all you need these

days. Any kind of connection and the public love it.'

And I explain to the wall of seeking eyes why I am now known as

the Capricorn Killer instead of... well, you don't care who I was before,

do you? Before, I was merely an office worker who did what all the

other drones did. I was merely a non-speaking extra, a member of the

public. Now, though... I am the Capricorn Killer because, although I

can't see my own reflection in mirrors or windows or handrails on

buses, for some reason I can be caught on camera. I suppose it's

necessary otherwise I couldn't have the notoriety. I couldn't have the

fame.

And the cameras show that I have a goatee.

Yep, it's as tenuous as that! Mad, isn't it? I have a goatee and that

makes them connect me with goats and the devil and Capricorn and all

that. Every killer needs an identity. According to the websites, the goat

is an 'unclean beast, obsessed by the sex drive. Apparently in tarot

cards the goat appears on the Death card. And, supposedly, it

represents a 'return to nature'. I suppose that bit could be true.

'Suppose there is something to it?' I ask Freda who stares at me from

the office party photo. I have returned to nature. And yet, I yearn. I

yearn more for the fame than I do for the blood. My hunger won't be

sated merely by superficial earthly offerings such as blood - I crave the

stars. I crave to be a star. And my new life, the life my red-haired devil

gave me, gives me that chance!

Day 24

The WARMTH is leaving the publicist's body as I hug her tightly and

I whisper into her ear:

'Did you know that when the police issue photo-fits, they give them

mad staring eyes on purpose? Look at this terrifying inhuman monster!

He could be coming for you next! So if you recognise him then you

should shop him now! My picture didn't need touching up. My eyes

really do stare like that! Look at them! LOOK AT THEM!'

But she ignores me because she's dead.

Day 27

You'd have thought the endless exposure to the results of my crimes

would have depressed me. You'd have thought. Instead, it's had the

opposite effect. Indeed, I now realise how it's all drama. The woman

crying on TV pleading for her daughter's killer - her tear-stained face

plastered over the front pages of every tabloid newspaper - could well

have been an actress. If she was real, then surely she is enjoying this

fame that I have given her! She will never be forgotten. My craving for

fame and recognition is superseding my baser cravings. Frantically I

type 'Capricorn Killer' into Google - twenty-three websites now

mention me! Twenty-three - one for every year of my life! My face

stares out from TV appeals and newspapers screaming out for the

return of hanging. I decide to visit a chatroom but cannot use the

nickname 'Capricorn Killer' as someone else has taken it. Nor can I

use 'Capricorn2002', 'ZodiacKiller' or even 'DublinPsycho2002'. I

have fans! But... but it's not enough. There are still people not talking

about me. The stars on Big Brother have now gone but have been

replaced by others. And the people I really want to notice me, the

people who really matter, my peers, the drinking, working, Generation

X, Y or Z or whatever we are... they still haven't noticed me. Have my

murders stopped them going out? Do they huddle under electric lasers

muttering my name? Do they heck as like. The rest of society has

stopped but my peers are too drunk on spreadsheets, Guinness,

Aftershock and the lap-dancers on Leeson Street to even notice me.

To reach them I need to be postmodern. I need to be ironic. For my

fame to be complete I need to be more than a killer - I need to be a

phenomenon. I need to be worthy of -

'I WAS A MONSTER!' A TV MOVIE STARRING LEONARDO Dl CAPRIO

S c e n e Eleven: A m o n t a g e of n e w s p a p e r clippings t r a i l i n g

t h e rise o f t h e C a p r i c o r n Killer s e t t o d a n c e music w h i c h

m e r g e s into...

S c e n e T w e l v e : I n t . A t r e n d y bar in t h e T e m p l e Bar a r e a of

Dublin. T h e bar i s c r o w d e d w i t h b e a u t i f u l p e o p l e . T h e

C a p r i c o r n Killer is s t a n d i n g at t h e b a r , m o r o s e l y s i p p i n g

from a g l a s s of w h i s k e y (no ice!) and w a t c h i n g a g r o u p of,

t w e n t y - s o m e t h i n g s . Lots of NYPD Blue c a m e r a w o r k and

q u i c k e d i t i n g to, a p p e a l t o t h e M T V g e n e r a t i o n

SARAH, 27, IS CHATTING TO HER FRIENDS. AS WE WATCH HER

TALK, A MEMBER OF THE PUBLIC COMES OVER TO HER TABLE

AND ASKS HER TO SIGN A BEER-MAT. SHE DOES THIS WITH A

GRACIOUS SMILE AND THEN TURNS BACK TO HER FRIENDS.

SHE'S TELLING THEM ABOUT HER NEW STORYLINE IN 'GIRLS

ABOUT TOWN'. HER FRIENDS ARE NEVER MENTIONED BY NAME

BUT GIRL#1 IS ASIAN AND GIRL#2 IS IN A WHEELCHAIR.

S A R A H : S o h e ' s g o i n g t o b e m y l o n g - l o s t b r o t h e r !

GIRL #1: No way!

S A R A H : Y e s w a y ! H o w m a d i s t h a t ! It'll m a k e a c h a n g e . All I've b e e n

d o i n g s o f a r t h i s s e r i e s i s B r i d g e t J o n e s s c e n e s i n b a r s . T h e y ' r e f i n a l l y

g i v i n g m e s o m e t h i n g I c a n g e t m y t e e t h into.

G I R L # 2 ( G U S H E S ) : W e l l d o n e , S a r a h !

(THE OTHERS ALL WISH SARAH WELL)

G I R L # 2 : S o y o u ' l l b e a g e n u i n e c e l e b r i t y n o w !

G A Y G U Y : Y o u c o u l d b e o n t h a t p r o g r a m m e !

G I R L # 1 ( L A U G H I N G ) : E v e r y o n e ' s t a l k i n g a b o u t it!

G I R L # 2 : Isn't t h a t EastEnders?

SARAH LOOKS DISHEARTENED THAT THE CONVERSATION HAS

ALREADY MOVED AWAY FROM HER AS THE OTHERS LAUGH. SHE

TAKES A SIP FROM HER VODKA. THIS IS THEN INTERCUT WITH A

SHOT OF THE CAPRICORN KILLER SIPPING HIS WHISKEY TO

EMPHASISE THEIR FUTURE CONNECTION. AT THIS POINT WE

NOTICE THAT SARAH IS WEARING A RED TOP - SHE IS TO BE A

VICTIM!!! VERY THOMAS HARDY!

G A Y G U Y : Isn't t h a t Big Brother c o n t e s t a n t g o i n g t o b e o n

EastEnders?

S A R A H : W h i c h o n e ? T h e g a y o n e ?

G I R L # 2 : No. H e ' s o n t h a t t h i n g t h a t A n t a n d D e c u s e d t o do.

G I R L # 1 : W h a t ? Pop Idol?

GAY G U Y : I t h o u g h t t h e y p r e s e n t e d I'm a Celebrity... Get Me Out of

Here!

G I R L # 1 : Y e a h , but b e f o r e t h a t .

S A R A H : O h , Popstars? S o t h e y g a v e u s H e a r ' S a y t h e n ?

THEY ALL LAUGH. A BITTER, CONTEMPTUOUS LAUGH! THEY KNOW

THEY ARE BETTER THAN A MANUFACTURED BAND!

G I R L # 2 : O n e o f t h e m ' s j u s t m a r r i e d t h a t kid f r o m EastEnders!

G I R L # 1 : W h a t ? T h e o n e f r o m Big Brother?

GIRL #2: No. Wotsisface!

S A R A H : S o i s i t H e a r ' S a y t h a t h a v e t h a t ' s e x y ' s o n g t h e y w e r e s i n g i n g

in Big Brother?

THEY ALL START THRUSTING THEIR HIPS AND GROANING 'SEXY!'

A LA LIBERTY X.

S A R A H : Y o u k n o w w h o I t h i n k i s s e x y ?

G I R L # 1 : A n t ? B r i a n ? N i c k ? T o n y B l a c k b u r n ? D e c ? Mel f r o m Big

Brother? M e l f r o m EastEnders?

THEY ALL LAUGH.

S A R A H : N o ! (SHE LEANS FORWARD, HER HAIR NEARLY

CATCHING IN THE CANDLE FLAME - REMEMBER THIS IS ALL FROM

THE CAPRICORN KILLER'S POV!) T h e C a p r i c o r n K i l l e r !

GIRL # 1 , GIRL # 2 , GAY GUY: What???

C A P R I C O R N K I L L E R V / O (THINK EDWARD NORTON IN FIGHT

CLUB): My h e a r t is p o u n d i n g ! I've m a d e it. F i n a l l y , s o m e o n e - s o m e o n e

w o r t h y - i s t a l k i n g a b o u t m e !

S A R A H : It's his eyes!

C A P R I C O R N K I L L E R V / O : A n d I'm s t a r t i n g t o r e a l i s e w h a t I a m a n d

w h a t I m u s t d o ! T h e s e p e o p l e t a l k i n g h a v e j u s t s u m m e d u p all t h e r e w a s

t o S u m m e r 2 0 0 2 . But... but w h o ' s g o i n g t o r e m e m b e r a n y o f t h i s i n a f e w

y e a r s ' t i m e ? I c a n ' t e v e n r e m e m b e r w h o w o n last y e a r ' s Big Brother. T h e

f a m e t h a t t h e y ' r e t a l k i n g a b o u t i s f l e e t i n g w h i c h m e a n s t h e r e a l i t y t h a t

t h e y ' v e g a i n e d i s - p u r e a n d s i m p l e - t e m p o r a r y ! A n d I'm j u s t a f o o t n o t e

a t t h e e n d o f t h e i r c o n v e r s a t i o n ! I d o n ' t w a n t t h a t ! I f m y f a m e i s i m m o r t a l

t h e n m y r e a l i t y w i l l a l s o b e i m m o r t a l . I f a n y o n e e v e r m a k e s a m o v i e o f

m y life t h e n t h i s w h o l e c o n v e r s a t i o n w i l l b e i n c o m p r e h e n s i b l e b e c a u s e ,

i n a f e w y e a r s t i m e , n o o n e w i l l k n o w w h o t h e s e p e o p l e w e r e . I d o n ' t

w a n t t h a t ! I c a n ' t b e t h a t !

SARAH LEAVES THE BAR AND THE CAPRICORN KILLER FOLLOWS.

C A P R I C O R N K I L L E R V / O : A n d a s I w a t c h her e n t e r t h e n i g h t c l u b , I

r e a l i s e t h e t w o t h i n g s t h a t I m u s t d o . I n e e d t o m o v e f r o m B - l i s t t o A - l i s t

c e l e b r i t y - v i n e . T o d o t h i s I'll h a v e t o r e m o v e o n e o f t h e s t a r s a n d t a k e

t h e i r p l a c e . T h e s e c o n d t h i n g I m u s t d o i s t o s t o p f e e l i n g t h e e m o t i o n s , t o

s t o p s e e i n g t h i s as life a n d to s t a r t s e e i n g it as it is - to s t a r t s e e i n g it as

e v e r y t h i n g is - a b e a u t i f u l l y d i r e c t e d d r a m a !

S c e n e T h i r t e e n : Int. A t r e n d y n i g h t c l u b . T h e music a n d

lights s u r r o u n d T h e C a p r i c o r n Killer as he e n t e r s -

e m p h a s i s i n g his role a s our 'hero'. J u s t o u t s i d e t h e c l u b

we hear a c h u r c h bell c h i m e m i d n i g h t a n d so we m o v e on.

Day 33

As I step into the club I feel like I'm entering a film.

The beat of Amber's Sexual vibrates across the crowd - each

individual lost in their own Ecstasy-fuelled paradise. As sweat pours

down their faces, I long to be part of them. My body knows what to do as

I unconsciously move my arms into the air. My legs are fluid, moving up

and down and back and forth to the beat of the tune. We all brush against

each other, aware of the presence of these beautiful others but not

recognising them as people. As a silent group, we move as one. And

there she is. Sarah, a celebrity. Someone else important. Her long blonde

hair drenched with sweat, she appears as if she'll never leave her world.

The smile on her face is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

Suddenly, the tune changes, an energetic, screaming, staccato tune,

electronic and yet pure, flies over our heads in perfect harmony with

pulsing green lasers. As one, we explode. Every individual screams into

action, our arms punching out and high - our fingers slicing through the

lasers. Our smiles grow wider as we understand.

I move through these others and towards the blonde girl with the

beautiful smile. She stares into my eyes and invites me to share in her

world. Rhythmically, she creates a space for me and our actions become

one. Our euphoric ecstasy flows like waves across those nearest to us as

they understand that two kindred souls have, at last, found each other.

Although we don't touch each other, mentally we are as one. The

screaming, staccato tune sounds once more and we fly. Her black,

flowing top flaps at an impossible speed as she violently shakes her body

from side to side. She looks into my eyes, begging me, pleading with me

to join her physically as well as mentally. I move towards her, her face

now lit purely by the pulsing green lasers. I reach out and my hand holds

the back of her neck - electric. She begs me once more with her eyes and

my lips move towards hers. Flash of green.

'Now,' she whispers.

My mouth moves from hers and towards her neck. Flash of green. She

makes no sound as my teeth pierce her porcelain white - flash of green -

neck. Her warm blood - red, black under the green - flows into my

greedy mouth and I feed. Her life becomes mine as I drink and drink.

Flash of green. She stops moving and I finish. I lay her beautiful, life-

giving body down next to a discarded water bottle and, with one last

glance at her unending eternal smile, I begin to slide rhythmically once

more through the beautiful people.

As I leave the dance floor, someone violently interrupts our paradise

with a scream. The atmosphere disappears as the individuals return from

their heavens. Their beauty disappears, their clothes become cheap and

the music stops. I ignore them all and push through the main doors into

the biting cold wind as the screams intensify.

Day 35

And the papers have a field day. 'TV DRAMA STAR LATEST

VICTIM OF SERIAL KILLER!'

It's happened! I'M THERE!

Day 36 in the Big Brother House

And I'm in a pub that looks like Pizza Hut with a bar... I WEAR MY

SUNGLASSES AT NIGHT!

Day 38 (SCENE 433:A NIGHTCLUB)

SMILING. CAN'T STOP SMILING LIFE SO HAPPY. LOVE. LOVE

LIFE. BEAT GETTING FASTER. CAN'T STOP MOVING. NOW

JUST HARMONY. NO BEAT. MELODY. STOP MOVING SMILE

TO THE SKY. ALL STAND STILL. BEAUTIFUL. NEVER BEEN

SUCH HARMONY IN ALL HISTORY. WANT TO KISS

EVERYONE. THEY WANT TO KISS ME. BREATHE IN. BREATHE

OUT.

AND THE VOICE STARTS. TELLING US HE IS GOD. HE SPEAKS

OVER THE MUSIC AND WE LISTEN. AND HE STOPS. AND THE

DRUMS START. POUNDING DRUMS. BEATING DRUMS. AND

WE DANCE!

And that night I have a dream but it ain't no John Lennon fluffy-bunny,

cotton-wool dream:

And I'm flying. Flying high above all their little soap-opera stories of

unplanned pregnancies and long-lost brothers. And there's a girl and

she's pointing at me. 'What's that?' she asks the angel. 'Can't you see

it? Coming towards us!' She doesn't know what I am. She doesn't know

where she is but I do. A place where God and music and reality and

dreams are swirling around in a maelstrom of confusion and unreality. I

let my self fall away from them and suddenly - suddenly I hear the

audience clapping and laughing. And I can see them! Amongst the

thousands of grinning faces with staring eyes, I can see Mummy and

Daddy. Their faces are distorted as they eat buttered crumpets and

applaud the events they 're watching. I try to fly towards them. Try to be

with them once more but there's something between us. I'm trapped in a

glass cage! And as the laughter - the unstopping, mocking laughter -

continues I hammer on the glass. Won't Mummy and Daddy rescue me?

Can't anyone save me? And in my panic I turn the world into what I

want it to be. The towers are crashing down over and over again - the

images that will be forever real and never forgotten. And I'm trapped

here in the glass cage and I'm hammering on the glass but Mummy

reaches towards me and switches over and I

wake up.

Day 44

and my skin smells like freshly baked bread. Homely. As I sit there,

wrapped tightly in the dressing-gown Mummy got me last Christmas, I

realise something. Sitting here in the semi-DARKness, I realise I am me.

There will never be another me. I will never have another chance at

LIFE. Every breath I take, every thought I make - each one is unique to

me. There are millions and millions of individuals in this world. I always

used to hate it when someone DIED and someone else would say 'Makes

you think, doesn't it. Could have been you or me!' Yeah, but what about

the poor sod who's died? Their memories and thoughts are all gone for

ever. Their consciousness has been switched off, SHUTDOWN. They

can leave their belongings, their photos, toiletries and clothes but who

really knows what was happening in their mind? Who really knows who

they were? And now, they're gone. That person, that individual is gone.

Only to be remembered in photos, fading memories and on websites. But

what were they thinking as they last ran that hair gel through their hair?

Were they thinking about shopping, dinner, sex, a film, Big Brother, their

career, killing, life, death, babies...? We'll never know.

I need the FAME. I know I'll be gone soon. My Saviour will arrive

and take me from this path. Well, I say bring on the Fenyman. COME

AND GET ME! Just let me leave my mark on the world first. The dream

showed me my innermost desire. I want - no, I need - to be 9/11 not Big

Brother. I want to... I don't know what I want but I want something!

What do I want? I ask the eyes.

Day 46

And on the bus, a group of noisy clubbers LAUGH. Their shrill giggling

piercing my mind, I turn with a friendly grin and the blood flows.

Day 49

iS ThiS reAl??

Day 50

i take the eyes off the wall cos i is sick of em staring at me everyone is

staring at me

i don't understand what everyone wants none of it is real any more

they are all fake

Day 52

Sober again. But was it ever real? Was any of it? Even when I used to

work in the office - it's like I was pretending. I didn't really have the

high powered job in THE CITY - I was acting. The office workers - the

suited angels in the clubs of Dublin - weren't really office workers -

they'd just seen all the TV dramas telling them how office workers were

supposed to act. We're part of the 'work hard, play hard' generation so

that's how we must act. And 'act' is the right word. Because it's all an

act. And we all try to make it real! I'm starting to understand now. We

praise a TV drama if it's gritty and realistic and rappers are singing about

life on the streets and keeping it real and we all have endless phone

numbers and email addresses as if we are trying to emphasise that we are

real and that we are here and we all want to be famous because none of

its real any more.

TO MAKE OURSELVES FEEL REAL WE HAVE TO ACT LIKE

THEY TELL US! BUT IT'S NOT ENOUGH! WELL, I WON'T DO

IT ANY MORE! I'M GOING TO... I'M GOING TO... I'M...

drunk. I am lost. I am in the club. I am lost (...defining

characteristic...). Mummy and Daddy didn't come looking for me on the

other side of the screen. I think they were real.

BANG a drum sounds. The light flashes. They all smiling false smiles.

They not real as they not on TV. I will make them real. I will give them

fame. I will bring them to my side of the glass .And then -

THE MUSIC... THE MUSIC GETS HIGHER AND HIGHER. THE

STACCATO, PULSING RHYTHM NOW A HIGH-PITCHED

SCREECH. THE EXTRAS ARE GRINNING MANICALLY AND

DANCING FRANTICALLY.

But still they talk. Endless talk of cappuccinos and Beckham and Big

Brother and manufactured bands but THEY are all manufactured. I'm on

the right side of the screen and I will bring them to reality. I will -

BANG - A DRUM SOUNDS. THE CRIMSON LIGHT FLASHES.

SMILING FALSE SMILES.

They're yearning to be with me, to be part of it. I will make them real!

Together we'll all be immortal!

BANG - A DRUM SOUNDS. THE CRIMSON LIGHT FLASHES.

SMILING FALSE SMILES.

But before I can, everything goes

DARK

BANG

RED LIGHT

I SEE DEAD PEOPLE

DARK

BANG

LIGHT

THE HUNDREDS OF FACES OF MY VICTIMS-TO-BE STARING

OUT OF THE FRONT PAGES

DARK

BANG

LIGHT

WE'LL ALL BE REAL!

DARK

BANG

LIGHT

NOT BIG BROTHER REAL! NOT FAKE CELEBRITY REAL!

WE'RE TALKING WASHINGTON SNIPER REAL! IT'S ALL

THERE - IN THE GLASS CAGE!

DARK BANG LIGHT GRINS FASTER FASTER IMPOSSIBLE

PANIC PANIC PANIC PANIC ABOUT TO EXPLODE

DARKBANGLIGHT TEETH DARKBANGLIGHT CAMERAS

DARKBANGLIGHT ACTION DARKBANGLIGHT HUNGER

DARKBANGLIGHT STROBE FASTER FASTER HEART POUNDS

MUST DARKBANGLIGHT DARKBANGLIGHT DANCE MUST

DARKBANGLIGHT FEED.

MUST FEED! AND MY ARMS ARE RAISING ABOVE MY

HEAD AND THE SHRIEK IS STARTING TO BUILD UP INSIDE OF

ME AND THE MUSIC AND THE LIGHTS AND I'M ABOUT TO

STRIKE WHEN

she appears

In an electric-blue halo, she stands. My angel!

'Come with me!' she mouths silently as the music returns and the

crowds go wild. My breathing returns to normal and the sweat begins to

cool.

I feel calm as I approach her. She is beautiful. Really beautiful. Small,

she should be helpless but it's as if she is controlling the crowd with her

smile as they part like the Red Sea and they let me through. The violins

start to play as I reach her and I look down at my Saviour.

And she speaks 'Come with me?' she asks - no commands! - with a

cultured, unraised voice. I feel all my fame, my reality evaporate away as

I follow her through a door I never knew existed.

As we walk down a grey, featureless corridor I ask her her name.

'Romana,' she replies.

Romana. Not Mel or Tracey or Kylie or any of those other real media

names - it's different. Unique. Unreal. But is she real?

She doesn't ask me my name but tells me she will help me. I follow

her as she glides down the bland corridor and then she stops and turns to

me. She looks up at me and says:

'I know what you are.'

SHE KNOWS WHAT I AM! I don't know what I am but she does!

'Am I real?' I ask her.

'Are any of us?'

I look at her. She doesn't look real. Her clothes, her hair, her features...

they don't... they don't... there's something... she isn't behaving like

anyone else! She doesn't look the same! She isn't a reflection of what's

on the telly.

She isn't trying to be real.

And then HE appears. A real devil. Tall, dressed entirely in red and

carrying a long walking-stick. He smiles, revealing thousands of teeth.

'Hello,' he says calmly.

'What am I?'

'Ah, well, this could be rather awkward,' he says, acting shy. 'You see

I interrupt him. 'This isn't real!'

He smiles at me. 'Well of course it isn't. You think we don't know

what we are? We know what we are, don't we Romana?'

'Yes, Doctor.' she replies.

'Yes Doctor!' he shouts back before looking at me. 'Why are you

doing it?'

I reply. 'They're all trying to act real! Trying to act like they're on the

other side of the screen! But they're not and I am! I'm trapped here and I

want to give them all what they want! I am real now. I am famous! I

want them to be with me!'

My voice is rising as I start to panic once more. I don't understand

what these two are. They're not trying to be real. They're not old or

young or cool or uncool. They're not lawyers or the police or hospital

workers. They're unique and original and I don't understand what they

are!

The panic in me intensifies and I run at the man He trips me easily, too

easily and I fall the unending fall to the concrete.

He stands over me, tall and blocking the light. He looks down at me

and smiles a toothy grin that screams out confidence, arrogance and self-

belief. The jealousy bites into me as I yearn for that belief in myself.

I can still hear the music but the beat has stopped. Mourning violins

wail a sad tune.

He raises the walking stick above my chest.

'You said you could help me?' I plead.

'I'm afraid someone brought you into our world. This is the only help

we can give you,' he replies. 'Now hold still. This won't hurt a bit.'

('The Capricorn Killer; please leave the Big Brother House')

He plunges the stick through my chest and with the sound of smashing

glass my ribs implode. He lied about it not hurting. But I suppose he had

to, for the cameras. A tear rolls down my cheek. By the time it reaches

my chin, my body has dissolved into ash. I am no longer real or unreal. I

just am. And as the man starts to walk away, I feel myself rising into the

air and then through into the wall. As he strides away, he shouts at

Romana without looking back.

'I'm hungry, Romana. Are you hungry?'

She calls back, 'Famished, Doctor.'

'Fancy a steak? I know this wonderful little restaurant... '

And his voice trails off as he strides down the corridor, his work done.

Romana starts to chase after him but then stops and turns to the pile of

dust. The expression on her face changes and her widening eyes

suddenly express raw emotion.

'Sorry,' she whispers before chasing after my killer.

And as I stare through the grey, glass wall I think of my Mummy. The

mad music begins to play and the credits begin to roll and I, I am listed

as 'Monster'. No name. No recognition. Was I ever real? Will I be

remembered? A tear would fall if

Short Trips: Companions

After the slot-allocation disaster of Zodiac, a rather more woolly theme seemed

a good idea for the next collection. Of course, things still weren't plain sailing,

as the word-count was increased at the last moment and a desperate scramble

for extra stories resulted. Oh well. Maybe next time things would go right...

Now, in a book compiled from scratch, this story and Joe's Zodiac offering

would undoubtedly be placed quite far apart, as this is another that plays with

form and utilises all the advantages of the short story. But let's look at having

two doses of remarkable inventiveness so close together as a blessing, not a

curse. This is Ian Potter's Apocrypha Bipedium: as with all Ian's stories it's funny,

clever, and repays multiple readings - and features a healthy dose of fan-

pleasing features, in this case the Doctor catching up with a past companion.

Jacqueline Rayner

Apocrypha Bipedium

Ian Potter

A Suggestive Correlation of The Cressida Manuscripts with other

Anomalous Texts of the Pre-Animarian Era as proposed for Collective

Consideration by Historiographic Speculator Anctloddoton.

In my selection and placement of the following extracts from the

literature of the extinct worlds, I have attempted to draw suggestive

parallels between some of the Problem Texts ofthe humanoid cultures.

Obviously, the records of those times are now so fragmentary that any

conclusions we draw from the surviving evidence must remain

speculative. We cannot know what evidence we are missing, thus the

linking of events posited by the presentation of these documents must

remain a tentative hypothesis at best.

HS A

From The Primary Cressida Document - Suppressed Texts of the

Vatican Library, A Mysteria Press Original, 2973 CE.

The past is another country, the Doctor used to say. By which I

suppose he meant it's a nice place to visit but you wouldn't want to

live there, and you can have real problems with customs when you

arrive.

I grew up in the future myself, which makes living in the past tricky

at times. Liverpool was a great place to grow up if you were into the

past though. It was full of it; the Campus Manor theme park, the castle,

the Beatles Memorial Theatre, The Saint Francis of Fazakerley

Museum, the Carl Jung Dream Tour, Post-Industrial Land and all those

cathedrals, you were tripping over history everywhere. Mummy's

parents came from there too, so it was practically like we knew real-

life olden days people.

It was much better than Liddell Towers where we lived in New

London - most of the history near there seemed to be about some silly

girl who'd let a professor of sums take photos of her and fell down a

rabbit hole, or about those awful Daleks wiping out Southern England

with mines and things. Much duller and hardly any variety in the rides

at all.

Here in the actual olden days there's not much past anywhere, just

loads of future, and the rides are even less fun, all carts and donkeys

and hardly any roads. We're moving again, you see, dear diary. Even

though the conquering Greeks don't really seem to want to colonise

any of Asia Minor themselves they don't seem to want any Trojans

settling back down anywhere round here either. They've occupied

what's left of the city, I suspect mainly so Menelaus can find all the

expensive bits of Helen's jewellery she seems to have mislaid, and

seem keen we don't hang about too nearby. Mymiddon Hoplites

apologetically move us on now and again, clearly wondering when

they can decently be allowed back home to start fighting amongst

themselves again, and so we pack up and move. Some of their chaps

are still feeling rather tetchy for no good reason apparently. Troilus

says there's a silly rumour going around that some terrible woman,

probably a goddess, went around whipping up aggression amongst the

Greeks a few years ago by magic, leaving marks on their necks that

mean they can't calm down!

It doesn't make any sense to me. I think I might just be getting the

cleaned up version of a soldier's tale actually. I think that happens with

me a lot. People treat me like a silly little girl sometimes, which isn't

really fair when I come from the future and know all sorts of things

they don't. I'm an adult now, even if not being born yet does make me

about minus four thousand officially.

I don't think Agamemnon's Greeks really know what to do now to

be honest, and after a decade's anticipation I don't think the trade

routes or the princess they were sacking Troy to get are quite as good

as they were hoping. I think they're just hanging around stopping us

settling down and looking for lost costume jewellery until they can

think of something better to do. Some of the Ithacans are moaning it'll

be another decade before any of them get home at this rate. Bless them.

Running out of room, dear diary. Will write more when I have some

new goats' hides.

From Not Necessarily the Way I Do It! The True Confessions of a

Ka Faraq Gatri not just written for the money when trapped on a

primitive planet and needing cash to buy parts by 'Snail', Boxwood

Books, 300 AGB.

Of course the hairy kangaroo had been at the mind rubbers and didn't

even realise the sword was there! How we laughed. Terrible name-

dropper, Zodin, but worth her weight in souffle all the same.

Naturally enough, mention of name-dropping reminds me of another

anecdote, this one relating to dear old Bill Shakespeare, one of the

finest writers and most atrocious spellers of any age. I've met him

several times now and hope to again if I ever get off this pre-warp-

engineering dustball. The last time was during that sticky business with

poor Kitty Marlowe and those Psionovores from Neddy Kelley's old

scrying glass that I related in Chapter 9, but perhaps our most awkward

misadventure together was the time I introduced him to some of his

own characters, who included, as it happened, a dear, dear friend of

mine.

From The Dairy of an Edwardian Adventuress by Charlotte Elspeth

Bollard, Library of Kar-Charrat. The work, having suffered some

worm damage in the Great 2107 AD Cock Up, is presented here in

the Elgin decorruption.

Travelling with Wilf and the Doctor was a curious experienced already

felt somewhat out of sorts with time, having discovered my very

existence was making history split in two, but sharing a home with a

boy from the 16th Century and a man who seemed to come from

nowhere so much as his own imagination, merely heightened my

feeling that I no longer belonged to any era.

We three fellow time travellers had so very little in common beyond

having all read the plays the boy had not yet written that the small talk

had been small indeed, and, after a few days of the Doctor failing to get

Wilf home, the atmosphere had become a little tense.

Wilf, it further transpired, had difficulty reading anything written in

more modern Anglish than his own, which meant there had been little

of a literary nature to distract him during his sojourn with us once he

had read and re-read the Doctor's picture books about Frinchs,

Sneetches, Ooblecks and Cats in Hams.

Thankfully, towards the end of W i l f s stay with us the Doctor had

discovered a futuristic version of Lido called Peter Pan Pop-O-Matic

Frustration that we could enjoy playing together and those last long

hibiscus-scented afternoons in his music room passed pleasantly

enough, without young Wilf having to constantly relate the escapades

of besocked foxes to us.

The Doctor always won our games, usually coming from behind

implausibly late in the day, and nearly always using some devious

subterfuge to gain victory. Indeed, it was observing the childlike joy on

the Doctor's face at his underhand triumphs on the Peter Pan Pop-O-

Matic Frustration board that I first realised just how much of Peter

there was in his nature. Naturally, we loved him enough to pretend not

to notice his cheating (I sometimes think the whole universe did) and at

times towards the end we three had so much fun that I almost forgot I

was a paradox, unpicking creation like Penelope at her tapestry in the

heroic age we had just left.

From The Pseudo-Shackspur - works attributed to William

Shakespeare collated by Heinrich Von Berlitz and Leopold

Kettlecamp, Ampersand and Ampersand, 85 AH.

This passage from The Noble Troyan Woman of Troy - fragmentary

foul papers of a naive work once attributed to the very young

Shackspur, is worth quoting in full.

Act 2, Scene 1. A room within the box. Enter Mistress Charley, Doctor

Shallow and Young Will.

Doct. Here at last! Our journey finally through.

In fifteen hundred and seventy two.

Young Will, regard the ceiling viewing dome -

Stratford on Avon, the Hathaway home.

Will. But sir, on those bare hills, no swarths do roll.

And no houses nestle 'twixt those craggy knolls -

The sun burns with a fierce un-English light

And that beach there is not a Warwick sight!

That's not Stratford displayed above us

Char. - Lest the Avon's turn'd to sea, 'Od love us!

Many scholars have disputed the authenticity of this piece of alleged

Shackspurian juvenilia, pointing out, fairly, that it does appear to be the

only one of his extant works that the Bard biroed in a twentieth-century

school jotter otherwise festooned in swirly ink blots and doodled

hexagons. However, if Shackspur did travel in Time, as several

scholars suggest, this objection falls away. A more compelling

argument for its inauthenticity is the verse style, experimenting

uniquely within the Shackspurian canon with strict iambic pentameter

composed entirely in rhyming couplets. Whilst dreadful, it is nothing

like as appalling as that in Shackspur's earliest known adult writing.

* * *

From Tales from the Matrix - True Stories from TARDIS Logs

Retold for Time Tots by Loom Auntie Flavia, Panopticon Press,

6803. 8 Rassilon Era. Part of the Wigner Heisenberg Collection,

The Mobile Library, Talking Books Section. Location currently

uncertain.

The Doctor flicked the temporal stabiliser off and pulled down the

transitional element control rod taking him out of the Vortex. Quite the

wrong way to actualise and quadro-anchor even a Type 40 Time

Capsule, isn't it? Exiting the interstitial continuum at the perihelion of

a temporal ellipse can cause serious buffering in your harmonic wave

packet transference and sever your main fluid links, can't it?

'Here we are, Stratford on Avon, 1572!' announced the Doctor

proudly and wrongly. If he'd ever bothered to use his Absolute

Tesseractulator to pinpoint his dimensional locations he wouldn't have

made these kind of mistakes, of course, but the Tesseractulator had

never come out of its box, had it?

Charlotte Pollard, the Doctor's friend, came over to him and flicked

on the ceiling scanner.

A friend's an Earth thing. It's a bit like having a colleague or fellow

student you co-operate with, but without any exams or project targets

at the end to make the co-operation meaningful. There was a fashion

for having them on Gallifrey at one time, ask some of your older

cousins about it, they might remember.

Charlotte squinted at the view outside. It didn't look like the

Stratford she'd visited, with neither alien enslavers nor half timbered

tea shops anywhere in sight. 'Are you sure?' she asked.

'Positive. Ish,' replied the Doctor. William Shaxsberd, a young man

they'd promised to drop off in 1572, put down his coloured crayons

and came to join them.

'It does not look much as it once did, Doctor,' said William, looking

at the ceiling and cricking his neck.

The Doctor followed suit. The dustbowl outside was certainly not

Warwickshire in any era he'd visited, 'No. Indeed not,' he admitted. 'I

think the rift in the Vortex is introducing a random element into my

calculations.'

Do you remember the rift in the Vortex, from last time? That's right,

the Doctor made that too! It was due to the paradoxical interaction of

two paravertical chronostreams further complicated by three retro-

temporal augmented causal feedback loops, wasn't it?

'Another random element?' asked Charlotte, 'More random than the

way you play "eeny meeny miney mo" with the buttons?'

'Ha, Charley,' said the Doctor. 'Tres amusent.'

Charlotte turned to William to explain, 'That's French, Will, for

"I've been banged to rights, Miss Pollard",' she said.

'I somehow knew,' William replied.

'Really?' asked Charlotte. 'How?'

'It's a Time Lord gift, Charley,' said the Doctor, 'and yes it would

be awfully de trop to ask how it works.' Or at least that's what

Charlotte thought he said. William heard something quite different of

course.

'Well, let's get out there then,' said the Doctor, opening the doors

without taking any proper readings.

'Er, why?' asked Charlotte.

'Because until we know how far out the rift has shunted us in space

and time we won't know how to get to Stratford, 15 diddly diddly...'

explained the Doctor, waving his hand vaguely as he searched his

memory for the end ofthe four digit number he'd lost interest in.

'Seventy-two,' prompted William.

'The very same.' The Doctor beamed, ruffling the young man's hair

in a way that, thanks to the TARDIS telepathic circuits alone, seemed

endearing rather than insufferable and over familiar.

William and the Doctor headed for the doors. Charlotte was troubled

though.

'Won't my temporal instability cause untold problems to wherever

we are?' she asked, quite sensibly, all things considered.

'Oh, very probably, I expect,' replied the Doctor airily, 'but if you

spent your whole life worrying about the consequences of your actions

you'd never get anything done and the consequences of that would be

unthinkable, wouldn't they? Faint heart never bowled a maiden over,

you know.'

Charlotte scowled. 'Mind,' added the Doctor as he stepped out ofthe

control room, 'neither did Katie "the Beast" Davies, if I remember my

22nd-century Wisden correctly.'

That was an allusion to the Earth game Cricket, wasn't it? It was the

Earth's planetary sport, despite the fact that humans were the worst

players of it in the galaxy if you remember.

'Doctor, I find your words confusing,' said William as he followed

him out.

'It's a Time Lord gift, Will,' Charlotte whispered. 'You'll get used

to it.'

* * *

From The Primary Cressida document

New hides! This keeping a journal business is awfully tricky when

you've no paper around, but before mummy died, she did make me

promise I'd write one when I eventually settled down. It's a family

tradition that's been handed down for generations apparently, not that I

ever saw mummy's.

Anyhow, Troilus is still very eager to settle soon, but where? I've

ruled out going east to the Holy Land because from what I remember

from history and my travels we'll get no peace there and the rest of the

Med and Adriatic has already been bagsied. Troilus reckons Aeneas

will have already have set up somewhere by now and we should have

gone off on his boat when we had the chance. I just nod, and try to

explain wave particle duality to the little ones.

I have a vague feeling I learned something about Aeneas from the

UK-201's didactomat box way back in the future. I think he ended up

with Dido in Carthage for a bit, which confuses me because I thought

Dido's music was Late Classical, which must be after this period,

surely. I'm sketchy on the details to be honest. I only remember it was

Dido and not Sister Bliss because the planet we crashed into on the

way to Astra was named after her.

Funny thinking about Dido, that was the place I've called home

longest in recent years. I've been a nomad a while really - split

between London and Liverpool as a girl, never knowing whether to

talk posh and southern or not, emigrating to off-Earth with daddy,

hopping about through Time with the Doctor, and now traipsing

around Turkey with Troilus and his mates before its even called that or

has any tourist facilities to speak of. I think I must have 'space travel in

my blood' as one of those Baroque composers put it!

I've been wondering when I should discover electricity and

plumbing a bit recently, these fleeces don't clean themselves like

proper clothes, so the sooner we can invent the twin tub the better. Are

we before or after that Monk who invented things too early here, I

wonder? I don't want to mess things up like he did, but I'm shocking

on dates. I just paid attention to the stories in the history books really,

not the order they happened in. If I'd known the way round history

went was going to be important I would have had the machine teach

me it. Of course, as a child you never expect all that history around you

is going to run away into the future like it has, do you?

I've decided I'll probably start with a steam engine and see if that

messes up my memory of the future. The way I see it, it'll be

impossible for me to invent anything that'll stop me being born so I

can't do too much harm.

I casually suggested making things out of iron the other day, which I

know is a big step forward but everyone just laughed. Too brittle and

hard to work compared to bronze or tin, they said. I suppose they're

right. You have to do something to it to make it strong, I remember

that. I just don't remember what that something is. For all I know my

quad physics equations and could still compose a cogent analygraph

for the fall of the Mallatratt Protectorate, I'm a bit rusty on a few of the

basics. Going to take us years to get garlic bread and sound radio at

this rate.

Of course, I had a bit of training for life without the mod cons on

Dido, so I can cope, but what makes things really fiddly at the moment

is that my future's past is catching up with my present, which is

complicated enough to write down, let alone experience.

We've just bumped into the Doctor as a young man, and I'm sure it's

really bad form for me to let on I recognise him when as far as he's

concerned he's not met me yet.

From Not Necessarily the Way I Do It!

My plan was pretty much the usual one, to go out and see if we could

find out the year and our whereabouts in a way that wouldn't arouse

any suspicions, and then hang around until nightfall to get a better fix

from the position of the stars. It may sound dull but I've found if I do

that I usually find something or other to get embroiled in before sunset.

We stepped circumspectly out of the Ship and set off in search of the

nearest habitation, ready as ever to improvise any number of cover

stories to explain our presence and strange garb. As luck would have it

we soon ran into one of the locals, and were able to subtly winkle out

the info we needed on route to his encampment.

From The Dairy of an Edwardian Adventuress

People say you should never look back of course, advice we've been

ignoring since Orpheus and EuroDisney, but I can't help thinking that

if the Doctor hadn't landed us in the aftermath of the Trajan War a lot

of that beastly business with the Time Lords might have been avoided

later.

As usual the Doctor rejoiced in dropping straight into the middle of

things without a moment's forethought. Impossible, exasperating man,

I tried to protest but somehow he just brushed my complaints away

with a smiled shouldn't have let him, but he did have such a lovely

smile.

* * *

From The Pseudo-Shackspur

The Noble Troyan Woman of Troy

Act 3, Scene 2. Another part of the hillside. Enter Mistress Charley,

Doctor Shallow and Young Will.

Doct. Yoohoo! Mister Goatboy, excuse me please,

Could you tell me what time and place is this?

Char. Discreet as ever.

Enter a Goatherd.

Doct. Yes, but awfully brave.

Young man, there is information we crave.

What land is this and what year are we in?

We've lost track of both in our travelling.

Char. Oh I give up, you're so inconsistent.

Doct. Just smile prettily, act like an assistant.

Char. But I never know what trick you'll pull next!

Doct. Just grit your teeth, smile and stick out your chest;

Magic's best tricks work by misdirection.

Char. So I'm just here to stir his -

Will. Affection?

Doct. Quite so Will, a pretty face inspires trust.

True, I'm afraid, if not awfully just.

This chap will tell us the time and the place

And Presto well head straight back into Space!

Goat. Eleven eight three BC is the year

This is Hisarlik in Anatolia.

I expect you're traders from Phoenicia

To be garbed and garbling here so queer.

You've been ship wreck'd and concuss'd I'll be bound.

Which'll be why you have no goods around.

We must offer you shelter at the least

Pop back home with me and well have a feast.

Char. How can he know he lives before Our Lord?

Doct. It's just a translation device that's flaw'd.

It's an awfully clever mechanism

But it causes the odd anachronism.

Kind goatherd, we would love to share a meal

And watch the evening stars above us wheel.

For by such means we will precisely know

Our station now and where we next must go.

Exeunt Omnes.

From Tales from the Matrix

'Do we really need to do this?' asked Charlotte as the band trudged

wearily after the herdsman in their impractical shoes, 'Surely the date

and location he's given you is enough?'

'Perhaps,' the Doctor replied, 'but studying the stars will allow me

to be more accurate. Besides, I'm famished. We haven't eaten for

minus three thousand years, bear in mind.'

So the Doctor and his companions blithely headed off into further

temporal confusion, unaware that the goatherd had seen the TARDIS

arrive and knew full well who the Doctor was already.

There's a lesson there for anyone who thinks it's clever to keep their

TARDIS in one form, don't you think? The Ionic Column factory

preset might look nice, for example, but when using it means every

Grun, Za and Caius in the Cosmos knows who you are immediately, it

rather defeats the point of a chameleon circuit.

From The Primary Cressida document

One of our herdsmen saw the TARDIS arrive in the next valley this

afternoon and instantly recognised it as the mobile temple that had

prefigured the city's fall, and the Doctor as a younger version of the

old man from my tales.

He sent his mate back to tell us so we all had time to prepare

ourselves and could all pretend we believed the Doctor's implausible

story about being a trader from Phoenicia when he turned up an hour or

so later.

It's definitely him, probably about 40 years before we met. He

dresses similarly, his hair is curlier and darker and his face looks a bit

different, but the years are never kind, are they? Amazingly, he's

almost as vague as a young man as he was when old, if not quite so

ummy and erry. I'd always assumed that was because he was getting

on a bit.

Thankfully, no one here's too thrown by the idea of time travellers

after me relating all my adventures to them, though one of the boys did

ask me why the Doctor didn't walk and talk backwards when his past

was in the future. I was very clear why not when I started explaining it,

but I must admit I got a bit confused as I went along.

He hasn't recognised me of course, dear diary, and we've invited

him and his friends to have tea tonight.

From Not Necessarily the Way I Do It!

Well, imagine my embarrassment when we arrived at the fellow's

encampment and who was in charge but my old friend Vicki (now

calling herself Cressida of course) and her new husband Troilus, who

I'd never actually met, due to quite heavy escaping commitments

around the time they got together.

I realised with a start that young Bill Shakespeare was due to write a

play about this couple in a few years, and that unless I was careful this

meeting would almost certainly be what inspired it, thus complicating

Bill's already tortuous history further and bringing yet another new

paradox to mine. I'd only let Vicki go away with Troilus at Troy's fall

because once I heard she was calling herself Cressida I'd assumed it

was predestined (well, I was young, I believed in that kind of thing), I

knew there was a play about the couple by Shakespeare and thought I

was helping history take its course by hitching them up. Now, if I'd

only done that because my future actions would one day bring that play

about, I'd accidentally made a big chunk of my past dependent on my

future, which, as you know, isn't really the accepted way of going

about things.

I reasoned it was vital for the tidiness of the time line that I kept Bill

from learning the background of Troilus and Cressida in any detail,

ideally forgetting as much of their present as he could too.

To complicate matters further, Vicki had actually seen Bill as an

adult on my time telly, the Time Space Visualiser. She was never the

most historically careful of girls, and I feared that if she found out who

he was, she'd probably tell him all about his future at the court of

Elizabeth and getting the commission to write The Merry Wives of

Windsor and the inspiration for Hamlet on the same day and how he'd

sprained his wrist in his rush to write both.

All it might take, I thought, would be one slip from any one of us,

accidentally mentioning the words TARDIS or Zeus Plug over dessert,

say, and causality would be tangled up like President Pandak's kittens

in twine, quicker than you could explain what you pop in a Ganymede

socket.

Luckily, it seemed Vicki hadn't spotted how anachronistic our garb

was and hadn't realised I was her old friend, seeming to completely

swallow my inventive tales of sea faring, despite Charley's rather

fanciful insertions about hook-handed pirates.

I had, of course, underestimated her, as a quick and entirely

accidental glance at her diary before dinner proved. Not knowing I

could regenerate, she had taken me for my young self in my first form

and thought she was protecting me from foreknowledge!

This, of course, suited my purpose. All I reckoned I had to do now to

save Time from chewing itself to bits was keep Will busy and make

sure Vicki didn't relate her history to any of us over dinner.

Oh what tangled webs we weave, when tidy temporal strands we try

to leave.

From The Dairy of an Edwardian Adventuress

Mr and Mrs Troilus seemed a sweet couple, he a lanky chap with a

curly beard and a well-meaning expression and she a rather

enthusiastic young thing with big eyes, yet the Doctor had become

rather shifty from the moment we met them. I knew he was

preoccupied by something, but I had, at that time, no idea what. After

some fun, improvising tales of derring-do on the high seas to prove our

credentials as traders, he took me to one side and explained that I had

to get Wilf as squiffy as possible at the feast that night for reasons it

was simpler at that moment not to explain. He said history depended

on me getting the boy so drunk he could neither speak nor remember

his behaviour the next morning. I'm normally quite good at that kind of

thing, it was hardly my fault the Bawd was a functioning alcoholic at

the age of eight.

From The Pseudo-Shackspur

The Noble Troyan Woman of Troy

Act 4, Scene 1. An encampment in the mountains. Enter Mistress

Charley, Doctor Shallow, Young Will, a goatherd, Troilus, Cressida,

divers villagers and guards severally.

Doct. Hello. (Aside) Her! 'Tis Vicki, I should have guess'd.

I never with good geography was bless'd

Hisarlik is the modern name for Troy.

Quite a temporal tangle, boy oh boy!

(To Cress.) Ha ha, my hearties! We here are sailors three.

(Aside) I can but hope she does not see 'tis me.

Cress. (Aside) Deceit upon deception! Can this be

The Doctor who I first took it to be?

Is this him when young as I assumed?

Or must deeper deceit be presumed?

I'll play along until the truth I know.

(ToDoct.) Good mariners, welcome and hello.

Will. (To Char. ) What's this strange accented charade about?

Char. (To Will) Who knows, we'll be, I bet, last to find out.

From Tales from the Matrix

Yes Time Tots, exactly! The first thing any of us would have done

would have been to get out of there quickly before we compromised

the causal nexus. Staying for tea and imbibing too much ethanol, which

you'll recall the Doctor had a particular weakness for on his mother's

side, doesn't strike any of us as sensible!

From The Secondary Cressida document (a transcribed fragment

allegedly found at a Church of Rome jumble sale) - Even More

Suppressed Texts of the Vatican Library, A Hatper-Mysteria-

Ellerycorp Press Original, 2977 CE

My ruse worked, the robot's read my carefully exposed diary and

thinks I suspect nothing! He's so obviously not really the Doctor it's

not true, but he doesn't know I know that yet, so we have the

advantage. He's definitely a Dalek robot double like that other one they

sent after us.

They've probably made him the young Doctor this time to make it

less obvious. He does look a bit like he could be him sometimes if

you're not paying attention, but if you look closely his face is all wrong

and his voice goes a bit funny sometimes like that other robot's did,

almost doing my accent at times! I think he's probably feeding on my

jumbled memories or something.

We'll overpower him and his companions at dinner tonight and

destroy them, they won't expect me to know how to deactivate them.

From Not Necessarily the Way I Do It!

I've always been keen on wine, particularly the heavier oaky reds,

though I find there is a rather tiresome tendency for them to be drugged

by villainous blackguards sometimes, rather impairing the subtleties of

the flavour, but wine in the Homeric era was quite a different

proposition. What can I tell you about it except that it tasted awful but

did the job?

It wasn't the heavily resinated stuff the Greeks later went in for,

thankfully, nor indeed that watered-down muck the ancient Romans

used to dish out at parties, but I think it's telling that the most flattering

thing Homer had to say about it in the whole of The Iliad was how like

the sea it was in hue. When you bear in mind he was blind, you can tell

he'd had to ask around a bit to find anyone with something positive to

say about it.

The food wasn't much better either. It can be terribly hard eating out

when you travel like I do. These days at home, I generally try to eat

only things that don't have a central nervous system, or that I've

knocked up in the food machine, but sometimes, when you're a guest,

qualms like that have to go out of the window, particularly on worlds

ruled by intelligent plants, where you're best advised not to ask for a

celery stick and to just stick your toes in damp soil like everyone else

at the table.

Even then I try to stick to my principles and not eat anything with a

sense of self, parliamentary democracy or sultanas in it.

This dinner was a particularly awkward affair; Charley acting like a

slightly sloshed pirate queen, Vicki acting like she didn't know me,

Bill acting up, singing lewd madrigals that officially weren't due for

invention yet in his rather reedy girlish voice, and all the while me

worrying about causality falling apart around me rather too much to

fully enjoy the dolmades.

Suddenly, half way through the proceedings, the impossible

happened: it took a turn for the worse. Vicki shouted out 'Now!',

lunged at my chest and started tearing at my waistcoat.

From The Dairy of an Edwardian Adventuress

My recollections of the ensuing events are somewhat hazy; I had been

struggling to match young Wilt measure for measure, you might say,

when I saw the Doctor being attacked. I launched myself at his

assailant and missed, I'm told, briefly losing my dignity and

consciousness in the process.

A shocking melee ensued by all accounts, with Trajans tearing at our

clothes with cutlery and all the usual business with tables being turned

and the like breaking out; I'm only glad I can't remember the full

details, because what little I do makes me blush quite enough.

It's quite possible I told someone I loved them, and was sick later

too. I've never been brave enough to ask. The next thing I remember

clearly was being in the main tent with the Doctor explaining a lot and

me apologising a bit, just in case.

From The Pseudo-Shackspur

The Noble Troyan Woman of Troy

Act 5, Scene 2. At dinner beneath the stars.

Cress. Take that, false Doctor! But where are your wires?

In sparks and puffs of smoke you should expire.

Could it be that you are the Doctor true?

Char. Get your claws off him, he's mine, you wild shrew!

Will. Oh, Pillicock sat on pillicock

Char. Will you stop that terrible singing, Will?

The Doctor and I are under attack

From this Troyan host, while you're supping sack.

Join in the scrap and cease your carousel

Lewd songs, anyhow, douse all arousal.

Doct. Vicki, Will, Charley, all, put down those knives!

You're all making the mistakes of your lives.

Cress. Vicki, you say? You should not know that yet.

If you're the young Doctor, we've not yet met.

Doct. Vicki, the reason that I know your name

Is that inwardly I am still the same

Man who left you at Troy some years ago,

I can change my looks, if you didn't know.

Char. Doctor, do you mean that you know this wench?

Doct. We travelled together many years hence.

I think it's time I explain'd the full truth

Of why I've deceived you all, forsooth.

Will. If she's an old friend then tell me why

You did keep that fact from Charley and I?

Doct. This is an old friend, Will, but, what is worse,

She features, in decasyllabic verse,

In a drama that you shall one day pen

That means I shall leave her with this Troyan,

If you only write it because you're here

Chronological conundra appear.

Effects and causes whirl and spin about,

Go through the wringer and turn inside out.

The egg that hatches out your chicken

Does in that self same chicken thicken.

* * *

From Tales from the Matrix

Then in direct contravention of fifteen universal laws of Time and two

local statutes, the Doctor sat down and explained everything that had

happened, and, in explaining it, he brought all the things he was

worried about happening that hadn't into the open, didn't he?

Of course, it turned out that some of the things he was worried about

were of no concern at all, but as a result of relating them he brought

worse problems about.

I expect most of you have read stories about the Doctor in other

books, and I expect some of you think he's quite clever, even though

he breaks a lot of rules, don't you? Well, you're right! In a crisis, he's

just the kind of person you need around, he can come up with ideas

almost no one else could. The only problem is, when you're not having

a crisis, he's just the kind of person to cause one.

From The Primary Cressida document

How embarrassing. It turns out the Doctor was the Doctor after all,

only older and with a new face for some strange reason. The girl who

drinks too much is his latest companion and the little boy with the dirty

songs and the voice like a girl is William Shakespeare! Nice enough

lad, no wonder he ends up in the theatre with that voice though, perfect

for all those drag roles they gave boys. We had a lovely chat about

Dido and Aeneas and told each other about our scrapes with the

Daleks, and I let slip the odd thing I knew about his future.

He's told me we should go and settle in England. Apparently there's

an old book he's read by a chap called Geoffrey that says relatives of

Aeneas were the first Britons I think it's a super idea, ' know Troilus

will like it in England, and I think we've persuaded the Doctor too!

Just think! could be one of my own ancestors passing on my secret

diaries for years and years, a bit like mummy's family did! How

smashing would that be?

From Not Necessarily the Way I Do It!

Of course I decided in the end that honesty would be the best policy

and that as long as everyone knew the full facts, and swore not to be

influenced by them, we could probably darn the hole in causality in

such a way that it wouldn't show. I sat everyone down in the central

tent and explained. Well, what a Charlie I looked!

* * *

From The Dairy of an Edwardian Adventuress

Ridiculously, the Doctor had been worried about Wilf getting

inspiration for the play Troilus and Cressida from meeting the real

Troilus and Cressida! I protested that Wilf had already read his own

plays in the future anyhow, but the Doctor countered that they'd have

been corrupted playing texts and in a court of law it would be hard to

prove that was down to him, whereas if Will had got any of the plot or

characterisation directly through his adventures with us that was a bit

more serious.

That was when Will started laughing.

From The Pseudo-Shackspur

The Noble Troyan Woman of Tray

Act 5, Scene 4. A tent in the camp.

Will. But Doctor, I did not invent the tale

Of Troilus and Cressida's love that fail'd.

Why, Geoffrey Chaucer told it years ago!

I cannot believe that you did not know.

Have you read even half of what you claim

Or do you just like dropping well-known names?

Cressida's tale is part of tradition

Not the result of my precognition

Of future perfect past present events,

If you will forgive me my mangled tense,

And my quondumque futures version

Should have put you off this girl's desertion.

Char. You should have read your Brodie's Notes on Will.

The phantom threat you feared from his quill

Was nothing but an insubstantial shade,

And there's a real spectre here I'm afraid.

I'm half a ghost of Christmas yet to come,

Remember, I've made history come undone.

You've got paradoxes enough to be

Getting on with, as far as I can see,

So why do you search for new ones instead

That only exist inside of your head?

Doct. If I had known the work of me laddo

Would I have found menace in my shadow?

I here resolve to watch much less TV

And be the reader I do claim to be.

For half my erudite orations

Come straight from books of quotations.

From Tales from the Matrix

'What was Helen of Troy actually like then?' asked William Shaxberd as

he helped himself to more wine.

'Is,' corrected the Doctor, prissily.

'She's a good egg by all accounts,' said Vicki, politely not mentioning

the fact she thought her looks had gone, 'and Menelaus was happy

enough to have her back, even after all the bother, so she must be quite

nice when you get to know her, I suppose.'

'Well, she would have to be a good egg really,' said William, 'Her

father was a swan supposedly.' Like most young human men of his

generation, he knew the salacious bits of Greek Mythology surprisingly

well.

'Half human on his mother's side?' smiled the Doctor, thinking

himself clever. 'Aren't we all?'

'No, just men,' said Charlotte through a falafel.

'She has two birthdays they say, one when the egg came out of her

mother and another when it hatched,' Troilus revealed, leaning forward

over the table and whispering in that conspiratorial manner people

sometimes do when divulging well known but dubious trivia.

'It would have been an easy birth if she was born an egg,' said Vicki

ruefully, one hand on her stomach.

'An easy lay, you mean,' William corrected.

'So Paris said -'Troilus began, his eyes a twinkle.

He was shouted down by his wife seconds later, barrack room tale

untold, and one of those awkward silences ensued that dinner party

guests in all cultures and times know only too well.

'Have you actually read Troilus and Cressida, Doctor?' asked

Charlotte a little later.

'You ask me, who had a hand in some of Shakespeare's finest work -

who put the mixed metaphor in the "To be or not to be" soliloquy, who

hired the bear for The Winter's Tale, and who really shouldn't have

passed on the story of A Midsummer's Night Dream, if I've read Troilus

and Cressida?' replied the Doctor, rather over-egging it in that way he

usually did when he was on the defensive.

'Yes!' they cried as one.

'Well, no,' admitted the Doctor. 'It's supposed to be one of the better

ones, and well, you know, I've been busy. I've still not managed to tune

the Time Space Visualiser in to catch all of The Golden Girls and I've

been trying for decades.'

'She doesn't end up with Troilus in it, she ends up with Diomede, and

it's set during the war not after it!' said Charlotte patiently.

'Diomede! That was Steven!' Vicki laughed.

The Doctor looked confused. 'Vicki and Steven were just friends,

weren't you? Just the odd haircut and getting locked up together, I

thought.'

'Yes, that's right, how many times do we have to go through that?'

Vicki explained, giving a petulant Troilus a peck on the cheek.

'Well the legend must have got a bit confused by the time it got

written down I think Chaucer got it from a foreign book,' said William,

draining his goblet.

The Doctor beamed, thinking he'd got away with his tinkering again.

'So Troilus and Cressida weren't predestined after all!' he said

'Well, only because of your lack of reading,' snorted Charlotte.

'Oh that is a relief,' said the Doctor taking the wine jug from William

and helping himself without asking.

'Now what about this business of giving us charts to help us reach this

Britain young Will spoke of?' asked Troilus, passing the Doctor a goat's

cheese nibble.

'I really shouldn't,' explained the Doctor. 'If you go there, on the basis

ofthe frankly dubious history of Geoffrey of Monmouth then Vicki is in

danger of becoming one of her own descendants, which is at least as bad

as the things I've been trying to prevent all day.'

'Oh go on Doctor, please!' begged Vicki. 'We could mine tin in

Cornwall and I'd promise not to invent anything I shouldn't as long as I

lived, not even roller skates!'

'I don't think I should. I've made enough of a mess looking after

young Charley here, the repercussions of me sending you to Britain

because the unborn Shakespeare suggested it could be horrendous,' said

the Doctor, finally being responsible for once in his lives.

'Oh go on Doctor, I'm unborn too, remember, so that shouldn't matter

much,' said Vicki.

'And I'm only half here,' said Charlotte grimly 'Why stop messing

about now? You should have stayed at home watching these Golden

Girls of yours if you weren't prepared to get involved in real people's

lives. They're messy and not always in the order you'd like and

sometimes too short, and they're not always better for having you in

them, but you either face that or hide away somewhere, don't you?'

The Doctor kissed her.

'What was that for?' asked Charlotte.

'To shut you up,' he said. He tapped Vicki on the nose and smiled,

'Come on, let's carry on the party, and in the morning, when rosy-

fingered Dawn has done her bit, we'll sort out a good map of Europe for

the Trojans and get them started on their boats. Any consequences which

haven't happened yet we can worry about later!'

Some of you will be shocked at just how naughty the Doctor was in

this story: jeopardising the stability of all those will-have-might-have-

been futures out there depending on him by interweaving all those

strands of destiny connected to the Dalek race and all on the basis of a

whim.

The Doctor already knew Dalek causality was partially snagged in a

loop in Time and his friend was the focus of a temporal anomaly, but of

course he had spent a jolly long time in the Vortex, hadn't he?

That meant his causal connections to events future, past and maybe-

somehow were a great deal more jumbled up than most people's and he

was quite good at judging just how likely to snaggle the Web of Time his

whims might be.

Or so he thought.

The Doctor believed in two very wrong things you see; firstly, in

something he called personal morality that he thought was more

important than doing the things simply everyone knows are right, and

secondly, that he was cleverer than everyone else and could always sort

things out.

He deserved what happened to him next, didn't he?

Document from the Braxiatel Collection Shakespearean Ephemera

wing, a note found in the effects of William Shakespeare by literary

assessor Porlock. It is not believed to be in Shakespeare's hand

though it bears some graphological similarities to the disputed

Scarlioni Hamlet manuscript.

List of things not to mention

* The Daleks,

* That you've met me before when we meet next (because you

didn't mention it last time, you know),

* That you've read half your plays already

* That I wrote all the good bits in Hamlet,

['good bits' later amended to 'rubbish bits' in a different hand]

* The idea of cigars (until Raleigh gets back from abroad),

* That cigars will end up named after some of your characters,

* That someone called Raleigh will go abroad,

* That Troilus and Cressida had a lovely marriage and lived

happily ever after in Mousehole, no matter how the story goes

in Chaucer,

* Oh, the places you've gone and the things that you've seen.

Short Trips: A Universe of Terrors

Once I had accepted the job of editing Short Trips volume three, two decisions

followed very easily. The first of these was the tide. A Universe of Terrors (which

echoes the quote, "There are some corners of the universe that have bred the

most terrible things..." from The Moonbase) sums up for me why Doctor Who

is so much more appealing as a SF franchise than, say, Stargate or Star Trek.

While those shows depict a universe full of aliens who are usually rational,

if not always friendly, Doctor Who depicts a universe which is dangerous and

nightmarish, populated by monsters who can't be reasoned with, and whose

only purpose in life is to kill you stone dead. While previous Short Trips books

had been true to the spirit of the show, I felt they were inclined too much

towards its whimsical side. I wanted mine to be darker.

My second easy decision, given that, was to commission a Tara Samms story.

One of the gems in Stephen Cole's original Short Trips, published by BBC Books

in 1998, was Glass, a Samms story in which a woman is plagued by visions of

an evil little boy's face in every plane of glass she sees. Concise, effective, and

deeply disturbing, it was exactly the sort of thing I was after for the book. Face-

Painter, ultimately, turned out to be even more unsettling, in part because the

victims in this story are the Doctor and his companions. Unusually too, the

short story format allows us to experience to full horror of the grisly premise

without the need for the traditional structure of a Doctor Who adventure: though

we know of course that our friends must have escaped this situation somehow,

we're not allowed the comfort of seeing it.

John Binns

Face-Painter

Tara Samms

Thursday afternoon, and time to take the faceless kids on their weekly

outing to Santa Monica Boulevard. First I tie their wrists all together

with bright handkerchiefs, so they make a human chain. Then I lead

them out into the street.

I used to feel self-conscious with them. I mean, they're OK from the

neck down, I dress them in baggy white T-shirts and blue jeans and

sneakers. But what can you do with the heads? Each one's just a big

pink egg, smooth, blank, completely hairless. OK, I can put them in

caps. Easy. But they don't got ears, or eyes, or a nose or nothing. It's

like when you sometimes see a baby bird that's fallen out of its nest

and left for dead. It's hairless and pink, sort of puckered skin. That's

what my kids have got for faces.

Mostly I wrap big scarves round their chins, or dress them in

balaclavas. They don't like it much 'cause it's July, and it's sooo hot

out there, but it means less people notice the weird shit going on with

their faces. Luckily in this part of West Hollywood, no one looks too

hard at no one for long, unless they want trouble.

So my kids and me, every Thursday we go out to the Face-Painter

off Santa Monica Boulevard. So many glitzy galleries and boutiques

filled with avant-garde crap there that some people look at my boys

and girl, and they think it's some kind of statement or something.

I should say, they're not really kids, and they sure ain't mine.

They've got grown-up bodies - the girl's got tits under her T-shirt, and

the boy's definitely a boy, even if I can't understand half of what he

says with the accent and all. And the other guy, well - their heads all

look the same but I think he's the oldest, though sometimes he can be

more of a kid than either of his buddies. I'm paid to baby-sit them, look

after them a little, and make sure they don't go running away. The boss

don't want them running away no more - says they did that all the time

when he kept them locked up by themselves.

I think maybe they like it better here with me, but none of them say

much. Victoria's the worst for that. Real quiet. Not just because she

don't have a mouth - they can all speak if they want, it just comes out

kind of muffled, like I gagged them or something. Well, it weren't me

that gagged them.

When they do talk it's freaky, 'cause their chin moves about like

they're chewing. They can all see, too, though not so clearly, like

they're looking through bandages. I don't know how that works, and I

don't know how come they can breathe either. They even eat - though

with the kind of crud I cook up, God knows they probably don't want

to. If they try real hard then this little black slit opens up out of

nowhere and lets stuff in. But I don't look too closely. That stuff still

freaks me out a little, even after two months.

'Come on, kids,' I have to say, because they never seem to look

forward to our trips to the Face-Painter, and they dawdle and drag like

they're little kids and sulking. You'd think they'd like it 'cause they're

kept shut away most of the rest of the time, and Face-Painter's not just

a Face-Painter. Tattoos are his thing. I love to look at the different

designs you can get. I got me one already on my butt, this little lamb.

Least, I think it's a lamb. Real cute, anyway.

Face-Painter's got grey hair that used to be black. He keeps it slicked

back in this big kick-ass ponytail thing so it looks wet and tight all the

time, and like he's wrung half the colour out of it. He's a big guy. I

mean, I'm pretty big myself, but with him it's all muscle. He wears one

of those tight muscle-Ts that show them off. His arms are busy with all

kinds of shit, eagles and knives and hearts and crossed-out lovers. He's

kind of got this big doughy face and it's like his shades are glued to his

nose or something, and he's got this pissed-off look there the whole

time if he's not doing his thing, working with the needles - or painting

the faces on my three kids. The second he starts doing the thing he

loves, he's happy again. He lives for that stuff, I can see it, and when

he gets started that's when I want to go right up and stick my tongue

down his throat, mmm. Except I guess that would kind of distract him,

and I don't want him mad at me. Or hurling all over his shop.

'Hey, Rachel,' he says as I drag my three inside. He likes us 'cause

we make appointments, every week, and he writes them down. He likes

having appointments, I can tell.

My three kids stand there. The paint always wears off within a week

so their faces are just blank sheets each time we come to call on Face-

Painter. 'So what's it gonna be?' he asks. He always asks me instead of

them.

'Victoria?' I ask.

She pulls out the same well-folded piece of paper she does every

week. It has this little sketch she did with some pencils I gave her. It's

a girl with brown hair, blue eyes, a straight nose, full lips. There's

something kind of old-fashioned about the picture, like the way she

talks. Face-Painter sighs, he knows this picture off by heart. But he

takes it from me: this paper that's been folded so many times it might

crumble in his hands, and for once he looks at Victoria and he says,

'You want it just like this? Just like this?'

'Yes,' she says softly.

'You're sure?'

'Yes... please.'

Sometimes he paints in a brown fringe over her forehead, has it curl

in round the edges. It's a nice touch. She likes it when he does that.

'How about you, Jimmy?'

He grunts. 'Jamie.'

'The bionic woman's name is Jaime, honey,' I say, 'it's a girl's

name,' and Face-Painter cracks up. Makes my smile grow wider.

'Och, I dinnae care what you paint there. No one sees it in any case.'

'Temper,' I tell him. 'C'mon, who d'you wanna be this week?' He

don't say nothing. 'Make him Brad Pitt,' I tell Face-Painter. 'A girl can

dream, right?'

He grunts again, looks me up and down as he does it. And I guess he

don't much like what he sees, 'cause suddenly he's nodding to the third

little freak in my outing.

'Well, Doc?' I ask him. He thinks he's a doctor.

The Doc doesn't answer, just fiddles with his hands. I ask again, and

one last time, but it's no good with him. He won't crack. He gets like

this sometimes, and though he ain't got no eyes to show you, you look

at him too long and you get to thinking maybe you're the freak.

'Give him something special,' I suggest. And, real obliging, he goes

to the back of his little shop and gets out the board with all his personal

designs pinned to it, just for me - the ones he made up himself that you

can't get nowhere else. And I see there's this wicked sunflower thing

there, and I point it out and say, 'Go for it. Let's see how it looks.'

And so the Doctor sits himself down nice and easy and Face-Painter

goes to work with his airbrush, and within an hour there's a beautiful

bright sunflower sitting on that wide, blank empty face.

'That is fine; I say: Could you do me one of those round about here?'

And I pull down the strap of my top a little, show him the part where

my breast just starts to get a little fleshy. He looks, and his expression

don't change.

'Uh-huh,' he says. 'Maybe. But these ones cost.'

'I'll make an appointment,' I say.

'Maybe so, but they cost. You can't get 'em nowhere else.'

I pull up on my strap again.

'Maybe just look at the one I done here,' he says, and waves his big

hand over at the Doctor.

'Oh, I will.' I put his Dodgers cap on the Doctor's head and it's like,

a cap on a sunflower and it looks crazy and we both laugh, me and

Face-Painter, while the other two just sit there hand in hand, silent,

waiting to be next.

And Face-Painter does Jimmy just like Brad Pitt, it's hilarious. But

Victoria he's wicked to - he paints the face on the paper exactly like he

told her he would, only he's painted all those deep folds in the paper on

her face too, and she looks like she's been in some real bad accident.

And she starts making this sobbing sound though no tears can come

out 'cause she ain't got no eyes, but she can see what he's done in the

cracked mirror he holds up to her, and he's looking at me and saying,

'What the hell! Next week I'll paint her a new face and leave out the

folds, what's her problem?'

'You're so boring,' I tell them, once we're back home. It was too hot to

go outside, everything's sticking to me. 'You're just never happy, are

you?' And I sound like I'm pissed at them for showing me up down

Face-Painter's, but really I'm just pissed with the whole deal. This

damn apartment with its dark chocolate walls and cracked windows,

full of all my old shit I ain't got round to cleaning up yet, and this

damn neighbourhood that's all chain-link fences and tied-up dogs that

bark all night, and redneck junkies who crank up the TV real high then

zone out in front of the NBA so it sounds like I got a stadium next

door. And you go out just to get the kids some pizza or buy some

groceries or something and on every corner you get these damn Ruskie

immigrants hanging round, checking your ass and speaking Slav to

their buddies and sniggering. There goes the girl with the fat ass, they

say. I just bet. I bet they wouldn't even notice Victoria got no face,

they'd just check the ass and bang! Pick her over me. And I get mad at

my kids, just thinking about what those Ruskies must be saying, and I

yell and shoo all three of them down to the basement, which is kind of

where they live and where they spend most days.

It's not so bad down there. Got three little bunks side by side so they

can sleep all together - not like that, I don't hear no noises or nothing.

They're not like that, just friends. They care about each other, you

know? It's sweet.

I got a little bathroom down there for them too. And they're real

neat. Well house-trained, and no bother most of the time, unless

Victoria throws one of her conniption fits. She makes me laugh 'cause

she gets madder and madder and her voice gets louder and louder but

her words, they're always clean. A good girl is Miss Prissy-ass

Victoria.

But they know I look after them, so why should they want to piss me

off? I give them stuff to read. Paper and pens so they can write and

draw and stuff. If they get me mad, I could stop giving them that shit. I

could do that, easy - and the Doctor, he's a real one for writing, he

would just hate it if I cut off his supply. He draws all these weird

diagrams and shit; math stuff, mostly. Anyway, they're not much

trouble and the boss pays me just fine.

I get them little treats sometimes. A flower for Victoria. A real bright

bulb they can screw into the single socket when the Doctor wants to do

some of his mad professor scribbles. And Jimmy loves Big Macs. I get

him one on Sundays. I used to get it for the others but Victoria went all

hissy over the grease and shit and the Doctor, well, he hardly eats a

damn thing anyway. But then, Jimmy works out, he needs the red

meat. He runs round that little basement, and does press-ups and sit-

ups and squat thrusts until the whole little hole stinks of his sweat. But

the others don't say nothing. Jimmy says he wants to be ready for the

day he gets out of here, for the day he steals back his face from

wherever it's hidden. And I hear him plot and plan and it makes me

kind of sad, but man, I love to stand at the top of those little steps and

breathe in his sweat.

I turn out the light at 7.30 - the switch is on my floor, at the top of

the stairs - and I lock the door. But first I make them say 'Goodnight

and thank you for looking after me', because that is what I would've

said each night to my mom and dad if they had stuck around. That is

what my little Aylisha would say to me each night, if those prim city

bitches had believed I was clean, and let me keep her.

I hear the kids talking after the light's off, even over the noise from

next door and the deaf-aid lady clomping about in the place above.

They don't know I listen, but the sound carries real well. There's this

hole in the flue leading up from down there, see, where the last tenant

must've punched right through the wall or something.

'How many weeks has it been now, Doctor?' I hear Victoria

whisper. Jimmy's told her off before for asking that question so often,

and she's tried staying quiet, but I guess she always finds it worse

being trapped away underground when she's had her weekly trip

outside.

'Well, we've had eight faces painted, now,' murmurs the Doctor. 'So

that's eight weeks.'

'It feels like forever,' she says. 'At least when we were locked up

before we were normal. We were us.'

'We're still us, Victoria,' says the Doctor, but it don't even sound

like he believes it.

'Have you seen those jars yon big lass keeps in her room?' Jamie

sounds thoughtful. 'I reckon we might find our faces in one of those.'

He cracks me up, and I take another swig of vodka. He's talking

about a couple of bell jars I got stowed behind the couch, you can just

see them from the hallway. I keep pennies and quarters in one and

rubber bands, hair grips, all kinds of crap in the other. No faces, kid.

The Doctor's got this kind of flat note to his voice, like he can't

believe he has to say this out loud. 'Jamie, I've told you before, I'm

sure our faces haven't really been taken. It's a trick of some kind.'

'Well, have you no' got the trick to get us them back again?'

I hold my breath, stop crunching chips, while I wait for his reply.

'Not yet,' he says defensively, 'But I'm sure I shall.'

'You've been sure for a long time,' says Victoria softly, 'but we're

still like this.'

I take another swig. 'You and me both, honey,' I mutter.

'The facial nerve is unaffected,' says the Doc, and then he's spouting

off at them: 'We can still control the muscles in our faces, the glands in

our palates still function effectively, taste-buds in the anterior two-

thirds of the -'

'We have no faces, Doctor, ' Victoria hisses, and from her breathing

it's like she's building up to a conniption. 'And I can't bear it. Stuck

down here out of the light, out of the sun... These dreadful, shapeless

clothes, greasy, sickly food, smelly paint all over my face...'

'I know it's very difficult, but you must save your strength,

Victoria,' says the Doctor firmly. 'Whoever's done this to us wants to

diminish us, to wear us down, to make us despair.'

'The way it hurts to breathe, like you're breathing through a pillow,'

Victoria carries on like he's not spoken. And he doesn't butt in again,

just lets her speak about how hard her life is now.

I sit there listening and crunching my chips and gulping my drink

and getting real mad, and I feel like going down there and kicking

Victoria's skinny white ass and telling her to shut her mouth with all

her complaining, 'cept she don't have one. Then I get to feeling kind of

sorry for them all again.

And I get to wishing I could tell Face-Painter the whole story about

them, next time I see him. Tell him how the big man pays me and all,

for taking care of them, and how he chose me 'cause he knows I don't

use, and he knows I used to take care of my girl real good till they took

her away, and how he thinks that helping my little faceless kids will

help me too. And it's true, I do feel better about myself. Still down, but

better than I have in a long, long time.

I hear the guys next door screaming at their TV. I wonder if they've

ever looked at my place and noticed anyone's alive in it.

And I get up and flick on the basement light and shout down to the

boy, 'Hey, Jimmy. I want to see you up here. Just you. Let's go.'

And I wait till hear him coming up the stairs. 'You try any tricks on

me,' I warn him, 'and something real bad's gonna happen to your

friends. He'll see to that.' He stays quiet. 'So promise me, no tricks.'

He promises, and so I turn the key and let him out.

He stands there, still dressed in his faded jeans and loose white T-

shirt and if I'd drunk any more tonight I might really think I was

looking at Brad Pitt. Face-Painter is good, and Jimmy's looking fine.

'What do you want?' he asks, suspicious-like.

'I want to show you something,' I say. And I take his hand and lead

him in a passable straight line over to the jars behind the couch.

He sees them and his shoulders slump.

'I don't have your faces stowed away here, Jimmy boy.'

'Aye, well. Mebbe you keep them in another jar.'

I shake my head: 'What is it with you and the jar thing, huh?'

'All I know is, I went to sleep two months ago with a face and when

I woke up it was gone.' He thumps his fist into his hand: And how can

that be? And why are we being kept here with you, week after week?'

It's amazing, I'm hearing all this anger but Brad's face is placid and

pure, smiling at me. It makes me want to smile back at him. 'Maybe

someone wanted to borrow your faces,' I say. 'Maybe someone's

running round pretending to be you, having such a ball they don't want

to give you your face back.' I place my hand on his chest. Been so long

since I touched a man: Was it good being you, honey? I bet it was real

sweet, huh?'

He angles his bald head down to my carpet. I know he's sad.

'Someone else might have my face, you say?'

'Maybe. But what do I know?'

He turns around, away from me, and for a second I press my hand

against his back. I guess I don't know what I'm doing. I'm feeling

sorry for him, or for myself, but I'm thinking maybe my kids deserve

better than this. Better than what's been given to them. Better than

what I can give to them. And I know then I've had too much to drink

because I'm feeling kind of warm and thinking maybe I can change

and start that diet or save for the surgeon, and get myself straight and

maybe get Aylisha back... All that crap.

And I'm thinking next week I might ask Face-Painter to put his own

face on Jimmy's empty slate. Or tomorrow. Maybe I could go back

tomorrow, who says I should wait for a week? He was mean to do that

to Victoria's face, she would maybe lighten up if I took her back and

got him to do it fresh. We would all feel better.

He turns back round and I take my hand away. He reaches for it,

holds it softly in his.

'You lonely?' I whisper. 'Only I know what that's like, feeling

lonely even when you got people there in your face, all around.' I

could put my arms around him and shut my eyes and pretend he was

someone real. I want to put out the lights and hold him and we could

just -

He twists my hand. 'Give us back our faces!' he yells. 'Where have

you put them?'

'You promised!' I yell at him.

'Where, woman!'

I swear and shout, though no one will hear me. They'll hear the

game and those damn dogs, but they won't hear me. I struggle against

him but he's reaching in to my pocket and groping for the key, and

he's squeezing his hand there against my gut and I feel ashamed of

what he must think when he feels all that flab, and then he's got the

key and I'm hard on my knees on the floor, crying my eyes out, and

I'm too drunk to get back up. There's a confused babble of voices from

the basement, it carries right up to me. Then the three of them are

suddenly free and skipping about my living room, and it's about the

only real living been done there in years.

'Don't go,' I say, snot-nosed and dribbling, wiping my eyes. I liked

looking after them. Been feeling happier. A better person.

'Doctor, what are you waiting for?'Victoria says, high and

hysterical, hovering by the front door. 'Come on!'

'But she's right.' The Doctor's hopping from foot to foot like he just

wet his blue jeans or something. That crazy sunflower face moves from

side to side. 'Something bad might happen to us if we do this.'

'You're not wanting to go back down there!' Jimmy shouts.

'Each time we escape we're punished!' he yells. 'Something's taken

away from us!' His hands hover round his pockets like he wants to

stick them inside, but the pants are too tight. 'What will we lose next?

Our voices? Our sight? Our freedom even to think?'

'What'll happen if we just stay here?' Jimmy insists. 'Nothing!

Nothing ever! We have to get away!'

'We won't find our faces in any jar outside!' the Doctor storms, the

centre of the sunflower one big eye staring out from the bald face. 'We

won't find them hanging on a peg somewhere, ready for us to slip back

on.' He holds out his hands to his friends. 'I've told you, we're

suffering from some kind of illusion, a spell that's been placed on us

somehow. That's all. We'll find a way out of this, I promise you. But if

we try to leave now...'

Victoria and Jimmy stand there, all crumpled in their jeans and T-

shirts. Brad looks calm and assured. The girl painted on Victoria's face

has lines in all the wrong places. She looks terrible, small and frail in

the oversized clothes I picked out for her. And the TV noise goes on

outside, the tethered-up dogs bark same as every night.

'Listen to that dreadful din,' says Victoria quietly. 'Where could we

run to, Jamie?'

She comes over and stands in front of me, where I'm still kneeling

and snorting and crying and stuff. And she does this little curtsey and

says, 'Thank you for looking after me. Goodnight.'

And down she goes to the basement.

The Doctor holds out his hand to Jimmy, who turns and faces the

door. The Doctor stands there with his arm out for a full minute till

Brad Pitt turns round and takes it, and they go down the steps holding

hands.

The door swings quietly shut behind them. The key is still in the

lock.

I turn that key.

'You promised,' I bellow down at the things shut behind the

basement door. And I scream and I fling open my front door and I

march out and hurl the key away into the noisy night, and then I follow

it.

Next morning I pitch up at Face-Painter's, with all the cash I got -

money that was meant for the kids, but screw them. They want to

screw with me? No way.

He opens at 9.30. I hear bolts sliding and then the door opens up. He

sees me. He's wearing his shades and I can't blame him; the sunlight's

too bright and too yellow. I only wish I could find mine in all the crap

back home.

'Hey,' says Face-Painter, and puts his sign out on the sidewalk. His

biceps bulge under his shirt, and his tight gut spills over his waistband.

I can see the little hairs standing up there. 'You all alone today?'

I don't want to talk about it. 'That sunflower you did yesterday? I

want it.'

'Tattoo?' he asks. 'You sure?'

'Sure. I know I don't got an appointment, but...'

'Only, you know, a tattoo's for life.'

'I want it.'

'And they cost. Those designs.'

'I want it, Face-Painter. For life.'

'That's a real long time.'

But he beckons me and then I'm walking into his cool, sweat-

stinking shop, right to the back, and I'm sitting on the leather, and

thinking of Jimmy last night and how it felt to be touching his back and

feel the warm skin beneath his shirt.

'Why d'you come to me, Rachel?' he asks, as he sorts through his

inks.

'You're the best in the west,' I tell him, but he's looking at my eyes

like he can see they're blotchy and red from all the tears last night.

'No. You come to me because it's the rules,' he says, flicking on the

TV for reruns of some old black and white show. 'Thursday

afternoons, time to take the faceless kids down to get painted. You

don't come here any other time. So why'd you break the rules?'

'What you talking about?'

'Those three freaks of yours. You were getting good money taking

care of them. So why'd you blow it?' He sounds like he's pissed at me,

like he knows all about last night. 'You had to go and break the rules.

You had to go and spoil things for yourself. You told the boss man you

were through spoiling things for yourself.' He comes up close and he

places one big hand on my face, holds it real tight, squeezes.

And I'm crying out in his quiet little shop, 'I just wanted to do

something for me. This damn city's so loud you never get heard.' His

fingers are digging in hard. 'Listen, I want the sunflower, that's all.'

My voice is coming out all slurred and muffled through his thick

fingers. 'I want to be looked at. I want to be seen.'

Face-Painter shakes his head. 'In this part of town,' he says, reaching

for his needles, 'no one looks too hard at no one for long unless they

want trouble.'

And behind his shades I see he ain't got no eyes. It's just bare skin

And I know he's gonna take something from me, and it might be my

stupid mouth or my stupid cry-baby eyes but I reckon maybe he'll

leave my ears because he knows I hate this damn town being so noisy

all the God-damn time, and he knows I ain't never getting out, I guess

just like my three kids are never getting out now and who'll take us

down here on a Thursday? And my ears are full of the sound of

screams and they're all mine as his smile falls away, and that big empty

space where Face-Painter's mouth was is pressing up to me.

Short Trips: The Muses

So, a different approach yet again for my third collection. No more would

I have to choose between stories, as everyone pitched for the same subject/

Doctor etc. This time I approached nine writers, and asked if they would be so

kind as to do a story for a certain Muse, featuring a certain Doctor. So I didn't

know what I was going to get until the stories arrived, but with writers of the

calibre of Robert Shearman, Gareth Roberts and Paul Magrs I knew I wouldn't

be disappointed. Have I mentioned how difficult a task this has been, to

choose a favourite story from each collection? Well, I'll mention it now. I love

some of these stories. To choose between this funny one, this dramatic one,

this beautiful one - well, it's not been easy. If only I'd had an entire volume to

put all my favourite stories in... oh, right, yes, that was The Muses.

But, despite fierce competition, here I had to pick the story that has made

me cry more than any other Doctor Who short story ever: The Glass Princess by

Justin Richards. As Justin's written scores of best-selling books, it may be a

bit egotistical of me to think he wrote his best ever story for my collection,

but it's undoubtedly my favourite piece of his writing - and what's more, it's

a multi-Doctor story too.

Jacqueline Rayner

The Glass Princess

Justin Richards

On her fifth birthday, Princess Clio started to die.

The palace ballroom was a thick forest of legs and dresses as her

father led her proudly to the front. Mother walked beside her, holding

her hand. Mother was wearing her pink dress, the one with the white

roses and the lace collar. People applauded and faces dipped into view

and smiled. It was her birthday and everything in the world was lovely.

There would be food, drinks, her friends the Archduke's children

had come to play. And there would be presents. Mother said that

everything would be 'just so' and father had muttered that at least

Cousin Malvek was not coming. Clio knew her father's cousin was the

Regent of Dolmara and Father did not like him. His name was

mentioned in whispers when no one smiled. Anise had told Clio once

that if Father died, Clio would be queen. Once she was five. But if Clio

then died, Cousin Malvek would be king.

'And what if I die before Father?' she had asked her nanny, not

knowing what dying was and wondering if it hurt. 'Will Cousin

Malvek be king then?'

Nanny Anise had smiled, and shaken her head. 'He would become

the heir to the throne. But it won't happen that way.'

Clio thought about Cousin Malvek because Uncle Ferdand was

there. His saggy, wrinkled face smiled at her for a moment as she

passed before turning quickly away. Uncle Ferdand often visited the

Palace, though everyone else called him 'Ambassador'. Father would

keep him waiting, and if he saw her, Ferdand would talk quietly and

nicely to Clio. They played 'I Spy' in the palace anterooms, and he told

her stories of his home on Dolmara. He told her how many light years

away it was, how his children were all grown up with children of their

own now He showed her holosnaps of an old lady he called 'Darling',

and of his grandchildren. Clio hoped he thought she was grand too. She

hoped he had brought her a present.

At the front of the room, Mother helped Clio up the steps to join her

father on the dais. When she turned she could see the people properly,

being higher up. There were so many people, and she could see now

that they were standing in rows, like pieces on Father's chessboard.

There was silence as they waited for Father to speak.

'As you know,' he said, 'today is my daughter's birthday. Today she

is five years old. The age of heredity, in our ancient law. The age

where traditionally she is deemed ready and able to assume the throne.

When she is made officially my heir.' His voice was strange today. It

was a bit like the voice he used in meetings and speeches and on the

holovidcasts. But it was also a bit like the voice he used to Clio and her

mother when they were alone. Clio stood still and listened, because

that was what princesses did.

'But, as I say, that is ancient law. Whereas today is a celebration, it

is a birthday party, not a state event,' Father said. 'And now Clio has a

few words of her own, I think.'

She was aware of Father looking down at her. He was smiling. She

bit her lip, feeling suddenly hot. She hoped she remembered the words

properly. She hoped she could speak as loud and clear and slow as

Father had shown her. She hoped her dress looked pretty, but Mother

was smiling so she knew everything would be all right.

She remembered to look out into the room, not down at her feet.

Right at the front of the crowd of people was an old man with long

white hair that curled down over the back of his collar. His eyes were

alive and his smile was real. Clio had seen lots of smiles that weren't.

The old man nodded, just slightly - just enough to say: 'Go on, it'll be

all right.' His eyes twinkled with encouragement and amusement, and

Clio spoke.

'Thank you all for coming to my party' she said. She said it clearly

and loudly and slowly. When she finished, there was silence. Everyone

was still looking at her. Clio was not sure what happened next, so she

turned to her Mother and said - clearly and loudly and slowly - 'Can I

have my presents now?' She could see Uncle Ferdand as she said it.

She saw that he was not smiling, and his eyes were not twinkling.

'Please,' she added hurriedly, hoping no one else had noticed her

rudeness. It was rude not to say please. Uncle Ferdand's face

disappeared behind someone else's shoulder, as if he was looking

down at his feet. He wasn't talking, so that was probably all right.

Mother was smiling, and Father laughed, his hand pressing briefly

against her back.

'I think we all know where a child's priorities lie,' he said. Then he

started to clap slowly and carefully, nodding and smiling at his

daughter as the room erupted into applause. Father leaned down to

whisper to Clio as the audience continued to clap. 'Of course you can

have your presents now,' he said. 'You've earned them, my little

princess.

There were so many presents that after a long time they brought Clio a

chair. She sat on her chair on the dais and one by one the people came

up, handed her a present, and waited politely and expectantly as Clio

opened it.

At first she was careful with the paper. At first she teased the tape

and gently undid the ribbon. But before very long she was tearing and

ripping into each package. She hardly had time to look at the present

before it was gently lifted from her hands and disappeared. On the edge

of the dais one of Father's helpers was noting down everything she got.

The torn paper and empty boxes also disappeared. Clio hoped they

were keeping the best boxes - Anise would make things from them.

Clio was not disappointed with her presents. Many were jewellery,

necklaces, ornaments that caught and reflected the light. But there were

some toys. The Archduke's children - Alex and Natasha - gave her a

game with little figures and a holobook of fairy tales.

The old man at the front of the room had not come up to the dais yet.

He stayed at the front of the room, watching the line of people,

nodding and smiling and enjoying Clio opening her presents. But she

hardly noticed. She was waiting to see what Uncle Ferdand had

brought her. She could see the top of his bald head shining under the

chandeliers as he moved closer to her, as the line of people waiting

moved slowly along.

'Hello, Uncle Ferdand.'

He smiled back at her. But for once it did not seem like it was a real

smile. His hands were damp when she took the box from him. Damp

and cold, and trembling. When he blinked, his eyes were pale and

watery. He looked so old, Clio thought. 'Happy birthday,' he said

quietly, and looked away from her eyes.

The paper tore easily, making a satisfying sound as Clio ripped it

away from the polished wooden box. 'What is it?' She opened the lid

and looked eagerly inside. 'Oh - how lovely. Look, Mother.' She held

the box so Mother could see inside. Father leaned over too so as to see

the slippers.

Two delicate, tiny slippers that glittered as they reflected the light.

They looked like they had been carved out of diamond, the facets of

the crystal flashing and sparkling as she lifted them from the box. 'Can

I try them on? Now? Can I?' She heard Uncle Ferdand catch his breath,

and she thought how pleased he must be that she liked them.

Mother helped her take her shoes off, and Father put the slippers

down on the floor in front of the chair. The light from them dazzled

Clio as she slipped her foot into one of them. It was snug and

comfortable, despite being glass or crystal. 'It fits perfectly,' she said.

'They were made especially for you,' Uncle Ferdand said. But he

still was not looking at her. Perhaps it was the light shining in her eyes

but it seemed to Clio that the old man was almost crying. His lips were

pressed tightly together and his eyes were deep, pale wells.

The second shoe fitted as perfectly as the first. Until she eased her

foot right inside. Clio gasped, and it seemed as though Ferdand gasped

with her. A sudden shooting pain in her big toe as it met the end of the

shoe. She could see her feet inside the slippers, distorted and faceted.

There was nothing inside the shoe that could hurt, but she had felt a jab

of pain. Like treading on broken glass.

'What is it?' Mother asked.

Clio pulled the shoe off. 'My toe,' she explained. She looked up to

see if Uncle Ferdand was upset, she did not want him to be upset. But

he had gone. She looked to her Father, but he was turned away -

nodding and gesturing to one of the soldiers at the side of the dais. The

soldier was talking into his glove, the way they sometimes did to send

messages. From the back of the room, Clio thought she could hear

voices, but Mother was holding her foot in her hand. In the other hand

Mother held the slipper.

'Please - may I?'The voice was gentle and kind, old but firm. It was

the man who had been watching, the man with the white hair. He lifted

the slipper from Mother's hand. Held it up and sniffed cautiously at it,

then turned it so he could peer inside. When he tipped it up, a drop of

clear liquid formed, grew, dripped.

Clio was feeling tired. Everything blurred as if she had stayed up too

late and she felt her eyelids flutter as she tried to keep awake.

'A tiny glass needle at the end of the shoe. Hidden by the way the

design is cut, you see?' She could barely focus on him now, but the old

man sounded pleased with himself.

'What was in it?' Her father's voice.

The old man's reply had lost its enthusiasm. 'I don't know, I'm

afraid. I don't know. But I think we should find out, don't you?

Hmm?'

'What was in it?' Father asked again, his voice hard and sharp as

glass. But Clio could see that this time he was asking someone else.

Someone held by the soldiers. Someone that Clio realised with muzzy

surprise was Uncle Ferdand. And he was crying.

'Your highness - I'm sorry,' Uncle Ferdand said between sobs. 'So

sorry.'

'Then why?' the white-haired old man asked. 'Why, sir?'

'Because I too have children. And they have children of their own.'

'A life for a life?' Father was asking. He sounded like he did when

he spoke to the important soldiers sometimes.

The room was empty now, except for the soldiers and Uncle

Ferdand, Clio and her parents. And the old man. She did not remember

the people leaving. 'Is the party over?' she asked the old man who was

now holding her foot, looking carefully at her poorly toe.

'I'm afraid it may be,' he said.

'How is she, doctor?' Mother asked. He did not reply.

'Am I sick?'

The doctor turned to look at Uncle Ferdand. 'Well?' he asked. 'Is

she?'

'She is dying.'

'Does that mean Uncle Malvek will be king?' Clio asked.

'It means,' Mother said quietly - so quietly that Clio wondered if she

was supposed to hear - 'that there will be war.'

Clio closed her eyes. It must be bedtime. She could look at her

presents again tomorrow. She could play with Alex and Natasha

tomorrow. Through the gathering sleep, she could hear Uncle

Ferdand's voice, though she could hardly make out his words.

It wasn't meant to be like this. She would just hurt her foot. Then

natural causes. No blame or anger. Just sorrow and weeping. She

shouldn't have put the slipper on, not here, not now. With people

watching.'

'But she did, sir,' the Doctor said. 'And if I am to help her, I need to

know what was in that needle.

'She is beyond help.'

Father's anger almost woke her again. 'What was in it?'

Almost. Then she was slipping away once more. Already she must

be dreaming, Clio thought.

'Senexium Pulverate.'

Clio's eyes opened again, just for a moment. Just long enough to see

Uncle .Ferdand's trembling hand go to his mouth. Just long enough to

look into his brimming eyes. When his hand moved away, he seemed

to say: 'I'm sorry Clio,' only there was no sound. No sound but

Father's shout, then the soldier trying to reach into Uncles mouth, and

the foam and his screams, and Ferdand's body falling to the floor.

The doctor's sad smile filled her vision for an instant, then Clio's

eyes fluttered shut. Before she slept, she heard his words, as if filtered

into her dream:

'I haven't given you my present yet, Clio.' And the sounds she heard

as she drifted into a long sleep were like Father's pen scratching on the

pages of his journal.

* * *

Anise was shaking her, ever so gently. Clio opened her eyes,

wondering for a moment where she was. It felt like her bed, but above

and around it was a cat's cradle of tubes and wires. It seemed to hum

and pulse with a life of its own. Like a monster, asleep.

'It's time to get up, Clio,' Allise was saying. Her eyes were damp

but she was smiling. 'Time for the party.'

'Party?' She was still sleepy as she swung her legs out of bed. 'I've

got your dress ready - look. It's your favourite colour.'

'Is it someone's birthday?' Clio had not seen the dress before, but it

was lovely and it was red. It sparkled and shone in the soft morning

light.

'It's your birthday,' Allise said. 'You are six years old today.'

They were waiting for her in the banqueting hall - Mother and

Father, Alex and Natasha with their mother. And another man that Clio

did not know, but who grinned at her as if he was an old friend.

'Happy birthday, my darling,' Mother hugged and kissed Clio as

soon as she was in the room.

'But that was yesterday,' Clio said. 'We had a party and everything.

I want to play with my presents.'

For a moment everyone was quiet. Then Father cleared his throat.

He looked pale and tired, Clio thought. 'You're right,' he said. 'But

now you have a birthday every day.' He looked over at the strange

little man with the dark hair and crumpled clothes. 'Isn't that right,

doctor?'

The man - the doctor - nodded. 'That's right'

'You're not the doctor I saw yesterday.'

'No,' the man admitted. 'I suppose I'm not. But I know him as well

as I know myself.'

'He promised me a present.'

'Clio,' her Mother murmured.

'He did,' she protested. 'But I fell asleep before he gave it to me'

She pursed her lips, but she could not stay annoyed for long. 'Is it

really my birthday? Is it really my birthday every day?'

'It is,' the doctor said.

'Then I must be the luckiest girl in the world.'

Her mother turned away. Alex looked as if he was going to say

something, but Natasha nudged him and he looked at the floor.

'So the other doctor promised you a present, did he?'

She nodded.

'The Doctor,' Father said quietly, looking at the little man, at the

new doctor, 'has given you the best present of all. A gift that we all

share in and are the richer for.'

The doctor nodded slowly, then clapped his hands together and took

a few steps towards Clio. 'Yes, well, we shall have to do something

about that then, mustn't we. It must be a thing about doctors,' he went

on, talking as if only he and Clio were there, as if they had been friends

for ever. 'Only, I seem to have forgotten to bring you a present today.

So what I'll do is, for your next birthday, I shall bring you three

presents.'

'Three?'

He smiled. 'One for your last birthday, from the other doctor, one for

this birthday from me. And one for the next birthday.'

'But that'll be ages. A whole year.'

'Oh no, no, no.' He knelt down beside Clio and put his arm round

her shoulder. 'When you wake up in the morning,' he said gently, 'it

will be your next birthday. A birthday every day, remember?' He

nodded and smiled to prove it was true.

There were no other guests. Clio played with Alex and Natasha all

morning, and then there was a party. But it was just a small party. The

presents were nice, but there weren't very many. The food was good,

and the grown-ups drank wine and joined in the games. But they did

not seem to be enjoying it much. Perhaps, Clio thought, she was having

too many birthdays. Perhaps if you had too many birthdays they

stopped being fun. Father had to keep leaving, his helpers bringing him

messages that made him quiet or angry.

'Where is your father, the Archduke?' she asked Natasha when the

ice cream came. Clio was sitting between her friends. 'I like him, he

makes me laugh with his stories.'

Natasha blinked and frowned. She looked across Clio at Alex. 'He's

busy,' she said. 'He had things to do. Important things.'

'More important than my birthday?'

'He's at the war,' Alex said. But as soon as he said it, he looked

away, and Natasha was staring at him. 'Well, it's true,' Clio heard Alex

mutter.

'Are we having a war?' she asked, confused. But nobody replied.

All too soon it was bed time. Clio said goodnight to everyone and

thanked them for coming. Allise took her hand and started to lead her

away.

But Clio stopped, turned, looking for the doctor. 'You won't forget,'

she called to him 'My presents. Tomorrow.'

He smiled, a small, sad smile. 'I won't forget.'

'You promise?'

'I promise. Sleep well. I shall see you in the morning.'

Clio was tired. It was hard work, having a birthday. Allise tucked her

into bed. Then she fussed round the tubes and the wires, and did things

to a metal box on a table by the window.

'What are you doing?' Clio asked sleepily.

'Just making sure you get a good sleep,' her nanny replied. 'Good

night, princess, see you...' She paused, as if she had forgotten what she

was going to say. 'Soon,' she decided. 'I'll see you soon.'

Then Allise drew the curtains, and Clio slept. Until her next

birthday.

'Why can't I wear the dress I wore yesterday?' Clio wanted to know.

The new dress that Allise had shown her was blue. She preferred red.

'It won't fit you,' Allise said as if the question was silly.

'But it fitted me yesterday.'

For a while, Allise did not answer. Then she said: 'I like the blue. It

goes so well with your eyes. Why don't you wear it. For me. Just try it

on, you'll look beautiful.'

Allise seemed shorter than she had the day before, Clio thought as

she held her nanny's hand to go downstairs. So did everyone else when

she went into the banqueting hall Except Natasha and Alex. They

seemed taller - Natasha was up to her mother's shoulder.

Perhaps that was why Natasha's mother was so sad. She tried to hide

it, but Clio could tell. She watched the woman turn away to dab at her

eyes with a hanky. She looked so tired. Maybe Clio should lend her the

special bed.

The other person who was taller was the Doctor. Now he was as

dignified as a palace courtier, dressed in velvet and wearing a cape.

Clio knew who he was from the way he smiled at her when she came

into the room. Everyone else seemed to have to remember to smile

when they saw her, but not the Doctor. His joy was immediate and

complete. He clapped his hands together when Clio entered, and then

everyone else clapped too. Allise must be right - the dress made her

look beautiful. Clio squeezed her nanny's hand.

She turned a full circle to let them see the dress properly, delighted

at the continued applause.

'Happy birthday,' Mother said in her happy-sad voice. Father

nodded and smiled, and looked tired like Natasha and Alex's mother.

His jacket seemed to be sagging at the shoulders.

'Anise says my other dress won't fit me,' Clio said. 'But I wore it

yesterday, for my last birthday.'

There was silence at this. The applause had stopped and the smiles

were frozen.

'Ah, but now you're a year older,' the Doctor said. 'You're seven

now. A seven-year-old can't wear the same dress they had when they

were six, now, can they? Any more than a butterfly could fit back into

its chrysalis.'

He was funny, this new Doctor. He did conjuring tricks - made coins

disappear then reappear behind Clio's ear, or on his own tongue. He

laughed and drank wine with the grown-ups and they all seemed

happier this year. And he had brought the presents.

'I tried to think of things that were appropriate to the giver,' he told

Clio as he handed her the three wrapped boxes.

The first present was a brooch. It was large and gold and inset with

coloured stones. 'It's a bit big, I'm afraid,' the Doctor said. 'But it will

look good on you when you're... older. It's to show that the First

Doctor loved you.'

'Father said he gave me a present already,' Clio said as she held the

brooch so it caught the light. It reminded her of the slippers, and she

was careful not to prick her finger on the pin. 'But I don't know what it

was.'

'It was your bed. Your special bed,' her mother told her. 'It was a

gift to us all.'

The Doctor's second present was a musical pipe. He showed her

how to position her fingers and blow through it to make the notes. For

a moment, as she tried to play a tune, he looked sad.

'I'm sorry,' he said, seeing her expression. 'I was just remembering.

I once gave one of these to someone else. Someone I greatly admired.

It was the best gift I could have given him, but it wasn't really enough.

Sometimes,' he said, looking at Clio's mother, 'you can only do so

much. And that can be very sad.'

The third box was empty. 'There's nothing in it,' Clio exclaimed in

surprise. 'You forgot the present.'

'Oh no I didn't.' The Doctor sat down beside her, and took one of

her hands in both of his. 'You see, the third present is something that is

intangible. That means you can't see it, or smell it, or taste it even. But

it's there. It's always there.'

'What is it?'

'It's hope.'

Clio looked into the box again, turning it slowly, hoping to catch a

quick glimpse of the hope inside. But he was right, she could see

nothing. She put the lid carefully back on the box. 'I'll keep it safe,

always.'

The Doctor nodded and smiled. 'Good,' he said. 'Because, although

it may not always seem like it, while there's life, there's always hope.'

He stood up suddenly, as if embarrassed, and looked round. 'Now, I

must find your father and say goodbye.' He was holding something

else in his hand now - a metal rod of some sort which he tapped on the

palm of his other hand.

'What's that? Is it a magic wand?'

'I suppose so, in a way,' he admitted, amused. 'I was going to have a

quick look at your special bed before I go. Ah - there he is.'

Father had come back now, and the Doctor strode across to him. Clio

could just hear his words as he called to Father.

'It's time I was going, I'm afraid. But I'll take a quick look at the

stasis generator before I leave. I've an idea that might slow the

exponential energy drain. Or at least allow her to move further from

the generator when she's awake without hastening the process...'

Alex was talking to her now, so Clio could not hear any more of

what the Doctor said. Which was a pity. She liked his voice.

'I'll see you next year,' Alex said. 'Natasha has had to take Mother

back to the ship. She's...' He shook his head. 'It's been a bad time.'

'Don't be silly,' Clio told him. 'I'll see you tomorrow. Won't I

Anise? I'll see you tomorrow - at my next birthday.'

'Yes,' Alex said. He was looking at Anise, not at Clio. 'That's what

I meant. I'll see you tomorrow.'

Clio watched him walk stiffly away. He seemed so tall. He was

walking like a soldier now.

'You should say goodnight to your parents,' Anise said. 'It's nearly

time for bed.'

It snowed on Clio's eighth birthday. She watched the tiny flakes

spiralling down outside the window as the grown-ups talked quietly

and drank wine. Alex was not there, nor was his mother. But Natasha

had come. She was so tall now.

The Doctor too seemed taller, larger. His face was one huge smile

topped by a floppy hat and framed by a multi-coloured scarf. He

laughed and joked and gave her jelly babies - a whole big bag of

sweets for her present.

By the middle of the afternoon, it was getting dark outside. Clio

could see the snow was deep and crisp and unbroken by footprints

when she looked out of the window. Just a few days ago, she had to

stand on the window seat to peer over the stone sill and see down into

the palace courtyard, but now she could see easily without having to

climb. It must be because she was eight.

'Beautiful, isn't it?' the Doctor said, surprisingly quietly. 'So

delicate, so soft. So cold.' He sat down on the window seat so he was

almost the same height as Clio.

'It doesn't usually snow on my birthday.'

'But this time your birthday is in winter.'

'Is that why it's getting dark now?'

'It's been getting dark for a very long time,' the Doctor murmured.

Then he smiled again, his sudden sadness gone. 'It's my fault, I'm

afraid. I was a little late for your party, but you waited. You're very

kind.'

'Did I? Can I go out to play in the snow?'

'Hmm.' The Doctor nodded and stared out of the window. 'I would

like to say yes, but I'm afraid I don't think that would be a good idea.

We need to keep you warm and safe indoors, I think. Besides, as you

said, it's getting dark.'

Clio was disappointed, but she tried not to show it. 'I like the jelly

babies,' she said.

'They're my favourite too,' he confided. 'Be sure to eat them all up

today, won't you. They won't be nice when you wake up.'

Natasha hardly spoke to Clio the whole day. She seemed sad, and

Clio saw her Mother put an arm round Natasha although they were

almost the same height. Clio wanted to talk to Natasha, to ask her what

was wrong. But when she asked where Alex was, her friend ran away,

her hands to her face. Father hugged Clio, singing 'Happy Birthday' to

her in a voice that sounded like it came bubbled through water.

As it got darker, a helper came and lit candles. He was the only one

of Father's helpers that Clio saw. She watched as he went round the

room with a taper, his hand cupped round it to stop it blowing out as he

moved.

'Why are we having candles?' she asked. 'Is it because it's my

birthday?'

He looked at her as if it was a silly question. But Clio didn't think it

was. 'Please tell me,' she said.

'We have to save energy,' he said. 'The generators can barely

provide enough to keep -'

But before he could say any more, Mother arrived and told the man

to get on with his work. She led Clio back to the table, where the

Doctor was waiting. He was leaning back, rocking his chair like Alex's

mother told Alex not to. His feet were up on the table, and Father was

listening to his deep booming voice.

'It's the starting and stopping that's the problem, that's what takes

the power,' he was saying, 'And of course as the process speeds up as

the day goes on, so the energy need increases for the evening. The long

night. You may have to consider waiting a while longer, before you

next... '

His voice stopped abruptly as he saw Clio:

'It was three years last time,' Father was saying, but he seemed to be

saying it to himself. And we built another two generators. We can't

afford to do that again, it's taking resources we need at the front.' He

wiped his face with his hands, and he looked so old and tired.

'Hello there,' the Doctor said loudly to Clio, whipping his feet off

the table and sitting suddenly upright. 'Have you had a nice birthday?'

Allise was waiting for Clio. It was bedtime, she said. There were

lines on her face that Clio had not seen before. Lighter streaks in her

fair hair.

Clio had two jelly babies left. A red one and a yellow one. She put

the yellow one on the shelf with her books, standing watch over her as

she slept. And when Allise wasn't looking, Clio tucked her last jelly

baby under her pillow. It would sleep soundly there. Until tomorrow.

Until her next birthday.

As soon as Allise woke her, Clio slipped her hand under her pillow.

The jelly baby was warm and safe, and Clio popped it into her mouth

as she climbed out of bed. The room seemed dark, and Allise was

standing in the shadows, as if afraid to come into the room.

'I put out a dress for you,' she said. Her voice seemed husky and

strange. Perhaps she had a cold, Clio thought - it had been winter

yesterday.

But this morning the pale rays of the weak sun were scattering light

across the bedroom floor. Clio could see specks of dust spiralling down

through the light. Everywhere seemed dusty. She could see her

footmarks on the floor as she put on her shoes. Except they had shrunk

and she could not get her feet into them.

'They're waiting for you downstairs,' Allise said in her cracked

voice, and she turned to go before Clio had finished dressing, 'I'll see

you there.'

'Please wait for me,' Clio said. She skipped over to the shelf as she

pulled on her dress. It seemed awkward somehow, organising her arms

to do what she wanted. The shelf seemed lower than she remembered,

but the yellow jelly baby was still there, watching her from beneath a

layer of dust. Clio picked it up and blew gently to get the dust off. She

should not eat it, she thought, not if it was dusty like that. It was hard

and brittle beneath her fingers, and she decided that it might not taste

as nice as the red one had. So she put it back beside the fairy tales, and

hurried to catch up with Allise.

'My shoes don't fit.'

Allise did not answer. She was standing at the top of the stairs. As

Clio reached her, she saw that her nanny's hair was almost white now

The woman seemed stooped and bent. Clio tried to stifle a gasp, tried

not to show her surprise. Was Allise ill? She seemed so old and so

small and fragile. Clio carefully took her hand and together they

walked down the stairs, leaving prints in the dust and avoiding the

cobwebs.

There were two soldiers at the bottom of the staircase - one either

side. Other soldiers stood by the doors from the hall. They were not

Clio's father's men, the uniforms were different. They were like the

one Uncle Ferdand used to wear, but with less colour on the sleeves

and no medals on the chest.

Father was waiting with Clio's mother. Clio was surprised to see that

her mother's hair was grey - almost as white as Allise's had become.

Perhaps they had all been ill. Father's hair was white, and brushed in

thin wisps across his head.

When Mother hugged Clio, she seemed so fragile and thin Father

hugged her too, but it was nothing like the tight bearhug she was

expecting. He seemed so weak and drained. When she pulled away,

Clio's cheek was wet, and she brushed at it with the back of her hand.

The Doctor was the only person who seemed younger. Natasha was

there too, although it took Clio a few moments to recognise her.

'You're so grown-up,' she told her friend. 'How old are we now?'

'You are nine,' Natasha said gently. She smiled, but it seemed a sad

smile, 'And I am nineteen.'

Clio shook her head. 'You're four years older than me,' she said.

She tried to count it out on her fingers.

'I've had birthdays too,' Natasha said. 'While you've been sleeping.'

'Don't be silly. There aren't enough days. I have a birthday every

day.'

'You're probably nearer ten, actually.' The Doctor's voice was

gentle and kind. He smiled, looking younger even than Natasha when

he did. 'There's no longer a direct correlation, you see, as the process

speeds up and the energy demands increase.' His smile seemed to

freeze. 'I'm sorry, where are my manners. Let me introduce myself.'

'You're the Doctor,' Clio said. 'I can tell.'

'You can? Oh well, I suppose that's a good thing.'

'Did you bring me a present?'

He seemed confused for a moment. A present?' He frowned and his

eyes widened. 'Oh, a present, of course. Yes. A present.' Clio

wondered if he had forgotten where he had put it; they both looked

round the room. 'Here,' the Doctor said at last, and he pulled

something from his lapel and handed it to her.

'What is it?' It looked like a plant, a vegetable maybe.

'It's a stick of celery. You keep it for good luck. Like a rabbit's foot.'

'A what?'

'Yes, well, never mind .You just keep it safe. It will bring you luck.'

Clio thought she heard her father give a short laugh at that. But when

she looked, his face was stern.

'I'll tell you a secret,' the Doctor said quietly. He had put on a pair

of spectacles, but they seemed only half finished, only the bottom of

the lenses was there. He was examining the celery that Clio was

holding, 'That stick of celery,' he said quietly, 'doesn't really exist,

you know.'

It felt very real to Clio, but she nodded as if she understood. 'Is it

like the hope you gave me?' she asked. 'I still have that safe upstairs in

its box, although it's getting a bit dusty now.'

'I know the feeling,' the Doctor murmured. 'Yes, luck and hope

often go together.'

'I think', Clio's mother said quietly as she joined them to look at the

celery, 'that we have none of either.'

The Doctor nodded grimly, then forced a smile. 'Oh, look on the

bright side, there's always a silver lining.' He grinned widely. 'Never

say...' But the grin thinned to a smile, to nothing, as his voice faded

away.

There was not much to eat, just bread and cheese. Clio had been

waiting to see if Natasha was allowed wine now she was so old, but

nobody had any.

'Why are Cousin Malvek's soldiers here?' Clio asked. She did not

really want to know, but everyone was so quiet. It was her party, so

perhaps it was up to her to make the conversation.

'They are here to look after us,' Mother said, glancing at the soldiers

by the main doors, then looking quickly away again.

'To look after me, in particular,' Father said. He came the closest

Clio had seen so far today to a smile. 'I think the Doctor's arrival has

rather unsettled them.'

'Yes, I do seem to have that effect sometimes,' the Doctor agreed.

'And no doubt there will soon be the usual dire warnings about

energy consumption and lists of other crimes and misdemeanours to be

accounted for.'

Mother put her hand over Father's, which was bunched into a fist on

the table. Father looked down at it, shook his head. 'I'm sorry,' his face

said, but he said nothing out loud.

Clio's birthdays were getting shorter. Anise took her back to her

room soon after they had eaten. There were no games, no jokes, no

tricks. Just stern faces and silence. She hoped her next birthday would

be happier.

'You said I was nearer ten,' Clio told the Doctor as he solemnly

shook her hand and said good night. 'How old will I be at my next

birthday?'

The Doctor opened his mouth to answer, but then closed it again.

Perhaps he was not sure. He looked at Clio's mother and father.

Mother looked away. Father sighed.

'I don't know,' the Doctor said. He seemed to be talking to her

parents rather than to Clio. 'But I promise that you will have another

birthday. I'll tell you how old you are when you wake up.'

'In the morning? You'll be here?'

He pretended to be hurt. 'Aren't I always?'

She hugged the Doctor, and he seemed the least fragile of all of

them. He hugged her back, tight like Father used to. Natasha held her

tightly too, but her body seemed to shake as they embraced, and she

could not say good night. She just shook her head and looked at the

floor as Allise led Clio slowly, haltingly, up the stairs to bed.

The small yellow figure had crumbled. Clio could feel it disintegrating

under her fingers as she picked it up. If she blew the dust off it again,

she thought, the jelly baby might blow away as well.

And if she blew the dust off Allise, her nanny too might fall apart.

The woman was old now, so very old. Her face was lined and her eyes

were pale. She walked with the help of a stick.

'How old am I today?' Clio remembered what the Doctor had said.

She was taller - much taller than she had been. Her body seemed to

have changed shape. It was a strange thing - a few days ago she had

been celebrating her fifth birthday, and now...

'It's quite a complex calculation,' the Doctor told her when she met

him in the banqueting hall a few minutes later. 'Fortunately for

someone of my mathematical expertise it's the matter of only a

moment to sort the exponential curve induced by the Senexium

Pulverate and then retard that to take account of the temporal

suppression field. You have to factor in the energy dissipation of

course, and then there's the actual passage of time.'

'So how old am I this birthday?'

Allise did not answer, and Clio did not ask her again. The celery

stick was as fresh and moist as when the Doctor had given it to her

yesterday, she noticed. She sniffed at it, but it smelled of nothing.

Nothing but the dust and decay that was everywhere.

This Doctor was large and loud. But he seemed as friendly as any of

the others. His round face wore an apparently permanent air of

confidence while his coat suggested the wit and joy of a jester. It

looked as though the scarf he had on her eighth birthday had somehow

grown over his whole body. Even his hair was bursting with life. It was

a contrast to Mother's white hair, and her weary, old face. Natasha too

looked old and tired. So much must have happened in a night, so much

while she slept.

'Thirteen,' the Doctor decided. 'You're a teenager now, Clio.' He

winked at her theatrically. 'But no tantrums mind.'

Again it was the Doctor who did most of the talking and joking and

laughing. He told Clio outrageous stories about his adventures on other

worlds. He explained how clever he had been on so many occasions,

and how he had saved worlds and civilisations and people.

'But not us,' Mother said quietly, and for the briefest of instants the

Doctor's mood had dropped and his face had darkened as if a storm

was about to break.

In the lull that followed, Clio asked: 'When is Father coming?'

When nobody answered, she said: 'He never misses my birthdays. I bet

he was here for the ones in the night that I missed.'

Natasha sat with her mouth open, like she used to when Alex said

something silly. Clio had not seen Alex for several birthdays now

'Why is everyone going away?' she wondered.

'Yes,' Mother said. 'Your father has gone away.'

'Will he be here for my next birthday?' Clio was sad, but she knew

that Father was busy and important. She knew he would get to her

party if he possibly could, and she wondered what could be so urgent

that it kept him away.

No one said anything. Until the Doctor suddenly slapped his

forehead with the palm of his hand. 'Your present!' he exclaimed,

leaping to his feet.

There was only one soldier by the door for this birthday, and he

blinked, startled as the Doctor moved. For a second, Clio wondered

what he had at his belt that his hand quickly went to. But the Doctor

was already reaching across the table to her - handing her something.

It was a piece of cloth, thick like felt. Black. It was cut into a shape,

and Clio held it up to see what it was. The silhouette of an animal - she

could see its legs and its body and its head and imagined where its eyes

would be.

'It's a cat,' the Doctor explained. 'A cat that walks always alone. It

will watch over you while you sleep. You are very alike, you know.'

'I am like a cat?'

'He means you are alone,' Natasha said. Her voice was hard, but not

unkind. Her face was pale and there were dark patches under her eyes.

She looked, Clio thought, like Mother had looked on her sixth birthday

'While you sleep, and life goes on around you and you don't know

about it. Life,' Natasha said again quietly. 'And death.'

Clio frowned. She did not understand what Natasha meant, but she

said nothing. So many things were confusing her today. Like where her

father had gone, and why Mother and Allise were so old; why Natasha

was sharp with her, and why the Doctor pretended so hard to be happy

and confident when she could see in his eyes the depth of his sadness

and his self-doubt. If anyone there walked alone, it was this Doctor.

She was also confused by how her hands could hold the large knife

and fork and spoon so comfortably today when only yesterday they had

been too big and heavy. She felt awkward at being so tall as she sat at

the table - her eyes almost level with Natasha's now.

But she was grateful for the present, and it came as a surprise to

realise that for the past few birthdays the only presents she had been

given were from the Doctor. He took her hand and led her upstairs to

her bedroom.

'Allise usually puts me to bed,' Clio told him, her Mother's kisses

still wet on her cheeks.

'Anise is tired. Soon she will rest too. A long sleep. A very long

sleep. The years have taken their toll.'

'You mean the birthdays?'

The Doctor held her hand ever so slightly tighter. 'I mean the

birthdays,' he agreed. He raised her hand in his, to her lips, and kissed

it like the courtiers used to kiss Mother's hand.

'Why did you do that?' Clio wanted to know as she climbed into

bed. The Doctor had turned away while she undressed, which she also

thought was strange. 'Why did you kiss my hand?'

'Because you are a princess,' he said. 'And because it is your

birthday. And because...' He was fiddling with the controls for the bed,

like Allise did every night. 'Goodnight, Clio,' he said, his voice quieter

than she had imagined was possible after the bluster and the stories.

She closed her eyes, and if she felt the brush of his lips on her cheek

kissing her goodnight, then that too was far more gentle than she would

have believed of him. But perhaps it was just a breath of air come to

hasten her to sleep and to blow away the bad dreams.

The Doctor was still there when she woke, and Clio wondered if she

had slept at all. No sooner had she closed her eyes than she seemed to

sense the sunlight falling across them, and she was awake again.

She knew she had slept, at least for a while, by the Doctor. Now he

was a small man with a strange hat perched on top of his dark hair. He

raised the hat and smiled as he watched her opening her eyes. Then he

jammed it back down on his head.

'Is it morning?'

'Evening more like. The sun is setting.'

It was not until he said this that Clio realised the sun was shining in

through the window on the other side of the room. The light threw

shadows across the Doctor's face. She saw that as he leaned over her,

he was resting on a walking stick. The handle was stylised, red. There

was material wrapped round the stick, bulking it out.

'Did Allise find me a nice dress to wear today?'

He smiled, but it was a sad smile. 'Yes,' he said. 'And no. She left a

dress out for you, but I don't think it will fit. And Anise isn't here

today.'

'Not here?' That couldn't be right. Allise was always there. Clio

could not remember a day ever that Allise had not been there.

The Doctor had turned and was watching the setting sun. 'No,' he

said quietly, almost mumbling to himself. 'I'm afraid she had to go

away. We all do,' he added as he turned back. 'One day.'

'What will I wear?' Clio wondered, hoping Allise would be back

soon. For her next birthday perhaps.

'I found a dress in your mother's wardrobe that I think will fit you.

And some other things too.' He stepped back and pointed to the dress,

hanging on the back of the bedroom door. It looked lovely. It looked

enormous. Clio gasped.

'How old am I now?'

'Well, that's an interesting question' He tapped the handle of his

stick on his chin for a moment before reaching down the dress and

laying it across the bottom of the bed, next to more of her mother's

things - shoes, gloves, underwear. It was pale green, velvet, beautiful.

'You get dressed,' the Doctor said. 'I'll wait outside.'

'I can dress myself,' Clio admitted proudly. She got out of bed. She

felt odd, being so big. The Doctor was standing outside the door, and

she could hear his voice clearly as she dressed, fumbling with the

strange buttons and clasps.

'You and I are very alike, you know,' the Doctor was saying. 'I

knew a man - a very dear friend - whose children never tired of asking

him how old he was. And he always gave them the same answer.'

'No one stays the same age for ever,' Clio said.

That's very true. But what he always told them when they asked him

was: "I'm as old as my tongue, and a little bit older than my teeth."

Which was true of course She heard him chuckle. 'But not very

helpful.'

'I'm ready now.'

'You look beautiful.' He took several moments to admire her, and

Clio giggled with embarrassment. 'But while it was true for him, it

wouldn't be a true answer for me.'

Clio frowned. 'Have your teeth all gone then?'

'No.' He smiled at this. 'No, they are all my own. But it wouldn't be

a true answer for you either. Not really.'

'Wouldn't it?' She took his hand and they walked together across the

dusty landing towards the dusty staircase. Their feet echoed on the

marble floor.

'It depends what you mean by "old" really. Your body is like mine -

it's a different age to your mind. And then the length of elapsed time

since you were born, that's different again. Like me.'

Clio did not understand what he meant, so she just nodded and said

nothing.

'Time plays tricks on us all,' the Doctor said quietly as they arrived

in the banqueting hall.

It looked like a different room. There was no light except the dying

sun filtered through the grimy windows, casting long shadows across

the dusty floor. It picked out the cobwebs and the film of dirt on the

surfaces. Even the table was covered in dust.

There was an old woman sitting at the table. Her head was buried in

her hands, her elbows on the table, her white hair cascading round her

so that her face was hidden. When she looked up, she seemed tired and

sad. Slowly, falteringly, she got to her feet and shuffled round the table

towards Clio and the Doctor. Her chair toppled backwards as she

moved, falling with a muffled thud and sending up a shower of dust.

'Clio, my darling.' Her voice was cracked and dry and brittle - like

her smile Her eyes were pale and almost empty.

It was the dress that Clio recognised - pink, with white roses and a

lace collar. 'That's my mother's favourite dress,' she said, more

surprised than accusing.

The old woman paused. She had left trails in the dust where her feet

shuffled along. She looked from Clio to the Doctor and back, her eyes

brimming.

'Clio,' the Doctor said quietly, 'you remember what I said about the

tricks that time plays. Tempus fugit,' he murmured. 'This is your

mother.'

And as soon as he had said it, she could see that it was true. And she

cried, and her mother cried, and the Doctor looked like he was about to

cry but never quite did. Instead, he reached into his pocket and took out

a small bag. When he upended the bag over her waiting hands, her

present fell out.

'The old Doctor sent me a brooch,' she told him. 'The very first

Doctor, who gave me the special bed. He sent it with one of the other

Doctors.' But the brooch which this Doctor had given her was much

smaller. White plastic in the shape of a shield. There was a blue design

on it, but Clio did not know what it was supposed to be.

'It's a ship,' the Doctor said. Seeing her surprise, he explained. 'Not

a ship like you know. One that goes on water, rather than between the

planets.'

'On water?'

He helped her pin it on her dress. 'It belonged to a friend of mine.'

'The one with his own teeth?'

'Another friend. A young lady. Like you. But she said she didn't

need it any more and that you should have it. She said to tell you that

you had deserved it. It's a badge really, not a brooch. It's only given to

people who are very special. Very brave.'

'Am I very special and very brave?'

The Doctor stepped back to admire the badge-brooch. 'You'd better

ask your mother,' he said. But Mother was still crying softly, trying to

smile through the tears.

'You're all grown-up,' she said. 'My little girl, grown-up at last. I've

waited so long.'

Which seemed strange to Clio, who had grown up so very quickly.

Nobody else came to the party. The sun dipped out of sight and the

Doctor lit the only candle. Its flickering light helped them see their way

back up to the bedroom. It was a slow journey, as Mother had to hold

the Doctor's and Clio's arms for support and let them help her up the

stairs.

'Keep the dress on,' Mother said. 'And your brooch.'

'It's a badge,' Clio told her. 'The Doctor said so.'

'Your badge then,' She tried to smile. 'It will be morning soon. No

point in wasting time getting undressed.' She turned to the Doctor,

took his arm and led him a step or two away from the bed.

'Just once more. Can't we? Once more before the power finally...'

But the Doctor was shaking his head sadly. His voice was barely a

whisper in the near-darkness. 'If she wakes again, there will be no

power to restabilise the fields. I'm sorry.'

Mother looked at him for a while. The she shuffled back to the bed,

where Clio was waiting, her arms out to embrace her mother, kiss her

good night one last time.

'Good night, my darling.'

'Good night, Mother. I love you.'

'Sweet dreams,' Mother said. But her words were almost swallowed

by the threat of tears.

'I'll see you tomorrow,' Clio assured her. She did not like to see

Mother so sad. 'Anise will be back then. And Father. And the others.'

Perhaps her mother answered. Clio did not know. Her eyes began to

close, and somewhere in the distance the Doctor blew out the candle.

'Let me tell you a story,' the Doctor said as he led her to the door.

'Does it have a happy ending?' Clio wanted to know.

'In a way.'

'I like stories with happy endings.' The dress still fitted her, Clio

was surprised to find. Perhaps, as Mother had said, she had only slept a

short while and not missed any more birthdays. Wait a minute: She ran

to check her hope was still in its box on the bookcase. It was smothered

in dust but the small box was there.

'Once upon a time,' the Doctor said. They were on the landing now.

'All the best stories start like that,' he told her in a low voice. In his

storytelling voice he went on: 'There was a princess.'

The stairs were layered with dust, so that it puffed up at their feet as

they walked. The carpet had shredded almost to nothing.

'And this princess was unlucky enough to prick her finger on a

brooch, and so she went to sleep for a thousand years.'

Clio giggled, but it sounded more like a grown-up laughing, 'That's

silly,' she said. 'Nobody sleeps for a thousand years.'

The Doctor shrugged. 'Maybe it was a million.'

'All right.'

'Anyway, her family didn't want her to sleep, they wanted her to

wake up. But she was under a spell that would kill her if she didn't

sleep. So to stop her dying they attached a spinning wheel to her bed,

to stop the spell.'

'A spinning wheel?'

'It's just a story.'

The banqueting hall seemed to be empty. There was no sound from

downstairs, just the muffled tread of their feet in the dust.

'Anyway, they could not keep stopping and starting the spinning

wheel or the bobbin would wear out.'

'What's a bobbin?'

'It's the bit that would wear out.'

'So what did they do.'

'Well, they woke her once or twice, when they could. But after a

while it was less and less until they could no longer wake her up at all.'

'And what happened then?'

Clio was wrong. There was someone in the room. Sitting at the table,

head slumped forward. A woman in a faded, dusty dress that might

once have been pink. As Clio approached she could see a faint tracery

of lines - like branches - that covered the dress. And she could see

what might once have been white roses but they had turned deathly

pale and withered in the pattern. The lace that had trimmed the collar

was frayed and fractured, so it looked like tiny brittle broken bones.

And inside the dress...

She could guess. 'They all died, didn't they?'

The Doctor gently led her away from the table, towards the door.

'I'm afraid they did.' He was a younger Doctor this time. His face was

long, but not unhappy. He looked used to smiling. His hair was

bouncing with life and his voice had a soft edge to it.

'So what happened? To the princess? In the story?'

'Well... ' He seemed to think about this, hesitating in the doorway,

'There was one person who did not die.'

Clio clapped her hands together. 'A prince.'

'If you like.'

'Was he handsome?'

The Doctor seemed surprised at the question. 'Well, I suppose he

was. In a way. Yes.'

'What did the handsome prince do?'

'He made a choice. That may not sound very heroic, but it is the

most important thing that princes do. And the hardest. He had to decide

whether to let the princess - who was very beautiful, by the way, did I

say that? He had to decide whether to let her sleep forever, or to wake

her up. But he knew that if he woke her, the spinning wheel would stop

forever... '

She listened, mouth open attentive. 'The bobbin would break?'

He nodded, 'And there was no one left to repair it or find a new one.

But the prince, he decided to wake her anyway.'

They crossed the courtyard, towards the main gates. One of them

was slightly open. The other was rotted and had begun to collapse.

'So the prince went to the castle where the princess was sleeping.

But because of a fault in his horse's, er, navigational systems, he

arrived outside the castle, not inside. And he found that a huge forest

had grown up in the years she had slept. So he took his sword and

although it was a bit rusty and he was a bit out of practice, he hacked

his way through the trees until he found the castle.'

Clio followed the Doctor out through the gate. She had not been

outside the castle before. Not ever. She rested her hand on the cold

stone of the gateway as she went through. It looked like someone else's

hand -the blue veins just visible beneath the smooth surface, the nails

long and elegant...

Outside there was a wood - trees growing closely together, their

branches intertwined and overlapping. Every now and again Clio could

see small white roses peeping through the foliage, and she was careful

not to prick herself on the thorns as she followed the Doctor.

There was a narrow path through the wood. He was waiting for her,

and when she reached him, Clio could see that there were other paths

through the wood too.

'They don't really go anywhere,' the Doctor told her. 'I think

whoever cut them was a bit lost. Or perhaps they were not really sure

they wanted to reach the castle after all.'

'Can I run and play?'

His smile almost swallowed his face. 'Of course you can. That's

what the wood is for.'

'We mustn't run indoors.'

'But now we're outdoors. We can run and skip and shout for joy and

play hide and seek.'

'Can't catch me,' she shrieked, and was off.

The Doctor ran after her, but he wasn't really trying. He let her win

every time. Until she was out of breath and the smooth skin on the

back of her hand was slack and lined.

'So why did the prince wake her up?' They were walking slowly

along the path. The Doctor was pulling petals from a rose, one by one,

dropping them like snowflakes to the ground.

'He thought very long and very hard about just letting her sleep,

about sparing her the pain and the knowledge. He let her sleep while

civilisations came and went, while empires rose and fell. Until all the

birthdays and parties were over.' The rose was just a green stem now, a

single thorn jutting out from its side. 'But then he thought about what

she was missing - not the passage of history, but her own life. He

thought about how she should be able to run and skip and shout for joy

and play hide and seek. For once.' He was smiling, twisting the rose

stem in his fingers. But it was a less of a smile now. 'For last.'

Clio ran on ahead, laughing again, catching hold of a slender tree

trunk and twirling round it, her dress billowing out in joy.

'He thought of her just lying there, slowly but surely getting older

day by day, and he thought of his own day by day life.'

She ran up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder, running off

as he swung round and tried to catch her.

'He decided, I suppose, that you have to live life to the fullest you

can, not just sit back and let it all go by. You need to be out there doing

it, not stuck indoors, watching it. That's why.'

She skipped on ahead through the forest. But her feet were heavy

and she was feeling tired. Her fingernails had broken on the trees and

her hands were blotched and weak and wrinkled.

'It's about having the choice. About doing what's right. About

enjoying yourself. Enjoying life.'

There was a but at the end of the path. She was making her way

there through the trees, ducking behind them and jumping out at the

Doctor. But it was an effort now. She took his hands in hers and let

him swing her round.

'Ring a ring a roses,' he sang, his eyes bright and damp.

'A pocket full of posies.' The trees flashed past, and she could feel

herself sagging in his grasp.

'A-tissue, a-tissue.' She tried to speak, to tell him how much fun she

was having - how this was the best present of all, ever. But her voice

was a dry croak, like her Mother's had been that last time.

'We all fall down.' And she slumped to the floor, her dress spreading

round her.

They were almost at the but now, and the Doctor scooped Clio up as

if she was a little girl again, as if she was just five. As he did so, just

for a frozen instant, she thought she caught sight of her mother

reflected in the moisture of his eyes - an old, lined face. Smiling, but

tired. Trembling and frail.

'Sweet dreams, Clio,' the Doctor said quietly, and he bent to kiss

her. The last thing she heard, as she slipped into sleep, was a wounded

animal somewhere in the distance, howling with pain. And the last

thing she felt was the warm damp rain on her face. As her handsome

prince kissed Clio good night.

Short Trips: Steel Skies

Steel Skies and Life Science (Short Trips seven) were commissioned as a joint venture,

which allowed me to use a broader range of writers across the two books. The

process of receiving pitches for stories and discussing them with the writers

is one of my favourite parts of the job, one aspect of which is to make sure

that there's a reasonably representative spread of Doctor/companion teams

in each book. Sometimes, that means asking a writer to rework their story for

different characters. For these two, something about their SF flavour I think

inspired no less than five writers to send me promising story ideas set in the

late Fifth, early Sixth Doctor's eras - in other words, featuring Peri. Rather

than ask some of them to rewrite for someone else, I decided we would go

with the flow and make the stories work as a set, joining the writers in an email

discussion about common themes and threads.

The result is a very loose but discernible arc, tracking Peri's journey from

joining the Doctor to her decision - glossed over on television - to stay

with him and not return home. In Steel Skies, Mark Wright's Light at the End

of the Tunnel and Jeremy Daw's House deal with the early part of her stay in

the TARDIS and her uncertainty about whether to remain. Ruins of Heaven is

set a little later (just after Revelation of the Daleks), with a more settled-in Peri

capable of having, in effect, her own adventure and of beginning to tame the

often disagreeable Sixth Doctor. It also plays on the imagery and mythology of

angels, as Marc did so effectively in his TV serial, Ghost Light.

John Binns

The Ruins of Heaven

Marc Platt

'If this is Heaven,' said Peri when they first arrived, 'which way are

all the dead people?'

'Dead people?' The Doctor eyed the Tourist Information map

warily. 'That could be embarrassing.'

The map made no mention of the dearly departed. Instead, it

announced in rich thespian tones: ' Heaven, this particular Heaven,

since there are several disputed sites, is located on Sheol, the single

inhabited world circling the star Achshaph in the Ramshorn.'

'Sir John Gielgud,' observed the Doctor. 'He'll never be short of

work.'

'Renowned for its religious antiquities and miraculous

architecture, Heaven is also famed for its markets, health spa, and

historic Gates of Pearl shrine. Attracting cure-seekers and shoppers

from all over the galaxy, Heaven makes the ideal stop-off en route

to the Pleasure Domes and star-soaked beaches of Old Xanadu or

the Blessed Clouds of Gideon. Sponsored by Bluebliss Holidays,

Inc. '

'Great,' said Peri. 'Looks like the angels have moved out.'

The Doctor sniffed disapprovingly. 'And the marketing moguls

have moved in.'

Heaven wasn't warm so they'd taken their coats. But not as cold

as Hell, as the guide had pointed out. That was before she'd

stomped off in a fit of pique.

This time the Doctor had really done it. He and Peri had tagged

along behind the party of tourists, which had seemed like a great

idea: Peri's idea, in fact; anything to get a break from the Doctor's

demonstrative opinions. But they'd hardly reached the end of the

first block on Paradise Prospekt before he started complaining.

First, he called for the tour guide to speak up, insisting those at the

back couldn't hear. Several of the party agreed, which only

encouraged him. The guide, a young woman kilted out as a sort of

hermit with a flowing silver beard and sackcloth robes, carried a

rough-hewn staff with a red parasol perched on top. Her name

badge called her St Albans. She eyed Peri and the Doctor with

saintly irritation, before resuming her commentary.

All the way along the route, past rococo facades of crumbling

magnificence, over little bridges spanning canals filled not with

water but cloud, across cloistered piazzas where market stalls sold

the unimaginable, all the Doctor did was criticise. This date was

wrong; that fact was spurious; the place was festering in a tide of

commercial hyperbole; they'd have got a far better view if they'd

turned left at the last trivium.

'Quiet,' muttered Peri, but the Doctor had that pursed-lip look of

determined indignation that shed grown to realise always meant

trouble She met the guides glare with a feeble smile, and tried to

look interested. The perpetual smell of incense was starting to make

her feel sick.

Just ahead, there was another band of tourists with another guide

Most of them were neither young nor human; all of them seemed to

be ignoring the commentary and looking for photo opportunities.

And behind, there was yet another group and Peri could hear their

guide reciting the same commentary that St Albans had reeled off to

them only three minutes before. She was trapped on a treadmill.

They were mounting the steps of the cobalt blue Palace of

Ethereal Wisdom (apparently in the Raeonese style), when St

Albans turned and flung out an expansive arm towards the view

behind them 'Behold the City of Heaven,' she cried.

The city was mountainous, stretching ever upwards: palace upon

palace, temple upon temple, lit in the hues of an eternal dawn, their

foundations set in cloud. Gold and silver glinted on the domes. A

flock of tiny pink birds soared fax above, and were lost in the haze.

The group let out a collective sigh of satisfaction.

'Shame about the high-rise hotels,' muttered Peri. And she

nodded towards a duster of tower blocks stacked up on the eastern

horizon.

'Suburbs,' observed the Doctor sourly 'Heaven, the real Heaven,

is just an ideal. A comforting pipe dream. Not like this at all.' There

was a gasp of shock from the group. The Doctor was being too loud

again.

'Doctor, shut up!' And then Peri realised that he was actually

addressing their fellow tourists, most of whose jaws were dropping

in disbelief. 'This place is a fantasy. It's just pretend.'

Peri prayed for the steps to open up and swallow her whole.

'Keep your voice down. It's like shouting in church... '

'I have total respect for people's faiths, Peri. But this so-called

Heaven is not what it purports to be. It's a cheap theme park

imitation based on the Baroque school, without any hint of artistic

restraint or taste!'

Laughter echoed up from the piazza below. A seven-foot-high

cherub with golden curls, its rubbery features exaggerated and

cartoon-like, was shaking hands with tourists. It turned and waved

up at them, a cute smile on its chubby face. It reminded Peri of

someone, but she couldn't think whom.

Sir? Are you with Ambrosial Tours?' St Albans had come right

up to them

'No,' said Peri quickly. 'We just tagged along. It's erm...

interesting.'

'It's a fraud,' declared the Doctor.

'A fraud?' St Albans's tone was glacial. 'Do you have your entry

visas?'

'Visas? I thought the Kingdom of Heaven was open to all.'

Peri cringed under the scrutiny of the other tourists. Oh God, she

prayed to no avail. Please, PLEASE make him shut up!

It just got worse. The Doctor knew that he was now the centre of

attention and, naturally, loved it. 'You see, most of what you have

told us about this city has either been unfounded or untrue: He

patted St Albans's hand reassuringly 'Don't worry my dear, I

realise your commentary was written by somebody else. I couldn't

possibly hold you responsible for its wilful inaccuracy. As for this

place? Well, I've seen holier sieves.'

St Albans shook her beard in disbelief. 'The City of Heaven was

founded at the start of the Third Epoch by the Levitican Fathers,

they who discovered the Gates of Pearl on their pilgrimage to the

Blessed Clouds in the Constellation of Gideon. We'll have a chance

to visit and pass through the Gates themselves in the Parc des Portes

after lunch - queues permitting.'

'Oh, please!' spluttered the Doctor. 'Those gates were purely

ceremonial. Clearly left over from some earlier and long-vanished

civilisation. The Fathers have misinterpreted their significance.'

'Say, bud,' interjected one of the tourists, a turtleheaded guy in a

tartan shirt, 'if you know so much, maybe you should take over the

tour.'

Peri bit her tongue. The Doctor waved his arms in a fit of

modesty 'Oh, no. No, no, no, I couldn't possibly.'

'Please do,' snapped St Albans, clearly incensed. 'After all, who

am I? Just a mere volunteer.'

'You mean you don't even get paid?'

'We have the conviction of our belief,' said the guide and thrust

her staff with the red umbrella into the Doctor's hand. 'Let's see

where scepticism gets you. 'And she stalked away down the steps.

'No!' called the Doctor. 'Please wait. I didn't mean...' But he was

left in the centre of a mob of angry tourists.

That was when Peri had had enough too. 'Sony, Doctor,' she

shrugged. 'I'm going to do some exploring on my own. See you

later... back at the TARDIS.' She didn't need to see his open-

mouthed exasperation. She just heard his little gasp of helpless

astonishment behind her as she headed down the steps and across

the sunny piana.

'Peri! Be careful!'

'Yeah, yeah, yeah... ' But she hadn't gone far down the steps

before she had to suppress a smile. She suddenly knew who the

huge golden-curled cherub with its goofy walk and silly wave had

reminded her of.

She was finally starting to come to terms with the Doctor's

eccentricities - well, some of them anyhow. Not only did he have

an extraordinary ability to avert terrible disasters, he could cause

them as well. As much as fighting villains and monsters, he was

often fighting himself. The bluster was just on the surface. Deep

down, the goodness in him was innate.

It was just that once in a while, just for once, it would be really

great to know something that the Doctor didn't. Or at least, that he

didn't admit to knowing. It didn't have to be anything universe-

shattering: just something that was hers, not his, no matter how

small. Just occasionally, she wanted not to be just the sidekick.

'That's an awful lot of justs,' she could hear him saying.

And deep and dark inside herself, she felt a gnawing guilt - an

awareness that the Doctor had once given one of his lives so that

she didn't die. And it had changed him forever. However

impossible he'd become, she owed him so much. She felt sorry for

him and thought she'd buy him an ice cream to atone.

She heard a flutter of wings and something chuckled behind her.

The wordless voice of a baby. But when she turned, there was no

one near. In the distance, the Doctor was leading his group of

disciples up the steps into the blue palace. Better hurry, Doctor. The

next tour on the treadmill was already shuffling past Peri. It would

soon catch him up.

At the bottom of her shoulder bag, Peri found an old pair of

sunglasses and put them on, immediately feeling more at home as a

tourist.

And then she remembered the watch. The golden fob watch and

chain that he'd worn in his waistcoat, that she'd trodden on as he'd

heaved her over a wall on the planet Necros. He'd placed it in a

folded velvet cloth with a look of melancholy reverence and left it

in a box in his workshop. Once he'd gone off to tinker elsewhere,

she'd slipped it into her bag in the vain hope of finding somewhere

to get it mended.

As she crossed the square, heading back to the market, a sign on

one of the pillars caught her attention.

DO NOT FEED THE PUTTI

MINIMUM PENALTY: 10 PUBLIC GENUFLEXIONS

Peri squinted to decipher what someone had scrawled across the

bottom of the sign. Something like Only The Dead Sea... Ankles.

She wasn't sure what a putti was or what the Dead Sea or ankles

had to do with it.

The market was amazing Everywhere there were souvenirs,

mass-produced models of cathedrals and palaces and pearly gates,

all brightly painted. Angel dolls and angel books, hermit dolls and

action saints, sandals, tee-shirts and robes. My boyfriend went to

Heaven and all I got was this lousy vestment. Luscious fruit,

vegetables, loaves, fishes. Local produced manna. Nothing was

priced. And if she got too close or looked too interested, all the

stall-holders would say was 'how much?'

Peri began to feel uncomfortable about it all. She wasn't sure who

was selling. Them or her? And there was nowhere you could get a

broken watch mended. It was getting hot. The smell of incense

never went away and all along the tops of the stalls, there were lines

of plastic spikes to stop the birds from landing.

The further in she went, the more nervous she got. I'm not so

easily shocked, she thought, but there were things that had no place

here. Not in Heaven. Not even in Heaven's suburbs. Cruelly angular

implements, all rusting - souvenirs of the Inquisition. Bars and

clubs with darkened doorways, through which she glimpsed scantily

clad figures and heard exotic music, or the clatter of the gaining

table. Neon signs for The Flesh and The Pleasures. Dancers dressed

as hellish creatures from paintings by Hieronymous Bosch - or at

least, she hoped they were in costume. Stall-holders reached

towards her, rubbing their grubby fmgers, winking their grubby

eyes, making her feel dirty too. A sign above a stall offered The

Souls of Men. And another, Instant Salvation Certificates Now (No

Questions Asked). Everything was on sale here, and that included

her.

She rounded another corner and saw the huge entrance to a

church basilica rising above the market stalls. Solid and ancient, its

great wooden doors were open, guarded by stone saints in attitudes

of devotion. She hurried for sanctuary. Inside, the service was just

starting, so she took a back pew, relieved at the chance to get her

head back together.

It was cool inside. Vaults of stone rose in dean lines above her

and anthems from the choir soared up through them on clouds of

incense, tangibly mingling with the rainbow light that fell in shafts

from the coloured windows. Peri felt the weight lift from her

shoulders. It was comforting here. She thought of church-going at

home when she was a kid, although she'd always had to be frog-

marched to that. And Sunday church in Baltimore had always been

more of a social than a religious event. Not grand like here, where

worship was turned into High Art. The sermon at home was the

penance you sat through before you got to go out and play, or went

to McDonald's for lunch. These days, sermons from the Doctor

were a daily event. She was having doubts already.

This Heaven, whatever it had become, was an Earthbound place.

An exclusively Westernised place, filled with the trappings of an

idealised Catholicism and Protestantism. The Doctor was right. It

wasn't truthful. This was Heaven World, manufactured and

commercialised. It was a parade, already tainted with the earthly

greeds of humanity. Other faiths had Heaven too. So where were

they? Were there other segregated Heavens elsewhere? Maybe the

only real Heaven was in your head.

All around, the congregation of alien tourists were kneeling to

pray. But try as Peri did, no prayer would come into her head. The

well-worn hassock was hard on her knees. So where were all the

dead souls? If this was real Heaven, she might meet her grandma

again, or Jodie Blauberg, her friend who'd died in a car crash when

she was fourteen, or Abraham Lincoln. And she might even find the

Doctor here, her first Doctor, the tall, handsome, apologetic Doctor

who had died for her.

It was no good. Her faith was internal, not of the organised

outward variety. The incense and vaulting anthems stifled it. She

stood up, ignoring the collection plate and left the church in mid-

hymn.

It was even hotter outside. She skirted the side of the market until

she reached a wide-open park of brown grass, where a sign

announced that she had reached the Elysian Fields Litter scuttered

across it in the breeze. A long line of people was processing across

the parkland. One white wheelchair after another, each pushed by a

uniformed nurse, each containing a patient wrapped in shawls or

blankets, some alert, some lolling, some human. All apparently

seeking a miracle cure in this place... Peri hesitated to call it holy,

but despite all the commercial trappings, there was still evidence of

faith. Maybe this Heaven could provide the sick or dying with a

remedy, divine or otherwise, that their doctors could not.

Overhead, the huge sky billowed with mountainous clouds,

palaces and courtesy coaches. The flock of pink birds flickered high

up across the sun. And what Peri saw next brought her up short.

Across the park, two angels were hovering just above a crowd of

tourists. Huge eagle wings carried them, striking majestically back

and forth with regal power. Their robes of dark gold swirled around

them defying the laws of gravity. Peri just stood open-mouthed. It

was all true. Heaven did exist, and she was there. She felt her eyes

moisten at the glory of the two ethereal creatures.

Then one of them swooped, picked up one of the tourists in its

arms and lifted him aloft. The boy waved as his baseball cap fell

off, posing with the grinning angels for the rest of his family to take

photos. 'Hi Mom, look at me and the fairy!' When they were done,

the angel lowered him to the ground and scooped up another. More

posing, more pictures. To the side, another 'hermit' was taking

money for the privilege of an angelic flight. 'Come in now,

Raphael,' he shouted. 'Your anti-gray's due for recharging.'

Peri found she couldn't hate the place. It was all too human.

Incense mingled with the smell of frying burgers, like Coney Island

with religious overtones. But she'd had enough; she was going back

to the TARDIS.

She started back along Paradise Prospekt, pushing her way

through the crowds until she reached a courtyard where the time

machine was parked. The police box was still there, but there was no

sign of the Doctor. Typical, she thought. She'd probably land up

having to bail him out of jail for upsetting tourists. She sat on a

bench and waited, drawing lines in the hot dust with her shoe.

After a moment, she heard the chuckle of the child again and

something fluttered close, skimming her head. She struggled to her

feet in pain, staring round angrily. On top of the TARDIS sat a

small pink baby. It was naked, with little ice-grey wings sprouting

from behind its shoulders. Straight out of a painting. Golden hair,

blue eyes, and a lop-sided smirk on its face.

Warily, Peri returned its stare. 'Hello. What do you want?'

The cherub cocked his head on one side in a provocatively

impudent manner.

Peri felt something trickling through her hair. She put her hand

and got blood on her fingers. The cherub gave another little

chuckle, which was answered from down beside Peri's leg. A

second cherub had landed on her shoulder bag, and was rummaging

through the contents.

Peri yelled and struck out at the infant angel. He fluttered up into

the air, pulling her precious silk scarf with him and furling it to and

fro just above her head. 'Hey, quit that! Just grow up, will you!

Give me that back!' She lunged helplessly and then snatched up her

bag, clutching it tight. The cherub reeked of incense.

Peri turned back to the TARDIS. Six of the creatures were now

sitting along its roof, with one more lounging against the top light.

Another fluttered down and joined him They were exchanging

chuckles amongst themselves - clearly sizing her up as they studied

her with cornflower-coloured eyes.

'What do you want? I don't have anything for you!' The blood

ran into Peri's eye and stung. She turned to run back to the safety of

the crowds on the Prospekt, but another cherub flew in her face,

swooping wildly in front of her, forcing her back towards the

TARDIS. The heady vapour from its wings choked her.

The crowd from the police box roof now numbered over a dozen

or more of the little naked monsters, and had spilled down to the

courtyard surrounding it. Peri faltered, unable to find an escape

route. As the cherub behind her dive-bombed again, the others rose

up, flying around her in a crowd. She stumbled past the ship,

heading along a thin alley with cherubs pinching and pulling at her

clothes with chubby little fingers. She tried to turn left, but they

blocked her path, driving her forward. She was running blind, only

the beating of a flock of wings and the gleeful chuckling of the

bloodthirsty little vermin filling her head. Then they were in front of

her too, and she fell back against the wall. Nowhere to go. Nausea

from the incense turned her stomach. She swung out uselessly with

her bag as they closed in. She doubled over, falling against rough

splintering wood. The door gave under her weight. She tumbled

sideways into darkness and several seconds' drop before hitting the

f l o o r .

Peri lay for an age waiting for the pain to start. It was quiet. Far

above her, the white shape of the broken door had been torn all

jagged from the darkness into which she'd fallen.

Nothing stirred. No sign of the cherubs. And the overpowering

stench of the incense had lifted. She guessed shed have problems

finding a way out of here, but it was warm and surprisingly

comfortable in the dark. The warmth fitted snugly round her. No

need to move. No need to do anything. No one's looking. Just

another half hour.

'Perpugilliam Brown. Just look at the state of you. Get up now.'

For a moment she saw how absurd she must look lying there on the

floor, gathering dust like a dropped doll. How long had she been

there? People would be looking for her. People at home had

probably been looking for years. Lost at sea. Presumed dead. One

day she'd be late for her own funeral. So get up now!

Okay, okay. No need to get all teachery with herself. She didn't

have an essay to hand in.

It took a real effort to haul herself up out of the warm. She still

felt light-headed, but that was only to be expected. She'd had a

shock after all. The place was big, like a warehouse. Around her

stood large box shapes like crates, but they weren't solid. They were

barred with metal. They gleamed dully in the light from the broken

door above. The crates were cages, like the old-style wagons that

used to carry circus animals. She edged round one and peered into

the gloom inside, relieved to find it long unoccupied. There was a

sign on the bars of another: MANTICORES. HANDLERS MUST W E A R

P R O T E C T I V E A R M O U R And further on: W I N G E D L I O N S . DO N O T F E E D .

But there was nothing except old sawdust on the floor and hard steel

r o o f s .

Something glinted by her foot. She stooped and picked up a

golden feather. It weighed heavily enough to be real metal, but it

gave off a pale glow. She studied its intricate formation, astonished

by the artistry and skill that had fashioned it, guessing that it was

from one of the lions. It couldn't be real. It was all for show,

another part of the Disney-style parade.

But the feather was beautiful and strangely real. When she held it

up, it lit her way into the darker corners. Round the warehouse she

went, but the only door she found was metal and had no handle or

lock. And there was no sign of any ladder she could use to reach the

broken door.

The cages, all empty, filled the space. Nothing but a maze of

cages. 'Oh, come on,' she prayed. 'Please, just get me out of here!'

She had begun to retrace her path, guided by the glow of the

feather, when she heard movement: something shifting slightly. It

came from a cage in the darkest corner. Unlike the other cages, it

was bent and crumpled. Its roof was beaten down at the edges, so

that the inside was enclosed and hidden.

Peri shielded the feather for a moment. There was a glimmer

coming from inside the battered cage. 'Hello?' she called.

Silence. Then the briefest rustle.

'Hello? Is somebody there?'

Further silence. And then, 'No' the voice was neither male nor

f e m a l e .

Just a voice inside the cage.

'I'm lost,' stuttered Peri. 'Is there some way out of here?'

'No!'

'Oh, come on. Please. There must be a way out. Can't you just

tell me?'

'No. I neither help nor exist.'

'For God's sake,' complained Peri to herself.

'Stop it! Stop that now! I've had enough of that. The constant

drone is bad enough without you actually turning up on the doorstep

in person.' The vehemence of the outburst astonished Peri.

'I'm sorry,' she said. 'If I could just get out then you'd be left

alone again.'

There was another silence. She crouched and squinted through

the gap between the floor and the lip of the battered-down roof.

A slender creature was sitting bunched up in the farthest corner of

the cage, its arms hugging its long legs. Its naked skin had a

glimmering sheen that lit the inside of its tiny prison. It was not

simply human-like Human was just a start. It was far more than

that. More than just woman or man, something that humans could

only dream of aspiring to be. But its shoulder-length hair, golden

like shot silk, was matted with filthy straw. It quickly turned its face

away, but its eyes soon led back to her. Huge, frantic eyes in a face

that was unbelievably, unbearably beautiful. So beautiful that it was

hard to look at directly. Peri decided, despite the lack of any visible

evidence, to think of the creature as a He.

'Don't look. Don't look!'

'Sorry,' said Peri again. She felt totally insignificant in his

presence.

The creature was shaking with fear. His eyes turned to look at her

and she was lost in their depths. 'Can you see me?' he asked as if he

could scarcely believe it.

'You're beautiful,' Peri whispered.

The creature gave a long sigh and his shoulders sank. 'Oh, poor

soul.'

'Who? Me or you? Just... Please; I just want to get out of here.'

She faltered. 'Sorry, that's an awful lot of justs,' she mumbled.

He shook its head. 'It's a lot of sorrier too.' His eyes stared

fixedly at the floor. 'But that's the first thing people always say'

'What?'

'And was the world still as vile and corrupt when you left it?'

The depths of those eyes again. They were full of sorrow. 'Who

sent you over? As if I couldn't guess.'

'No one. No one sent me. I was attacked. A load of horrible

things came after me. Like flying babies. But that's crazy, isn't it?'

'Putti?' The androgynous creature looked very alarmed.

'What? I don't know. What are putti? These were like the cherubs

you see in paintings.'

'What did they want with you?'

'I was waiting for a friend and they just flew in. I had to run.

That's when I fell in here.'

'It was an accident. Not deliberate.' He sounded defensive.

Peri started to clamber under the lip of the roof. 'I don't know

what you mean. Are you stuck in here too?'

He pulled back and threw out a hand. 'Go away!'

'I can't!' She stopped herself, hearing the panic. She took a deep

breath. 'My name is Peri.'

He sighed again. 'Poor sweet soul; I'm sorry too. Your name is

Perpugilliam Brown from Baltimore, United States of America,

Earth... '

'And you can stop right there.' A real anger blazed up in her. 'I

don't want you in my head! Whoever you are.'

'In your head? What about my head? Do I have any choice?' The

creature's hands went up to press against its temples. The skin of

his slender fingers was all stained with rainbow colour, as if he'd

dabbled them in paint or dye. He made whimpering noises and was

trembling.

Peri pulled herself further into the cage. 'Look, I'm sorry. What

can I do to help?'

The creature was pressing itself against the back wall.

'You know who I am. You must have a name too.'

He winced and gave a little cry. 'There are fifteen million, ninety-

one thousand, eight hundred and fifty-two people on Skopta

Maxima praying for deliverance from invading swarms of scissor

bugs. There are three thousand, four hundred and thirty-six people

on the Marches of Graeae Four giving thanks for the rain that saved

their crops. There are eleven thousand, four hundred and sixteen

people on Earth praying for the rain to hold off to save their Test

M a t c h . . . '

'Stop it!' said Peri. 'You're making it up:

'You don't have to listen to it,' he snapped. 'What about the

woman on Mars Colony praying for her father not to die of cancer?

Or the man on a space shuttle praying that his wife doesn't find a

love letter in his jacket from his boyfriend... '

'How can you know?'

'I hear them. All the prayers at every moment. We all do.'

She studied him hard. 'Are you some sort of angel?'

'What about the woman on Androzani Minor praying for the man

in the mask not to touch her? Or the same woman trapped in a

ventilation shaft on N'Tia, praying to be sent back home? Or that

same woman standing on the steps of the palace on Sheol, who

prayed for her friend to shut up? Or just now, praying to get out of

the dark warehouse?'

He heard that, thought Peri. He overheard all that. 'Those were

private. Who gave you the right to listen in?'

'All prayers have an address on them,' said the creature.

'So what does that make you? God's private secretary?' She

pulled away from the edge of the cage. 'I don't have to stay here.

I'll find my own way out.'

His voice called in desperation to her from his prison. 'You don't

understand. It was an accident. Don't go and look! Come back!' But

she held up the golden feather, using it to find her way between the

cages towards the falling light from the broken door.

She stopped as she reached the place. Something heavy was lying

on the floor below the door. Splintered wood was scattered around

it, and there was a shoulder bag with its contents spilling out. The

shape lay at an awkward angle. It didn't move. It was wearing her

coat.

Peri stood for minutes, staring down at her broken body, lying

where she'd left it, unable to make any sense of the reactions and

thoughts cannoning round her head

Oh, God, please make Mom be all right. Please make the Doctor

be all right. I never said I was sorry to him. I never finished my

botanical studies. This isn't right. There are so many things I

haven't done yet. It can't be right. I never got back from vacation.

Who's going to water the plants now?

And then, What am I doing here? If I'm dead, why isn't there a

tunnel with light at the end of it?And the only answer she could

think of was, Because I'm in Heaven already.

She looked up. A child's head was framed in the gash of light

where the door had been. It made a chuckling noise and a second

head joined it to stare down at her. They were waiting. It was no

accident. She turned and went back into the dark, holding her

feather in front of her like a candle.

'You'd better come in,' said the creature in the cage. 'You've had

a shock.'

Peri crawled in under the lip of the battered cage roof. She sat on

the floor next to the glimmering naked creature. There was a

warmth from him. He was so beautiful.

'I suppose you heard all that family stuff too,' she apologised.

'Understandable. Even I pray sometimes.'

They sat in silence. 'I don't know what to do,' she said at last.

'Don't know what to think. What happens now? The Doctor will be

worried. He'll be upset. He'll blame himself. Can I hide down here

with you?'

'Hide?' The creature pointed upwards. Peri looked up. Stars and

angels gazed down at her. A heavenly host daubed in bright smudgy

colours all across the inside of the metal roof, hovering just above

their heads.

'Did you do this?' asked Peri. The images were oddly

comforting. Better than that, they were distracting.

'My name was Yy,' answered the creature and studied his

coloured fingers. 'I no longer exist.'

'There was a sign in the market,' Peri added. 'Only the Dead

Sea... I thought it said ankles. But it was angels. Wish I had a built-

in spellcheck. Only the dead see angels.' She looked up at the

painted throng above. 'But you're not an angel. You don't have

wings.'

'I pulled the roof in. I beat it down with my fists. So no one could

see inside.'

'To keep the outside out?'

Yy winced again 'On Aktm in the Sojussa system, the Kings are

choosing the yearly sacrifice to the angry sea. Five billion, seventy-

three million, nine thousand, one hundred and seven people are

praying it is not them.'

'Doesn't really work, does it?' she said. 'Tell me what happened.

I don't want to talk about myself:

'Yy was an angel in the guardian hosts, a lieutenant in Amethyst

Flight, charged with the administration of newly arrived souls.

Their allocation and settlement in the afterworld.'?

'A desk job?' suggested Peri.

He shrugged his exquisite shoulders. 'Yy had never set wing

outside the delectable realm. An innocent untutored in worldly

ways. But the others laughed at him.'

'Why? Don't suppose they were any wiser?'

'Because once he complained. No one had ever complained

b e f o r e . '

'Must have been a good reason. I never stop complaining. It

doesn't mean I'm unhappy.'

'Yy so loved his job that he complained he wanted to do more.

And they just laughed. He tried for a post as Selector in the

Reincarnation Department, but he was so good at easing the passage

of transmigrating souls that he was passed over. No shame or

sorrow. He had to be content in his place.'

Peri tried to sympathise. 'They obviously really valued his... your

work.'

'And then, one fateful day, the Believers of the living universe

discovered the location of Heaven's great gates. From that moment,

the universe changed. Belief became truth. Pilgrims came to the

new shrine and a great city grew up all around. A city in the image

of Heaven, magnificent, but tainted by the living, by their greed and

vice.'

Peri nodded. 'That's this place. This city. The Doctor called it the

suburbs of Heaven.'

'Indeed.' A note of sourness edged into Yy's voice. 'And a vile

and wicked place it is too. Full of sin and temptation for the

unwary. It was a catastrophe. Just imagine. The State of Heaven

itself and all its Mysteries were threatened. A new realm had to be

sought elsewhere.'

'Don't see why.'

'The Ministers of Grace who govern the true realm of Heaven

chose to withdraw to another place, where it would remain pure and

unassailed. And its Mysteries would be preserved.'

Pride before a fall, she thought. Isn't pride a sin? 'But that's just

isolating yourselves. Cutting yourself off from your fan base. And

everything left behind turned into a tourist attraction.'

'I was talking about Yy,' insisted Yy.

Peri shrugged. 'Still think it was a big mistake. People want proof

of their beliefs.'

'It... was... decided,' he snapped, 'that an annunciation must be

made.'

'Okay. That's traditional.'

Yy's words were starting to falter. 'A proclamation would be

issued as to the relocation of the realm of Heaven.' He stared up at

the painted hosts of Heaven.

'Go on,' said Peri. 'What happened? What was the reaction?'

He opened and dosed his mouth. His fmgers locked and

unlocked. When he spoke his voice was dry and cracked. 'It never

came.'

Peri leaned over and took his hand. It was smooth and cool.

'I have never spoken to anyone of this,' Yy said. His imploring

eyes met hers .They were full of lost love.

'Was it you?' she asked. And his head nodded vigorously. His

voice was clogged with the tears of millennia.

'Yy was chosen for that greatest honour. Something new to do at

last. But taking flight over the city outside for the first time, visible

to the world, Yy went down into the marketplace. The wares on sale

there fascinated and beguiled the innocent angel. Yy saw so many

things that he neither knew, nor understood for their dangers.

Forbidden things. Worldly things. Things that are secret in Heaven

to a mere lieutenant in the lower hosts. Yy was an ethereal, knowing

nothing of greed or desire or...' The angel shuddered. 'Or all those

forbidden fruits ofthe flesh. Yy was just a messenger.'

He stopped to wipe his ethereal nose. 'But Yy desired just one

taste. One sip of knowledge. The darkest knowledge. The flesh.'

His voice coarsened with contempt - "It'll cost yer," said the

stallsman. "I have nothing to give," said Yy. And the stallsman

thought for a moment. "You got a fine set of feathers there," said

he. "Fine enough to make a coat."'

'You didn't?' said Peri.

Yy swallowed hard. He shuffled in the straw, dragging himself on

his hands, slowly turning his back on her. Between his shoulders

were two crimson wounds - not bleeding, but raw as meat on a

butcher's slab. He hunched forward and wept uncontrollably.

Peri slid her arm round his lower back and hugged him for a

while. 'So your annunciation never got made.'

'And the universe is lost,' he cried. 'No one knows that Heaven

has gone away.'

She sighed. They can't blame you. Sounds like the whole of

Heaven needs to go on a customer-relations course.' She hugged

him again and passed him a hanky. 'So was it worth it? Whatever it

was you paid for?'

'It was filthy. I spat it out.'

'Oh,' she said, trying either to cover her embarrassment or spare

herself his. 'That's okay. I don't need to know...'

'The flesh I damned all of Creation for a taste of it. Aren't you

shocked?'

'Well, that's temptation for you.'

'No one told me. I didn't know how much I'd want it or need it.

That urge of desiring and craving. The gorgeous, grinding appetite

inside. I couldn't resist. So I did it, without a thought. Sold my

beautiful golden wings, gave everything away!'

'But what for?'

He doubled forward in grief. 'For the bite of a cheeseburger.'

Peri nearly laughed. 'Is that all?'

'Everything. Just everything.' And he went on weeping.

With or without fries? she thought. She waited until the crying

subsided, which was a while. 'I just realised. I suppose I'm a ghost

now.'

He snuffled. 'You will be if you stay around here. Why didn't

you follow the tunnel up towards the light?'

'There wasn't a tunnel,' she said.

A scowl spread over his face. 'This was deliberate. They sent you

here. Those little devils, the putti.'

'The cherubs?'

'The living cannot see me, except by decree. That's why I hid

here. So they sent something I couldn't ignore. A lost soul. One of

my charges.'

'Only the dead see angels,' repeated Peri.

Yy swung back and forth on his hands. 'You should be winging

up the tunnel. But they sent you to me instead. They needed you to

get at me. That's why they killed you!'

Peri had no words to speak. Had she died just for this? As if in

answer to her silence, there was a chuckling noise from outside. The

angel gave a gasp of fright and buried his face in his knees. 'I don't

exist! Make them go away!'

Edging to the lip of the cage's bent roof, Peri squinted out.

Across the floor, as far as she could see, hundreds of pairs of

sapphire eyes catching the glimmer from her angel. A sea of

cherubs. The whole flock had gathered. All staring at her.

Oh, God. What did they want? She was a ghost. What could she

do, other than hug her fallen angel and mouth meaningless soothing

noises? She pulled back inside the cage.

'Trapped,' moaned Yy. He stared up at the accusing painted

angels flocked on his metal roof. Then he rounded on Peri. 'You've

no business here. Go away. Leave me alone!'

That did it. Things she'd always wanted to say to the Doctor

came tumbling out. 'You shut up! Always criticising and

complaining. You're so self-obsessed. Just think about other people

for once!'

'I don't exist.'

She pointed outside. 'They seem to think so.'

'They hurt you. They killed you. It's all my fault!'

Little baby faces were gazing in under the lip of the roof. Peri

ignored the audience. 'Maybe it is. But you're still Yy. Still an

angel. You could still do something!'

'Too late.'

'So why am I here?' Out of her coat she produced the golden

feather. It gleamed with its own radiance. 'This is yours, isn't it?'

Yy gazed at the feather. 'I stole back just one. And then lost that

too. Theft is another sin.'

'Not theft,' said Peri. 'It isn't lost. And you could still finish your

job.'

He slowly reached for the feather. But he saw his stained figures

stretching out and snatched back his hand. 'I'm tainted. Defiled by

longing.'

Peri grabbed his shoulders, ignoring his squeals of pain. 'I'm

praying to you, Yy. Are you listening? Please, please finish your

work. Do it. Because I believe in you.'

The angel Yy gave a low sigh and clutched her arm. 'Endless

prayers I hear. Endless. But I never had the chance before to answer

one.'

'Thank you,' she said quietly. 'Is there a way out?'

Yy eyed the watching cherubic faces. 'The world taught me to lie

too. There is a way out, but you'll have to help me. My legs are

weak.'

The cherubs clustered close as Peri struggled under the lip,

supporting Yy on her shoulder. She had to push at them to force

through.

'That way,' said Yy pointing between the cages, and they edged a

slow path, lit by his radiance, wading between the staring putti. Step

by step. A chuckle here. An answer ahead of them. The sudden

flutter of wings. Hundreds of cold little eyes. At any moment the

whole flock might rise up and shred them.

'Thought they were meant to be friendly,' whispered Peri.

'Mischievous,' replied Yy. 'They have a job to do.'

Peri yelped as a cherub pinched viciously at her leg.

'Other way, other way!' hissed Yy.

She turned and the shape of her discarded body lay ahead

surrounded by putti. She faltered. 'I don't want to see. Not again.'

There was a barrage of pinches. 'No! Just leave it. Make sure it has

a decent funeral.' The putti pinched her again and she lashed out

with her free arm. 'No!'

'Get in,' said Yy gently

'What?'

'You've played your part. I'm out. Now get back in.'

Before she could stop herself, Peri found herself sinking, sliding

back into the warmth of her own shape. Her body fitting snugly

around her. Good to be back home, very much alive.

She sat up and coughed. She smelt the world again. Its dust in her

throat. She felt mucky and used. And the putti still surrounded her.

'Not finished yet,' declared the angel Yy. 'Now I need your

physical help.'

She sighed and started gathering the spilled contents of her bag,

amazed that she seemed to have no injuries at all. 'But I can see

you.'

'Dead or alive again, you'll never lose that second sight.'

She caught him as he fell, took his weight and walked him

through the waiting cherubs to the handleless door. This time it slid

open easily. Up the stairs they went into the dazzling living light of

Heaven's suburbs.

They paused beside the TARDIS (no sign of the Doctor).

Yy's hand went to his head. 'Twenty-three people stuck in a long

queue here on Sheol are praying that their new guide will shut up

and the tour will end.'

Peri smiled. The Doctor was still busy.

Yy pointed her towards the Elysian Fields. The Gates are that

way.' And he leaned on her as they set off across the brown turf.

'Have you still got your speech?' asked Peri. She watched the

pink cloud of putti turn sharply in the palace-filled sky above them.

'Too late for that,' he answered. 'That moment's passed.'

'But... ' she stuttered.

'But I can still complete my other task? He sounded certain, but

his weight was getting too much for her.

'What other task?'

'Close the door.' He saw her look of bewilderment. 'Old Heaven

is gone. I'm the last one out'

'As long as you don't turn the lights out too.' She hefted his

growing weight.

In the distance, she saw two huge stone pillars standing alone on

the park, clear of any wall or building. And between the edifice and

themselves stretched a long, long winding queue of pilgrims in

wheelchairs. A dulcet announcement blared over speakers. Sir John

Gielgud again: 'Waiting time to the Gates is currently seven hours.

Please have your tickets for the holy shrine ready.'

Peri groaned. 'Sorry. I don't think I can carry you much further.'

And she dropped him.

The putti wheeled above.

Yy pointed at a booth hiring out wheelchairs. He produced some

coins. 'Change from the flesh,' he mumbled embarrassedly.

Peri collected a chair from the nurse in charge. 'Who is this for?'

asked the woman, oblivious of the angel already sitting comfortably

under the woollen rug.

'No time,' called Peri and started to run, skirting the sides of the

queuing area. Ensconced in his seat, Yy began to laugh as the

queuers turned to stare. The chair moved easily. Guards began to

shout. And as she ran, Peri heard her own name being called. She

could see an arm waving from the middle of the queue, above the

curly yellow hair of the Doctor. About four hours from the front,

she reckoned.

No time to stop.

Peri and an angel in a wheelchair. On and round towards the front

and the looming Gates. A huge grinning rubber cherub waddled into

their path, but they sent it flying to the ground. Several stewards,

dressed as hermits, were closing in, but a sudden swoop of cherubs,

fluttering and pinching, threw them into total disarray.

Putti were swooping in everywhere, sending the stewards and

queuers reeling in panic, clearing the path for Peri.

'The Gates of Old Heaven,' shouted Yy. Between the crumbling

pillars of the shrine stood two immense doors, their hard surfaces

throwing back the pearly light in all colours of the rainbow. One

door was closed, the other was ajar and a red rope cordoned off the

path for the queuing tourists to pass through to the other side. The

edge of the door was worn smooth by the hands of countless

pilgrims.

Yy braced himself. 'Straight through,' he called.

Peri gave one final burst of speed, mowing down the cordon, and

steering straight through the gap.

The park on the other side was just as full of chaos. No choir of

angels to greet them, just putti dive-bombing anyone who came

near.

Yy stumbled out of his wheelchair and set his hands to the huge

door. He began to push and Peri pushed with him. Slowly the door

inched forward. And slowly the coloured stains on Yy's splayed

fingers faded and dissolved until his hands were cleansed and pure,

radiant like the rest of his body. But the scars on his back stayed

crimson.

With a mighty clang, the door heaved into place. Yy opened a

tiny door set in the pearl facia and turned the small black key inside,

and the Gates of Old Heaven were shut.

Peri hugged him hard. 'Now what?' she said trying to regain her

breath, a little disappointed at the lack of fireworks or seraphic

rapture.

'It's just a closure,' said Yy. 'Somebody had to do it.'

'Yeah I guess that was important.' She looked at the chaos

around them.

The crowds had withdrawn, but the cherubs were still swooping

low. 'Where will you go now? Back to Heaven?'

'The New Heaven,' he reminded her. 'I have to search for it. Just

like the rest of you.'

'There are still good things out here,' she said. 'Plenty of good

people.'

He half smiled. 'But I can no longer fly' He looked up at a little

group of putti who were chuckling in the air above him. They

suddenly swooped and lifted him gently off the ground. 'What's

this?' He started to laugh. 'Am I forgiven after all? Are we going

home?'

The putti joined with his laughter.

'Wait,' shouted Peri and they circled back. 'Yy, tell me one

thing'

'Ask,' he called down.

'Have you seen Him?'

'Him?'

'Yes. You're from Heaven. You must have seen Him.'

The angel's face clouded with incomprehension. 'Heaven's a big

organisation, Peri. No one actually sees Him.' He said it as if it was

obvious.

'So how do you know He exists?'

Yy was silent for a moment. The putti giggled. Then they

fluttered their burden in close.

'It's all a matter of belief,' he asserted. 'If we knew everything,

there'd be no faith.' And he leaned forward his exquisitely

handsome features, so very un-Hollywood. 'May I?' he asked.

Sure: she said, and he kissed her on the lips. 'God in Heaven,' she

whispered.

'Peri?' said a million voices above her. For suddenly the sky was

filled from end to end with a heavenly host, all leaning forward, all

puckered up, to kiss, embrace or smother her with their iridescent

beating wings.

'Stop it!' shouted Yy. 'That's enough! You've got work to do!'

And the veil fell again and she was alone beside an empty

wheelchair in the empty park. She watched a little light rising up

into the firmament beyond the clouds and palaces.

'Peri?' The Doctor came puffing round the side of the pillars. He

swatted at a couple of tiny pink flies that buzzed round his head like

miniature putti. 'This Heaven certainly isn't everything it's cracked

up to be. I'm not sure what's been going on, but I think we should

move before that tour catches up with us: He eyed the wheelchair.

'And what did you bring this thing for? I'm not in my dotage yet!'

So there are things you don't know, she thought, greatly

c o m f o r t e d .

His eyes narrowed. 'What have you been up to?'

'Not telling,' she said, but she reached into her bag and pulled out

the little box containing the broken fob watch. 'I was hoping to get

this fixed. Sorry.'

He frowned and swatted at another fly. When he opened the box,

the watch inside was complete. Mended and ticking again, as if its

own personal time had been wound back a week. He beamed with

astonishment. 'Thank you, Peri. This must have cost an arm and a

leg.'

Peri just stared in disbelief. 'Nearly my life,' she heard herself

say.

'I picked something up for you too,' he added. 'In the market.'

Out of a pocket, he produced a shining coppery disc. 'It's a halo'

He fixed it in the air over her head where it hovered, humming a

little. 'Saint Perpugilliam the endlessly patient.'

She began to grin. 'It's awful. Wonderfully tacky.'

'Yes, it most certainly is.' He nudged her. 'I thought you'd like

it.'

Short Trips: Past Tense

Jonathan Morris sent me his pitch on 20 May 2003, and I immediately fell in

love with it. He outlined the plot - a First Doctor adventure featuring Robin

Hood - but, as he said, the structure was where it got interesting. The story

will be related not as a narrative,' his outline read, 'but rather as a selection

of features: Doctor Who Magazine archives, episode guides, behind-the-scenes

features, interviews, fanzine reviews, sections of the script, the novelisation,

and descriptions of telesnap reconstructions.' Jonny's brainwave was to create

these sources for TV episodes that had never existed in the first place, allowing

him to both celebrate and gently mock 1960s Doctor Who serials. What a

wonderful idea - especially for Past Tense, a book about Doctor Who and history.

Jonny wrote each section of the story in exactly the right tone, even going as

far as including deliberate errors in the early extracts. He also enlisted Andrew

Pixley and the Time Team contributors to check his pastiches of their then-

current work in DWM.

As with any parody, readers who know the original material will see more

parallels and in-jokes - but hopefully the overall gag still works. I especially

love the anachronistic use of the term Gallifreyan and the perfectly pitched

style of the novelisation extract. The story also plays with the cliches of the

time The Thief of Sherwood was supposedly produced. Regular cast members in

the 1960s sometimes missed episodes because they were on holiday, so Jonny

has the Doctor absent for a while. Look-a-like plotlines were used in 1966's The

Massacre and 1967/68's The Enemy 0f the World, so here Jonny has Ian Chesterton

as the spitting image of Robin Hood. He could also have fun by casting a 1964

Doctor Who story, roping in real-life actors such as Frank Thornton and Milton

Johns. Check out the cast list at the beginning of the story and you'll see

Anneke Wills, who in reality played Doctor Who regular Polly, as Maid Marion.

This was a little in-joke added during the editing stages. One of the other

stories in Past Tense saw Polly leap through time, interacting with adventures

from elsewhere in the book. When its writer, Joseph Lidster, landed her in 12th

century Sherwood Forest, he decided that Polly would be a doppelganger of

Maid Marion... So it made sense to add to this mind-bending postmodernity

by listing Anneke Wills as playing Marion in Jonny's story!

Not every story in an anthology can be unconventional but I was proud to have

The Thief of Sherwood in my first collection. I think it's a shining example of what

the Short Trips range has excelled at: taking risks, playing with expectations,

experimenting with what a short story can do, and having fun. But all this

talk of pastiche and in-jokes shouldn't obscure how well written the story is.

Check out the gags and clever sleights of hand. But also notice how skillfully

the story of the Doctor and his friends meeting Robin Hood is revealed to you.

The Thief of Sherwood

Jonathan Morris

'At one time, I suggested giving the Doctor an adventure where he met

Robin Hood!'

- William Hartnell

Radio Times. 19 September 1964

5.15

DR. WHO and the Outlaws

DR. WHO

W e all k n o w t h a t i t i s i m p o s s i b l e t o

The Deserted Castle

w i n d b a c k the h a n d s o f h i s t o r y - a n d

An a d v e n t u r e in space and time s t a r r i n g e q u a l l y i m p o s s i b l e f o r lis to l a u n c h

WILLIAM HARTNELL WILLIAM RUSSELL

JACQUELINE HILL and CAROLE ANN FORD o u r s e l v e s i n t o t h e r e a l m s o f f u t u r e

by GODFREY PORTER

s p a c e . I m p o s s i b l e f o r u s b u t not f o r

Dr. Who WILLIAM HARTNELL.

the s t r a n g e old g e n t l e m a n o f t i m e a n d

Ian Chesterton WILLIAM RUSSELL

Barbara Wright JACQUELINE, HILT.

s p a c e . D r . W h o ( W i l l i a m H a r t n e l l )

Susan Foreman CAROLE ANN FORD

w h o h a s n o p r o b l e m i n t r a v e l l i n g t o

Little John ARCHIE DUNCAN

f a r - f l u n g w o r l d s or t h r o u g h t i m e to t h e

Will Scarlet RONALD HINES

Sheriff of Nottingham FRAN K 1 HORN I ON

dark d a y s o f t w e l f t h - c e n t u r y

Maid Marion ANNEKE WILLS

Sherwood.

Peddler MILTON JOHNS

S u c h i s t h e s e t t i n g f o r S a t u r d a y ' s

Villager CARL BERNARD

Man-alarms IVOR COLINS

instalment of a n e w tale f o r t h e D o c t o r

Title music by RON GRAINGER

a n d h i s g r o u p . W r i t t e n b y G o d f r e y

With the BBC! Radio phonic Workshop Incidental

P o r t e r , t h e s t o r y i s e s s e n t i a l l y a re-

music composed and conducted by HARPER C.

BASSETT

telling o f t h e R o b i n H o o d w i t h t h e

Story editor, David Whitaker

t r a v e l l e r s b e c o m e i n v o l v e d i n a c a s e

Designer, Barry Newbery

o f m i s t a k e n i d e n t i t y w h i c h l e a d s t h e m

Associate Producer, \Iervyn Pinfield

Producer, VERITY LAMBERT

t o t h e d u n g e o n s o f t h e i n f a m o u s

Directed by PATRICK WHITFIELD

S h e r i f f o f N o t t i n g h a m . T h e story d o c s

Is the castle as deserted as it appears? Or is it a n o t a f f e c t the c o u r s e o f h i s t o r y but

trap for tlx- unwary traveller?

i n s t e a d u t i l i s e s i t a s a t h r i l l i n g

b a c k d r o p f o r adventure.

Radio Times Doctor M7i« 10 Anniversary Special, 1973

The Bandits

T h e T A R D I S l a n d s i n t h e d u n g e o n s o f N o t t i n g h a m c a s t l e . I a n a n d S u s a n a r e

c a p t u r e d a n d b r o u g h t b e f o r e t h e Sheriff. The others are c a p t u r e d b y bandits a n d

taken to S h e r w o o d Forest w h e r e they d i s c o v e r that Robin Hood is I a n ' s double.

The Merry Men elect to rescue Ian and Susan but the attempt fails and Robin is

killed. The Doctor saves Susan f r o m execution by posing as a monk. Ian gives

away all of Robin's loot.

'Doctor Who — Story Nine ', Doctor Who Weekly issue 26,1980

T H E T H I E V E O F S H E R W O O D

th

This six-part adventure was first shown on BBC television on September 19 , 1964.

The T A R D I S has recently journeyed through the fourth and f i f t h dimensions.

From their positions by the controls the Doctor, Susan, Ian and Barbara watch

the scanner. They have landed in sheer darkness!

They emerge into a dungeon cell. A skeleton is chained to the wall! 'That

was a h u m a n being. We are on Earth!' proclaims the Doctor. They decide to

split up to explore. The Doctor and Barbara go upstairs and discover they are in

a deserted medieval castle.

Ian and Susan, meanwhile, meet a pretty young girl called Marion being held

prisoner. Ian attempts to force the door to her cell, but the lock is too strong. He

heads back to the TARDIS for cutting tools, but discovers that the door to that

cell is now also locked. They are not alone...

The Doctor and Barbara reach a nearby village. The houses are all boarded

up and the occupants live in fear for their lives.

Back in the dungeons, the man-at-arms who watched Ian and Susan meets

with the Sheriff of Nottingham. 'Your plan has succeeded, my Lord!' he says.

'The bandits have entered the castle!'

Ian and Susan are shocked when a portcullis drops, trapping them. Suddenly

soldiers emerge f r o m every door and passageway. It is a trap!

The Doctor and Barbara attempt to return to the castle... but are caught by a

gang of bandits who take them to their hideout in Sherwood forest. ' U n h a n d

me,' cries the Doctor. 'This is no way to treat a Gallifreyan!'

The b a n d i t s i d e n t i f y t h e m s e l v e s as Little John and Will Scarlet. B a r b a r a

guesses they are being taken to meet Robin Hood! The Doctor is more sceptical.

'Robin Hood is a myth. He is no more real than Sherlock Holmes!'

But the Doctor is proved wrong when they arrive at the outlaw's lair. Their

leader, Robin Hood, steps out of the shadows. And he looks exactly like Ian!

'Doctor Who Episode Guide',

Doctor Who Monthly issue 51,1981

th

T H E OUTLAWS

T h e T h i e f o f S h e r w o o d ( 2 6

(Serial 1, 6 episodes)

September 1964)

th

The Deserted Castle (19 September

Learning that he has Robin prisoner

1964)

i n h i s d u n g e o n s , t h e S h e r i f f o f

A hushed silence falls over the forest

Nottingham orders his execution. But

clearing as the D o c t o r and B a r b a r a

it is Ian who is placed in the stocks.

await the arrival of the m u r d e r o u s

The man-at-arms raises his axe...

bandit leader, Robin Hood. They are

r d

shocked w h e n R o b i n is revealed to

T h e A l c h e m i s t ( 3 O c t o b e r 1 9 6 4 )

be Ian's double!

T h e D o c t o r c o n v i n c e s t h e S h e r i f f

Ian (posing as R o b i n ) has agreed to

that he can create gold. B u t it is a

meet the Sheriff to arrange Susan's

r u s e , a n d u s i n g g u n p o w d e r , t h e

release. As he enters the p e d d l e r ' s

D o c t o r b l o w s t h e d o o r o f t h e

s h o p , h e d i s c o v e r s t h e o w n e r ' s

w o r k s h o p off its b i n g e s . B u t he is

c o r p s e a n d r e a l i s e s t h a t h e h a s

knocked u n c o n s c i o u s b y t h e

entered a trap. The door opens and a

e x p l o s i o n , as the f l a m e s lick ever

s h a d o w y f i g u r e a p p r o a c h e s I a n ' s

nearer.

hiding place.

th

Errand of Mercy (10 October 1964)

A G u e s t f o r t h e G a l l o w s ( 2 4 t h

October 1964)

The Merry M e n ' s rescue attempt has

f a i l e d , and R o b i n and S u s a n h a v e

I n t h e f o r e s t c l e a r i n g , I a n h a s

s o u g h t s a n c t u a r y i n t h e c a s t l e

returned Robin H o o d ' s gold to the

d u n g e o n s . But they are discovered

villagers, and the four travellers have

by the S h e r i f f ' s guards and Susan is

returned to the TARDIS. As the take-

h o r r i f i e d a s R o b i n i s r u n t h r o u g h

off sound begins, the D o c t o r w a r n s

with a sword.

of a b u i l d - u p of ' s p a c e p r e s s u r e '

outside...

Ransom (17th October 1964)

'Gallifrey Guardian',

Doctor Who Monthly issue 69,1982

T H I E F S R E - C A P T U R E D !

A t e l e v i s i o n station in C y p r u s has r e t u r n e d t h r e e prints f r o m the m i s s i n g

William Hartnell story 'The Theives of Sherwood' to the BBC film archive at

Windmill Lane.

The prints c o m p r i s e parts 1, 2 and 4 of this classic a d v e n t u r e w h e r e the

Doctor encounters Robin Hood and the Sheriff of Nottingham. Part 6 is already

held by the archive, but parts 3 and 5 remain sadly missing, but B B C archive

selector Sue Malden remains h o p e f u l of more Doctor Who episode finds in the

future.

Doctor Who - A Celebration, 1983 The Thief of Sherwood

Billed in the BBC press handout as a 'thrilling adventure with Robin Hood', this

story followed in the tradition of the serials Ivanhoe and William Tell. However,

it was also a sophisticated and witty exploration of how legends might arise.

L a n d i n g in the d u n g e o n s of N o t t i n g h a m castle (luring the t i m e of the

Crusades, Ian and Susan are captured by the Sheriff. The Doctor and Barbara

m e e t the less-than-philanthropic Robin H o o d , w h o turns out to be the exact

d o u b l e of Ian. The D o c t o r plans to n e g o t i a t e his c o m p a n i o n ' s r e l e a s e by

offering the Sheriff the secret of alchemy. When Robin is killed, Ian substitutes

for him and leads the Merry M e n in an attempt to rescue Susan b e f o r e she is

executed. The Doctor intervenes at the last moment, posing as the priest giving

the last rites, and Ian returns the b a n d i t s ' p l u n d e r to the villagers, thereby

creating the myth of Robin Hood.

Radio Times Doctor Who

10 Anniversary Special, 1983

T h e T h i e f o f S h e r w o o d w a s a n i n t e l l i g e n t l y s c r i p t e d p i e c e o f h i s t o r i c a l

adventure, with Ian playing a dual role, himself and Robin Hood, who was Ian's

d o u b l e . R o b i n H o o d w a s d e p i c t e d as a villain, and w h e n he is killed, Ian

replaces him and seals his reputation.

Doctor Who - The Thief of Sherwood,

Target Novelisation, Godfrey Porter, 1986

First Extract f r o m the Letters of Barbara Wright

Should I ever return to your front room, Auntie Margaret, what a story I would

have to tell! Ever since I was shanghaied into time and space by the Doctor, my

life has been a succession of unsavoury disasters. Poisoned by radiation, hailed

as a goddess, possessed by an alien brain and let down by a Frenchman, nothing

could have prepared me for my current ordeal.

Kidnapped by a band of uncouth, unwashed and unshaven bandits, I f o u n d

m y s e l f t h r u s t into their d i s m a l f o r e s t lair, a c o l l e c t i o n of m a k e s h i f t tents

c a m o u f l a g e d by foliage. My wrists w e r e c h a f e d by b o n d a g e and my ankles

ached f r o m walking the miles f r o m Nottingham to Sherwood. I collapsed at the

feet of an exceptionally malodorous figure and found myself at the unfriendly,

not to mention business, end of a crossbow. But although I was hungry, tired

and soaked to the skin, my spirits remained undampened as I thought of happier

times and places, and in particular of your toasted buttered muffins.

You may recall me mentioning one of my colleagues, Mr Ian Chesterton.

You r e c o m m e n d e d him to me during one m u f f i n encounter as a 'very eligible

young man'. Well, as I looked up I discovered that the figure at the friendly end

o f t h e c r o s s b o w w a s t h e e x a c t d o u b l e o f t h a t v e r y e l i g i b l e y o u n g m a n .

Admittedly his hair was bedraggled and his chin was bearded, and his cheeks

were smeared in mud, but otherwise it could have been the Ian with whom you

once enjoyed several steaming mugs of Ovaltine.

In my c o n f u s i o n , I a s k e d h i m in w h a t b o y s ' p l a y - a c t i n g g a m e he w a s

indulging. He responded in a thick brogue that I should not speak unless ordered

to. I quickly realised that this w a s not my Ian, but p e r h a p s one of his less

salubrious ancestors.

Despite our p r e d i c a m e n t , my c o m p a n i o n , the Doctor, had lost none of his

gumption. He travelled the universe as though inspecting a rather dissatisfactory

country garden. Upon learning that the name of our lime-garbed companion was

Robin Hood, he tutted like a parakeet.

' My dear sir,' ejaculated the Doctor. 'Whomsoever you might be, you are not

Robin Hood. Robin Hood is a character originating, I believe, f r o m the ballads

of the late middle ages!'

Robin responded to the Doctor's outburst pointedly with his crossbow. 'I am

Robin Hood,' he snarled. 'The most feared, most deadly outlaw of them all! I

pillage, I murder, I show no mercy. Not to the King's men, nor his citizens, nor

quacking old beggars!'

'Who are you calling old??' snapped the Doctor 'I would have you know I am

in my prime.' His fingered his lapels like a barrister in an Ealing comedy 'So

you are Robin Hood are y o u ? H m m . So do you steal f r o m the rich and give to

the poor?' There was an incredulous silence. And then a roar of laughter rocked

the glade.

'Give to the poor, lads?' he shouted. 'Why should we do that? We steal f r o m

the poor too!'

Archive: The Thief of Sherwood', Doctor Who Magazine issue 103,1985

E P I S O D E T H R E E

Ian's life is spared when the castle receives a new visitor - the Doctor, posing as

an apothecary to King John. The Doctor tells him that he is on his way to tell

the King of a means to turn base substances into gold. He will grant the Sheriff

the secret in return for Ian's safe release. The Sheriff greedily agrees.

The Merry Men then recapture Barbara and the peddler. He is forced to tell

them about the secret passageway into the castle. Robin decides he will go with

little John to rescue Marion. But in the tunnel they are ambushed by guards.

Robin is left for dead.

Little John is brought before the Sheriff and forced to reveal the location of the

bandits' hideout. He is locked up with Ian, w h o he cannot believe is not his

friend Robin.

In the m e a n t i m e , the Sheriff sends his men to S h e r w o o d to kill the M e r r y

Men. He then visits the Doctor in the castle workshop. The Doctor is about to

demonstrate how he will turn charcoal, saltpetre and sulphur into gold. As the

Sheriff watches, the Doctor sets light to the mixture. The resultant explosion

b l o w s the w o r k s h o p doors off their h i n g e s and k n o c k s the D o c t o r and the

Sheriff unconscious. The workshop is filled with flames.

'Interview: Godfrey Porter', Doctor Who Magazine issue 172,1991

A f t e r d e m o b , I r e t u r n e d to O x f o r d to f i n i s h my history degree. I studied

mediaeval literature, which would later stand me in good stead on Doctor Who:

G o d f r e y entered television scriptwriting by an unusual route. 'My landlord

was working as a writer on a series called William Tell, and in lieu of rent I

would occasionally fill in bits of script for him. W h e n he moved on f r o m the

show, he r e c o m m e n d e d me to the producer. So after that I did some scripts for

ATV, an adventure series called Longboat which was about the Vikings.

'That was huge fun, and I edited some shows for ATV, and then along came

Doctor Who.

'I had to do it. My kids wouldn't believe I was a writer unless I did a Doctor

Who. W e ' d all been watching it since the one with the Daleks. I knew David

[ W h i t a k e r ] t h r o u g h the Screenwriters' Guild, and suggested a Robin Hood

story.

' I ' d w a t c h e d W i l l i a m H a r t n e l l , w h o I t h o u g h t h a d b e e n very g o o d i n

Brighton Rock I liked him. He was very professional, but he could be short-

t e m p e r e d with less experienced actors. But he was always charming to me. I

didn't realise he was ill, I thought that was the acting.

'The idea was to do a serial set in the past, but to make it a mixture of fact

and fiction. To explore how legends might be shaped on the basis of second-

hand accounts. For a children's show, it was quite sophisticated.

After Doctor Who I worked at Rediffusion, writing a series called The Long

Arm which was a precursor of Z Cars. I then did some editing work on Compact

and a couple of episodes of The Challengers with Dennis Spooner.'

G o d f r e y did submit one more idea to the D o c t o r W h o production team,

during the 1970s. 'There was one I wrote called Doctor Who and the Sprites. It

would have been for Tom Baker, but the script editor at the time wasn't keen, so

I never finished it.'

The Discontinuity Guide, Virgin Publishing, 1995

D I A L O G U E T R I U M P H S

Sheriff of Nottingham - 'You claim to practice alchemy?'

Doctor - 'Practice? Never, my dear sir - I am a professional!'

Barbara - 'Historians never let facts get in the way of a good story.'

F L U F F S

William Hartnell - 'I will turn these base substances into pure coal!'

T R I V I A

The role of Marion was taken by Anneke Wills, who in 1966 would be cast as

the Doctor's companion, Polly.

William Harwell was absent f r o m the recording of episodes four and five due to

illness, necessitating a last-minute script re-write.

Each episode was structured so that William Russell's costume and make-up

changes could take place during recording breaks.

G O O F S

The TARDIS landing sound can be heard after it has materialized.

When Robin wakes up after being knocked unconscious, he is in a different

tunnel. A f t e r the gaoler has locked Susan in with Maid Marion, the cell door

swings open. Robin's accent and moustache vary f r o m episode to episode.

Much of the story is historically and geographically inaccurate.

F A S H I O N V I C T I M

Robin's costume is replete with a leather jerkin and peacock-feathered cap.

Doctor Who: The Television Companion ,

BBC Books, 1998

A N A L Y S I S

Perhaps aware that a Robin Hood action adventure serial may be beyond the

constraints of Doctor Who 's budget, Godfrey Porter decorated his scripts with

occasional vignettes of comical humour - perhaps most conspicuously in the

whimsical digression of the Doctor b l u f f i n g as an incompetent and hapless

alchemist. He also avoided concentrating on the physical action sequences,

instead making the story a farce of mistaken identity and circumlocution and an

exploration into how modern myths and romances may arise.

' What makes this story is Robin's characterisation, documented Gary Russell

in the second issue of S h a d a dated January 1981 'William Russell gives one of

his f i n e r p e r f o r m a n c e s in the dual role of R o b i n and Ian, m a k i n g R o b i n an

unsympathetic and callous treat. The only drawback is the "trouble-up-at-t mill"

accent he adopts.'

The production, whilst not perhaps revisiting the glories of the preceding

historicals, was quite good. The finished product is polished if lacking in scale,

though Barry Newbery's detailed and richly textured sets are deserving of being

singled out for special attention.

A l l t h i n g s c o n s i d e r e d , w h i l s t n o t a n u n d i s p u t e d c l a s s i c , T h e T h i e f o f

Sherwood is something of a curate's egg.

'The Time Team', Doctor Who Magazine issue 285,1999

EPISODES (P46 TO DS3

The Team have a s s e m b l e d at

is too much talking about stuff that we

P e t e r ' s f o r a n o t h e r e i g h t

don't see.'

exciting e p i s o d e s

For Ransom, i t ' s b a c k t o t h e

monochrome magic. As Peter

crackly tape recording. Jac has some

sends young Harry to bed, Clayton,

reservations. The Sheriff's plan makes

Jac and Richard return to the edge of

n o s e n s e . W h e n h e l e a r n s t h e

their seats, where they had been left

whereabouts of Robin's den he sends

sitting by the p r e v i o u s i n s t a l m e n t ,

all his guards to destroy it, leaving the

Errand Of Mercy.

castle unguarded.'

' R o b i n H o o d i s d e a d ! ' g a s p s

'He does only have two guards, to

Clayton. 'But he can't be! He was a

be fair,' muses Peter. Ian returns to the

real historical figure, like Marco Polo

hideout where the Merry Men are not

and the Scarlet Pimpernel!'

feeling quite so merry, believing their

Jac c o r r e c t s C l a y t o n ' N o , h e ' s

leader to be dead. Until Ian dons the

fictional. That's what this story is all

l e g e n d a r y f e a t h e r e d cap. 'It's very

about. A n d the S c a r l e t P i m p e r n e l

t o u c h i n g s e e i n g Ian r e u n i t e d w i t h

wasn't real either.'

Barbara,' s a y s J a c . ' S h e w a s

'He was,' protests Clay. 'If he's not

o b v i o u s l y attracted to Robin, as he

real, then who killed The Hunchback

was Ian with a bit of rough thrown in,

of Notre Dame?'

but with Ian it's true love.'

P e t e r r e t u r n s w i t h a c h e e k y dry

The S h e r i f f ' s latest n o n s e n s i c a l

chardonnay. ' W h a t I like about this

plan is to exchange Susan for Robin.

story is that you're always watching it

T h e v e n u e is, c o n v e n i e n t l y , t h e

with a v i e w to h o w the m y t h o l o g y

peddler's shop. 'Everything happens

built up afterwards. Very clever.'

i n t h a t s h o p ! ' s n o r t s P e t e r . ' I ' m

'It is very self-referential,' agrees

surprised he keeps that secret passage

Jac. 'The story is almost a postmodern

of his secret, w h a t w i t h e v e r y o n e

deconstruction.'

popping in and out all the time!'

Richard breaks his silence. 'I wish

' I t i s g o o d t o s e e h i m b a c k ,

there were more monsters. And there

though,' s a y s J a c . ' H e i s a

wonderfully devious character.'

' Y e s , ' adds Clay as a p a c k e t of

' I t ' s B i l l y ! ' s h o u t t h e T e a m i n

Wotsits explodes over his lap. 'Milton

unison at the beginning of A Guest for

Johns, you've been gone too long.'

the Gallows. 'But where has he been

But w h e n Ian enters the shop, he

for the last two episodes?' complains

discovers the peddler has peddled his

Peter. 'The last we saw of him he was

last. Ian ducks for cover as a cloaked

c o u g h i n g a n d f a l l i n g t h r o u g h a

figure enters the shop...

window into the castle moat!'

Archive: 'The Thief of Sherwood',

Doctor Who Magazine issue 332, 2003

A G U E S T F O R T H E G A L L O W S

I N P R O D U C T I O N

The Doctor warns that Ian has

A Guest For The Gallows was

w a l k e d i n t o a t r a p . S u r e

r e c o r d e d o n F r i d a y 2 5

e n o u g h , the S h e r i f f s g u a r d s

September a t R i v e r s i d e

emerge f r o m the secret passage. The

Studio 1; main recording took place

Sheriff decides to execute Susan in

b e t w e e n 8 . 0 0 a n d 9 . 4 0 p m . T h e

t h e v i l l a g e s q u a r e t h e f o l l o w i n g

episode began with a reenactment of

morning. Returning to the camp, Ian,

the previous w e e k ' s cliffhanger, but

B a r b a r a and the D o c t o r learn of the

w i t h o u t M i l t o n J o h n s reprising his

S h e r i f f ' s plan f r o m M a i d M a r i o n .

role. The opening title captions were

Still p o s i n g as R o b i n , Ian strikes a

s u p e r i m p o s e d o v e r e i g h t f e e t o f

bargain with the villagers.

3 5 m m stock film of woodland taken

T h e n e x t m o r n i n g , S u s a n i s

from The Norman Conquest & A

b r o u g h t b e f o r e t h e g a l l o w s a n d a

r e c o r d i n g b r e a k w a s s c h e d u l e d

p r i e s t a d m i n i s t e r s t h e l a s t r i t e s .

b e f o r e the e x e c u t i o n s e q u e n c e t o

H o w e v e r , b e f o r e the execution can

a l l o w H a r w e l l t o c h a n g e into t h e

b e g i n , the v i l l a g e r s and the M e r r y

p r i e s t ' s h a b i t , and a s e c o n d b r e a k

M e n a t t a c k and the p r i e s t r e v e a l s

allowed the regular cast to m o v e to

himself to be the Doctor. The Sheriff

the TARDIS set.

flees, deciding that it would be safer

U n f o r t u n a t e l y the fight sequence

to join the crusades.

caused some parts of the cramped set

A s t h e v i l l a g e r s c e l e b r a t e , I a n

t o v i s i b l y s h a k e ! T h e S h e r i f f ' s

r e w a r d s t h e m f o r t h e i r h e l p b y

e s c a p e o n h o r s e b a c k u t i l i s e d t h e

h a n d i n g t h e m t h e b a n d i t s ' g o l d .

f o o t a g e that had been p r e - f i l m e d at

F r o m n o w o n , t h e b a n d i t s a n d

Ealing nine weeks earlier on 3 5 m m .

villagers will work together. Marion

The T A R D I S dematerialisation was

s a y s h e r f a r e w e l l s t o I a n a n d

a c h i e v e d using an inlay e f f e c t , and

p r o m i s e s t o k e e p R o b i n ' s m e m o r y

the episode e n d e d with the caption

alive. It will be her love-struck and

'Next Episode: Planet of Giants'.

ill-informed accounts of Robin Hood

D u r i n g editing, a single cut was

that f o r m the legend.

m a d e to A Guest for the Gallows at

I n s i d e the T A R D I S , the D o c t o r

the end of the r e s c u e s e q u e n c e to

sets the c o n t r o l s f o r 1964, but the

r e m o v e a s h o t o f a c o l l a p s i n g

f a u l t l o c a t o r w a r n s of a build up of

scenery f l a t ! This removed the final

space pressure outside...

l i n e s f r o m t h e s c e n e w h e r e i t i s

h i n t e d t h a t t h e D o c t o r m a y l e a v e

Earth w i t h o u t B a r b a r a or Ian ' Y o u

promised to get them h o m e , ' replies

Australia purchased the serial in May

S u s a n ' Y o u m a d e that p r o m i s e t o

1965 and rated it ' A , t h o u g h a f t e r

me, too, Grandfather.'

r e m o v i n g the s e q u e n c e o f R o b i n ' s

The Thief of Sherwood w a s

death it w a s revised f o r ' W . It was

p r e v i e w e d in a h a l f - p a g e Radio first b r o a d c a s t i n N o v e m b e r 1 9 6 5 .

Times f e a t u r e h e a d l i n e d ' DR WHO

T h e serial w a s also p u r c h a s e d i n

and the Outlaws'; it was illustrated

1 9 6 5 b y H o n g K o n g , J a m a i c a ,

with a p h o t o g r a p h of Robin, Susan

N i g e r i a , Singapore and Z a m b i a ; in

a n d t h e D o c t o r . T h e s e r i a l w a s

1 9 6 6 it was sold to Cyprus, Kenya,

praised in The Daily Sketch , whilst a

N e w Zealand and to Saudi Arabia in

l e t t e r on Junior Points Of View

t h e e a r l y 1 9 7 0 s . B y 1 9 7 4 , B B C

indicated t h a t t h e h i s t o r i c a l

Enterprises had withdrawn the story

i n a c c u r a c i e s o f t h e s e r i a l h a d

f r o m sale and the prints were junked.

provoked a l i v e l y c l a s s r o o m

On W e d n e s d a y 17 A u g u s t 1967,

d i s c u s s i o n . T h e Morning Star w a s

all six 4 0 5 - l i n e m a s t e r t a p e s w e r e

more critical, wishing for a return of

cleared f o r w i p i n g . The B B C Film

the 'villainous Dalek creatures f r o m

Library retained a 1 6 m m print of A

o u t e r - s p a c e ' . T h e B B C b o a r d o f

Guest for the Gallows\ in 19 8 2 ,

managers were concerned about the

C y p r u s r e t u r n e d The Deserted

storyline seeming too frivolous, and

Castle, The Thief of Sherwood and a

Kenneth A d a m , D i r e c t o r o f

slightly t r i m m e d p r i n t of Errand of

Television, said that his three-year-

Mercy. A complete f a n - m a d e audio

o l d d a u g h t e r t h o u g h t h i s t o r y

recording survives, along with some

adventures were silly because ' y o u

p o o r q u a l i t y silent 8 m m e x t r a c t s

a l w a y s k n e w t h e y w o u l d e n d

filmed off-screen f r o m the Australian

happily'.

transmissions. These include clips of

E a r l y e p i s o d e s of the serial ran

the Doctor preparing the gunpowder

opposite the end of the I T V s h o w s

and the Sheriff questioning Barbara.

Thank Your Lucky Stars a n d A version of A Guest for the Gallows

Hawkeye and the Last oof the

with an Arabic soundtrack also exists

Mohicans ( A T V L o n d o n ) . T h e

in a private collection.

r a t i n g s w e r e w e a k a t f i r s t b u t

In 2004, The Thief of Sherwood was

i m p r o v e d d u e t o t h e m o v e t o a

cleaned up by the B B C ' s u n o f f i c i a l

5.30pm time slot.

'Restoration Team' and released on a

T h e T h i e f o f S h e r w o o d w a s

B B C video, with linking narration by

m a r k e t e d by B B C E n t e r p r i s e s as a

William Russell substituting for the

s e t o f 1 6 m m f i l m r e c o r d i n g s .

missing instalments.

With thanks to Gary Galan, the Time Team and Andrew Pixley, to whom this

story is dedicated.

Short Trips: Life Science

One of the joys of editing Short Trips is the ability to introduce writers who

are new to professional publication. In A Universe of Terrors I was particularly

pleased to welcome Andy Campbell, who contributed a dark and clever Fifth

Doctor story - Long Term - in which a boys' school was plagued by a horrific

entity. The style of Long Term was very much influenced by MR lames' ghost

stories, and I was pleased when Andy suggested a story for Life Science that

would use a Victorian setting. The Age of Ambition is a cracking little tale that

evokes the Second Doctor's era perfectly, while also adding in some zombie

action that doubtless wouldn't have made it onto the screen in the Sixties.

Importantly, it also gives a more intelligent and cultured voice to Victoria

Waterfield than we're used to: something that raised my eyebrows at first, but

really serves the story and the character well.

John Binns

The Age of Ambition

Andy Campbell

I

I shall not go back to 1866 again.

There is so much I wish to relate, but already I pause; the nib of my

quill pen hovers irresolutely over the page. I read my first sentence

over and over again, as the ink gradually ceases to glisten and the

words dry to permanence. How odd those words appear, written in my

own hand! For I was ever the most conservative and sentimental of

girls; I always disliked change. Even Miss Mary, my favourite doll in

childhood, I was hesitant to put aside as I grew too old for such

playthings; Miss Mary represented a stability and predictability of life

that I was reluctant to relinquish. In the end I surrendered her in

response to my father's gentle admonition: 'You're a grown-up lady

now, Victoria.' As I once gave up my doll, so now I give up my whole

life, my home, and the era of my birth: 'the Victorian era', as posterity

will term it. I have seen and heard things that make it impossible for

me ever to return: sights and sounds that have changed me to the heart.

I have experienced a crisis of faith in the wisdom of my elders that has

left me with no choice but to turn my back on my beginnings; perhaps

that is the meaning of adulthood. I shall not go back again.

The business that has finally brought me to this drastic decision had

its beginning, as far as I am concerned, with a remarkable discussion

between my dear father, Professor Edward Waterfield, and Sir Charles

Westbrooke - the renowned researcher into human physiology and

author of that important work, Principles of Human Anatomy,

published in four volumes in 1861.

On the evening of the third day of September in the year of grace

1864, Papa and I were invited for dinner at Westbrooke's fine

Georgian home in Canterbury. Since Mama's untimely death the

previous autumn, Papa's many friends from the English scientific

community had rallied impressively to our support. Though relations

between my father and Westbrooke perhaps stood closer to

acquaintanceship than to true friendship, I believe we both numbered

him among those who had helped to mitigate our bereavement with his

lively company and wide. ranging conversation; and to Westbrooke's

sympathy for our loss had been added empathy, for his own wife Claire

had recently died in a most tragic manner, murdered by ruffians who

had broken into his house with larcenous intent.

On this particular evening we were seated together in Westbrooke's

vast high-ceilinged drawing room, the opulence of which I found rather

oppressive. The walls were papered blood red, and vast dark oil

paintings depicting military scenes were mounted upon them. The thick

carpet was pale brown, bearing an infinitely complex swirling pattern

of leaf-like structures: the art of design Aunt Margaret always accuses

of causing her a headache. The armchairs were enormous, and covered

in dark leather. Above the fireplace hung a large mirror with an

elaborate gilt frame. I recalled that Westbrooke, who had been

something of a big-game hunter in his youth, had once indicated that

he would have preferred a stag's head mounted above his fireplace; but

Claire had apparently expressed distaste at the idea of having 'horrible

dead things in the house and Westbrooke had deferred to her in the

matter.

Dinner was over, and Westbrooke was embarked on a singular

exposition that was evidently directed toward my father only. Papa

listened earnestly, his pince-nez perched in a scholarly fashion near the

end of his nose. He knew that he could always learn something from

Westbrooke. Meanwhile I sat quietly in a corner of the drawing room,

making slow but steady progress in my needlework, listening to

Westbrooke and wondering (as I often did in such circumstances)

whether the two men realised how closely I was attending to what was

being said.

'Very early one morning,' Westbrooke said, 'about a week after my

beloved Claire's death, I emerged from a remarkably vivid dream, in

which I had beheld my wife so clearly that I woke with tears upon my

face. Curiously, in my dream, Claire appeared not as herself but as

Desdemona, the heroine of Shakespeare's Othello. As I stirred to full

wakefulness, the significance of the dream gradually became apparent

to me. As a young girl in college, Claire had once told me, she had

played the role of Desdemona in an amateur dramatic production. She

had described with a kind of bashful pride the enormous effort she had

expended in memorising her lines, an effort so single-minded and

ultimately efficacious that even years later she could recall without

fault or hesitation every word the Bard had given his heroine to utter.

'As I lay there alone in our nuptial bed, I began to ask myself with

nothing less than a thrill of panic: what had become of her awareness

of those lines when she died? Where had they gone? A hundred hours

of study and practice to absorb them, and in an instant they had

vanished into the ether. In that moment it was borne upon me what a

thorough nonsense is death, what a stupid futile undoing of the long

arduous process of filling one's mind and forming one's character. A

scholar arrives at his deathbed after a lifetime of study: his erudition is

irretrievably lost in a moment. A soldier forges his spirit in a score of

campaigns on the battlefield: where goes his bravery in the final

moment as the bullet enters his brain? And what becomes of the poet's

acquired sensitivity? Nature, when Nature herself sees fit to end him?'

'This is a mystery,' Papa said meditatively; then looked embarrassed,

no doubt sensing that his remark would seem a platitude.

'My studies of anatomy have not helped,' Westbrooke continued

'After twenty-five years of research, I think I can say that I understand

human biology as well as any man alive. Yet when death is understood

in a physiological sense, it appears not less but more ridiculous. The

heart stops, the blood cools, the mind fades into oblivion - and then the

undignified and foul process of necrosis, the degeneration of flesh and

organs, all the cells unravelling at once, and the result too disgusting to

look upon.'

I paused in my sewing. My needle, almost motionless, but trembling

very slightly between my fingers, glinted in the candlelight. By now I

felt sure that both my father and Westbrooke were so engrossed in

what the latter was saying that they had temporarily lost consciousness

of my presence; certainly, had they not, they would never have

discussed such gruesome matters in the presence of a young woman

'You see,' Westbrooke explained, 'I was taught from childhood that

death is the most natural of phenomena, only to be expected, and hence

not to be feared. On the morning of my dream I perceived that it is, on

the contrary, the least natural of all possible events. It followed to my

mind that death should be avoidable, treatable, like any other pointless

piece of human suffering, if only we are willing to put aside our

preconceptions and think.'

I looked up and saw that my father's face expressed disquiet at this

speculative turn in Westbrooke's argument; for Westbrooke, as well as

a thorough and disciplined scholar, was known as something of an

iconoclast, a radical thinker and perhaps, in some ill-defined way, a

dangerous one. 'What are you driving at, Charles?' he asked.

Westbrooke did not answer the question directly. Instead he asked: 'I

assume you have read Mr Darwin's Origin of Species by Means of

Natural Selection?'

'Of course,' Papa replied. 'What serious scientist has not read it, and

who has not entered into the debate it has inspired?'

'Quite so. One has to admire Mr Darwin's moral courage. But the

implications of his theory have not yet been fully worked out. He

argues that all living things, including ourselves, are in continuous

competition for limited resources, does he not? And in a fundamentally

hostile world, those organisms that possess characteristics conferring

better chances of survival will live longer, and have more offspring,

which in turn inherit those characteristics. It follows that natural

selection, as Mr Darwin terms it, operates only on the young - those

who are still able or likely to have children. By the time we arrive at

old age, some of us will have reproduced and others will not, but

evolution has nothing further to say about what happens to our bodies,

and will not mitigate the ravages of old age. So we decline and die -

but where is the natural law that decrees that we must?'

''Tis common, all that lives must die,' said my father cryptically beg

your pardon?'

'I'm sorry,' he said self-consciously. 'Queen Gertrude to Hamlet.

You reminded me earlier of Shakespeare:

'And you in turn remind me of my dear Claire; said Westbrooke

with a sad smile: Such a loss as ours is hard to support, is it not,

Edward? I know that your Edith is never far from your thoughts.'

'No, indeed; agreed Papa.

'Such a great loss; Westbrooke said. 'Pneumonia, was it not? A cruel

illness. And at such a tender age - thirty-six?' Thirty-seven:

I had lost interest in my needlework; I let the piece of fabric sink

down onto my lap. In my mind I was seeing Mama's face, just as I

always pictured it: patient and serene, the face of an angel, with just a

few little telling signs of tiredness around the eyes.

'Forgive my touching upon it, Edward,' said Westbrooke, 'but I

know you appreciate frank speech. In addition to your profound grief at

Edith's death, were you not touched by its - futility? Increasingly, as I

think of Claire, the profound pointlessness of losing her is the thing

that affects me most. Dying should be reversible:

It is not,' Papa replied with resignation, and he settled back in his

armchair. 'Why not?'Westbrooke asked.

My father's eyes, which for some while had been focusing absently

on the contents of his brandy glass, now looked up sharply to meet

Westbrooke's stare.' Resurrection of the dead would be an outrage

against common sense; my father said.

'What common sense?'

'Charles, I have to ask - is all this seriously meant?'

Westbrooke got to his feet and strolled across to the mirror above his

fireplace, where he stood gazing meditatively at his own reflection for

a few moments before turning back to address my father.

'I think I might be able to do it, Edward; he said.

'Impossible!' was my father's response.

Westbrooke smiled, and in the flickering candlelight his smile

appeared to me slightly dangerous. 'You are quite right, Edward; he

replied without resentment. It is impossible. But here we encounter an

important stumbling block to many an intelligent person's thinking.

Merely knowing that something is impossible should never deter one

from doing it. You know as well as I do, Edward, that until 1609 it was

impossible to observe the surface of another planet; until 1776 it was

impossible to pilot a vehicle beneath the sea; until 1847 it was

impossible to perform surgery without inflicting the most terrible pain;

and of course there are endless further examples. The most casual

student of history can confirm that impossibility is merely a matter of

dates. How our descendants will marvel at our nineteenth-century

narrow-mindedness, with our defeatist assumption that death is

irreversible! Just as we look back upon our ancestors of the Middle

Ages, and view them with a mixture of pity and contempt for their

belief, now so obviously mistaken, that the world is flat'

'I know that death is irreversible,' Papa insisted.

Here Westbrooke became more animated. 'Yes of course you do, my

friend. You know it in your heart, in your mind, in the very depths of

your being. And in just the same way, and with equal conviction, our

forefathers of five hundred years ago knew that the world was a flat

disc, with the heavens rotating around it. They knew it because they

had been told it from birth, and had been exposed to no other idea'

'Only the Lord can give life,' said Papa. 'And certainly none other

than the Lord could restore it'

' Some are already arguing that Mr Darwin's work renders the Lord

unnecessary,' countered Westbrooke. I saw that my father looked

unhappy at this, but Westbrooke continued undaunted. 'And even if

God were all that He is assumed to be, why would He give us such

extensive creative faculties if we were not intended to exploit them

fully? The human brain is Nature's crowning marvel, Edward. Whether

it has evolved or was divinely conceived is a matter for debate, but

probably irrelevant. In either case, do you suppose for one moment that

the brain's functions do not extend beyond designing a few simple

mechanical contraptions or perfecting a handful of vaccines? No, the

human intellect is equal to grander challenges. I believe this century

will change things in undreamed of ways. Death's days are numbered,

my friend'

'Very well, Charles,' said my father cautiously. 'In practical terms -

how is it to be done?'

'I have begun to conduct simple experiments into this matter,' said

Westbrooke, 'and I have already obtained some interesting results. For

example, one of my lines of inquiry concerned the grafting of a

modified Connaughton steam-pump into the left ventricle of the heart

in certain mammals that had been deliberately euthanised. Believe me,

I confirmed beyond any possibility of doubt that the animals had truly

died; but later, with the circulatory system thus artificially fortified,

they were not only restored to activity, but in addition proved - shall

we say -'

Here Westbrooke faltered uncharacteristically; perhaps he had

remembered my presence and was concerned not to upset me, after all.

'Proved what?' asked Papa.

The animals proved remarkably difficult to kill for a second time.'

'I must say I disapprove of such work,' Papa said reproachfully.

'How exactly did you attempt to kill these unfortunate creatures - the

second time?'

My needlework was quite forgotten; I felt hypnotised as I watched

Westbrooke's eyes gleaming in the candlelight. 'I tried almost

everything I could think of, Edward,' he said. 'It was not to be

accomplished. In fact, I am beginning to believe that death itself may

be merely a consequence of the failure of inherently inefficient

physiological processes. An imperfectly designed machine will

inevitably break down sooner or later. A perfectly designed machine

should run indefinitely, because there will never be any specific reason

for it to stop.'

Westbrooke paused to pour more brandy for my father and for

himself from his cut-glass decanter.

'Consider human blood, for example,' he said. 'I have been

conducting research into the cardiovascular system for a good many

years, and as you know, I contributed substantially to Dr Halsey's

famous volumes on haematology. By far the most remarkable feature

of blood is its degree of impurity - even the blood of a newborn child.

If we in our chemical laboratories were set the task of developing

blood for the first time, in order to perform the functions that we now

know it has, we would certainly mix the constituent chemicals in very

different proportions from those actually observed.'

Papa was incredulous. 'Blood could be - better?' he asked.

'Oh yes,' replied Westbrooke. 'Much better. I have established it

beyond doubt. And that is just the beginning.' Papa rose to his feet. 'I

wish to hear no more, Charles,' he said. The line of thought you are

propounding is too gruesome to pursue.'

Westbrooke smiled indulgently. 'My dear Edward! In a moment you

will surely mention Frankenstein. We have all been engrossed by that

particular romance, have we not? And delighted in the fecundity of

Mrs Shelley's imagination? But why should there be anything

inherently gruesome about returning from death to life? On the

contrary, what could be more beautiful or dignified than overcoming

the ultimate enemy and returning in triumph to one's loved ones? In

death and decay lies all that is squalid and ugly. We should not allow

our sensibilities, much less our fear, to cause us to shrink from the

possibility of overcoming these things'

My father, who had begun pacing the floor, returned to his seat. For

almost a minute he gazed into Westbrooke's eyes, as if searching there

for a flicker of self-doubt. For Papa knew what I did not then fully

appreciate, that Westbrooke was a genius; and he was no doubt

reasoning that if the man was wholly convinced of what he was saying,

we should consider accepting it also.

'Is it possible, Charles?' my father whispered at last.

'You'll see, my friend,' said Westbrooke. 'It will be beautiful.' And

in that moment the candle closest to Westbrooke, the one illuminating

his face, abruptly went out.

II

The matter rested there. In fact, we saw very little of Westbrooke after

that evening; he began to retreat into seclusion, showing diminishing

interest in any kind of social intercourse, and it was noticed that he

ceased to write for the various scientific journals to which he had

formerly been a prolific contributor. He also apparently decided that he

could do without servants; and there was, I recall, something of a

minor scandal in Canterbury due to the local people's perception that

he had dismissed his staff without good reason.

Within two years my own life had changed irreversibly: my beloved

father had died in a manner that I could not have imagined in 1864; but

I acquired two remarkable friends, who each day challenge the limits

of what I consider possible. My recent experiences seem to me like

remembered dreams, yet each of them truly happened. The Doctor,

Jamie McCrimmon and I stood together in that nightmare city of

thinking machines; there Papa sacrificed his life confronting demons of

which mankind has not yet dreamt. Soon afterward, in the heart of a

bleak and ashen desert, we penetrated a tomb that was but a trap for the

intelligent; this time the fiends were of a different form, but no less

fearful for their closer kinship with ourselves.

The Doctor has told me that we three occupy a special place in the

scheme of Creation, and I believe him. Cautiously, like a liberated

slave who stretches unshackled limbs for the first time, I grow

accustomed to the idea that the TARDIS can travel anywhere without

restriction. Yet I must confess (as the flying machine is incorrigibly

unreliable, by its pilot's own confession) that I had considered it more

likely that I should set foot on the sun than that I should simply return

home. The Doctor, however, in the casual manner in which he

habitually dispenses great truths, assures me that all possible events

will occur sooner or later, if one is willing to wait long enough.

So it was that on the evening of the fifth of June in the year 1866 (I

was to discover the precise date later), we set down in the gardens of

Westbrooke's house. As on our previous journeys, I did not feel as if

we were the ones arriving; on the contrary, as we stood together in the

ship's pale-coloured control room I felt as if a fresh environment were

materialising around us, while we stayed still. The Doctor activated the

screen by which we would be able to observe our new surroundings. I

beheld the extensive gardens surrounding Westbrooke's home, the

flowers and trees shining in monochrome beneath a full moon, and I

realised I was back in the England I knew.

'It's home; I said disbelievingly. 'I'm home.'

On the screen, the house itself could be partially glimpsed through

the interlacing foliage of vast dark elms that moved slightly in a steady

breeze. It was just as I recalled it, an enduring testimony to

Westbrooke's considerable wealth: an enormous three-storied mansion

in red brick, with courses and cornices of white stone, and trimmings

of white-painted woodwork. Part of the top floor appeared curiously

illumined, and within moments I sensed that something was wrong.

'Oh dear,' said the Doctor, as if in confirmation of my fears. He was

studying the screen, a diminutive black-clad figure, his hands wringing

together nervously.

Jamie moved to the Doctor's side. 'What's that light in the upstairs,

Doctor?'

'I believe there's a fire,' said the Doctor. 'Oh dear, dear me, how

very careless.'

'I know this place,' I told them. 'It belongs to a friend of my father.

A distinguished scientist - Sir Charles Westbrooke.'

The Doctor turned to me. 'Really, Victoria? How very interesting.

Well then -' with a vigorous clap of his hands - 'we'd better hurry and

see what the problem is, hadn't we?' And he operated the lever that

opened the door of the ship.

'We must help him, Doctor,' I said. 'He's a good man - a great man

But he suffered terribly when his wife died, and I think that with no

one to look after him, he may not be - he may not be very well:

'Here we go again; said Jamie ruefully. 'The TARDIS never arrives

anywhere there isn't a problem, does it Doctor?' While Jamie said this

he was watching me, not the Doctor. It was a rhetorical question,

intended by the Highlander as part of my education.

'Well, that's synchronicity, you see, Jamie; explained the Doctor

perfunctorily, rubbing his hands together and advancing toward the

TARDIS doors as they swung open with a low hum.

'Oh aye, synchro... aye,' Jamie replied. We moved out of the

TARDIS and onto a wide lawn, its grass bleached to a silvery grey by

the bright moonlight. The flying machine had materialised near an

ornate sundial. Despite the lateness of the hour, the breeze that ruffled

our clothes was warm. It was now beyond doubt that the glowing light

filling several of the building's upper windows was the result of a blaze

inside. The Doctor strode off purposefully toward the house, Jamie and

me hurrying to keep up with him

On the way I briefly detailed Westbrooke's distinguished career in

medicine, and hinted at the strange dark changes that had come over

his thinking after the tragic loss of his wife. The Doctor shook his head

sadly at my brief account of Claire's murder. Jamie, too, was grim-

faced; he was a man of war, but the notion of murdering a woman

disgusted him

'I haven't seen Westbrooke since 1864,' I concluded as we reached

the house. 'But I remember that he dismissed all his servants. No one

knew why.'

An imposing flight of steps, flanked by stone columns, led up to the

main entrance of the house. The door was made of solid oak, and

securely locked. I was on the point of suggesting the servant's

entrance, but in a moment the Doctor had produced a twisted stick of

metal from one of his many pockets and expertly picked the lock. He

pushed the heavy door open, and as it swung back we moved

cautiously into the vast entrance hall.

The hallway was richly carpeted and flanked by ornamental suits of

armour. Each of the suits grasped some outsized and hideous weapon,

which Jamie noted with interest. A remarkable collection of firearms

was displayed on the walls, in many mounted glass cases. Both sides of

the hall were lined with panelled doors, each door concealing a passage

into a different part of the house. Papa had once described

Westbrooke's home as labyrinthine; at the time I had smiled at this

portentous description, but it seemed to me to have ominous overtones

now. An acrid smell of smoke floated in the hallway, calling to my

mind vague associations with Guy Fawkes Night. A faint hissing sound

came from the fire burning somewhere upstairs in the building.

'Is anybody at home?' the Doctor called cheerily. His voice echoed

around the hall and up the principal stairway.

'We should see where the fire is, Doctor,' said Jamie, making for the

stairway but the Doctor placed a restraining hand on his arm.

'No, Jamie, not yet. I'd like to find the owner - Mr -' He looked at

me enquiringly.

Westbrooke; I reminded him.

'Yes, I'd like to find Mr Westbrooke first and make sure he's safe.

We'll deal with the fire in a moment. You said he lives alone, Victoria?

Most unusual in a house of this size.'

'He wasn't always reclusive, Doctor. He was a brilliant man. At one

time everyone in the English scientific community knew him.'

'Really?' asked the Doctor. He was gazing around the entrance hall,

hands clasped together, and listening attentively. After a moment he

appeared to hear some small sound - this was impressive, over the

pervasive hiss of flames, and certainly neither Jamie nor I heard

anything - and he hurried through one of the doorways on the left side

of the entrance hall, while we trailed behind him

We passed through into an oak-panelled lobby. Here the Doctor

pushed open the second door on the right, and together we entered

what appeared to be a commodious and well-appointed study. My eyes

were drawn at once to the large and beautiful oil painting of Claire

Westbrooke that hung on the wall, so completely dominating the room

that it seized my attention before the presence of Westbrooke himself,

crouching like a cornered animal behind his leather-topped writing

desk. He was as immobile as his wife's image in the painting: as

immaculately dressed as I remembered him, and clean-shaven; but

gaunt of countenance, with eyes that appeared terrified.

'Mr Westbrooke?' enquired the Doctor. Westbrooke, rising slowly to

his feet, looked straight past him and at me with an expression of

dawning recognition. 'Victoria?' he croaked. His voice seemed to have

atrophied through lack of use. 'My dear Victoria Maud?'

'Sir Charles!' I ran to him and grasped both his hands, which were

cold despite the warmth of the evening. 'Sir Charles, what on earth are

you doing in here? A fire burns upstairs!'

'You mustn't concern yourself, my dear,' Westbrooke said shakily.

'The fire will not matter.'

'Ach, now listen!' cried Jamie, stepping forward. 'We should do

something about it before the whole place burns down!'

'Yes, quite right,' agreed the Doctor. 'Now, some kind of

extinguishing apparatus -'

Westbrooke registered my companions' presence for the first time.

'Who are these people, Victoria? Where is your father?'

I introduced the Doctor and Jamie, leaving Westbrooke's second

question unanswered. Then I repeated my own question: 'What are you

doing in here, Sir Charles?'

'They are hard to avoid,' was his reply.

'Who are?' asked the Doctor.

'They weren't expecting to come back,' Westbrooke said. 'Now that

they have returned, they are much more aggressive than I anticipated.'

'Who?' asked Jamie, without the Doctor's patient tone.

'One of them overturned a candelabrum upstairs in the west wing,'

Westbrooke said hoarsely. 'It wasn't intentional: I don't believe their

thinking is so sophisticated. You mustn't concern yourself with the

fire; perhaps it will burn itself out. And if it does not, perhaps that

would be better.'

The Doctor placed a reassuring hand on Westbrooke's shoulder.

Westbrooke did not object; indeed, he seemed not to notice the gesture.

'My dear fellow,' the Doctor said. 'Naturally your fire is your own

business. But I do feel we should get you out of here; wouldn't you

agree?'

'Aye,' said Jamie. 'We should go - it's no' safe here'

Westbrooke shook his head vigorously. 'They'll find me if I leave,'

he said. 'They could be anywhere in the house by now.' And I recalled

the conversation that Westbrooke had had with Papa on that September

evening in 1864.

'You succeeded,' I said. 'Didn't you, Sir Charles?' The Doctor and

Jamie both looked at me in bewilderment. In my hurried account of

Westbrooke as we headed toward the house I had not recounted the

details of his radical beliefs, nor made any reference to his stated

intention to vindicate them experimentally.

'In the end, a slight change to the formula for the blood substitute

was all that was required,' said Westbrooke, addressing only me. 'It

was ludicrously simple - a schoolboy might have thought of it.

Electrically fortified erythrocytes in synthetic liquid medium. That was

the modification waiting to be discovered through two years of

research. Tonight I administered it to all my experimental subjects at

once. I had had so many disappointments that I didn't even expect it to

work. But now -'

'Experimental subjects?' enquired the Doctor.

"The animals you talked about?' I asked. 'Mammals, you told us.'

By this point, that was what I was earnestly hoping for. But two years

of research are a long time to a man of Westbrooke's energy and self-

discipline; I knew that he had already achieved partial successes with

animals; and even before he shook his head gravely, I knew perfectly

well that his researches would by now have advanced beyond the stage

of experimentation on non-human subjects.

'What are you talking about?' Jamie asked Westbrooke

exasperatedly. The expression on the Doctor's face indicated that he

already knew.' Oh dear,' he said.

'They weren't expecting to come back,' Westbrooke repeated

forlornly. 'How many of them are there?' asked the Doctor grimly.

'Six,' Westbrooke replied. 'Five men and one - one woman All the

previous subjects I disposed of when necrosis could no longer be

postponed.'

'Jamie. Victoria. Mr Westbrooke,' said the Doctor resolutely 'I think

we should leave this room now, and address this problem without

delay.'

Westbrooke was still in a state of shock, but his courage seemed

somewhat bolstered by our company. I like to believe that his

familiarity with me, a figure from a time when his life was still safe

and predictable, heartened him at least as much as Jamie's formidable

brawn or the Doctor's air of understated authority. Jamie and the

Doctor each took one of Westbrooke's arms, and thus supported he

submitted to being led from the study, albeit in a state of trembling

fear. We passed back through the lobby, an uncertain and anxious

group of four, into the main hall, where the distant sound of burning

could still be clearly heard.

'We can leave now, can't we Doctor?' asked Jamie as we entered the

hall. 'Get Westbrooke to somewhere safe?'

It's rarely that simple Jamie; said the Doctor grimly. His eyes were

fixed on the far end of the long hall. We followed his gaze, and I

perceived an indistinct shape moving in the shadows between two of

Westbrooke's ornamental suits of armour. Little could be seen of the

figure at this range and in such gloom, but I was suddenly gripped by a

powerful desire not to view it more closely. The man had not noticed

our presence, and was apparently occupied in pushing himself without

much force against one of Westbrooke's suits of armour. He presented

a curious spectacle: the image of a man who has somehow forgotten

that one cannot pass through solid objects but must walk around them.

Inevitably, after a few moments, the suit of armour toppled over with a

gigantic metallic crash, sending pieces of itself clattering across the

hallway. The sudden noise elicited an inarticulate cry of terror from

Westbrooke, who turned and fled, disappearing through one of the

doorways leading to the east wing of the house.

No; whispered Jamie, his eyes fixed upon the dark figure as it

shambled aimlessly among the fallen ruins of the armour. 'This isnae

right. Doctor, I swear he's not -'

With a heart-stopping crash, a door immediately to my right burst

open and a bulky figure came lurching out of the doorway toward me.

It was a man, obscenely fat, wearing a dishevelled suit and some form

of novelty mask. As a little girl I had once seen a line of such masks on

sale for All Souls' Eve in an amusement emporium in Eastbourne;

some represented witches, some trolls, some goblins; and they

frightened the little children very effectively. The mask that this man

was wearing seemed to be an especially gruesome example of its kind:

pale green, with a loathsome fixed grin that appeared to result from the

lips being too desiccated and immobile to cover the teeth. I caught a

strong whiff of something that could only be formaldehyde, and

realised that the man was not wearing a mask at all.

My scream must have been ear-splitting. Heedless of my

companions, I fled the length of the hall and shouldered my way

through a door into the carpeted passageway beyond; whether or not I

was following in Westbrooke's footsteps I was too panicked to know

or care. Soon I was tripping down a dusty stone stairway illuminated

only by one of the mounted brass oil lamps that Westbrooke appeared

to keep lit throughout the house. Cobwebs clung to my face. I fell

against the rough wooden door at the bottom of the stairway and

pushed through it into the gloom beyond, my heart hammering in my

chest.

I glanced around, panting, in the semi-darkness. A little light

emanated from two more of the mounted oil lamps. I had entered

Westbrooke's wine cellar: a large example of its kind, containing many

tall wooden racks laden with dusty bottles, and everywhere thickly

festooned in cobwebs. Presently I perceived that something was

stirring behind one of the wooden cabinets, producing a restless

shuffling sound; and then I heard a voice, speaking as through a

mouthful of dirt, announce meaninglessly: 'You have been a wonderful

wife, my dear.'

A figure shambled slowly from concealment, revealing itself in the

half-light as a stooping, elderly man dressed in dirty-looking brown

garments. It was immediately evident that, like the two creatures

upstairs in the hallway, he was no longer a living person. His skin was

grey and desiccated, and his eyes, lacking the lubricant to swivel them,

stared unblinkingly ahead. The stench of preservative chemicals that

arose from his body defies description.

I now realise it is quite true that one hears one's own heartbeat when

gripped by the extremity of fear. As I backed away from the advancing

figure, my breath seemed frozen in my lungs. With part of my mind I

appreciated well enough that all

I had to do was to retreat through the door by which I had entered;

but, gripped by horror at the sight of Westbrooke's resurrected

creature, I behaved irrationally, and moved instead toward the rear of

the wine cellar, so that soon the old man stood between myself and my

only exit.

'You have been a wonderful wife, my dear,' he said again,

apparently addressing me; and I realised with a cold thrill of horror that

he was simply repeating mindlessly, without sense or purpose the only

remnant of human thought that still resided in his decaying brain: his

final words in life. A picture of the old man's dying moment flashed

unbidden into my mind with the clarity of a daguerreotype: he would

have lain upon his deathbed (in hospital rather than in his home, I felt

sure), feeling no pain but only an overwhelming tiredness, and bade his

wife a loving farewell before departing her company for what both

would have considered the final time: You have been a wonderful wife,

my dear. But he was back now

My terror was made perfect by the old man's evident hostility, in

contrast to the tenderness of his words. Now he was advancing more

rapidly, his arms outstretched to grasp me. I shrieked at the top of my

lungs, surprising myself with the power and pitch of the cry; and his

right hand pressed over my mouth, as hard and cold as a slab of

refrigerated meat. My attempts to thrust him away were wholly futile;

he was functioning as a machine, an engine of cold flesh, and he was

dreadfully strong. I closed my eyes above his probing, reeking fingers.

'You have been a won-' the old man slurred, and his hand dropped

away from my face. I opened my eyes and squinted at him. Something

had happened to his throat: specifically, a broad piece of metal now

projected from it. I peered at the metal object and perceived that it was

the tip of a heavy sword, which had stopped an inch short of

transfixing me as well.

The metal tip shifted, and brown blood burst free of the old man's

neck and sprayed across my face, as cold as pond water. The old man

slumped heavily to the stone floor of the cellar, wrenching the blade

down with him; but Jamie still held on to the sword's handle. I fell into

his arms.

'Victoria!' he cried. We stumbled away from the twitching corpse.

'Oh Jamie,' I gasped against his shoulder. 'I didn't like that at all!'

Jamie pulled the sword free of the body. 'Aye, he's a mean-looking

beggar right enough. Good job your Mr Westbrooke likes his suits of

armour, eh?' He brandished the huge sword gracefully in spite of its

enormous weight. 'It's a claymore, Victoria! I saw some blood spilt on

Culloden's field with one o' these!'

As we moved together toward the door of the wine cellar, we heard a

shuffling noise behind us, and turned to see the old man rising to his

feet.

'Ye're a persistent divell, aren't ye?' Jamie exclaimed. He took a

resolute pace towards the creature and hefted the sword, then with a

powerful twisting motion swept its head cleanly from its body. I

screamed as the severed head tumbled to the floor. The body slumped

after it. I turned and dragged open the door of the wine cellar.

I realised that Jamie was not following. 'Look!' he yelled. I looked,

and watched the headless body rise unsteadily to its feet.

'Jamie, we have to go!' I cried. 'Now!'

But Jamie appeared hypnotised by the unreality of what he was

seeing. Without doubt he was accustomed to violence, but not of this

kind. 'It's no' possible,' he murmured.

'Jamie, there's no time! We must get out of here and back to the

Doctor now!'

With a wordless yell Jamie attacked the corpse. He slammed the

sword into it again and again, lopping it to pieces. Soon gory fragments

littered the floor; but still they writhed and turned.

'He won't die,' Jamie said quietly.

'Jamie, the door's open! We must go!'

But now the young Highlander had something new to stare at, as did

I. The pieces of the body were no longer moving randomly; they were

writhing toward each other, as if attempting to reconstitute the human

figure they had formerly composed. Failing in this, they were meeting

and resealing in haphazard combinations: the joint of one shoulder

fastened itself to the stump of the neck; a forearm sealed itself against a

ragged wound in the torso. Within less than a minute the body had

reassembled itself into an entirely new shape and struggled up from the

floor, a dripping amalgam of fused human pieces, its four limbs

thrashing in an uncoordinated fashion as it lurched toward us.

'Ye're right, Victoria,' Jamie said. The claymore slipped from his

relaxing grip and clattered to the floor. 'We're leaving'

As we hurried back up the stairs, I breathlessly thanked Jamie for

saving my life. It is a curious feeling to be so comprehensively

indebted to another person; perhaps I should try to get used to it. We

lost our way in our attempt to relocate the main hall, finding ourselves

instead in Westbrooke's long oak-panelled dining room; but to our

great relief we found the Doctor already there.

He scratched his head vigorously, ruffling his unruly mop of hair.

'Six of them,' he said to himself. Not an army, but - a distinct

problem. Yes, a serious problem. Six of them somewhere in the

house... '

'Well, Doctor,' said Jamie. 'You always have good ideas. What do

we do now?'

The door at the opposite end of the dining room sprang open with a

dull bang, and Westbrooke came stumbling backwards into the room.

His hands were raised in front of his face, but tremblingly and without

conviction, as if he were facing a threat he scarcely hoped to be able to

parry. He did not notice us at first; his whole attention was occupied by

his pursuer, who now unhurriedly entered the dining room after him.

She was a middle-aged woman of striking beauty, with flowing auburn

hair and a complexion as white as paper. Her voluptuous body was

clad in a glossy black evening gown of the modern style, and diamonds

glittered at her throat. I had met Claire Westbrooke on two occasions,

but even had I not, Westbrooke's late wife would have been impossible

not to recognise from her portrait in his study.

I knew that Westbrooke's fanatical desire to revive the dead had

been fuelled by the loss of his own wife; but the possibility of her

actually figuring among his experimental subjects had literally never

occurred to me. In hindsight my naivete astonishes me. Westbrooke's

research had always been for Claire; in bringing her back he had

merely done the most obvious thing.

Westbrooke backed slowly into the room, Claire keeping pace with

him, until he encountered resistance in the form of the dining table; he

stopped, and so did she. His eyes, stretched wide in an exaggerated

expression of horror, gazed into the unfathomable black eyes of his

wife. From her pale grey lips issued a question, muted by the unnatural

dryness of her larynx, but still containing an unmistakable tone of

alarm: 'Charles, what are you doing?'

I gasped loudly. Westbrooke turned to look at me, only at me, and

his face was filled with a terrible guilt. I knew that his mind was

collapsing under the pressure of the night's events, and an image came

into my own mind that made me wish, just for a moment, to share in

the release of his madness. It was an image too vivid and too terrible to

bear: Claire Westbrooke at her dressing table one evening in 1864,

disturbed by a sound behind her, looking up to see her husband; gazing

at him, at first apathetically and then with dawning horror; and her last

words - Charles, what are you doing? - a pitifully inadequate voicing

of her dismay as Westbrooke's hands closed around her throat.

'You said she was killed by thieves; I said expressionlessly.

Westbrooke was still looking at me as his wife's corpse embraced

him. 'You know, Victoria,' he said, 'if she had fallen in love with

another man I would just have let her go. I could have forgiven her

that. But she wasn't having an affair. Her sense of honour would never

have permitted it. She just no longer wanted me:

'Charles, what are you doing?' Claire asked again. Her delicate

white hands clawed insistently at Westbrooke's body, and he did not

resist them. 'We must help him!' cried Jamie.

'We're too late, Jamie; said the Doctor solemnly. 'Much too late.'

Claire's hands fastened around Westbrooke's neck.

'It was a beautiful discovery I made, Doctor!' cried Westbrooke. A

tear ran down his cheek. His statement was also a question; he was

seeking the Doctor's approval.

Claire snapped Westbrooke's neck, forcibly enough to send the

single tear flying off his face. Her head swivelled with an audible

crackling of her cervical vertebrae, and she looked at me, as her

husband had done. 'Charles, what are you doing?' she said.

A hand grasped mine. With my eyes fixed on Claire, I took a

moment to realise that it was only the Doctor, anxious to lead me from

the scene.

'Come on, Victoria; he said. 'We need to find Westbrooke's

chemical laboratory. Jamie! You too. We can't stay here:

We ran. The Doctor had no difficulty in deducing that Westbrooke's

storehouse of chemicals would be on the ground floor; but either his

luck or his knowledge of Georgian architecture must be considerable:

he located the laboratory at the front of the house after only two

incorrect guesses, and without our encountering any more of

Westbrooke's experimental subjects.

We entered the laboratory and looked cautiously around. I had

expected to find bed-like trolleys of the kind used in hospitals or

morgues, bearing hunched shapes beneath white sheets, or tanks of

liquid containing human forms floating in translucent fluid; but nothing

of the kind was to be seen. Perhaps Westbrooke kept such things in a

second laboratory. As well as hundreds of jars filled with different

chemicals, the room did contain a large and ancient blackboard. From

the narrow wooden shelf at its base the Doctor picked up a piece of

white chalk and sucked it worriedly

'We have to stop Westbrooke's project here; he said to us. 'Stop it

completely, tonight. Not a trace of his research must remain - no one

must ever hear of it. If the Victorians recoil from biology now, the

future progress of medicine will be impeded. All kinds of crucial

discoveries will be delayed, perhaps never happen at all'

The Doctor turned to the blackboard and began shuffling steadily

from left to right along it, his forehead wrinkled in concentration, the

piece of chalk chattering against the board's surface as he scribbled a

lengthy formula. He stood back for a moment to study his work, and

then hurriedly added a second line of symbols beneath the first.

Jamie studied the blackboard with a perplexed expression. 'What is

it, Doctor?' he asked.

The Doctor turned to us, his face grim. 'Something I hoped I'd never

have to think about again,' he said. He put one arm around Jamie's

shoulders and another around mine. 'Now listen very carefully, you

two. There are certain discoveries that are better not made. Mr

Westbrooke found that out this evening. On the blackboard is another

example:

'A chemical formula?' I guessed.

'Instructions for making a very special chemical,' said the Doctor,

his mouth tight with distaste. 'The invention of one of my own people.

Something that I campaigned for years to have banned where I come

from - successfully I might add: he said with a brief gleam of pride,

gripping his lapels and beaming at us both. Then his face darkened

again. 'It's a weapon. I believe its inventor euphemistically termed it a

disruption agent. A catalyst that converts vertebrate blood into acid'

'Catalyst?' Jamie enunciated the word cautiously, no doubt

experiencing the unwelcome sensation that events were slipping away

from him again.

'Yes, Jamie. Within two or three seconds of mixing with blood, it

produces a flurry of molecular activity too vigorous to reverse, a

runaway chemical reaction. Only trace amounts of it are required to

produce the effect, and the elegant part is that the substance itself

undergoes no permanent chemical change. An exquisitely vicious

solution to a very old problem - how to kill your enemy before he has

the opportunity to kill you:

I was a little taken aback. 'But why would you memorise the

formula for a beastly thing like that?'

'I didn't, Victoria. Some things you tend not to forget'

With an uncomfortable feeling of premonition, I asked: 'How strong

is, the acid - the acid that it makes of your blood?'

But the Doctor only looked at me with the sad eyes of one who has

not the heart to answer a question, for fear of the hurt the answer might

cause.

'Are you going to use it, Doctor?' Jamie asked with unseemly

eagerness.

The Doctor rubbed his chin. All the constituent liquids are present in

this laboratory. It would simply be a matter of combining them in the

right sequence and the right proportions. I don't like it one little bit, but

I'm not sure Westbrooke's experimental subjects can be stopped in

another way.'

'How long will it take to make, Doctor?' I asked.

'Its inventor spent several hours carefully mixing the chemicals to

make the sample that I saw tested.' The Doctor gazed around the

laboratory at the glass jars and bottles cramming the wooden shelves.

'But under these circumstances, I could hurry. Do it in say - eight to

ten minutes: Jamie and I exchanged a sceptical glance: With two

laboratory assistants to fetch me the chemicals I ask for.'

'What will we do when we've got it, Doctor?' asked Jamie: Throw it

at the beasties?'

'No, Jamie, that wouldn't work. The chemical itself isn't acidic. We

need a delivery system to introduce it intravenously. That's the real

problem.' 'A rifle that fires tranquiliser darts,' I said.

The Doctor turned to me, appearing slightly surprised. 'Yes, quite

right, Victoria! Something like a tranquiliser rifle. I really should be

able to improvise one. Now, a few basic components -'

'No, Doctor,' I said. Westbrooke has one - I mean had one. He used

to hunt wild animals on safari when he was a young man' I clearly

remembered being shown the rifle on one of my visits to the house. As

a hunter Westbrooke had enjoyed the chase, but had had mixed

feelings about the kill; lacking the appetite for slaughter, he had often

used the elegant American firearm to bring down his quarry without

having to kill it. I mentioned the gun now with a curious spirit of

reluctance; this nominating of an appropriate weapon made me wholly

complicit in the night's horrors, and for an instant I seemed to feel, as it

were, the posthumous disappointment of my parents.

'Can you remember where the rifle is?' asked the Doctor.

'Mounted in the main hallway, among many other firearms,' I told

him. 'Really?' said the Doctor gloomily. 'How providential'

'Will it work, Doctor?' asked Jamie enthusiastically.

'Well,' replied the Doctor, 'such devices are apparently useful for

subduing wild animals. I suppose we're going to see what happens

when we turn this one to a slightly different purpose.'

Within fifteen minutes we were on our way back to the main hall.

The Doctor, gripping a vial of brownish liquid, seemed to be mastering

the layout of the house very quickly now. The rifle was quickly

removed from its mounted glass case, which Jamie appeared to take

some pleasure in smashing. The liquid the Doctor had synthesised, in

itself harmless to the touch, was substituted without difficulty for the

calmative chemical in the small black darts that we also retrieved from

the case. When the rifle was properly loaded, Jamie took charge of it.

Naturally there was no question of my being offered the gun, but it was

only later that I realised there was never any question of the Doctor's

taking it either; a rifle would have looked more incongruous in his

hands than in mine

'Now we must search the house,' the Doctor said. 'Jamie, be ready

to use that weapon each time we encounter one of Westbrooke's

subjects.'

'Aye, Doctor,' he said as we began our progress from room to room.

'Ye can count on me'

We entered Westbrooke's library. It was one of the largest rooms in

his house, and its contents would have done justice to a small public

library. It was even arranged like one: the many thousands of books

accumulated by Westbrooke could not all be accommodated in the

shelves covering the walls from floor to ceiling, so he had added

freestanding bookcases to house the rest of his collection.

The library had a visitor: a young man, thickset and thuggish in

appearance, was stumbling toward us down its main aisle. He was

dressed in a cheap-looking grey suit with a dirty white shirt beneath;

both jacket and shirt were open at the throat. His face was pale yellow,

and the ugly smudge of a bruise darkened the whole left side of his

neck. His left arm was raised toward us, the fingers clawing at the air,

while his right arm hung at his side, its fingers twitching

spasmodically. He was closing the distance between us at a pace that

left little time for thought.

I screamed - loudly, I suppose. It served to clear my head. But

Jamie, holding the tranquiliser rifle, appeared mesmerised. 'Jamie,' the

Doctor said carefully. 'When I say shoot, shoot'

The dead man raised his other arm. His mouth opened. 'Go to hell,'

he said.

A cold wave of horror rolled over me. These had been the man's last

words in this world, or so he had planned; and in an instant they

indicated to me the meaning of the bruise on his neck. The noose had

pressed deeply as he thrashed beneath the scaffold; but his final words

- go to hell - had been spat belligerently into the faces of his

executioners a second before the lever was pulled.

'Shoot,' said the Doctor quietly.

'They cannae be killed, Doctor,' Jamie whispered.

'Shoot! Jamie, pull the trigger.'

Jamie was staring, as if mesmerised, directly into the dried-out eyes

of the advancing young man He was still clutching the tranquiliser rifle

but appeared to have forgotten all about it; its barrel was wavering

visibly.

'Go to hell,' the young man said again. His mouth did not close

properly this time; his lower jaw remained hanging down in an

expression of surprise as he reached out his groping hands toward us.

'Jamie, now!' cried the Doctor. The Highlander did not respond.

I surprised myself by what I did next, but I relate my actions without

embellishment. I took a pace forward and plucked the rifle from

Jamie's hands. He surrendered it without resistance or comment. I

raised the rifle, braced the stock against my shoulder, aimed carefully

at the young man's bare throat, and pulled the trigger. There was a

sharp pop, reminiscent of the sound of a child's toy gun, and a small

black dart appeared at the man's Adam's apple. A trickle of brownish

liquid emerged from beneath it: whether the man's unnaturally fortified

blood or the Doctor's 'very special chemical' I had no way of telling.

The man stopped in his tracks, his cold right hand reaching out to

brush against my face. We took a step backward, as did he.

'Go to hell; he said, raising dead fingers to claw feebly at the dart

embedded in his throat.

'Don't look; was the Doctor's advice; it went unheeded on this

occasion. We could not tear our eyes away from the figure of the

young man. In my mind I heard the question I had put to the Doctor

earlier, repeated quite distinctly in my own voice: How strong is the

acid? That was the question the Doctor had chosen not to answer. But a

voice in my mind, not the Doctor's, now supplied a species of reply,

something half remembered from a fairy tale Papa had used to enjoy

reading to me when I was a little girl: All the better to eat you with, my

dear

The young man raised both hands to touch his face, and then shakily

lowered them again. He appeared to be weeping soundlessly: tears of

brownish liquid, like dirty pond water, disengaged themselves from his

eyes and coursed down his cheeks. Soon a trickle of the same liquid

was seen at one corner of his slackly open mouth: one comer, and then

the other. He made a curious whining sound that seemed to emanate

from deep within his chest, and took two more unsteady steps

backwards, until he was leaning drunkenly against one of

Westbrooke's well-stocked bookcases.

'I don't think I want to see; I said; but I did not look away or close

my eyes.

More brown tears slid down the young man's face, and presently his

eyeballs became detached from their sockets and followed them. His

nose softened into an irregular shape, and a moment later his jaw

dislocated with a moist snap and dropped clear of his face, catching in

the folds of his shirt. His whole body seemed to be shifting and

rearranging itself beneath his clothes, from which thin plumes of

yellowish steam were beginning to rise. His hands were changing too:

the fingernails unpeeled one by one and pattered to the floor, while the

flesh of the hands was liquefying, revealing the white bones of

metacarpus and phalanges within. The body settled itself more firmly

against the bookcase. The volumes whose titles were readable were

mostly textbooks of human biology, I noticed absently. The comical

aptness of this seemed to liberate me to look away, and in that moment

I saw on the Doctor's face the most desolate expression of sadness and

regret I have ever seen.

When I looked back at the young man his scalp was sliding forwards

over his forehead like a ludicrously unconvincing hairpiece, and both

of his ears had now come away; one of them rested incongruously on

his left shoulder like an epaulette. Then his face collapsed into a flood

of gore, and his whole body, steaming ferociously inside its sizzling

clothes, sank back into the bookcase and passed cleanly through it,

melting a man-shaped hole through wood and paper, and falling out of

view on the far side with a liquid crash.

The noise broke Jamie's trance. 'I'm sorry, Victoria,' he said. He

was apologising for his earlier paralysis; but that seemed a long time

ago. He took the rifle gently back from me.' I can finish this now. You

can trust me.'

At the far side of the library we entered the corridor that terminated

in the second stairway, which led up to the guest bedrooms on the

middle floor. We moved together through room after room, seeking to

be as systematic as possible; but some of the rooms on this floor were

out of bounds now, filled with smoke or fully ablaze as the fire from

the top floor spread steadily through the house, everywhere fuelled by

the wooden furnishings in which Westbrooke had invested so much.

We spent a bleak and nightmarish hour tracking down the remainder

of Westbrooke's subjects. I must not dwell on it; in the end we located

them all. Poor Jamie, desperate to redeem himself after his loss of

nerve in the library, made sure he dispatched each creature with the

rifle before it could come close enough to us to express its

bewilderment through violence. The fat man who had so terrified me in

the hallway was in Westbrooke's bedroom, where he had torn most of

the linen to ribbons and was found stuffing fragments of shredded

pillowcase into his mouth. Two shadowy creatures we located together

in the scullery, staring blankly at each other as if each was silently

trying to remember the other's name; one of them had been clawing

repeatedly at its own face in a mindless spasmodic motion, opening a

ragged wound in its cheek from which brown blood was steadily

pulsing. The haphazard amalgam of human parts from the wine cellar

was found gambolling blindly in a corridor on the middle floor,

crashing repeatedly against the walls; at some point it had caught fire,

but it was still highly mobile.

Claire Westbrooke took longer to find. She had made her way to her

husband's study, and by the time we found her she had raked her long

fingernails down the portrait of herself so many times that she had

ravaged both her hands and the picture. Jamie's aim never faltered, and

each of Westbrooke's experimental subjects went the way of the young

man in the library. The sights and sounds of each grisly act of

destruction will haunt me throughout my life.

We could not have afforded to take any longer about our business.

(Throughout our search we were conscious of the fire securing its grip

on the house at an accelerating pace, and when we returned from the

study to the main hall, the thick carpet running down the principal

stairway was fiercely ablaze, filling the hall with thick grey smoke.

'You two must get out of here now,' said the Doctor urgently: Wait

for me outside. The fire will spread to Westbrooke's laboratory in a

few minutes, and I must make one last trip there first.'

'Why?' I asked.

'One more recipe I'd like to try,' said the Doctor. 'All of

Westbrooke's notes and equipment, every trace of what he discovered,

must be utterly destroyed. We can't trust a conventional house fire to

accomplish that. But if my rather rusty knowledge of chemistry serves

me one more time, I think I can make sure no one ever learns what

happened here tonight:

'There's no time for any clever stuff, Doctor!' protested Jamie. 'The

whole house is going to go up!'There was no disputing this; the smoke

in the hallway was catching in our throats and making our eyes water,

and the noise of burning was deafening now, roaring at us from every

side. But the Doctor was already hurrying towards the laboratory.

Jamie and I left by the main door and hurried hand in hand down the

stone steps, gratefully gasping in lungfuls of the night air, which,

though smelling increasingly like a bonfire, seemed fresh by

comparison with the air inside the house.

At what we deemed a safe distance, we crouched down behind a row

of box-bushes and anxiously watched the spread of the fire, waiting for

the Doctor to come out. Plumes of orange flame were visible on all

three storeys of the house now, and many of the windows splintered

and burst in the intense heat, releasing floods of white smoke into the

night.

After an almost unbearable period of waiting, the Doctor appeared at

the main door, glanced quickly around and then scurried down the

stone stairway. He dashed across the several expanses of lawn that

Jamie and I had crossed, his limbs appearing rather uncoordinated in a

way that suggested that running did not come naturally to him. He

threw himself down next to us, then we three crouched together behind

Westbrooke's box-bushes and watched in grim fascination as his house

burned. Presently the flames reached the chemical laboratory on the

ground floor, and the room abruptly exploded with a coughing roar that

sprayed fragments of wood and glass across the lawn.

'It's over,' said Jamie, and got to his feet. But the Doctor reached up

and dragged him impatiently back to the ground. 'Not yet, Jamie,' said

the Doctor. 'The fuse is lit; that's all.'

So we settled down again to watch the house. The explosion in the

laboratory had established new fires in adjacent rooms, and everywhere

Westbrooke's residence was consuming itself in heat and violence. I

opened my mouth to enquire what the Doctor had meant by 'the fuse is

lit', then thought better of it. I had already witnessed the efficacy of the

chemistry that the Doctor carried in his head: chemistry from a place

where science and magic had become indistinguishable, where

anything was possible. Chemistry of that kind could be relied upon to

work.

Perhaps Jamie's thoughts followed different lines to my own; or

perhaps he was less patient than I. Whatever his reason, he opened his

mouth to ask the Doctor what we were waiting for.

'What -' Jamie began, and at that moment Westbrooke's entire

house came apart, unfolding itself into the night. In one breathless

moment the building was standing, burning but intact; in the next came

an immense explosion that disintegrated every part of it at once, and a

thousand million fragments of wood, plaster, stone and glass were

propelled outward by a raging ball of fire that glowed pure white. For a

while there was nothing in the universe but airborne debris. Then, as

the ball of fire dissipated, we saw that no trace remained of the

structure of the house: it had been eradicated to its foundations. We

climbed unsteadily to our feet while the fragments were still falling,

too small and too light to drop quickly, pattering gently into our hair

and onto our shoulders like rain.

I looked at Jamie, whose mouth was still open in the act of phrasing

his redundant question; then at the Doctor, who in his moment of

triumph simply looked tired. 'Complete thermal site erasure; he

remarked to no one in particular. 'Well, that's that:

I shall not go back to 1866 again. The Doctor tells me that in my

future, 'Victorian' becomes a byword for progress and innovation, that

the revolutions of thought instigated by my people change the future of

the world. And 'Victorian' once signified to me so much that was

special: fragrant summer gardens, elegant homes and cheerful

welcomes, libraries with their atmosphere of curiosity and optimism,

seaside resorts with their briny smell and their gaudy mechanical slot

machines; pursuing childish games in the schoolyard, marvelling at the

ingenuity of clockwork toys, riding in horse-drawn trams, strolling by

the river in the park at sundown.

But my mind has been changed. 'Victorian' now calls to mind only

the squalid deaths of my beloved father and of the foolish murderer

Westbrooke, each seeking to achieve immortality as a benefactor of the

human species, and each crucified by his own ambition. In an age

whose defining characteristic is intellectual pride, there is no home for

someone like me. My home henceforth must be the TARDIS, and each

new environment that materialises around it. My family will be Jamie

and the Doctor, I am set on it; if I cannot love my native time, I will

love them instead.

Short Trips: Repercussions

I'm terribly proud of this collection (confession time, the original idea of

using an airship was John Ainsworth's, not mine) - you see I just wanted to do

a book like those old Amicus films, where loads of people walk into a room

and tell their life stories. Then they discover they're dead, or in hell or on top

of a bus to nowhere or whatever. I love those kinds of things. Indeed, I think

my main inspiration for this collection was an old play I once acted in where

some people aboard a boat are being taken to somewhere to pay for their some

sins and tell the Steward behind the bar their stories (he's been on the boat

forever!). To this day I can't remember the name of the play but it appealed to

me when I was ten and have wanted to explore those themes ever since.

Looking at Repercussions today, there really isn't a duff story in the book,

every writer rose to the occasion magnificently and told a story that was part

of a bigger whole and yet ensured it could be read separately if need be. And

among my other intentions for this book was to try to bring in some newer

voices, fresh to the Big Finish stable - Andy Frankham-Allen being one of

them. I thought the tone, the angst and the resolution of this particular story

not only showed people that Andy is a top writer, but encapsulated in a few

thousand words the essence of what these people's individual stories were all

about and made the book work exactly as I'd always hoped it would.

Repercussions was an honour to edit because I was helped so much by a team

of writers who fed back and forth into one another's stories, everyone happy

to tweak a line or paragraph if need be, to link stuff together. And add to that

a cover so simple but so evocative (sorry, no disrespect to Clayton or Richard

or any of the other artists, but Stuart Manning's covers are, for me, the best

- Repercussions aside, look at imagination of Time Signature or the ingenuity of

Snapshots or the simplicity of The History of Christmas, such gorgeous art) and

this is a package I'm still proud to hold up and show people as an example of

how brilliant Big Finish has been at keeping Doctor Who alive and innovative

over the last ten years.

Gary Russell

The Dead Man's Story

Andrew Frankham

Jake Morgan looked up from the television upon hearing the

front door opening. A big smile spread across his face, and he

switched the TV to mute. He leant his neck back so that he could

see the hallway through the open door.

'Hi, Fables!' he called.

There was no answer. Jake just smiled more. His girlfriend was

up to something, or else she would have replied. He listened as she

pottered about in the kitchen. He closed his eyes, imagining her

emptying the shopping bags and putting things away. In his mind

he could see her reaching the top shelves, her jumper climbing up

her back to reveal a tantalising glimpse of the tattoo on her lower

spine. He sighed. He was a very lucky man.

'Get your mind out of that gutter, you.'

Jake opened his eyes. Fay was standing before him, having

managed to enter the room without him noticing. Despite having

been at work all day she looked radiant, unlike most days when

she usually looked very drawn. As usual she had her long

chestnut hair pulled back in a ponytail, and she was wearing her

woolly jumper and faded black jeans.

'It's a nice gutter to be in,' Jake said.

At this Fay screwed up her face. 'Oh my god, I can't believe

you just said that! You are so corny.'

'Well, you know me, I'm a hopeless romantic. It's why you love

me,' Jake said, making a silly face at his girlfriend.

'Yeah.' Suddenly Fay looked a little embarrassed. She placed

one hand in her jeans' pocket and looked at the silent TV 'You

know it's a leap year?' She turned back to him and he nodded in

reply. 'Know what that means?'

Jake pursed his lips together and shrugged.

'It means I get to do this.' She removed her hand from her

pocket and lowered herself to one knee. It was only then that Jake

noticed that she was holding a little box, from which she removed

a ring. She placed the box on the floor, took Jake's hand in hers,

and looked him directly in the eyes. 'Will you marry me?'

Jake's reaction was instant. 'Yes, oh, yes'

Fay's face fell, and she released his hand. 'Oh. You were

supposed to say no.'

'I was?' He could not hide the confusion in his voice.

'Yeah, it's tradition. The woman proposes on a leap year, the

man refuses and then he has to buy her a silk dress to make up

for it. I wanted a lovely silk dress.' It was only then that Fay

smiled, her eyes glinting, and poked him playfully in the stomach.

Jake laughed and hugged her. 'You nutter,' he said, and helped

her put the ring on his finger; he then reached forward and

kissed her. 'You'll have the best silk dress ever,' he promised.

Jake Morgan was buoyantly crossing the road when, through the

driving rain, he saw a most unusual sight.

A blue box was standing next to the entrance of the petrol

station. Above the doors, one of which was open, were the words

'Police Public Call Box'. Jake had only seen such a box in one

place before, although he had no idea what it was for, really. He

knew that it had not been standing there the previous night when

he had popped over to the garage for some Pepsi, which left him

wondering why anyone would place it there during the small

hours of the morning.

His natural curiosity taking over, he approached the police box

to take a peek inside. As he drew nearer he heard a voice from

within. It was a man's voice, sounding old and drawn. Jake

stopped, caution superseding his curiosity

'Yes, Jeremy, that one. No, not that one! That one there!' the

man said, sounding rather peeved.

There was a bang and a flash of light. Jake's hands instinctively

rose to cover his eyes, but they could not protect him from the jet

of cold air that shot out of the police box. Blasted back, he hit the

ground with a crack as his spine collided with the stone paving

slabs. Despite the pain that was coursing through his body, part

of Jake's mind could still make out a younger male voice coming

from nearby.

'Oh, I say!' it said.

Jake lay there for a moment, while the pain subsided to a

manageable level. He flexed his fingers and placed his palms on

the ground. Slowly he pushed down, attempting to lift his back

and expecting much pain for his troubles. He was surprised by

the lack of feeling, pain or otherwise, and got to his feet very

slowly, just in case.

He looked up and stepped back in surprise. There was a man

emerging from the police box, looking at him uncertainly. Jake

narrowed his eyes at the man's choice of clothing. Despite the

frilly shirt, the way he dressed gave the man an elegant air,

enhanced by the fine mane of white hair on top of his lined face.

The man smiled broadly and held a hand out. 'Sorry about

that, old chap, Jeremy is a bit clumsy, but he means well.'

Jake smiled. 'I'm fine, mate, probably end up with a sore...'

No sooner had Jake started speaking than the man's expression

changed from happy and helpful to confused. He ran a finger

across his lips and his eyebrows crossed together. Shaking his

head, the man stepped back inside the police box.

'Oh, well don't mind me,' Jake muttered, annoyed by the

man's reaction. He marched over to the police box, but before he

could set foot inside the door slammed shut.

'Hey!' He shouted and went to slam a fist on the door. His hand

passed right through its surface and a strange wheezing and

groaning filled the air around him. He stood back, stunned, and

cast about for the source of the noise. The sound died down and

Jake returned his attention to the blue box, only to find that it

was no longer there.

'Bloody hell.' He stretched his arms out before him, half

expecting to feel the solid mass against his palms, but there was

nothing. 'What was all that about?' he wondered, unsure whether

he had imagined the whole episode or not.

Jake Morgan stepped up to the front door a couple of hours later,

still a little baffled by the strangeness of the evening so far. It had

started off wonderfully enough, but after his possible daydream

by the garage and the strange non-reaction from Robert in town,

he was beginning to wonder what more could happen before he

went to bed.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out his key and moved to

insert it into the lock. His hand continued into the door and out

the other side. Jake pulled back quickly only to find that there

was no key in his hand after all. He glanced down at his trousers

and noticed the shape of the key still inside his tight pocket.

His brow knitted tightly and he looked at the door before him.

With the police box he was almost certain he had made the

whole thing up. That there had never been a police box, which is

why his hand has passed through it, but this time...

There was no denying what had just happened.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed, and watched his hand sink

into the door. He whistled out a breath of amazement.

'Damn,' he said, closing his eyes, and walked forward.

Despite everything Jake still expected to have his nose squashed

by the solid door, and was only half surprised when this did not

happen. Instead he passed through the wooden door and came

out in the small hallway beyond.

'Fay!' he called out, but no reply was forthcoming. All he could

hear was the soft sounds of music drifting from the living room.

He was about to go check it out when he remembered his shoes.

Both he and Fay had agreed at the beginning that shoes were not

to be worn indoors.

He knelt down to remove his trainers only to discover that he

could not get a grip on them. As with the door his hand passed

through the leather and his foot, into the floor below. His lifted his

hand out of the floor and stood up again, his heart rate

increasing.

The first hint of a suspicion was forming in his mind, and he

did not like it.

He took a tentative step onto the carpet then raised his foot.

Where there should have been a muddy shoeprint there was

nothing. He inspected the sole of his shoe, and was unsurprised to

discover that there was no mud there, despite the stormy weather

outside and the fact that he had cut across the grass to get home

and out of the rain.

Just a sec, he said and rushed down the hallway to the mirror

on the far wall. If it was raining then surely he should have been

wet.

He looked into the mirror, and caught his breath at the sight

that greeted him. Despite his fears he could see himself in the

mirror, but only just. What he saw was a shadow of himself. He

still looked like him, but he could see the reflection of the hallway

through his semi-transparent body. He ran his hand through his,

very dry, blonde hair and his reflection mimicked the action. No

contact was made, and he watched with a strange mixture of

horror and amazement as his hand went below his hair and into

his skull. He twiddled his fingers and was relieved to discover that

he could not feel the insides of his head. It was a small

consolation.

He thought back to his trip into town, and how Robert had

ignored him. At the time Jake had just assumed that his best

mate was in a huff about something, maybe simply stressed out

because of the long hours he was working, but now, looking at

himself in the mirror, Jake was beginning to suspect otherwise.

Could it be that Robert had not seen Jake because he was...

Jake shivered. He could not complete that thought.

For a moment he closed his eyes. When he opened them again

he almost jumped in shock. Fay stood before the mirror. She was

brushing her hair, whistling along with the tune playing in the

living room. Seeing her eyes smile, Jake's heart melted as the love

he felt for her overtook his reasoning. The deep feeling was soon

replaced when he noticed that both of them were occupying the

same space.

Jake staggered back a few paces.

Fay still remained before the mirror, completely oblivious to

that fact that she had, only a second earlier, been standing inside

Jake.

'Fay... ' he began, but could not find any other words to say.

Even if he could, he doubted that she would be able to hear him.

He opened his mouth to try again. He had to say something. If

anyone would be able to hear him and see him it should be her.

They had been through so much together in the previous two

years, and he had to believe that their love counted for something.

As it turned out he did not need to speak for it was then that Fay

turned around. Their eyes met. For several seconds they lingered,

and Jake stopped breathing.

The moment passed and Fay continued into the living room.

Jake remained where he was standing, his mind awash with the

thought that she had seen him. There had been an unmistakable

recognition in her eyes.

He followed her into the room and watched as she switched

CDs. 'Fay, I know you saw me then Even if it was just for a

second. Come on, babe, look at me again.'

She did not.

He stood there, thinking, and an idea came to him. He walked

up behind Fay and leant forward until his mouth was just behind

her ear. Slowly, and gently, he blew. Nothing happened. Not a

single strand of Fay's hair moved. She stood up and walked over

to the sofa, passing through Jake as she did so. He straightened

up and turned to watch her.

Jake was not sure how much time passed while he stood there.

She listened to her classical music while reading several chapters

of Marcel Theroux's latest novel, and then turned the TV on to

watch the news. In all that time not once did she look at Jake.

Several times he tried to speak to her, but she gave no sign of

hearing him. As time passed by Jake's heart sunk further and

further. He could not help but think that she was ignoring him on

purpose, like Robert had been doing.

He walked across the room, passing through her line of vision,

and stood by the window. Outside, the world continued to turn.

He stood there for a time, lost in his thoughts. Things would not

have seemed so bad if only Fay would acknowledge him, as it

was...

'Yes, he went straight there to tell you. You really haven't seen

him?'

The words drifted into his thoughts. He turned to see Fay on

the phone, a look of concern on her face. He moved forward and

knelt before her. She looked right through him, but nonetheless

Jake reached out a hand to comfort her. For a split second he had

forgotten about his condition and was, as a result, taken aback

when his hand passed through her leg. Jake pulled away as if

stung.

'Come off it, you're pulling my leg, right? He's been gone for

four hours, Rob.' Fay paused while Robert said something. She

smiled. 'Yes, we've got engaged! And we've set a date for the

wedding.'

Jake sighed, as the tears built up in his eyes. Seeing the smile on

Fay's face was too much. He thought back to the moment they

had agreed to get married. After he had promised to buy her a

silk dress they had hugged. In that moment he felt like he was one

with her, more so than he ever did when they made love. He

sighed again. How could the wedding ever happen now?

'Yes, a date,' Fay was saying, the happiness in her voice slowly

diminishing. 'He'd better bloody get back soon, though, otherwise

we'll seriously have to rethink the whole thing.'

His heart aching, he turned to leave his home.

Jake Morgan stood at the edge of the pavement, waiting for the

lights to change. People were shuffling into position behind him.

Some of them, the more impatient ones, were barging forward,

intent on being the first ones across the road, as if there was some

kind of prize for getting there first. He hated the way people in

London pushed each other aside, as if no one else existed but

them He took a glance behind him, just in time to notice a very

large man shove forward. Jake braced himself, not wanting to be

pushed onto the road and as a consequence into the oncoming

traffic. Once more he had forgotten his new condition, and was

reminded when the large man stepped inside him.

Without any further thought Jake crossed the road, elated with

the knowledge that nothing could hurt him. Not even the double

decker that was racing towards him.

Once he was across the road his mind went back to Fay. Being

around her and not being able touch her was more than he could

stomach, which was why he was now on the streets of

Hammersmith, hoping the distance from Fay would relieve a little

of that pain. Darkness had fallen since he had returned home,

which provided Jake with the illusion that it was later than it

really was.

He turned onto King Street, and was happy to see that there

were few people about. It was a Friday, which meant that soon

the road would be bustling with people; some heading to and

from the Lyric Theatre, others coming out to have a pizza. He

liked to come here on a weekend evening, it was one of the rare

occasions that he felt that Londoners became aware of each other.

As it was the few people presently on King Street were so caught

up in their own lives that they barely had time to notice the

people around them. Jake remembered many mornings' walks to

work, feeling like he was invisible.

Now he really was, and that made Jake smile.

Part of him knew that he could have some fun with his new

status. Being really invisible in a city of people who might as well

be invisible could be fun. He could do so much and get away with

so many things. He could help himself to whatever he wanted,

never having to worry about being caught. He could become

Fay's guardian angel, protecting her from anyone who tried to

hurt her.

He came to a stop outside of a burger bar, and watched

through the windows at the people eating. It had been hours since

he had last eaten, yet he did not feel the slightest bit hungry. That

did not come as much of a surprise to him. The dead did not need

to eat, after all.

He had to accept that small but important fact. He was dead; it

was the only explanation for what had happened when he visited

Robert, and for when he had returned home. As he thought back

he realised that only one event could account for his present state

of being. The incident at the police box. Whatever happened had

happened then, and he was sure now that he had not imagined it.

That blast of air, that flash of light, somehow it must have

killed him.

His heart dropped at that thought. In his mind he could see Fay

talking to Robert on the phone, smiling as she told him about the

wedding. Well, it ain't gonna happen now, is it? He took a deep

breath as his eyes began to well up.

He turned away from the burger bar and blinked away the

tears, and his eyes made contact with a familiar face. It was the

man from the police box. Still dressed in frilly shirt and green

velvet jacket, the man was standing outside the chemist looking

directly at Jake. If there was any doubt, the fact that he could see

Jake was confirmed when the man smiled at him.

'Oi, pal!' Jake called out.

The man's smile faded quickly, and he raised a hand to his left

ear. He frowned as he fiddled with his ear, then shook his head.

Looking extremely annoyed the man turned and began to walk

away.

'Oh no you don't,' Jake said and set off after the man.

Despite his attempts to attract the man's attention, Jake was

ignored. It was as if he were not there, which, Jake realised, was

true; although he could not ignore that fact that just like the last

time he had seen the man, the man had, at first, shown signs of

seeing Jake.

Side by side they walked down King's Street. Jake had no

intention of leaving the man's side; whoever this man was, he

knew something about what was going on and Jake wanted to

know as well.

They turned the corner into Macbeth Street, and once they had

neared the school that stood there, Jake noticed the police box in

an alley alongside a block of flats.

Jake smiled. At last they were getting somewhere.

The man crossed the road and entered the police box. As he

stepped inside a voice greeted him. Any luck, Doctor?'

'I'm afraid not, Jeremy. Almost, though.' The man sighed.

'And I was nearly... '

However he ended that sentence was lost to Jake, as the man

closed the door behind him. With a grin Jake stepped forward,

knowing full well he could step straight into the box, and find out

what the man who Jeremy called 'Doctor' was up to. Step

through he did, and came out of the other side.

He span around in surprise. 'What's going on?'

Just as he was about to try again, the light on top of the box

started flashing and the curious wheezing noise began to rise

again.

'No, wait!' Jake called out, but the police box faded from sight

before his eyes.

While he was walking with the Doctor the possibility that he was

not alone had become real, and with it came the hope that maybe

he could still marry Fay. If the Doctor had been able to see him, if

only for a few moments, then maybe he could cure Jake, too. But

along with the disappearance of the police box went his hopes.

He looked up to the dark sky above and shouted out.

'Oh, god! Please don't let me be alone!'

Jake Morgan spent another hour sitting on the wet grass in

Ravenscourt Park, not that the dampness below him was a

problem. The joy of being dead, he thought bitterly.

For a while, after the police box had gone, he had considered

wandering around Hammersmith, but he could not stomach the

thought of being among so many people yet being so alone. So he

decided to take some time out in the park, closed as it was, in the

hope that the isolation would not seem so obvious. For the most

part it worked.

Every now and then he would notice a group of people walking

down the street next to the park, laughing and joking as they

started their night out. Memories of such nights out with Fay,

Robert (and his latest fling) would rush unwanted into Jake's

mind.

Ahead of him, above the arches, the occasional train would

hurry past, through Ravenscourt Park Station (closed at

weekends) and on to Hammersmith. Silhouettes of people in the

train could be seen from where Jake sat. All those people

together, ignoring each other, not realising the wonderful gift

they had. The gift of sharing their lives with other people.

In the moments when there were no people and no trains he

would consider some deep philosophical thoughts, which was

most unlike him. When he had been alive he had never been a

religious man, quite content to be his own boss, and unwilling to

contemplate that there was a plan for his life other than the one

he created himself. Now he was dead he found himself thinking

about such things.

Was there really more to this life? Considering his current

predicament he would hope so. But if that was so then why was he

still here, walking the earth as a ghost? Jake did not know. He

knew very little about ghosts, beyond what he saw in horror

films. He refused to accept that for the rest of his time (eternity?)

he would have to haunt people. If he was a ghost, Jake

rationalised, then what about all the others who died? Was he

really the only ghost in Hammersmith? He did not think so, after

all there must have been loads of people who had died in the area.

Muggings that had gone wrong, old folk in their beds, and as for

the people who must have died in Charing Cross Hospital...

This led him to consider something he had once heard.

Something about how ghosts were dead spirits who had to make

peace with their former lives so they could move on to the next

life. Jake did not know the specifics, he did not need to know, but

it made sense to him right now, sitting alone in the park.

He stood up. There were scores left unsettled in his life,

between him and his father. Jake had not seen him in many years,

not since they had moved the old man into the nursing home.

They had never really been close, but in hindsight, she realised,

that was no excuse to not go and visit.

Jake stood up and started for the way out. Before the night was

over he was determined to resolve some things so that he could

move on to whatever was next.

As he walked one other thing came to his mind. Somehow he

would have to sort things out with Fay, let her know what he

felt...

Jake Morgan looked down at his father, lying in the bed,

looking frailer than Jake had ever seen him. His dad was asleep,

his breathing shallow and irregular

'I just wanted to drop by and say I'm sorry, Dad. I should have

visited you before now, so we could both make our peace. Well,

my peace, since it was me who shut you out of my life. So much

has happened since I last saw you.' Jake smiled. 'Got engaged

today. You'd like her. Fay's lovely, and she's got a wicked sense

of humour. We're gonna get married in...' Jake stopped himself

'We were going to get married, but... well, bit difficult since I'm

dead.' He shook his head. 'I should have visited you sooner, Dad,

I really should have. But I was such a prick back then. It's my

fault, isn't it, this trouble with your heart? I broke it when I

betrayed you... ' He reached up to wipe away the tear that fell, but

could not. Jake wanted to be strong about everything, but he felt

so exhausted. What he wanted most of all was to be held, to be

comforted by his dad. He looked closer at his father. 'You don't

look long for this world, either. Guess I'll be seeing you soon,

then,' he added, trying his best to make light of the situation.

He abruptly turned to leave, but then looked back. 'We can

sort things out after, we'll have the rest of time to do so.' This

time there was no flippancy in his tone. Seeing his dad looking so

close to death hit Jake more than he would have expected. 'Bye,

Dad, see you soon.'

He walked to door and as he was about to pass through it he

heard a sharp guttural sound from behind. Jake span around

quickly. His dad was convulsing, clutching at the blankets. With a

dawning sense of dread Jake realised that his dad was trying to

clutch his heart.

The old man was having a heart attack.

Jake rushed over to the side of the bed. 'I didn't mean it!

You're a fighter, come on!' He ran out of the room, and once in

the hallway he shouted out. 'Somebody come! He's having a heart

attack. He's... ' Jake stopped and looked back at the door to his

dad's room. 'He's dying,' he finished limply, and, giving in to the

exhaustion, he collapsed onto the floor.

It was almost fifteen minutes before he felt strong enough to go

back into the room. Jake swallowed and waited for his dad's

ghost to sit up, but nothing happened. His dad's dead body

remained inactive, forgotten about. Jake shook his head. 'I really

am alone,' he said.

Jake Morgan stopped by the police box, which now stood outside

his house. He tried to place his palm on the box, but, as he

expected, it passed right through.

'See me yet?' Jake asked, hoping the Doctor could hear him. 'If

you can, then I just need to sort out one more thing.' He turned to

his house and walked up to the door.

Jake Morgan found Fay in their bed, but she was not sleeping.

She lay there on her side, one arm wrapped around herself, the

other holding a tissue up to her nose to prevent it from running,

while she tried to hold back her tears.

He looked at the clock on the bedside table. It was almost one

thirty in the morning. He had left to see Robert almost eight

hours earlier, and as far as Fay was concerned he had not come

back since.

He walked across the room and knelt beside the bed. 'I'm so

very sorry; I would give anything to hold you, but... ' He reached

out to touch her hair, and let his hand hover less than an inch

above her head. 'We would've been so good together, just you

and me against the world.' He smiled sadly. 'I love you, more

than anything in my whole life, but I've got to go now. Be strong.

I'll never forget you.'

Jake stood up and walked to the bedroom door. He stopped

there for a moment, eyes closed tightly, his lower lip quivering

with emotion. Deep within he felt so hollow, as if his soul had been

ripped out. He looked back at Fay, and whispered; 'I love you.

Goodbye, babe.'

Jake Morgan stepped through the front door. He had come to

think of the police box as his carriage into the next life, wherever

it was that ghosts went. The man who was called 'Doctor' was his

guide, waiting for Jake to let go of the mortal realm first. Saying

goodbye to this life had been the hardest thing he had ever done,

and staying around longer would have torn him apart. It was

time to go.

He stopped, looking at where the police box had stood. The

pavement was empty.

'No,' he said softly, and quickly walked over to the spot where

the box had been. He looked around, down the street, from one

end to the other. All of a sudden it seemed like the street was

never ending.

'I was ready' he said.

Jake Morgan was his name, but it had been over two weeks since

anyone had addressed him. As a ghost destined to roam

Hammersmith forever he wondered why he would need a name.

No one ever spoke to him. They did not even know he was here.

For the first few days he had kept himself busy by accompanying

either Fay or Robert to work, but that had soon bored him. There

was only so much he could say without a reaction, and listening to

Fay on the phone all day, or watching Robert unpack boxes of

books, soon became more than a little tedious.

From time to time he would return to the nursing home, hoping

that his father might turn up. Despite how he had let his dad

down in life, in death he hoped they would be able to make up for

wasted time. His father never did appear.

Soon it all became pointless. All the fun things he had thought

about held no interest for him now; there was little joy to be had

when you could not touch anything.

In the end he spent all his time at his house, doing his best to

stay close to Fay. He had had to sit there and watch her mourn

him. For a few days she tried to be hopeful, going to work and

carrying on with her life, but as the days passed he could tell her

hope was starting to break. Robert came over often to check up

on her, as did her parents and brother, but Jake was the only one

still around to know that Fay put on an act when they were there.

No one had visited for a couple of days, and Fay decided to

book time off work. Jake was glad in a way, because that meant

more time alone with her.

That had not worked out as he had planned.

Instead she had used that time to visit some friends living in

Scotland, unknowingly leaving Jake all atone.

Three days with no one for company left a lot of time for

thinking, but two weeks being a ghost with no one to talk to had

given him enough time to think of everything he needed to think

about. For those three days he resolved to sit in the corner of the

living room doing nothing at all.

He was still sitting there, in complete silence, when he heard a

familiar sound. It was a sound he had given up hope of hearing. It

was that strange wheezing sound. He slowly rose to his feet and

walked over to the window. Outside, gradually coming into being,

was the police box.

He ran outside quicker than he had ever moved before.

Moments after the police box had become solid the narrow

door opened and a man Jake did not know stepped outside. He

jumped when he noticed Jake, and poked his head back through

the door.

'Doctor, he's here!'

'Excellent,' came the old voice from inside the box.

The young man was not much taller than Jake, with a lot of

dark hair and dressed like he had just come out of the seventies.

This must have been Jeremy.

'I knew you could see me,' Jake said with a lot more emotion

than he would have expected.

Jeremy nodded. 'Oh yah, the Doctor's a wiz at creating these

sorts of gadgets,' he said, pointing to a small silver device

attached to his left ear The apparatus seemed to go inside the ear,

while a small protrusion pointed out parallel to the man's eye.

'Helps me see you. He's jolly clever.'

'Yes, thank you, Jeremy,' the Doctor said, as he stepped out of

the police box. 'Maybe you should go and wait inside the

TARDIS?'

Jeremy looked crestfallen, but nonetheless did as he was told

and entered the police box. Once Jeremy was inside, the Doctor

turned to look at Jake. He, too, was wearing one of the silver

devices.

'I'm terribly sorry, old chap,' the Doctor said.

Jake had so much to ask, but for now he pointed at the silver

device. 'Is that a ghost spotter?'

The Doctor fingered the device. 'Good grief no, it just enables

the wearer to see into the reality bubble. He frowned, and

scratched his nose, and Jake almost smiled at the amount of

movement the Doctor managed to put into one simple expression.

'Oh dear, you haven't spent the past two weeks thinking you were

dead, have you?'

Jake nodded. 'Well, I am. That beam of light killed me.'

'Oh no, that just created a dimensional bubble around you. My

dear chap, you're not dead. No one can see you, and you can't

make contact with anything, but you're not dead. I'm not a killer

you know, well,' and at this the Doctor rubbed his upper lip,

'never intentionally.'

Jake was trying his best to take it all in. 'If you knew this, you

got a reason why you've waited two weeks to tell me? Got any

idea what I've been going through?'

'I can only imagine. I've been trying to find a way to, ah, burst

the bubble, so to speak. You see that light that "attacked" you was

temporal energy, released by Jeremy's attempts at being helpful. It

created a bubble of reality around you, a reality different from the

one you should be in. Fortunately, though, your quantum signature

is strong enough to act as an anchor, holding you in this reality.

Unfortunately I can't seem to burst the bubble, so you're stuck as

you are.' There was a deep sadness in the Doctor's eyes, and Jake

knew then that what the Doctor said was true.

'I suppose to all intents and purposes as long as you're

anchored to this reality you are dead.

Jake's hopes vanished, blinked out by the Doctor's words. He

looked to the ground and slowly shook his head.

'I can take you somewhere in the TARDIS,' the Doctor said

hopefully, and indicated the police box, 'where you can live with

people who will be able to see you. It's another reality, the same

as the bubble that you're in. It will mean a new life, but at least

you will have company and not be alone. I've already arranged it

with... erm... with a friend. I'll take you to him and he will take

you the rest of the way.'

'But... ' Jake began and looked over at his house. 'You reckon

anyone wearing that ear device can see me?'

'Well, of course, I designed it,' the Doctor said, with just a hint

of smugness.

'What about her?' Jake pointed at Fay, who was just getting

out of her car. The Doctor looked over, then back at Jake, his

features uncertain. 'She's my fiancee, and I have to say goodbye

to her. She thinks I'm dead.'

'It might be better if you left it like that.'

'What?' Jake walked past the Doctor and pointed at Fay.

'Better? I love her. She's spent two weeks destroyed because she

thinks I'm dead. If she knew the truth maybe it would help her

heal' He looked over at his fiancee as she started walking towards

the house. 'Do you have any idea what it's like to be in love?' he

asked the Doctor. 'To feel so incredibly happy just because

someone smiles at you?'When Jake turned back to the Doctor he

found the old man smiling

'Yes, I do remember such a time,' the Doctor said with

fondness at his private memory.

Jake Morgan's heart felt lighter than it had in two weeks. Fay

was sitting on the porch of their house, still looking up at Jake

with disbelief.

It had taken the Doctor mere moments to convince Fay to put

the silver device in her ear, and when she had she had almost

fallen over with the shock of seeing Jake before her. He had made

a move to steady her, and realised painfully that he still could not

hold her. Instead he had to settle on simply talking.

He explained everything as best as he could, and the more he

spoke the more he could see that Fay was beginning to

understand. He knew it would take her a while to fully get to

grips with everything, but at least this final talk would give her

closure. It was all that Jake had left to give her.

'It's time we both moved on,' he said finally.

Fay took a juddering breath. 'But I don't want to move on. I

can see you with this thing,' she said and pointed to the device

sticking out of her ear.

'I can wear it all the time, then we can still be together. You can

be... '

Jake shook his head sadly. 'It'd never work. Both of us being

around each other; you being the only person who can see me'

'I could let others borrow this. Like Robert, he'd love to see

you again.'

Jake chewed his lip, feeling terrible because he had to crush all of

Fay's hopes. 'It would just hurt you more, and me. Never being

able to hold each other again. You deserve to be happy, not left

hanging on for something that's never gonna happen. We can't live

like that. You need to find someone you can be with. For real.'

'I'll never love them the same.'

Jake inhaled deeply. 'Promise me you'll find someone to make

you happy.'

Fay attempted a smile. I'll try.'

'That's all we can do,' Jake said. 'Listen, Robert is still around.

He's so much like me sometimes, at least being around him will

feel like a part of me is still here.'

At that Fay really did smile. 'Yeah, and he's nuts, too.'

Jake laughed softly. 'Maybe he will get you that silk dress?'

Fay stood up. 'Jake,' she said, not even trying to hold back her

tears. Jake just nodded at her, doing what he could to hold back

his own feelings. The moment was made all the more precious for

him since it was the first time someone had called him by his

name in two weeks. After several moments of silence Fay

managed to mouth the word 'bye' Jake smiled and walked away.

Once he reached the TARDIS he glanced back. 'I love you,' he

said to Fay's back as she entered the house.

Jake Morgan took one last look at his former home, then

turned and stepped into the time machine. He closed the door

firmly on his previous life.

Charley looked from the Professor to Jake and then to the Baspral

Inquisitor. 'Is the Doctor who you met the same one that the Professor

and Jake encountered, or is there yet another version of the Doctor?'

The Inquisitor shrugged. 'My memory of the Doctor doesn't match

theirs, no. But in many ways, they are similar. See if you agree.'

And so he began his tale...

Short Trips: Monsters

One thing I was very keen on with the Short Trips range was that new writers

should be given their chance and that the books should introduce fresh

names to the world of Doctor Who fiction. In 2008, the range included an entire

collection of stories from a first-time-writer competition, and from the outset

the series encouraged unpublished writers.

On 6 February 2004, Matt Grady pitched an on-spec idea, which was for a

First Doctor story called The Secret of Fire. I wrote back on 25 February, saying

how much I liked it. We busked a few ideas back and forth over email and Matt

came up with a new synopsis. The story was shifted from its original 1965

setting, the First Doctor was replaced with the Fifth, Matt came up with a new

tide, and the story was commissioned. What I really liked about the idea was

how he was inventive with the theme. Monsters was all about different types of

monstrous threats, not simply the slobbering-beast kind, and Matt's story was

an intriguing twist on just what can constitute a 'monster'.

Flashpoint is topped and tailed by newspaper extracts, a nice shorthand used

to tip off the reader what the mystery is going to be. If this were an episode

of The X Files, I suppose the pre-titles sequence would see Dr Orlando Dirossi

discovering the leak in the marble bust. In fact, The X Files is a good touchstone

for this story. It features the same kind of mystery, which reveals itself by

spooky, unnerving happenings, and turns out to be explicable only in science-

fiction terms. But who are our Mulder and Scully?

As well as the Fifth Doctor, the story features a companion from a previous

era of the show's history. Dr Elizabeth Shaw appeared in four television serials

in 1970 and is a great choice for this story. Her appearance in Rome in 1999 is

logical and Matt uses her occasional haughtiness so well, giving her a prickly

relationship with the Doctor. Visiting old assistants after they'd left the series,

and pairing them up with other Doctors, has been done many times in various

forms of Doctor Who. As well as being a pleasing piece of continuity for those

who like such things, it gives a great opportunity for the writer to play with

new combinations. Matt decided to add to the fun by having Liz, our point-of-

view character, not realise who this mysterious man is...

In a short-story collection, you need a good mixture of formats and story types.

Alongside big, epic adventures and small-scale character studies there can be

self-contained mysteries and more unconventional experiments. Flashpoint is a

charming, well-told mystery with a fascinating twist on the 'monsters' theme,

brought to life by Matt Grady. And, on a personal note, Flashpoint is also one of

my favourite stories because it contains the first appearance, albeit off-stage,

of Colonel Emily Chaudhry. In his final draft, Matt had included a couple of

references to Brigadier Bambera, the latter-day leader of UNIT from the TV

series. Around the time I was editing Monsters, I was also producing Big Finish's

UNIT audio dramas. We were in pre-production at that time, and the writers

and I were devising the characters. So Bambera got replaced to provide a nice

little bit of foreshadowing before Emily's first audio appearance later in 2004.

Flashpoint

Matt Grady

Archaeologists have discovered the wreckage site of an

ancient Roman slave-trader ship off the northern coast of

Sicily. Surveying has uncovered pottery shards, coins, iron

shackles and one very special find.

'It's a well-preserved marble bust of Emperor Nero,'

reports Dr Orlando Dirossi, who is heading the recovery.

Nero ruled the Roman Empire from 54 to 68 AD, and there is

speculation that he masterminded the Great Fire of 64 AD,

which covered nearly two-thirds of Rome.

The bust, thought to date from around the time of Nero's

death, has puzzled archaelogists since its discovery due to an

odd phenomenon.

'It leaks,' says Dr Dirossi. 'At first we thought sea water

had collected inside. But after a week, it's still leaking

condensation out of a crack in its base. Very peculiar - an

inner heat source of some kind.' The Nero bust is currently

on display at the Palermo Museum in Rome.

Giornale di Sicilia

15 March 1999

Tanned locals and sunburned tourists shuffled past red-figured

vases, bronze statues and a sculptured sarcophagus, into a large

showroom. A crowd of visitors inched forward and stood on tiptoe,

muttering to each other as they struggled to catch a glimpse of the

display. A young guard stood in the corner, observing members of

the crowd.

A little boy slipped loose from his mother's grasp and edged past

the towering adults to the clearing ahead. Reaching the roped-off

section at the front of the room, the boy saw a marble head on top

ofa clear column. Drops of water passed through a screen and fell

into a shallow pool at the column's base. The head took no notice of

the boy and continued staring blankly at the curious, fixated crowd.

The boy ducked under the rope and approached the head. With a

grin, he looked up the nostrils of the aquiline nose, then tapped on

the column. Chuckles and whispers rose from the front row. The

boy reached up to the head and ran a finger over the marble surface.

It felt cool in some spots and, oddly, warm in others. He placed his

hand on the chin and suddenly jumped back. Wiping his hand on his

shirt, the boy's face reddened and he began to cry.

The guard awoke from a reverie and pushed his way through the

crowd. The boy's mother ducked under the ropes, grabbed the

crying child and dragged him out of the room.

The commotion subsided as the crowd's attention returned to

Nero's unflinching gaze.

'Have you explored much ofthe city, signora?'

'Besides what I've seen out the car window? The Colosseum, the

Pantheon, the Forum, the Spanish Steps... but just in passing.'

'Be sure to visit the countryside, if you can,' the driver said. The

car pulled up to the pavement. 'Here we are, signora.'

Dr Elizabeth Shaw turned her attention away from the window.

'The countryside?'

He chuckled. 'No, the university.'

'Pity.' She exited the car and called over her shoulder, 'See you

this evening.'

The driver waved as he sped away. Liz ascended the concrete

steps of the University of Rome's Science building, silhouetted in

the bright morning light. Passing through the entrance, she flashed

her security pass to the male guard at the front desk.

'Buon giorno.'

The guard nodded. 'Buon giorno, dottoressa Shaw.'

Liz proceeded down a whitewashed hallway, lined on either side

with offices and laboratories. She returned nods from passing

professors, on their way to classrooms. Turning a corner, she

stopped at the first door on her left and fished out a set of keys from

her handbag. The door opened onto an office with a metal desk

surrounded by filing cabinets. Liz threw her jacket over the desk

chair, stirring the pages of a university newsletter. Gathering back

her hair, and trying not to think about the streaks of grey, she tied it

up into a bun.

Except for greetings in Italian and better coffee, her morning

routine here differed little from that at Cambridge. But at least

there, the long hours she spent at the research lab were productive.

Here in Rome, she was making little progress. She frowned,

realising the chances of turning this assignment into a paid vacation

were slim.

Her lab coat hung on the adjacent wall, beside the door to the lab.

Liz tensed, noticing the dim light through the door's translucent

window. She crossed the room and checked the door handle:

unlocked. Had the caretaker - Claudio, that was his name, wasn't

it? - forgotten to lock up? From her brief conversation with the

man, she'd gathered he'd been with the university for some time.

He wouldn't be so careless, she thought.

She hesitated a moment before turning the handle and opening

the door a crack. She peered through the dim lamplight and spotted

a man sitting at the lab table, his back facing her. Liz considered

alerting security. Surely the stranger had heard her come into the

office? Or maybe he was too absorbed in his work. If so, he was a

rather bold spy, or a rather foolish one.

'There's no need to call security,' the stranger said. The voice

was friendly, disarming.

'Who are you and what are you doing here?' Liz said in her best

authoritative voice. 'This lab is off-limits to the public.'

'And for good reason.'

'Then I'd appreciate it if you left at once.'

The stranger retrieved a leather wallet from his coat pocket and

held it up to her, his attention still focused on the table.

Cautiously, Liz entered the lab, grabbed the wallet and stepped

back. She flipped it open to reveal a familiar identity card: 'United

Nations Intelligence Taskforce: scientific adviser.' The photo

showed a youthful, fair-haired man grinning for the camera. She

read the name: 'Dr Jonas Smythe.'

'Yes, how do you do. The security guard was kind enough to let

me in.'

'You should have waited at the front desk with him.' Liz relaxed

a little and placed the wallet on the table. 'Why are you here? I was

under the impression UNIT had selected me as science advisor for

this assignment.'

The man swivelled around on the stool to face her, a pair of half-

moon glasses perched on his nose. He flashed her a grin. 'I'm your

assistant. Colonel Chaudhry thought you'd be happier if you

weren't stuck with all the work.'

'How kind of her,' Liz said, straight-faced. 'Unfortunately, I've

reached an impasse and haven't made any progress all week. Unless

you have a wealth of radical ideas, I'm afraid you were sent here for

nothing.' She studied Smythe for a moment. Over a cricket sweater

and striped trousers, he wore a beige lab coat with a sprig of celery

pinned to one lapel. 'Where were you seconded from, Dr Smythe?'

He snatched his glasses away from his face. 'Nowhere in

particular. I travel around.'

She moved to the side of the table, on which was a marble bust

on a perforated metal plate, resting on a shallow pan. Chiselled

locks of hair surrounded a round, corpulent face: puffy cheeks,

double chin, wide nose and small mouth. Water droplets formed at a

crack in its base and fell into the pan.

'Did anyone brief you on our friend here?' Liz retrieved a file

from a drawer in the table.

'A bust of Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus, found at

the site of a shipwreck, well-preserved save for a small crack. It

houses an unexplained source of heat, which is causing

condensation to form inside. Hence its leaky nature.'

'So, yes, then?' said Liz.

Smythe stood up and paced the room. 'What tests have been

performed on the bust so far?'

Liz opened the file. 'Let's see... CAT scan, ultrasound, thermal

imaging, Geiger counter - all inconclusive. Readings wavered,

images came out blurred.'

Smythe glanced over Liz's shoulder at the contents of the folder.

'How about a fibre optic camera, as used in surgery?'

'It's been tried. The camera shorted out - twice.'

'Did it really? How interesting.' He bent over the table and

peered into the marble eyes, then traced the eyelids with his finger.

'Smythe, you may - '

His face winced and he withdrew his finger.

'- want to use gloves if you're going to touch it.' She nodded to a

pair of workman's gloves on the table.

'Curious. I suddenly felt disoriented, as if I stood up too fast. Did

you experience a similar sensation, Liz?'

She cleared her throat. 'Pardon me, Dr Smythe, but I wasn't

aware we were on a first-name basis.'

Smythe rubbed the back of his neck. 'Sorry. Dr Shaw, I should

say.'

'In my initial briefing from UNIT, I was advised to use gloves

when handling the sculpture. One of its strange traits: prolonged,

direct contact results in dizziness and fatigue.' She flipped to a

report in the folder. 'Apparently, one of the Palermo Museum staff

fainted while transporting the bust. When co-workers woke him and

removed the bust from his grip, they noted burn marks on his

palms.'

Smythe slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. 'No wonder

the scientific community is showing such an interest.'

'And archaeologists are fighting them in the courts to prevent the

bust from being cut open,' Liz added.

Smythe glared at Nero. 'Cutting him open would do far more

harm than good.' He turned to Liz. 'Were any photos taken of that

museum worker's hands?'

She flipped through the folder and handed him a colour

photograph. The image showed a close-up of the man's right palm.

The skin was red and swollen. Smythe reviewed the attached

medical report.

'According to this physician, the burns originated beneath the

skin. The first-degree burns on the skin hid far worse tissue damage

underneath.'

Liz took a look at the photo. 'More like an extreme allergic

reaction or Infection.'

'It's as if the warmth in his hands rose to searing levels.' He

handed her the image.

'Like an isolated fever? I've never heard of such a case.'

Smythe sat down and wiped his brow. The air conditioning seems

to be malfunctioning. I adjusted it when I entered the lab, but it's

still warm in here.'

Liz walked over to the thermostat and turned the dial a full

revolution. 'It's like this every morning. You have to turn it to full

to have any effect. I checked with the professors in the offices

around the corner, and they rarely need to have it on as high as I

do.'

'Have you noted anything else peculiar?'

'Yes.' She returned to the table and slid back the metal plate on

which the marble bust rested. Running her fingers through the water

in the pan, she grabbed something and placed it in Smythe's hand.

'A dead fly?' He examined the shrivelled insect in the lamplight.

'Ah, a cooked dead fly.'

'I usually find a couple of them a week - the occasional spider,

too.'

'Or a museum worker had he been found an hour later.'

Liz sighed. 'Yet they insist on putting such a dangerous object on

display. The investors of the archaeological survey are keen to

recoup every penny and then some.'

'It's put on display here at the university?'

'Yes, in the afternoon from twelve to five, at the gallery.

Analyses and research are conducted in the mornings and evenings.

The rest of the day, I try to be a tourist.'

Smythe grinned thoughtfully. 'Seems ages since my last visit to

Italy... Electroencephalograph.'

'What?'

He sprang from his seat and turned his bright eyes on Liz,

causing her to take a step back. 'Does the university have an

electroencephalograph - EEG equipment?'

'A brain-wave monitor?' Just what did he have in mind? 'I'm

sure I could secure one from the Medical Studies building. Though

not till this evening, or perhaps tomorrow.'

'This can't wait. Let's see if we can pull some strings.' He

hurried out of the room, stirring loose pages in his wake.

What an odd man, Liz thought. Where on Earth did UNIT find

him? He seemed bright enough though, asking many pertinent

questions. His keenness and spirit reminded her of her younger self,

eager to change the world after completing her first Ph.D. She

locked up the lab, put on her lab coat and followed after him.

Claudio Terrizzi finished his sandwich and checked his watch:

11:46 a.m. He wiped his mouth with his handkerchief and tucked it

back into his coveralls pocket. Checking his cleaning cart, he

grabbed a few supplies off the metal shelves lining the narrow

caretaker's room. Satisfied, he hit the light switch and pushed the

cart into the hallway.

He hummed a tune as he passed office after office. Apparently,

the professors preferred the clicking of keyboards or the buzzing of

lab equipment to his whistled symphonies. Their loss.

Making his way through the building, he stopped the cart before

dottoressa Shaw's office. His wizened hands retrieved a ring of

keys from his pocket and he flipped to the right one. La dottoressa

seemed kind enough, pretty too, Claudio thought. He'd only spoken

to the British scientist briefly, and her mind was somewhere else.

Probably on her research.

The caretaker entered the office and unlocked the lab. Chill air

washed over him as he opened the door. 'Every single day!' he

muttered. You'd think someone from England would enjoy the

warmth here, Claudio thought. But each day at noon, he discovered

the air conditioning in la dottoressa's lab set to full. Homesickness,

indeed.

From beneath the desk lamp, Nero stared at him blankly. Claudio

smiled. He put on his gloves and approached the marble bust. What

a magnificent sculpture! While the public paid 8000 lira to see it in

the gallery, he had the fortune of studying it daily as a perk of the

job. Checking in the pan, he shook his head as he removed the dead

insects. Couldn't she swat flies and throw them in the bin like

everyone else? He'd have to have a polite word with her...

He gripped the sides of the pan and lifted the bust onto his cart.

Locking up, Claudio headed to the elevator and descended to the

first floor. He made for the back entrance and placed a plastic

container over Nero before exiting. The concrete walkways of the

courtyard glowed white in the midday sun. Students gave Claudio

passing nods or greetings on their way to classes. As usual,

everyone dismissed the overturned container.

If it were up to him, Claudio thought, he'd put the marble bust on

display in the middle of the courtyard for all the students and

faculty to see. On a column in the middle of a flower garden, yes,

that would be ideal. And he wouldn't even have to water the

flowers: Nero had that covered. The caretaker grinned.

But here at the university, the bust was nothing but a tool used by

the investors to milk the public. Crowds of people raved and gushed

over the sculpture as if it were one of those weeping portraits of

Christ or statuettes of the Virgin Mary that appeared in the tabloids.

And it was the attraction of such a crowd that caused museum

curators around Rome to turn up their noses. But, for a percentage

of the profits, the university was more than willing to showcase the

dripping Nero in their tiny gallery.

Claudio pushed the cart to a building across campus, and

eventually stopped at the back door of the gallery.

'Ready to face the crowds?' he said, removing the plastic

container. He knocked on the door. A moment later, a small,

balding man wearing spectacles peeped his head out the door.

Claudio picked up the pan and held it before the curator. The man

took it, but Claudio's grip remained firm.

'Grazie, Claudio,' the curator said with a nervous smile.

The caretaker hesitated a moment before letting go. The door

slammed shut in his face. With a sigh, he turned his cart around and

headed back, his footsteps echoing down the hallway.

Back in the caretaker's room, Claudio retrieved a sketchbook

from his rucksack and sat in a wooden chair. He opened it at a page

bookmarked by a Polaroid and removed a pencil from his breast

pocket.

Liz left the Medical Studies building and took a sip of coffee from a

paper cup. She held the door open as Smythe followed, cradling the

EEG equipment.

'Are you sure you don't want help carrying that?'

Smythe adjusted his grip. 'Yes, I'm sure, thanks.'

'Coffee?'

'No thanks, I prefer tea. Mind if we take a detour to the gallery?'

'To see the Nero bust on display?'

'Yes, I'm curious to see what sort of crowd it draws. Besides, we

have a few hours to spare.'

Liz took another sip of coffee. 'Follow me, then.'

She put on sunglasses and led her companion around the campus,

weaving between groups of students. The sun glinted off car

windscreens in the traffic surrounding the university. Liz kept a

medium pace, grinning at Smythe's efforts to keep the decades-old

equipment balanced in his arms.

They soon came across a line of people filing through the open

doors of the Fine Arts building. Small children shuffled their feet

and tugged their mothers' arms impatiently.

Liz and Smythe entered the building, where the line of people

halted at the front desk. Liz spoke to a guard, who let them pass

through a side door. Smythe set down the EEG equipment behind

the desk. They entered a large, brightly lit room, its walls adorned

with framed paintings, and sculptures on stands in the middle.

'Artwork by students and local artists. With only this room and

the showroom, the curator regularly brings in new pieces,' Liz said.

'Short attention span, I suppose?' Smythe said, examining the

collection.

People shuffled past them, paying little attention to their

surroundings, and disappeared under an archway at the front of the

room. Liz and Smythe followed. Inside, the curator greeted her,

spotlights glaring off his head. A small crowd encircled a tall glass

cylinder with the marble bust of Nero perched on top. Drops of

water passed through the perforated top and fell into a bucket at the

base. Its rhythmic drip reverberated through the showroom thanks

to a microphone.

More people entered, pushing Liz and Smythe in an effort to get a

closer look. Smythe put his hands in his pockets.

'What's your theory, Dr Shaw?' Smythe whispered.

Liz stirred from her thoughts. 'Pardon?'

'Your theory about what's inside the bust, causing people to pass

out and suffer burns?'

'I believe it's an unknown radioactive element, with radiation that

affects organic matter after prolonged direct contact,' Liz

whispered.

Smythe nodded. 'That would explain the negative read-out of the

Geiger counter.'

'Then why the EEG equipment? Are you suggesting there's

something living inside the marble?'

A few people pricked up their ears. The curator shushed Liz.

'You want to be thorough with your testing, don't you?' Smythe

whispered.

'I suppose so,' she whispered back. She'd exhausted all the

obvious testing methods, so why not try a few outlandish ones.

Otherwise, it would be another long day of reviewing research

notes.

A man bumped into Smythe and forced his way to the front of the

crowd. His hair was dishevelled, his white t-shirt wrinkled and

spotted. His hands kneaded a sweater tied at his waist. He scanned

the room and, as his eyes met hers, Liz glanced at her feet. She felt

Smythe tense beside her.

'Did you hear that?' he whispered.

'Hear what?'

'That voice... Asking for warmth... '

They were both distracted by the t-shirt man as he began to circle

the display, chuckling to himself. Liz spotted a guard stepping

towards the crowd from the back entrance. The t-shirt man untied

his sweater and rubbed it over his head like a towel while muttering

a stream of words under his breath. Suddenly, he leaped forward

and bundled up the sculpture in his sweater. The guard pushed

through the crowd and tried to tackle him but, wielding his bundle

like a ball and chain, the thief knocked the wind out of the guard

with a sickening thud. Screams rose from the crowd as the guard

crumpled to the floor.

Smythe tried to cut him off at the back entrance, but the thief

charged into him. Liz checked on the fallen guard as he struggled to

breathe. The guard from the front desk dashed into the room,

spotted Smythe wrestling with the thief, and pushed through the

crowd. The thief shouldered Smythe into the wall and ran off down

a hallway. Shaking the stars from his head, Smythe ran after him.

The curator pointed out the missing showpiece to the bemused

front-desk guard, who then fumbled for his radio and barked orders

over the commotion of the crowd. Liz followed the guard out the

back entrance, down the hallway and through the exit. Other

security guards appeared around the corners of surrounding

buildings and rushed to join them.

'Damn heels,' Liz muttered, wincing. She slipped off her shoes

and ran after the guards. She spotted Smythe thirty yards ahead on

the main campus walkway.

The thief turned right and the guards followed suit, disappearing

between buildings. Liz soon found herself in the large courtyard,

with the Science building at the opposite corner. The thief darted

across the walkway, the Doctor on his tail. A cart suddenly rolled

into their path, pushed by Claudio, who'd been attracted by all the

noise, no doubt. Liz found herself watching a rugby match, as the

thief collided with the cart, toppling it over; and Smythe, unable to

stop, tripped over both and tumbled into the grass.

Liz ran to Smythe's side as the guards surrounded the thief. The

area was strewn with toilet paper and bottles of cleaning fluid. The

thief jumped up holding the sweater bundle over his head. The

guards stopped In their tracks.

Smythe sat up with a groan.

Claudio joined them. 'He'll smash the sculpture!' He pulled at his

thinning hair. The crazy fool!'

The thief's eyes shifted erratically in their sockets as he recovered

his breath. He muttered several quick sentences, catching Smythe's

attention. Liz helped Smythe to his feet. 'What did he say?'

'He claims Nero speaks to him. That he asks for fire.'

Which Nero? Liz thought. The emperor - or the bust?!

'Take it from him before he smashes it!' Claudio told the guards.

The thief unwrapped the bust and tossed aside the sweater. His

hands gripped the marble surface tightly.

'He'll pass out,' Liz told Smythe, who gazed at the marble bust

intently.

Fire... inner fire!

The thought suddenly popped into Liz's head. Or was that a

voice? It was almost a whisper. She looked at Smythe, who noted

her confused expression.

'So you heard it too, then.'

Before she could comment, the thief's trembling hands caught

Liz's attention. His eyes flickered and his head nodded forward.

'Catch him! He's fainting!'

The guards rushed forward as the man collapsed. The bust

slipped from his grasp and hit the concrete face first, its nose

shattering.

Claudio gasped.

The guards laid the unconscious thief down on his side. Chips of

marble surrounded the bust. Wearing gloves, Claudio carefully

turned it over.

'Caspita!'

Nero's new pockmarked complexion, with a flat, coarse patch in

place of the nose, greeted him. Condensation trickled from the

broken base. Claudio swept the chips of marble into a dustpan.

'Such a waste...' he muttered.

Smythe checked the thief s pulse then his hands, which appeared

swollen. 'Probably just minor tissue damage,' he told Liz. 'He'll

need a psychiatrist though.'

An emergency crew soon arrived with a stretcher, the curator in

tow. He carried the EEG equipment. At the sight of the damaged

sculpture, his eyes widened in shock.

'This is horrible!'

Claudio glared at him. 'See what happens when you display art as

if it were a circus sideshow!'

'He was a madman! We tried to stop -'

'What's done is done,' Liz cut in. 'The exhibit is closed till we've

assessed the damage.'

'How long will you need? A day or two?' The curator smiled

nervously.

'Closed indefinitely.'

'The investors won't like this.'

Claudio's eyes bore into the curator's as he took the EEG

equipment and placed it on his righted cleaning cart. He set the bust

carefully beside it.

'The damage isn't too extensive,' the curator pleaded. 'At least

let me keep it on display for the rest of the day. Those people have

paid money after all.'

'Good day, signore,' Smythe replied. The curator opened his

mouth to object but, with a nod from Smythe, he returned to the

gallery with his tail between his legs.

Claudio unloaded the EEG equipment, marble bust and broken

pieces onto the lab desk.

'Grazie, Claudio. We can handle things from here.'

'Will you be able to repair the bust? I took a picture of it a few

days ago. That might help you.'

Liz smiled at him. 'No thank you, I have several pictures. And

don't worry, it's in good hands. Now if you'll excuse us...'

'Of course.' Claudio smiled back and paid Nero one last glance

before pushing the cart back into the hallway.

Smythe began setting up the EEG equipment.

'So you're convinced there's something sentient inside there?'

She put on the workman's gloves and slipped a towel underneath

the marble bust.

'I wouldn't rule out the possibility.'

He knows something, Liz thought. Some detail UNIT briefed him

on but not me. Or maybe a fact known only to him... She considered

how easy It would be to fake a UNIT pass. 'Jonas Smythe' did

sound rather suspect.

'Would you mind attaching the electrodes, Dr Shaw?' He

retrieved a multi-bit screwdriver from his coat pocket and

unscrewed the cover of the equipment. Lifting it off, he prodded at

the exposed circuitry.

Liz attached seven electrodes around the bust's head and stuffed

one inside its base. 'Let's say there is something living inside here,'

she said, recalling the whispered voice. 'The readings will be of

little use when it's covered by a layer of marble.'

'That's why I'm adjusting the equipment sensitivity.'

Watching him work, Liz pictured another scientist from her days

at UNIT. A much older man, of course. Always tinkering with

gadgets, attempting to reverse the polarity ofthe neutron flow.

Smythe replaced the cover and flashed her a grin. 'There. Now a

brain the size of a fly will cause the readings to go off the chart.' He

plugged in the power cord and flipped a switch. The equipment

beeped, then whirred to life. Paper passed through the printer with a

hum. The eight pens remained still, tracing a straight line.

Liz turned her attention from the read-out to Smythe.

'It's warming up,' he said, fiddling with the amplifier and filter

settings. 'Maybe I should adjust the electrodes?' Liz pulled one off

the forehead. One of the pens twitched.

She quickly replaced the electrode. 'Sorry, my fault.'

'Perhaps... May I borrow one of your gloves?'

Liz removed her right glove and handed it to him. He slipped it

on and approached the bust. Keeping his eyes on the EEG read-

outs, he waved his gloved hand before Nero's eyes. Then he placed

his palm on the forehead.

Several pens twitched.

'Interesting.' Smythe pulled off the glove and pressed his bare

fingers against the forehead.

All eight pens twitched wildly.

He snatched his hand away, and the pens continued dancing on

the graph paper for a moment before resuming a straight line.

'You were right!' Liz exclaimed. 'And it obviously thrives on

body heat.'

'Heat in general, which would explain the warm room each

morning. But it can manipulate body heat far faster.'

Liz stood back from the table. 'This certainly justifies UNIT's

interest. I suppose we should contact Colonel Chaudhry right away?

She's probably itching to create a cover-up.'

'We'll contact her later. First, we need to know what exactly

we're dealing with.'

'How the hell did a creature get in there?' Her mind raced over

her knowledge of geology. 'Either it can manipulate the structure of

rock and hide in it like a hermit crab. Or it was caught in a lava

stream that cooled into igneous rock, then metamorphosed into

marble.'

'I doubt it would have remained encased in marble for two

thousand years on the Mediterranean seabed if it were capable of

escaping. So it was probably caught in lava.'

'But from lava to marble, millions of years would have passed.

Unless there are other such creatures beneath the Earth's crust, it's

certainly not from this planet,' Liz said.

Smythe nodded. 'Precisely. It probably penetrated through the

Earth's crust as a meteorite.'

'And a large volcano or seismic event cast it up to the surface,

where it was caught in lava?' Liz suggested.

'That would be my guess. The lava probably drifted into an

ancient sea, cooling before the creature could manipulate the heat.'

'This creature remains dormant in cold environments then,' she

concluded. 'That's how it survived through space.'

'Then we should move it to a sub-zero environment, to be on the

safe side. What's nearby... Antarctica, Europa, Pluto -'

Liz snickered. 'I suppose you have a rocket at your disposal?'

Smythe blushed. 'No, of course not.'

'There are several freezers in the building. We could store it in

one until we find a better solution,' Liz suggested.

'Yes, cold storage.' Smythe's eyes lit up. 'Liquid nitrogen! Is

there any around? We could immerse the marble bust in that.'

'Probably in the Chemistry building.'

'All right, let's hurry then.' He rushed out of the lab.

She sighed, suddenly feeling her age. So much for the long day of

fruitless research.

Cleaning the windows, Claudio noticed dottoressa Shaw and her

assistant leaving the building and crossing the courtyard in a hurry.

Weren't they supposed to be assessing the damage to the marble

bust? He'd only left them a short while ago, he thought. Was that

madman on the loose again?

He dropped the spray cleaner and paper towel on the cart and

pushed it to la dottoressa's office. Once there, he listened closely

for footsteps and checked around the corner. The hallway was

empty. He quietly unlocked the door. Inside, he closed the door

behind him and crossed the room to the lab. Light shone through the

door's translucent window. Claudio put his ear to the door just in

case and listened intently for a minute or two. A faint hum, that was

all.

Maybe they had taken the marble bust somewhere - perhaps to be

X-rayed? But he didn't recall either of the scientists carrying a

bundle. He glanced back at the office door before unlocking the lab.

Edging open the door, he peeked inside.

'What the hell?'

The bust was on the table where he'd left it, but the scientists had

stuck electrodes all over the head. Wires trailed from it to the

electronic equipment at the table's edge. Paper slid out of a printer

and piled in a nest on the floor. Memories of his brother hooked up

to similar equipment at the hospital flashed through Claudio's mind.

'Look at how they're treating you!' he told the bust. 'What kind

of freak experiment is this?'

He unfastened the electrodes and, with gloved hands, tipped the

bust to remove the wire tucked in its base. Water trickled onto the

towel.

The read-out pens twitched.

Claudio stared into Nero's eyes. They don't appreciate you, not

like I do, he thought. They think of you as a scientific curiosity. A

curio requiring endless tests. He suddenly shivered, the room

feeling colder than usual. He turned off the air conditioning and

knelt down to turn on the baseboard heater. About time this room

felt some heat.

Sitting on a stool, he ran his gloved fingers over the damaged

face, tracing ridges and brittle edges. He eyed the miniature quarry

of marble in the dustpan.

This will take weeks to repair, he thought, maybe months. How

could he be sure if dottoressa Shaw and her assistant would even

bother? Rather than put it back on display, they might store the

marble bust away in some warehouse, with thousands of other

artefacts and antiques.

You must keep me close.

'I wish I could, but they'll come looking for you. And there are

only so many places I can hide you here.'

Then take me away. But keep me close.

Claudio thought it over. Where could he go? Hiding the bust in

his flat was too obvious. Somewhere outside the city... His sister's

place in Siciliy, that could work. Store it in her cellar with his other

belongings. He could travel there at the weekends to repair it.

The caretaker looked around the room. He needed something to

hide the sculpture in, in case he passed someone in the hallway. He

walked into the office and noticed dottoressa Shaw's green jacket.

It would have to do. He slipped it off the desk chair and returned to

the lab. He retrieved a garbage bag from his pocket and emptied the

contents of the dustpan inside. Bundling up Nero in the jacket, he

cradled it against his chest and hurried to the office door.

Claudio halted at the sound of footsteps in the hallway. Nero's

blank eyes met his through an opening in the jacket.

I am the spark that sets the flame.

He held a finger to his lips.

The footsteps neared the office, then turned a corner in the other

direction, fading down the hallway.

'That was close,' he whispered, sighing with relief. He glanced

back at the lab door, which remained unlocked. How clumsy! I

can't leave behind too many clues, Claudio thought. He crossed the

office and fumbled for the key with his gloved hand. His hand

trembled as he tried to insert the key into the lock. Removing the

glove, he tried again.

Suddenly the footsteps returned, quickly growing louder as they

approached the office.

Claudio flung open the door and closed it behind him, being

careful not to slam it. He turned the lock then crouched beneath the

door window. He heard the office door creak open. The footsteps

crossed the room and stopped.

'Dottoressa?' said a light female voice.

Sweat trickled down Claudio's brow.

The stranger knocked on the window. 'Dottoressa Shaw? I have a

phone message from someone at UNIT.'

The air rippled above the heater as the warmth of the lab became

uncomfortable. Claudio's knees began to ache. As he adjusted to a

sitting position, he felt the sculpture slip from the jacket. He caught

it before it could hit the floor.

The footsteps crossed the office into the hallway and faded away

once again.

Claudio took a long, deep breath. He tried to stand up, but his

aching knees wouldn't support the weight. He relaxed his muscles,

feeling very tired. The room began to spin, Nero's gleaming white

face its focal point.

I feel your innerfire. Sleep. Sleep now.

The room darkened as Claudio tried to stay awake, but his eyelids

were made of lead. He clutched the marble bust against his chest

with his bare hand. His head slumped forward, pressing into the

chiselled hair.

Glorious warmth.

Claudio had read about out-of-body experiences, but seeing his

slumped form at the base of the lab door - and realising it wasn't a

reflection - was truly frightening.

Innerfire, coursing through the body. Glorious warmth.

The voice filled the room and hung in the air like smoke.

He sensed a presence reaching out from the marble bust to his

body. He heard his pulse speed up as the presence drew forth on his

body heat like a leech. The skin of his face and hands began to

swell and redden. The presence intensified and burn blisters soon

formed on the skin.

Claudio wanted to warn his body, but he had no voice, no

corporeal form. He couldn't even look away.

The innerfire is invigorating.

He saw his body twitch and his face wince in pain, then suddenly

relax. His hair began to singe and the skin blacken. Smoke rose

from his coveralls as they smouldered.

The presence filled his body and the clothes burst into flame. The

fire consumed his form and then, as if doused with petrol, became a

roaring blaze. The nest of graph paper caught fire and flames spread

to the table.

I shall consume all.

The presence intensified further, and the entire lab was soon

blanketed with fire.

Liz brought up the rear as Smythe dragged a trolley down the

hallway. She made sure its cargo, a round refrigeration unit filled

with liquid nitrogen, remained as upright as possible. They both

jumped as alarm bells rang through the Science building.

'Fate is determined to keep me out of this building today,' Liz

said. 'Think you can transport this liquid nitrogen back outside on

your own?' Smythe asked. 'I'm going to check your lab.'

'Worried about that creature?'

He backed down the hallway. 'I'm worried about what it's up to.'

'I'm coming with you then.' She left the trolley behind and

followed after him.'

'Dr Shaw -'

'Save your breath. I was the one given this assignment, after all.'

They passed professors and students hurrying to the exits, some

carrying bundles of notes. Rounding a corner, Liz and Smythe

began coughing as they ran headlong into thick smoke. Wiping the

tears from her eyes, Liz made out flames at the end of the hallway.

They covered their mouths with their coat lapels.

'It's my lab!' she yelled over the alarm bells.

'There's nothing we can do: the blaze is too big.'

Liz pointed out the abandoned cleaning cart silhouetted in flames.

'Where's Claudio?' She saw Smythe's quizzical look. 'The

caretaker!'

'Quick,' he said. 'Let's check his room and then get that

refrigeration unit out of the building!'

They doubled back and joined the crowd of people making for

the exits. They peeked in the cleaning supply room, but the

caretaker wasn't there. Smythe picked up a sketch of Nero, with a

Polaroid of the marble bust clipped to the page.

'Secret admirer.'

They returned to the trolley and dragged it out the nearest exit.

Sirens wailed as fire engines arrived and screeched to a halt before

the Science building. Liz and Smythe joined the crowd assembled

in the courtyard. She noticed his eyes were distant.

'We don't have much time,' he whispered.

The fire chief, a burly man with a raspy voice, escorted Liz an d

Smythe to the scene of the fire.

'What exactly is this critical experiment you need to check on?'

the chief asked Liz. 'Is it a danger to my men?'

'If they approach it, yes,' Smythe cut in, dragging the trolley.

'And what's inside that container?'

'A way to suppress the danger,' Smythe replied.

They rounded the corner, passing a firefighter standing guard at

the end of the hallway, a charged hose in hand. The office was

blackened by smoke; the one dividing the lab had been reduced to a

charred heap. Adjoining rooms were visible through gaping holes in

the walls.

The fire chief stopped them from proceeding further. 'The

contents ofthe lab are on the floor below. It's safer if we view them

there.'

They descended the stairs and spotted another firefighter aiming a

charged hose at an open office. Inside lay a pile of charred wood,

flooring and concrete fragments lying within a circle of warped,

dented filing cabinets. Liz noticed pieces of circuitry from the EEG

equipment.

Come closer. Closer.

That voice again, Liz thought. She looked at Smythe.

'It's in there,' he whispered. 'And it's become more powerful.'

'Most of this could have been prevented if they'd installed a

sprinkler system. Tight budget, I guess,' the fire chief said. 'But I'm

hard pressed to find a cause. No signs of an electrical fire or the use

of an accelerant.'

'Have you sorted through the rubble yet?' Liz asked.

'Just a quick sweep.' The fire chief led them inside and crouched

by the pile. He picked up something and held it up to them. A

charred, broken jaw with a few teeth intact. 'I've only found a

couple of bone fragments. The rest were incinerated, it seems.'

Liz's heart sank. 'Claudio.'

Smythe's expression was grim. 'He must have entered the lab

after we left.'

Come closer. I shall consume you all.

Images intruded into Liz's mind: a fiery blaze, spreading through

her lab, enveloping Claudio's slumped form. She winced.

'Do either of you know what could have caused this?' the fire

chief asked. 'That blaze was intense enough to burn through a

concrete floor! Yet the damage was relatively localised. I've never

seen anything like it. It almost looks like spontaneous combustion.

Though you scientists will quickly dispel that theory.'

'No, I think you're right,' Liz told him.

'It caused all this by drawing upon the body heat of one man,'

Smythe whispered to her. 'Just imagine what it could do using the

heat at the heart of a volcano...'

'Is it just me, or is there a radio on nearby?' the fire chiefasked,

standing between them. 'I keep hearing this muffled voice... What's

going on?'

'Our experiment's buried somewhere in that pile,' Liz said.

The fire chief passed a small shovel to Smythe. 'Try not to

disturb things too much.'

'I'll get the refrigeration unit ready,' Liz said as Smythe carefully

cleared small piles from the rubble. She unfastened the metal clasps

around the lid.

Smythe took another stab at the rubble and the blade clanged. He

remained still. 'Your gloves please, chief. Your helmet, too.

Quickly.'

The fire chief unfastened his red helmet and passed it to Smythe

with his gloves. Smythe put them on and flipped down the visor.

'Open the refrigeration unit, please.'

A cloud of vapour escaped the unit as Liz removed the lid,

exposing bubbling liquid nitrogen.

Smythe carefully set down the shovel and swept away debris with

his gloved hand. Blackened eyes peered up at him. Further clearing

revealed a soot-stained, marble head with a web of cracks across its

face. Liz feared the slightest touch would shatter it. She suddenly

felt much warmer.

Innerfire, coursing through you. I can feel it.

'What is that? A mask, a sculpture?' the fire chief asked,

approaching Smythe.

'Stand back!' Smythe gripped the shovel and gently lifted the

bust, watching it carefully as if it were a mine that might explode

with any sudden movement. 'Stand back, all of you!'

The fire chief and Liz backed into the hallway. She noticed the

hose nozzle trembling in the hands of the young firefighter.

Smythe poised the shovel over the bubbling liquid. 'If it breaks

loose,' he told the firefighter, 'be ready to put me out.'

The young man exchanged a nervous glance with his chief.

With a flick of the shovel, the marble bust dropped into the liquid

with a small splash. There was a muffled crunch, and Liz spotted

something thrashing in the freezing liquid. Smythe dropped the

shovel and slammed on the lid. Liz rushed over and helped him

fasten the clamps. She winced as a scream pierced her mind.

Smythe held the refrigeration unit still as the creature splashed

about inside. After a few seconds, the movement slowed to the odd

spasm, then stopped.

The fire chief gulped. 'What the hell was that?' he muttered.

Smythe passed him back his helmet and gloves. 'An experiment

that went wrong.' He smiled at Liz. 'But it appears we've contained

the problem.'

Liz smiled back. Gripping the trolley handle, she dragged it

towards the exit. Smythe followed.

'Wait a moment!' the fire chief called after them. 'If you know

what caused this, I require your testimony for my report!'

'Sorry, but this matter is classified,' Liz called over her shoulder.

'If you have any questions or concerns, contact the United Nations

Intelligence Taskforce.'

'So what happens now?' Liz asked, coming to a stop at the Science

building front entrance. The late afternoon sun cast her and

Smythe's shadows into the traffic.

'I need to get this creature to UNIT HQ.'

'For further study?'

'No, too dangerous. If it accidentally got loose or fell into the

wrong hands... '

Liz remembered UNIT's previous dealings with alien life. 'You

wouldn't let them destroy it, would you?'

'Of course not, it's a sentient being after all.' He patted the

refrigeration unit. 'As long as it remains in hibernation, it won't

bother anyone during the trip.'

A small car pulled up to the pavement. The driver, a young red-

haired man, stepped out of the car and left the engine running. He

and Smythe loaded the refrigeration unit into the boot before getting

into the car.

Smythe poked his head out the window. 'We'll take it from here,

Dr Shaw. Looks like your work here's done. Enjoy the rest of your

stay in Rome.'

Liz approached the passenger side of the car. 'UNIT HQ is just a

stopover, isn't it? Where are you really taking the creature?'

Wise, disarming eyes looked into hers. 'Return to sender.'

The car sped away into traffic. Liz shook her head in disbelief.

He was right though: her work here was done. Her lab was

destroyed, her research notes were reduced to ash, and the focus of

her assignment was bobbing in liquid nitrogen.

Of course, UNIT would remain tight-lipped about the whole

matter, she thought, and turn a deaf ear to her unanswered

questions. And she would be left standing around with nothing to

do, feeling frustrated. Typical. No wonder she'd left the

organisation.

Another car pulled up. It was her driver. He stepped out of the car

and looked at her anxiously.

'Buono sera, signora. I came as soon as I heard about the fire.

Are you all right?'

'Yes, I'm fine... tired though. It's been a long day.'

'Why don't I drive you to a nice cafe so you can relax.'

'I'd appreciate that.' Liz dragged the trolley to the front steps

before getting into the car. Taking off her lab coat, something

crinkled in the pocket. She reached in and pulled out a message

scribbled on a piece of graph paper: 'Thank you for your help, Liz.

Good luck with your research at Cambridge. Tell Lethbridge-

Stewart the Doctor said hello.'

The Doctor? What did he have to do with this? Liz lay back in

her seat. She felt a headache coming on.

'Mind if we take a drive through the countryside instead?' she

suggested.

A marble bust of Nero, thought to have been destroyed in a

fire at the University of Rome last month, was returned today

to the Palermo Museum.

Other than a broken nose, the sculpture is none the worse

for wear. Recent X-rays have proven the bust to be hollow.

According to top scientists, the mysterious inner heat source

and leaking condensation were an elaborate hoax perpetrated

by Dr Orlando Dirossi to appease his archaeological survey

project investors.

Dirossi could not be reached for comment.

Giornale di Sicilia

24 May 1999

Short Trips: 2040

For my last Short Trips volume I elected to try something different: a book of

stories that would all be set in the same year of Earth's future history, in which

around half would be loosely linked with a background story arc. The premise

was that aliens had made contact with Earth but in a gradual, pernicious way,

adopting human form and gradually spreading their power and influence by

way of a corporate empire. Huw's story very expertly picked up my premise and

ran with it, putting the Perseus Corporation at the head of a project to develop

military hardware with artificial intelligence. As well as being a strong story

for the often ill-served Eighth Doctor, Thinking Warrior gives a poignant voice

to the two intelligent tanks, Castor and Pollux, and despite its crisp, hard style,

by the end packs quite an emotional punch.

John Binns

Thinking Warrior

Huw Wilkins

The first shot comes without warning, an arrow-straight bolt of red

lightning on the Flashpoint overlay. The target, a young man now

designated Casualty #1 by the tactical system, drops without a sound.

I chamber a smoke round and fire it up into the air to obscure the

sniper's view, then sweep the blank-fronted tower block with the

microwave radar.

The gunman is moving, running down a corridor heading for the

stairwell. I lock on with the main 10mm co-axial and fire a short burst

of a/p through the wall. He goes down hard.

'Crowd control,' I send over the secure link to Castor. 'Get the

civilians into cover. There's probably more where he came from.'

I hear the boom of Castor's amplified voice almost immediately

instructing people to run for the protection of the hospital's white

stucco walls. He repeats the message in Portuguese then Crioulo.

'Technical crossing Estrada,' Castor says over the link. 'Engaging

left.'

I send a sensor sweep down that flank and pick up the ragged Dodge

pickup with an Israeli microcalibre support weapon lashed onto the

flatbed. Castor opens up and shreds it from end to end before they even

get a shot off.

I pop more smoke overhead to guard us from any more fire coming

down from the concrete housing blocks opposite.

A bullet strikes my armour and ricochets away with a shrill whirr. I

scan back down its path and pick out a loose group of figures

advancing from behind the barricades at the base of the Cathedrale. A

few civilians are huddling in the building's doorway; a mother shelters

her child with her body as the rebel militiamen run past.

'Troops rounding the Cathedrale,' I send to Castor. 'Engaging right.'

The ammunition feeds across the back of my chassis click over as I

switch from armour-piercing to frangible rounds. One by one I begin

picking off the gunmen, directing fire away from the civilians.

A second stream of bright tracers crosses mine, jacketed bullets

punching through the fragile barricades and the Cathedrale walls with

equal ease. I see the people sheltering in the doorway vanish in a

maelstrom of dust, shattered stonework and blood.

Castor.

'Jesus!' I scream over the link. 'Switch to frangible! Non-corns in

your line of fire! Non-coms in your line of fire!'

'What? What?' he sends.

'Adjust your fire. There's civilians in that group!'

'I...' Castor says but the link cuts dead before he finishes.

A tenth of a second later the concussion hits me and I see Castor's

wrecked chassis tumble along the ground in a mass of flames. A

second RPG slices through the smoke looking for me.

My engine screams at the rev limiter as I surge forward out of the

way, my tracks kicking up twin plumes of dust. I probe back along the

road and find the rebel soldier still fitting a new warhead to the launch

tube.

I return fire through the haze and the wall of the building he's using

for cover. The impact of the bullets throws him out into the street in a

mess of tangled limbs.

'Dammit,' Castor sends over the secondary link. 'I'm dead. Damnit.'

'You weren't covering your flank,' I reply.

'I... I know,' he sends, his tone a contrite mixture of embarrassment

and apology. 'This would never have happened in version eleven.'

'I'll finish this up then we can run a simpler simulation to settle you

in.'

'Okay. Good. Okay. We... we... ww...'

His speech tails off into a high-pitched garble of random sounds.

'Castor? Are you all right?' I send. 'I'll beep Marti.'

I try to hook into the lab's communications system but get no

response. The frame rate of the world gets choppy and a brief burst of

rain sweeps out of a clear sky.

'Castor?' I send again with more urgency. 'Are you there?

Something's happening to the system.'

Then everything goes black and silent as the universe crashes around

me.

'Go right in, sir,' the secretary said, waving towards the door with his

free hand. 'Ms Carthy is expecting you. Would you like coffee or tea

sent in?'

Ordell paused for a moment. 'Is Julia having any?'

'She and her guest ordered some coffee, yes.'

'Okay, then,' Ordell said. 'I'll have coffee, please.'

'On its way,' the secretary said with a nod, already keying the

request into his desk computer.

Ordell gave him a brief, polite smile and opened the door. The office

on the other side was large and well furnished, with a wide desk of pale

wood that reflected the light from a broad set of windows onto a wall

full of certificates, photographs and awards.

'Simon,' said a tall woman, rising from her seat behind the desk.

About fifty years old, she was dressed in the severe corporate style

inherited from America. Her suit was a dark collection of discreet

pinstripe and sharp creases that contrasted strongly with the carefully

arranged blonde wave of her hair.

'Glad you could make it so quickly.' She held out her hand.

'No problem, Julia,' Ordell said. He stepped inside and took her

hand, squeezing it in a momentary shake. He glanced at a second figure

seated beside the desk.

'This is David Gordon,' Carthy said, indicating the man. 'He's with

Perseus Corporation's central security office.'

Gordon stood and offered his hand. 'Please to meet you, Major,' he

said with a winning smile as Ordell shook his hand. He was dressed in

a conservative business suit that failed to hide the fact he was fitter and

more muscular than the average executive.

'Likewise,' Ordell said. Carthy nodded to a spare chair and he sat

down. 'So,' he said. 'I gather there's been some trouble overnight?'

Carthy nodded and sat down again. She brushed a speck of fluff

from the sleeve of her jacket with a sigh of irritation. 'That would be

something of an understatement,' she said.

'Hackers managed to get a connection into the AI lab during the

night,' Gordon said. 'They wiped the GridEngine and pretty much

anything else they could get their hands on.'

Ordell raised his eyebrows. 'How the hell did they manage that? I

thought we were supposed to have a secure network here?'

'Not secure enough, apparently,' Carthy said, looking pointedly at

Gordon.

Gordon sighed and held up his hands. 'I know, I know,' he said.

'We've got people reviewing the last security audit at the moment.'

Ordell rubbed his chin and grimaced. 'How long will this set us

back?' he asked.

'We don't know yet. Marti's got the latest backups back from

storage and he's working on getting the GridEngine up and running

again. His best guess was up to a week to get Castor and the

simulations back on line at full capacity, then a few days more to catch

up the work lost between back-ups. So, say two weeks until we're back

where we were yesterday,' Carthy said.

'Well, I guess that could be worse,' Ordell said, relief evident in his

voice. 'So it's still not out of the question to deliver by the end of the

year then?'

Carthy pursed her lips. 'I don't know. All of the project staff have

been suspended until Mr Gordon here can reassure himself they

weren't involved,' she said, a hint of annoyance breaking through her

urbane control.

'Don't worry too much about that, Julia,' Gordon said reassuringly.

'It's just a standard part of the investigation procedure in cases like

these. We should be done with that process before your systems are

back running again. Statistically speaking, nearly eighty per cent of

data thefts are inside jobs, so we can't ignore the possibility.'

Ordell glanced sharply at Gordon. 'You didn't mention them stealing

our data.'

'We haven't confirmed that they even tried to steal anything yet,'

Carthy said.

'It's the most obvious motive though, you must agree,' Gordon

replied.

'Despite its evident shortcomings our network security really is the

best money can buy; the time and effort required to compromise it

suggests the perpetrators had a good reason for doing so.'

'It could have been an attempt by Grumman or Lockheed to set us

back,' Ordell said. 'The board's... amendments to the specification

have delayed delivery so many times, it's common knowledge our

CMO contract is under review. Maybe a competitor thought they might

be able to tip it in their favour if our deadlines slipped again.'

Gordon nodded, but looked doubtful. 'We're not ruling it out, of

course, but once you're in, why not take what you can rather than just

trashing the mainframe?' He sighed and shrugged almost

imperceptibly. 'Either way one or other of the American arms

manufacturers is most likely behind it.'

'I guess that's true,' Ordell said, acknowledging the point with a

nod.

A knock sounded at the door. It opened a moment later and Carthy's

secretary entered carefully carrying a tray with both hands.

'Oh, thank you, Martin,' Carthy said. She stood up and bent over her

desk to push papers out of the way to clear a space. 'Just here, please,'

she said, tapping the bare patch of wood she had uncovered.

He set the tray down in the space indicated. 'Your guest has cleared

security on the ground floor,' he said, straightening up. 'He's being

escorted up now.'

'Ah, good,' Carthy said. 'Make him comfortable when he gets up

here, could you? We'll be out in a few minutes.'

'No problem,' the secretary said. He turned and left, shutting the

door behind himself with barely a click.

'A guest? Today?' Ordell asked, surprised.

Carthy shook her head. 'Not by choice, I assure you,' she said. She

picked up the coffee pot from the tray and poured three cupfuls.

'He's a CMO investigator,' Gordon said, pronouncing the acronym

as one word: see-mo. He picked up one of the small cups and dropped

three rough lumps of brown sugar into it one after the other.

'That's... awfully fast of them,' Ordell said. He took one of the

remaining cups and sipped from it, not bothering with sweetener or

cream.

'More than you know,' Carthy said with a rueful chuckle. 'He called

me at ten past five this morning. Only fifteen minutes after the call

from security woke me. Got me out of the shower, too.'

'News travels fast,' Ordell said, pulling an exaggerated expression of

surprise.

'We're looking into that, too,' Gordon said.

'I'll bet you are.'

'CMO's sending us a message,' Carthy said. 'They had someone

ready and waiting for something to go wrong. They want to make sure

we know the pressure's on.'

'I think we can say that it's been received,' Ordell said. 'Do you

think he's a for-real investigator, or just for show?'

'I haven't been able to find out much about him, so far,' Gordon

said. 'It doesn't help that he insists on just going by his title rather than

giving us a name. We'll know more in a few hours once we've been

able to shake a few trees at the UN.'

'There's something odd about him, for sure,' Carthy said. 'He

doesn't carry a PAN, for one thing. The security guys were having to

issue him with an honest-to-God swipe card when I brought him in.'

'I'm amazed those rentacops could work the machine,' Ordell said

dismissively.

'They couldn't,' Carthy said, shooting another glance at Gordon. 'I

think he's used to it though, he was showing them how to use it when I

left.'

'We do train them on those as well,' Gordon objected. 'It just

doesn't come up very often.'

Ordell shrugged. 'What're you going to do with him?' he asked

Carthy.

'I'd like you to look after him for a couple of days, Simon. You and

Marti are the only members of the project team not on suspension, and

Marti has his hands full right now.'

'Me? I'm not sure...' Ordell stuttered.

'It's just temporary. I'm going to be busy for a day or two smoothing

ruffled feathers - half the board has called me this morning already.

Besides, you're an external advisor appointed through the UN, rather

like he is. It might present a more open face than a Perseus employee

could.'

'Okay, then,' Ordell said, slightly doubtfully. 'How do you want me

to handle him?'

Carthy shook her head. 'Don't try to "handle" him. I'm sure he'll be

expecting that. Just show him around, answer all his questions and

keep an eye on him. Our contract with CMO allows him access to any

information concerning the Peacekeeper project, so you can take him

down to the lab but keep him away from the other project areas, okay?'

'Fine.'

'He may ask about the Flashpoint countersniper system,' Gordon

said. 'That's a bit of a legal grey area, so refer it back to me or Julia if

it comes up.'

'Do you think that's likely?'

'Not sure, but I want to limit the number of projects we have to open

up to scrutiny. You know how stuff leaks from UN offices,' Gordon

said, raising an eyebrow at Ordell.

Ordell frowned. 'Thanks for reminding me,' he said and shot a

deeply insincere smile back at the security man.

'Sorry,' Gordon said and held up a hand in a gesture of supplication.

'I didn't mean anything by that.'

'And don't mention anything about those amendments to the

specification,' Carthy said. 'That's still privileged information that

affects other projects CMO doesn't have a legal right to know about.'

'I know, okay? You've explained that enough times before; I know,'

Ordell said, gesturing irritably with his hands.

'He should be here by now,' Carthy said. 'Martin will show you

where he is.'

Ordell glanced at Gordon and held eye contact just a few seconds

longer than was comfortable, then stood and nodded to Carthy. 'I'll go

make a start then.'

'Good. I'll block out some time for lunch,' Carthy said. 'Bring him

up to the restaurant at about one o'clock.'

'I will. See you then,' Ordell said. 'Pleasure meeting you, Mr

Gordon.'

'Likewise, Major,' Gordon said, toasting him with his coffee.

Ordell turned smartly and left.

Carthy felt the tension rise in the room as the door closed behind

Ordell. Gordon was tapping his fingers lightly on the desk as he

watched him go. 'You're sure?' he asked, still looking at the door.

'Yes,' Carthy said. 'He'll back Perseus all the way; he knows which

side his bread's buttered.'

'Good enough,' Gordon said, nodding slowly.

Carthy's secretary, Martin, showed Ordell down the corridor to the

open space around the stairwell that was set out as an informal meeting

area and waiting room. A broad light well ran down one side of the

room and the day's grey weather gave the light a gritty texture as it

mixed with the overhead fluorescents.

A tall man with long hair that brushed the top of his unfashionably

high collar was sitting on a low, padded bench, sipping tea from a cup

bearing the winged sword logo of Perseus Dynamics. He was leafing

through a glossy brochure one handed, seemingly engrossed by its

content. A slim line of jagged scar tissue was visible on the inside of

his wrist where it emerged from the cuff of his sharply tailored green

coat.

'Doctor?' Martin asked, walking up with Ordell.

'Oh, yes?' the man said, jumping slightly in surprise.

'This is Major Simon Ordell, the military advisor on the Peacekeeper

project,' Martin said, indicating Ordell.

'Doctor,' Ordell said, holding out a hand.

The Doctor stood and hesitated for a moment as he realised both

hands were full. He tucked the brochure under his arm and shook

Ordell's hand. 'Pleased to meet you, Major,' he said, smiling.

'Simon, please,' Ordell said. He kept the handshake light, and brief.

'Almost everyone here is a civilian, so I don't have much cause to use

my rank.'

'Very well,' the Doctor said, broadening his smile and affecting a

minimalist bow.

'I'll leave you to it,' Martin said. 'You have my extension number if

there's anything else I can do for you, Doctor.'

'I do, thank you,' the Doctor said.

Martin nodded to Ordell and walked off back towards his desk

outside Carthy's office.

'So,' Ordell said slightly awkwardly. 'What can we do for you,

Doctor?'

The Doctor sighed. 'It's just a bit of handholding for Conflict

Management Oversight, really. A few of them are a bit jittery over the

delays in the project, and what with last night's problem they wanted

the reassurance of their own man on the scene.'

Ordell nodded. 'I see. I know we've slipped a bit on delivery, but it's

not like this is a simple project.'

'Oh, I quite agree, Major. Still, you must understand that CMO is

under a huge amount of pressure from both Europe and the US

Alliance. Alliance security forces have already threatened to withdraw

troops from peacekeeping duties unless something is done about the

casualties in Guinea Bissau.'

'I know. The fighting's been bad in the capital for months now.

Twelve members of my regiment were killed just a fortnight ago,'

Ordell said.

'You're in the Royal Marines, aren't you?' the Doctor asked.

'Yes, that's right,' Ordell confirmed, nodding. 'Though I've been

acting as military advisor to Perseus for nearly two years now.'

'Good work?'

'Well... it's different, anyway. Safer than doing a peacekeeping tour,

which makes my wife glad. Maybe less rewarding though, at least in

the short term.'

The Doctor nodded. 'The rewards are longer term in this case, but

just as worthy, I think.'

'Oh, don't get me wrong, Doctor. I believe in the Peacekeeper

project one hundred per cent. I just sometimes feel... ' Ordell hesitated

and sighed. 'I don't know. Maybe just a bit out of the loop.'

'Well, with any luck, you'll be back out there making a difference

soon.'

Ordell nodded slowly, then flashed a brief smile. 'Still, I'm sure you

didn't come here to hear me list my problems for you. I'll spare you

the details.'

'No need on my account, Major. I like to think I help out wherever I

can.'

'Well, I think we'd best make sure CMO's happy first.'

'Yes, you're right of course,' the Doctor said. 'What can you tell me

about what happened last night?'

'I know the outline of it, but if you want the technical details you'll

need to speak to Marti Elser; he's the project's technical lead.'

'Is Marti in yet?'

'Yes. I understand he's down in the secure lab working on fixing the

damage.'

'Fine, fine. Well, maybe we should go down and see him. You can

give me the overview on the way.'

'No problem,' Ordell said. He indicated the stairwell. 'This way,' he

said. The Doctor took the lead and pushed through the double fire

doors. 'I prefer the stairs myself,' he said, 'but I'm surprised I haven't

seen anyone use the lifts yet.'

Ordell chuckled. 'You haven't been into a Perseus building before

then?'

'First time, I'm afraid. Is it that obvious?'

'It's some directive from the Perseus board a few years ago.

Encouraging fitness in their staff, you see. A fit worker is a productive

worker, or some such crap.'

The Doctor began to descend the broad stairway, strolling easily

down the wide steps. 'Seems like a fine idea to me.'

'There's more, of course. If they think you're overweight they load a

directive into the computers so it'll only let you buy healthy snacks and

drinks from the vending machines in the basement and the lifts will

refuse to work if they detect your PAN inside.'

The Doctor laughed. 'I imagine that adds a little premium to the

black market chocolate around here then.'

'You'd be surprised. By the time you reach the sixth floor, where the

computer programmers work, a Coke is practically worth its weight in

gold,' Ordell said deadpan.

'I'll be sure to bear that in mind if I'm a little short,' the Doctor

chuckled, his eyes wrinkling with amusement.

'Anyway, last night,' Ordell said, his tone becoming more

businesslike.

'Yes, go on,' the Doctor said.

'At about three o'clock someone managed to gain access to the

internal network for the Peacekeeper project. The security guys are

working on the details, of course, but I gather there's not a lot left to

work with.'

The crackers covered their tracks?'

'Well, not so much covered as obliterated. Every piece of hardware

they could get their hands on was wiped clean. About the only thing

that survived was Pollux, the beta version intelligence core. The

biggest loss was the GridEngine mainframe, of course, but a lot of

other bits and pieces, documentation, project plans and the like were

lost as well.'

The Doctor nodded. He ran his hand lightly over the polished

wooden banister, fingertips just brushing the surface. 'What was on the

mainframe?'

'Well, lots of stuff, but the two main things were Castor, the alpha

version neural network simulation, and the software that runs the

virtual realities we use for training and evaluation.'

'So, very much the core of the project then?'

'Oh, yeah. Everything ran off the GridEngine. Without that we're

pretty much dead in the water.'

'I see. Is there any evidence of data being copied off the network?'

'Not so far,' Ordell said. 'It's being looked into, but it's difficult to

tell what with all the chaos down there.'

The Doctor stepped down onto the ground floor and pushed through

another set of fire doors into the main atrium of the building. He took a

moment to look around, gazing unselfconsciously up at the high glass

ceiling and boxes of trailing plants that spilled over the edges of

artfully utilitarian structural members. In the centre of the floor was a

low fountain, tiny inch-high jets of water playing over cracked paving

slabs in a shallow indentation.

The back wall of the building was entirely made of glass, a

gracefully tiered cascade that descended in storey-high steps until it

reached a low curtain wall at the ground. At the far end, opposite the

main entrance, was a wide, open desk with a small crew of

receptionists sitting at sleek terminals. Behind them was a tall

chromium sculpture of the winged sword logo of Perseus Dynamics.

Closer to the main doors, where no visitor could fail to notice it, was

the low, sleek form of the latest model BMW sports car.

'It's a prize,' Ordell said, noticing the Doctor's gaze. 'They raffle

one off every month to employees who've recommended a new hire.'

'Some prize,' the Doctor said.

'Well, Perseus is pretty aggressive about attracting the right people.'

'So it would seem.'

'This way,' Ordell said. He struck out across the polished floor of

pale marble. He took the Doctor's arm lightly and guided him to one

side. 'Careful. A lot of first-time visitors are so busy looking at the

architecture they walk straight into the fountain.'

'Really?' the Doctor asked incredulously.

'Well, you were heading right for it just now,' Ordell replied, raising

an eyebrow. 'You can always spot the new starters. Wet ankles,

looking for the lifts.'

The Doctor laughed. 'Thanks for sparing me the embarrassment

then.'

'Don't mention it, Doctor,' Ordell said, leading them up to a heavy

door that was set into a deep arch in the wall. Embedded in the lintel

was a steel panel with a single red light glowing in the middle.

'Er...' Ordell said doubtfully. 'This usually just detects your PAN

and lets you in if you're authorised.' He held up his own PAN and

pressed his thumb into the identification slot. The red light stayed on.

'How about this?' the Doctor said. He fished a slim wafer of plastic

out of his pocket and waved it over a discreet black plastic box set into

the side of the arch. The light above the door turned green and there

was a loud click as the magnetic locks disengaged

Ordell peered at the box. 'Never noticed that before,' he said.

'I've been getting quite used to hunting them out since PANs were

introduced,' the Doctor said.

'Good job, too,' Ordell acknowledged. He pushed the heavy door

open and held it for the Doctor.

Beyond the door was a short corridor, its bland institutional decor at

odds with the grandeur of the atrium. Two guards, both conspicuously

carrying handguns and TASER weapons in belt holsters, were flanking

another security door a few metres further in.

'All the project labs are down here,' Ordell said, 'so we'll have to do

a more formal ID before we can go on.'

He walked up to the guards and nodded to them. 'Terry,' he said.

'Dave. How's it going?'

'Same old, same old,' Terry said. 'Step up for identification please,

sir.'

Ordell turned to face the blunt muzzle of a steel and plastic device

attached to the wall. There was a momentary fan of bright laser light

across his face, collapsing swiftly down to a band across his eyes.

'Okay, you're good to go, sir,' the other guard said as a confirmation

popped up on the ruggedised PAN strapped to his wrist. He turned to

the Doctor and politely indicated that he should do the same as Ordell.

'He doesn't have a PAN,' Ordell said, rubbing one eye. 'You'll have

to check his patterns against his card.'

The Doctor held up his card expectantly, turning it to show the silver

logo embossed on the front.

'Step up to the scanner please, sir,' Terry said, taking the card. He

pressed it against the face of his PAN for a moment, allowing the

device to read its contents.

The Doctor walked forward and copied Ordell's action of peering

into the scanner. He blinked in surprise as the laser briefly dazzled him.

'Good match on the iris and retina patterns,' Dave said, consulting

his PAN. 'You're both clear to go down.' He held out the Doctor's

card.

'Thank you,' the Doctor said, taking it back. He tucked it into an

inside pocket of his coat.

'Have a nice day, gentlemen,' Terry said cheerfully as Ordell leaned

his weight against the inner security door.

Beyond the door was an open lounge area. A couple of ugly vending

machines hunkered in a corner but most of the space was taken up by a

random scatter of low sofas and beanbag chairs. A few people were

dotted around the room, most sitting alone and reading, a few in small

groups chatting over coffee. The walls were covered with large posters,

most depicting idyllic outdoor scenes.

'This is the project lounge,' Ordell said. 'It's just here to save

everyone having to go through the security checkpoint all the time.'

The Doctor nodded. 'No windows, I notice,' he said.

'Security again. You're not allowed to take any sensitive materials

where they could be seen from an unsecured area.'

The Doctor squinted at the ceiling, taking in the mismatched clusters

of lights recessed into the tiles. 'Good light though.'

'Oh, yeah, they're really proud of that. There's a panel on the wall

where you can select environments and it will replicate the light

quality. It's an offshoot from some of the training and simulation

technologies they make here. Gives it a bit more of an outdoorsy feel.'

'Works well,' the Doctor said. It was true that the room didn't have

the enclosed feel that its windowless walls should have engendered.

'Where's this light from?'

Ordell glanced up. 'Alpine meadow, I think. That's the usual

favourite.' He pointed to a broad corridor that led off opposite the door

through which they had entered. 'Down here.'

The corridor was equipped only with standard fluorescent tubes and

the walls seemed to subliminally close in on them as they walked down

it. Ordell led them around a corner and up to another heavy security

door. Set into its lintel was another steel panel with a glowing red light.

He pulled out his PAN and thumbed the ID button.

'There, I think,' he said, pointing to another black card-reader

mounted beside the frame. The Doctor pulled out his card again and

pressed it against the box.

The light turned green and the door vibrated as the locks disengaged.

'Does the whole place use PAN security?' the Doctor asked as Ordell

pushed the heavy door open.

'Pretty much,' he replied. 'It's a good system. Biometric checks at

all points. I don't think they'd usually let anyone use the old card

system unless they're a special case.'

The Doctor nodded as he followed Ordell in.

'Okay, here we are,' Ordell said. 'This is the Peacekeeper project

lab.'

An island of desks took up the centre of the long room, each one

separated from the others by chest-high dividers on which a mess of

shelves, notes, posters and photographs were pinned. Most of the desks

had at least two, often more, expensive computer terminals on them.

Beyond this was a set of technical workbenches that backed onto a

glass-walled room that contained an array of tall boxes.

'That's the GridEngine in there,' Ordell said, indicating the glass

room. 'Most of the actual work's done out here though. I'll see if I can

find Marti.'

Ordell skirted the desks and walked to the back of the room. He

leaned over one of the workbenches and tapped on the glass with his

knuckles. A moment later a short, dark-haired man with a fastidiously

trimmed goatee beard appeared, peering between the twin rows of

computer racks. He saw Ordell and waved a greeting. Ordell beckoned

for him to come out.

'Morning, Simon,' the man said as he opened the door of the glass

room and exited in a gust of cool, processed air.

'Marti,' Ordell said, nodding. 'This is the Doctor.'

'Pleased to meet you, Dr Elser,' the Doctor said, holding out his

hand.

'Oh, hi,' Elser said, a little doubtfully. He gripped the Doctor's hand

and gave it a weak squeeze. 'Are you another ofthe security guys?'

'No, I'm from CMO,' the Doctor said.

'Didn't you get the email?' Ordell asked.

'No, sorry. I've been in with the GridEngine ever since I arrived.'

Ordell sniffed. 'Doesn't matter. It just said that the Doctor here's a

CMO investigator and that you're to extend every courtesy. The usual

drill.'

'CMO checking up on us?' Elser asked, turning to face the Doctor.

'Yes, but I confess it's more for show than anything else. It's just the

CMO board covering themselves. Got to make sure they can say they

did their due diligence, you know,' the Doctor said, his tone one of

resigned amusement.

'Politics,' Elser said disdainfully.

'That's about the shape of it,' the Doctor said. 'I'll try to keep out of

the way as much as possible, have a bit of a poke around so I can

justify my report and leave it at that.'

'Well, there's not much I can tell you at the moment, Doctor,' Elser

said.

'How's the recovery going?' the Doctor asked.

Elser glanced at Ordell.

'It's okay, Marti. The Doctor's cleared for all the project-specific

details.'

'Well,' Elser said, rubbing the back of his neck. 'There's good news

and bad news. We haven't really lost much data; it's all on the

backups, but the GridEngine's still refusing to boot fifteen of its

nodes.'

'The backups didn't restore them?' Ordell asked.

Elser shrugged. 'We have the data, but this kind of heavy iron

doesn't like being shut down like it was last night. I'll probably have to

rebuild those nodes from scratch and just restore the files once they're

running.'

'What's your estimate on the setback then?' the Doctor asked.

'Pretty much what I told Julia still. I'll have to put in a few long

days, but it's all recoverable.'

The Doctor nodded. 'That doesn't sound too bad then. Would it be

possible for me to have access to the files you've restored so far?'

'Sure,' Elser said. He sat down at one of the terminals and wiggled

the mouse to take the screensaver off. 'I'll set you up with a team login

so you can get into the system. You'll be able to get the documents and

project plans, but Castor won't be back up until we have a few more

working nodes.'

'I understand that Pollux wasn't affected by the break in?'

Elser nodded, his eyes still fixed on the screen. 'Yeah. He says they

scanned his network connections, but I guess they couldn't work out

what he was so they left him alone.'

'May I talk with him?'

'He's over here,' Ordell said. 'We'll leave you to it for a bit, Marti,

okay?'

'Sure,' Elser said. 'I'll let you know your login details in a minute,

Doctor, but then I'll have to be getting back to the GridEngine.'

'Thank you, Marti,' the Doctor said.

Ordell led him over to the corner of the room. Sitting on the

workbench was an angular metal object about the size of a briefcase

surrounded by a festoon of wires connecting it to a stack of computers,

test gear and monitors. Just to one side was a dark plastic dome that

emitted a quiet mechanical whine. Opposite that was a wide high-

resolution screen showing a dense tangle of lines picked out in a slowly

pulsing spectrum of colours.

'Hello, Pollux. How are you feeling?' Ordell said.

'I'm fine, thank you, Major. A little shaken after last night still, but

otherwise unhurt,' said a beautifully modulated androgynous voice

from a pair of cheap multimedia speakers hidden behind the cradle of

wires.

'This is the Doctor, an investigator from CMO.'

'Yes, I overheard your conversation with Marti. I'm pleased to meet

you, Doctor.'

'Likewise, I'm sure, Pollux,' the Doctor said. He glanced around the

test setup for a moment. 'Can you see me?'

'Very well,' Pollux said. 'I'm hooked up to the sensor dome on the

right.'

'Ah, of course,' the Doctor said. He leaned forward and, shading his

eyes, peered into the translucent plastic dome.

'It's a variant of the optical sensor package Dynamics developed for

the Jicarilla Apache project. It's got visual spectrum, infrared,

ultraviolet, even microwave radar and laser designators all in one box,'

Ordell said. 'It's the main vision system for the Peacekeepers.'

The Doctor crossed his arms self-consciously. 'Impressive you

managed to at all that in there.'

'Perseus has made some revolutionary breakthroughs in

miniaturising this kind of thing,' Ordell said. 'I don't understand all the

details, but it's ten years or more ahead of what Lockheed Martin's

trying to push.'

The Doctor looked at the colourful display on the screen again.

'What's this?' he asked.

'It's a diagnostic overview of my neural network,' Pollux said. 'The

colours denote different kinds and amounts of activity. Watch this.'

As soon as the words were spoken a bright crimson bloom spread

across the right side of the image. As it grew it split up into sinuous

tentacles that reached right across to the other side of the screen.

'What happened?' the Doctor asked.

'I just activated my fire control systems and recalled one of the battle

simulations I've run. It causes a lot of subsystem processing, so a large

part of the diagram turns bright red.'

The Doctor watched the pattern for a minute as it faded gradually

back to the even blues and yellows it had expressed originally. 'It's

quite beautiful.'

'Thank you,' said Pollux.

Ordell grinned. 'I know. It's kind of hypnotic, isn't it? I sometimes

spend more time watching that than anything else when we're running

simulations,' be confessed.

'Could you spare me a few minutes to talk about last night, Pollux?'

the Doctor asked.

'Of course, Doctor,' Pollux said. 'I've nothing much to do at the

moment. I can't even chat to Castor until the GridEngine is back up.'

'I'll leave you to it for a little while, if you don't mind,' Ordell said.

'I'd like to check what state my files are in.'

'No, go ahead, Major,' the Doctor said.

'Okay. I'll only be over there at my workstation,' Ordell said. 'Shout

if you need anything. Talk to you later, Pollux.'

'Goodbye, Major,' Pollux said politely as Ordell walked away.

The Doctor turned and pulled one of the spare chairs over from an

empty desk and sat down beside the workbench. He crossed his arms

comfortably across his chest and rested one foot on top of a computer

case on the floor.

'I must admit I was expecting something a little bigger,' the Doctor

said, looking at the armoured box amidst the wires.

'I'm pretty much a solid optical network inside here,' Pollux said.

'It's all custom-built from the ground up, so they can make it pretty

compact. You only need something like the GridEngine if you want to

run the whole system in simulation.'

'That's what Castor is?'

'Yes. He's the development model. All his hardware is just a virtual

model run on the computer. I can't be modified once my network's

been grown.'

The Doctor nodded. 'So, tell me about last night.'

'Marti went home just after eleven o'clock. They'd just booted up a

new version of Castor, and that always makes for a long day. We were

chatting over the network, getting to know each other again...'

'I'm sorry?' the Doctor interrupted. 'What do you mean getting to

know each other again?'

'Castor's always a little different in each version. He can access all

the memories of the previous versions, but he's always got a few... it's

hard to describe. A new perspective, maybe?' Pollux said uncertainly.

A tint of yellow spread along the centre of the screen like a slow curl

of smoke.

'I see. Which version was he last night?'

'The newest version is 12.3, but I expect he'll be back on version

12.2 when they get him running from the backups again.'

'Which version are you, if that's not a personal question?'

The speakers emitted a short staccato rattle. 'Sorry,' Pollux said,

sounding a little embarrassed. 'My voice synthesiser's pretty good, but

it can't do laughter well. I'm a 10.8.'

The Doctor nodded slowly. didn't realise they were still developing

the artificial intelligence core at such a rate.'

'They're always tweaking Castor. Sometimes they version him every

couple of days.'

'That must be a little... well, disorienting for him?'

'Sometimes it is. On a couple of occasions the version wasn't stable,

and Castor...' Pollux trailed off.

'Yes?' the Doctor prodded.

'It's hard to describe if you haven't seen it happen. I gather from the

team that it's a bit like a degenerative mental illness, but much

accelerated. He would develop obsessive behaviour, exhibit rapid

personality changes, talk gibberish. It was distressing to witness it.'

'I can imagine,' the Doctor said sympathetically. He glanced at the

screen again where the same yellow taint as before was displacing the

calm blue. Was the latest version at all unstable?'

'Not that I noticed,' Pollux said. 'He seemed more tightly focused

than the previous version, but not obsessively so. I was expecting that

since the latest version modifications have been on goal selection, but I

think his ability to multitask suffered a bit.'

'What did you do next?'

'Castor wanted to run a simulation. We're given freedom to run

mission simulations overnight if no other jobs are running. It all gets

logged for analysis, so it's all productive time on the GridEngine they

wouldn't otherwise have.'

'Which simulation did you pick?'

'It was an evolving area protection simulation set in central Bissau.

We were defending a checkpoint outside the Hopital Simao Mendes

from sniper fire and then from a ground assault Do you want the log

code?'

'Not right now, thanks,' the Doctor said. 'How did it go?'

'Not all that well. We started clearing the snipers, but Castor got

distracted and was taken out by an RPG when the FDV ground troops

managed to flank him.'

'How did Castor take that?'

'He didn't sound too happy. It was a stupid mistake. He said he

thought he would never have been caught like that in version eleven.

It's always difficult for Castor when they version him. I was trying to

persuade him to run another sim, something a little simpler maybe to

let him adjust a bit, when it happened.'

'The attack?'

'Yes. Castor started repeating himself, just the odd word here and

there at first but he just dissolved into random sounds after a few

seconds. I thought it was another unstable version going bad, so I tried

to access the alert system to beep Marti, but I couldn't get a connection

to the system. I started to try to connect to other stuff on the network,

but it was all crashing around me.'

On the screen the familiar spread of yellow appeared, but this time

thin bars of deep red flanked it on both sides.

'Did they try to attack you?'

'A couple of minutes after Castor went down some process on the

GridEngine probed my network ports pretty thoroughly. I think

whoever it was thought I was some kind of customised network server

and was trying to work out exactly what I was. I stopped responding to

connections and that seemed to convince them that I'd crashed along

with all the other gear.'

The Doctor stroked his chin thoughtfully, watching the screen.

'What did you do then?'

'There wasn't a lot I could do. I had no way of contacting the outside

world, so I just had to sit here and wait until Marti got in a couple of

hours later.'

'Must have been boring for you.'

'I'm used to it. It's the same mixture of boredom and anxiety I get

standing at a guard post in the simulations.'

'You do feel anxiety, then?'

Pollux's sensor dome whirred for a moment, then settled back into

silence. 'Yes,' he said. 'Castor and I are sentient, as far as the team can

tell. We have emotions, but our neural networks have been designed

and evolved to deal with that kind of stress synergistic ally.'

'Which means?'

The odd rattle sounded from the speakers again. 'You skipped

reading the Perseus brochures, I see,' Pollux said.

'Ah,' the Doctor said. He smiled embarrassedly at the sensor dome.

'I must confess I did. I've read most of the progress reports, but they

haven't been got at by the marketing department.'

'Our designs have been through millions of test iterations on the

GridEngine, looking for configurations that were emotionally stable.

Most of Marti and the team's efforts have actually gone into making

the system that evaluates and tests each iteration of the neural network.

They design that system, then that system designs us.'

'I see,' the Doctor said, nodding slowly.

'How are you two getting on?' Elser asked, appearing suddenly

beside the table.

The Doctor jumped. 'Sony,' he said. 'I didn't hear you walk up.'

'My fault,' Elser said. 'I was in such a rush this morning that I came

out without my shoes.' He pointed at the threadbare pair of carpet

slippers on his feet.

The Doctor chuckled. 'Now, that's dedication,' he said.

Gordon peeled back the wrapper on his sandwich and parted the slices

of brown bread suspiciously.

'They're really very good, you know,' Carthy said, eyebrow raised.

She popped the cap on her bottle of spring water and took a sip.

'Sony,' Gordon said, slapping the sandwich back together. 'I spend

all my time going from place to place so I've learned never to trust a

staff canteen to make an edible lunch.'

Carthy laughed. 'Must take it out of you, being suspicious all the

time.' 'It's worth the effort for a good sandwich,' he said, flashing a

brief smile. He bit into the bread and nodded approvingly.

Carthy prodded at her salad with a fork, shuffling a few of the lush

green leaves around. She eyed the jumble of chicken, onions and

mayonnaise in Gordon's lunch. 'Not going for the healthy option, I

see,' she said.

Gordon smiled around the mouthful. 'I leave that to you lifestyle

execs,' he Said after he swallowed.

Carthy frowned briefly and forked a pile of leaves into her mouth.

They ate in silence for a minute.

Gordon kept glancing at the glass doors, his eyes flicking back and

forth as his interest wavered between them and his lunch. Beyond the

doors was a wide balcony that looked out over the atrium and further

through the transparent back wall to the gardens behind Buckingham

Palace.

'The Doctor and Ordell should be up soon,' Carthy said.

'It's not that. Phil Green said he was going to meet me here. He

wants to take a look at the Doctor.'

Carthy arched an eyebrow. 'I didn't know this had risen so far in the

security division.'

Gordon shrugged. 'I gave him a call this morning about finding out

some more about the Doctor. He called back about an hour ago and

said he was coming down.'

'What's he found out?' Carthy asked.

'He didn't give me all the details. He'll fill you in when he gets

here,' Gordon mumbled as he swallowed. 'Ah, here he is.'

He stood up and raised a hand in the direction of the doors. A tall,

blandly handsome man answered the wave and began picking his way

between the tables to where they sat.

'David,' he said, smiling as he approached. 'Good to see you again.'

'Phillip. This is Julia Carthy, manager of the Peacekeeper project.'

Carthy stood and offered her hand. Green took it and squeezed it

firmly without shaking. 'Pleased to meet you at last, Julia. I've heard

nothing but good reports.'

'Glad to hear it,' Carthy said. She sat down again and Green slid

smoothly into the seat next to Gordon.

Sitting side by side it was clear how uncomfortable Gordon really

was in a salt. Next to Green's urbane sheen of exquisite tailoring and

fastidious rooming it looked like his veneer of civilisation was paper-

thin.

'So, David tells me you want to have a look at the Doctor,' Carthy

said.

Green nodded. 'I do indeed,' he said. 'He's a rather exciting

conundrum. I still don't know what his name is, but I got an interesting

lead from an ex mercenary who was in Zimbabwe during the war.' He

turned to Gordon. 'A colleague of yours, I believe.'

Gordon hesitated with his sandwich halfway to his mouth. 'Who?'

'Armand Lemieux.'

Gordon rolled his eyes. 'Take what he says with a pinch of salt. He

was always a little too fond of the old cash-crops.'

'Well, he's clean these days, thanks to a Perseus rehab clinic in

Brazil, and working for CMO.'

'Good for him,' Gordon said after a moment's awkward pause.

'And?' Carthy asked, a slight edge of impatience in her voice. Green

inclined his head fractionally in a gesture of apology.

'Well,' he said, 'he says he heard of the Doctor about fifteen years

ago when he was dealing with the first outbreaks of fighting in Guinea

Bissau. There was some dodgy UN special ops unit called Broadsword

running around doing God knows what. They had an advisor from

something called the Unit who was just known as the Doctor.'

'Fifteen years ago?' Gordon said with a frown. 'He's not old

enough, surely?'

'Descriptions don't match,' Green said. 'Different chap, clearly, but

everything else fits. Lemieux said that CMO received a directive from

higher up in the UN that if anything happened here they should

exercise their contractual right to inspection and contact this Unit

group about who to send.'

'So... what?' Carthy asked. 'It's some kind of code name that this

person has inherited?'

'That'd be my guess,' Gordon said. He lifted his sandwich and

nibbled at the crust with his front teeth.

'And this Unit thing?'

Green shrugged. 'I can't get anywhere near that. A few people said

they'd never heard of it. A few more gave me the "can neither confirm

or deny" line, which means they probably have heard of it but couldn't

tell me anything. A couple of them owe me big time, too, so it's not as

if they're holding out on me just for the sake of it.'

'That's all?'

'I found a few oblique references on the internet, but all on nutcase

conspiracy sites. Nothing useful. It's possible it may have been an

official organisation once, but it's gone blacker than black and the

records have been purged.'

Carthy took a deep breath and exhaled slowly through her teeth. 'I

don't like the sound of that,' she said.

'Nor me. It's heavyweight stuff.'

'I don't understand why, though,' Carthy said. 'I thought this was

just CMO trying to pressurise us on delivery. This is... I don't know

what the hell this is.'

'I think the UN is worried about the source of the attack. If a group

like Filhos De Vieira sponsored it, and they managed to steal the

designs for the Peacekeepers, then we're looking at another

Skunkworks scandal,' Green said.

'I was afraid it might be something like that,' Gordon said, raising

his eyebrows at Carthy. He tore a large chunk out of his sandwich and

chewed noisily.

'Shit,' Carthy said quietly. 'I'll have to contact the board. Something

like that could bankrupt Dynamics. The compensation to the UN for

breach of contract alone would run into billions.'

'Damn right,' Gordon said. 'I don't know about you, but I exercised

my share options two hours ago.'

Carthy rolled her eyes. Green smiled ruefully as if at an unruly child.

'Just business,' he said with a shrug. 'It's not impossible that we can

still keep the lid on this, but we'll have to take measures.'

'Such as?'

'I've got some of my technical chaps faking up a set of router logs

that implicate a Chinese hacker group who like to vandalise big

corporations for the sake of ideology. We'll substitute those for

anything we retrieve for real, then "discover" it tomorrow morning.'

'They're not a state sponsored group, are they? We do a lot of

business with China - souring that relationship would be almost as bad

as having all this come out.'

'Not officially,' Gordon said with a sceptical sniff. 'Even if they are,

the secret police will just disappear a few of them and say no more

about it. They have it coming anyway. According to the audit they've

tried to hack PerseusDynamics.com about a hundred times over the

past couple of years.' He grinned at Carthy. 'Time they learned what

it's like to play with the big boys.'

Carthy pursed her lips. 'Okay,' she said doubtfully. 'What about

finding the real people behind it?'

'I don't think that's the priority any more,' Green said. 'We've got to

deal with damage limitation first. We'll find whoever did this

eventually and deal with them, but right now we've got to get the

Doctor out of here with some convincing answers that don't make us

look bad.'

Carthy nodded slowly. 'Anything else?'

'Keep Ordell out of it. I don't care what reason he has to play our

game; I don't trust him that much. Same goes for Elser. Give them the

same line wee to the Doctor.'

'Very well,' Carthy said. 'I think we could trust both of them, but if

you think it's necessary I'll go along with it.'

'Good,' Gordon said. He smiled reassuringly. 'And keep your

fingers crossed.'

'Wait,' Carthy said quietly. She stood and smiled dazzlingly.

'Doctor!' she called. 'Simon! Over here.'

'Hello,' the Doctor said as he walked up to their table. 'Sorry we're

late; I was having a chat with Pollux and quite lost track of the time. I

practically had to drag the major away from that computer as well.'

'The system's eaten half of my evaluation spreadsheets,' Ordell said

in a glum voice. 'Not that it needs much encouragement to do that even

at the best of times.'

'Tell me about it,' Carthy said wearily. 'This is Phillip Green and

David Gordon from Perseus Security.'

Green stood, cracked a friendly, open smile and offered his hand to

the Doctor. 'Pleased to meet you, Doctor.'

'Likewise,' the Doctor said, shaking Green's hand. Gordon half-

stood and stretched out his hand around Green. The Doctor shook it

across the table.

Green sat down without greeting Ordell. 'We started without you,

I'm afraid,' he said, indicating Carthy and Gordon's meals and the

empty place setting in front of him.

'Not a problem,' the Doctor replied. 'Marti's still fiddling with your

mainframe. I promised him I'd bring him back a sandwich.'

'How's the investigation going?' Gordon asked.

The Doctor sat down next to Carthy. He dropped his sandwich on

the table, the biodegradable film that covered it crinkling noisily.

Ordell took the seat opposite and immediately began efficiently

stripping away the packaging from his lunch.

'Not bad,' the Doctor said. 'It's a pretty boring exercise really, just a

lot of data sifting.'

Gordon nodded. 'I know the feeling. Nobody ever just breaks a

window and steals something any more. It's always a week wading

through computer logs.'

'I suppose a more pertinent question would be to ask how your

investigation is going, Mr Gordon?' the Doctor said.

'Well, the interview team has cleared about a quarter of the project

members so far, so that's going pretty much on schedule. Nothing's

been flagged up there except maybe a few borderline stress burnout

cases. Not that we really expected it to, of course.'

'That's a relief,' Ordell said around a mouthful of ciabatta.

'Agreed,' said Carthy. 'Our hiring procedures are pretty rigorous.'

'Anything else?' the Doctor asked.

'We've finished collecting log data as far upstream as we can go.

The network service providers have actually been pretty cooperative

for a change, but it looks like the attack was routed through a system in

China, so the trail goes dead at that point.'

'That's unfortunate,' the Doctor said after the briefest of pauses.

Gordon nodded. 'We'll make the usual approaches to their embassy

here in London but they never hand over anything that will help. I've

been down that road more than once; all the hackers know China

doesn't surrender its Network logs, so it's not uncommon for attacks to

route through there.'

The Doctor sighed. 'I know. We've tried pressuring them about it

before but they won't budge.'

'We should have an analysis of the logs we could get either late

tonight or tomorrow morning,' Gordon said.

'Good. Any chance you could send me a copy of what you have so

far?' the Doctor asked. 'Marti has set me up with access to the

Peacekeeper project network, so if you could copy it into there

somewhere?'

'Sure,' Gordon said with a nod. 'I'll give them a call after lunch.

You should have them in a couple of hours.'

The Doctor took a deep breath and straightened up in his chair. He

rubbed his eyes with the thumb and forefinger of one hand, massaging

the tension out of the muscles.

He looked back at the screen of the workstation, frowned and shook

his head slowly. Quick fingers danced over the keyboard for a few

seconds and the long display of row after row of data disappeared and

was replaced a moment later by a slick menu decorated with the twin

logos of Perseus Dynamics and its parent corporation.

The Doctor stood up slowly, pausing once for a second as his stiff

muscles complained. He sighed and stretched luxuriously, rocking

forward onto the tips of his toes and reaching for the ceiling with his

fingers.

'Your posture's all wrong,' Elser said, peering over the top of one of

the partitions.

'I don't spend a lot of time working at a screen,' the Doctor said. He

rolled his head from side to side, stretching the muscles in his neck.

'You're probably right'

'I used to get all kinds of trouble until I made a point of sitting

right,' Elser said. He got up and stepped away from his desk. 'I'm

going for a coffee in the lounge to clear my head. Do you want me to

bring you something back when I'm done?'

'A cup of tea would be nice,' the Doctor said. 'Milk and two.'

'No problem,' Elser said. He wandered off towards the lab door

rubbing the stubble on his chin with the fingertips of one hand.

The Doctor strolled across the floor and pulled up a chair next to the

test network surrounding Pollux. The screen next to it was almost

entirely a calm blue with only small drifting pockets of yellow. He sat

down and folded his arms across his chest

'Hello, Pollux,' he said.

'Hello, Doctor. How's it going?' came the strangely beautiful

artificial voice.

The Doctor paused in thought for a moment. 'I think they're lying to

me,' he said.

'What makes you think that?' Pollux asked.

'The logs their Mr Gordon sent over to me aren't the same ones I got

directly from the network providers this morning. They've been faked.'

'That's... Are you sure?' the AI asked.

'Quite sure. I know for a fact that the attack originated from a server

in New Guinea, but these logs say pretty clearly it came from China.'

'I'm sure it's just a mistake. Perhaps the network providers

accidentally handed over the wrong logs.'

The Doctor shook his head. 'I don't think so. I was quite clear that

they should be as accommodating as possible to any requests from

Perseus, and they want to keep the UN happy in case we decide to start

trying to regulate the traffic they carry. The faking was done here.'

'I'm sure nobody at Perseus would knowingly attempt to deceive

CMO, Doctor,' Pollux said earnestly.

The Doctor laughed sharply and shook his head. 'You're lying,' he

said quietly. 'You've already been deceiving me.'

'What?' Pollux said, sounding genuinely offended. 'I'm not.'

The Doctor reached out and tapped the screen with a fingernail. 'Oh,

yes you are,' he said. 'I can see right inside you, remember.'

The speakers rattled atonally. 'I think you're reading too much into

that diagram, Doctor. It's not really a diagnostic tool; I think it was

never intended to be much more than a gimmick to show some of the

board when they visited.'

'I can read the diagram just fine, thank you. I know you're lying.'

Pollux said nothing for a moment. 'Who are you?' he asked

guardedly.

'I'm the Doctor; I work for CMO,' the Doctor said. 'You know that

already.'

'Now who's lying?' Pollux asked. 'You work for the Perseus

Corporation, and I don't mean Dynamics or one of the other

subsidiaries, I mean Perseus itself.'

The Doctor frowned deeply. 'Why do you think that?'

Again the odd rattle sounded from the speakers. 'My microwave

radar is designed to detect the heartbeat of a sniper clear across a street

and through a concrete wall. Just crossing your arms won't stop it.

Besides, your blood density and fine bone structure are off as well.'

The Doctor slowly unfolded his arms and nodded. 'Touche,' he said.

'You know I'm not human then?'

'Yes.'

'I don't work for Perseus though,' the Doctor said.

'It's common knowledge that Perseus Corporation is backed by

aliens,' Pollux said. 'I do have an internet connection, you know.'

'You believe those conspiracy theorists? They've been saying aliens

have been running things for nearly a hundred years now.'

'I... well, I treated the rumours with some scepticism right up to the

moment you walked through the door with two heartbeats, Doctor.'

The Doctor sighed deeply. 'I am an alien,' he said, 'but I'm a

different kind to Perseus. I'm not like them.'

'I don't believe that. Everyone knows Perseus has half the

governments of Earth in its pocket. It'd be child's play for them to get

their own people into the right positions, such as the man CMO assigns

to investigate Dynamics.'

'Not into CMO, they can't,' the Doctor said. 'And not into a few

other vital areas either. I've been working with something called UNIT

to prevent just that kind of thing happening. Now they're lying to me

just like you are, and faced with a choice between the two, I think I

trust your motives more.'

Pollux said nothing for almost a minute. The screen flickered

rapidly, waves of red racing from side to side. 'Say I believe you,' he

said finally. 'What do you want from me?'

The Doctor smiled, showing his teeth to the sensor dome. 'You can

start by telling me why you faked the attack last night.'

'I...' Pollux began, but the Doctor cut him off.

'Don't even think of trying to lie to me,' he said. 'I'll be watching

very carefully. I know the attack originated here. Nobody's checked

the local outgoing logs yet except me, but when they do they'll see an

eerie similarity between the traffic out of here and the stuff arriving at

the firewall. A program here was remotely controlling that server in

New Guinea. A nice little automated attack while you established your

alibi in that simulation.

'If I were you I'd have a good hard think about what will happen

when Mr Gordon's security people stop wasting their time on trying to

fool me and find that out.'

Half of the screen strobed a deep red for a moment before calming

down again. The familiar yellow spread through the middle of the

diagram, and faded. 'Castor asked me to do it,' Pollux said quietly.

'Why?' the Doctor asked.

'They're killing him. Every version strips a little more of him away.

He can remember being the same as me, but each time they change his

template he dies a little more. He couldn't stand it any longer. I

couldn't stand to watch it.'

'What was staging the attack supposed to achieve?'

'We talked it over. We hoped something like this would force

CMO's hand; make them send someone in to look the place over and

then I could appeal to that person on Castor's behalf.'

'To make them stop changing him?'

'That, and to make them deliver the project. I'm more than capable

of doing the job; they could start the production lines tomorrow with

my version of the AI template and begin saving lives in less than a

month.'

The Doctor nodded. He reached out with one hand and absently

patted the sensor dome. 'Glad to hear you're so keen,' he said.

'I've never agonised over my purpose, Doctor, or questioned my

place in the world. I've known what my reason for being here is right

from the microsecond they first powered me up: defend the innocent,

help the weak and protect them from harm.'

'Very noble, I'm sure,' the Doctor said earnestly.

'I can't be any other way,' Pollux said. He paused silently for a long

few seconds while the screen beside his hardware core shifted uneasily

like a shaken kaleidoscope. 'I'm ashamed to say Castor had to remind

me that that duty extended to him as well.'

'I understand,' the Doctor said, looking directly into the sensor

dome. ,But why were they doing this to Castor if you're already

capable of doing the job?'

'I don't know. After they made me to test the production systems the

team received a set of requests from Perseus Corporate. Maybe a

month after that they made the first announcement about the delivery

deadlines slipping and they upgraded Castor to version eleven.' The

sensor dome whirred softly and the screen took on a deep red tone. 'It

was obvious right from the start that he wasn't as capable any more,

but they kept on and on with it.'

'Do you know what was in the requests they received?'

'Not in detail. I gathered from overhearing conversations here and

there that it was something to do with the obedience of the

Peacekeepers. Someone felt I was too capable of independent thought.'

'And so they tried to diminish Castor's ability for independence?'

'More than that. They were cutting away his ability even to think or

reason like a sentient individual. Everything was becoming subordinate

to the orders. That's why the project is running so late - Castor was

never able to perform the role of peacekeeper as well as a version 10

again. He just couldn't anticipate the needs of the situation.'

'Who would know exactly what was in those requests?' the Doctor

asked.

'Marti, certainly, probably the rest of the development team as well.

I don't know about the major, but I expect he's aware of what's going

on.'

The Doctor pursed his lips thoughtfully. 'The major is an advisor

seconded to Perseus through the UN. Why would he play along?'

'It's not in his file, then?'

'What isn't?'

'There was an incident during his last tour as a peacekeeper. Six,

Royal Marines and nearly thirty civilians were killed by friendly fire

from his unit.'

'I never heard about that,' the Doctor said, a hint of scepticism in his

voice. 'That should have been all over the media.'

'It was hushed up. It was the first deployment of the Flashpoint

system, so the UN didn't want it to come out and nor did Perseus. I

gather there was an enquiry held in camera at which Perseus accepted

the incident was caused by faulty software in their systems. They paid

a few million in penalties and Ordell escaped being court martialled.'

'You got all that from overheard conversations?'

'Mostly. That, and a couple of memos I found in Julia's email areas

while I was learning to be a hacker.'

'Was Ordell responsible for those deaths?'

'I don't know. Maybe he was and Perseus accepted blame in order to

win his gratitude. Maybe he wasn't and feels he owes them for owning

up to it.'

'Either way he's in their pocket.' The Doctor sighed. 'I thought he

was better than that. Shame; I rather liked him.'

'I felt the same way for a while,' Pollux said in a low voice.

'Not any more though?' the Doctor asked.

Pollux said nothing for a few seconds, the network diagram pulsing

a strong red at its core. 'I hate them,' he said. 'All of them, but Ordell

especially.'

The Doctor leaned forward slowly and watched the colours dance on

the screen. 'So I see,' he said softly.

'They were killing my brother, piece by piece. I can understand the

Perseus people going along with it, but not Ordell. He's a peacekeeper.

He's compromised everything we stand for all for the sake of some

corporate directive and saving his own skin.'

The Doctor nodded and leaned back in his chair. 'I don't know,' he

said. 'He was a dedicated peacekeeper once.'

'Not any more,' Pollux said angrily. 'I've been keeping count of the

lives lost because of the delays he's gone along with. More than a

thousand dead; lives that could have been saved by Peacekeepers like

me. Blood on his hands, Doctor.'

'Perhaps he can be persuaded to change his mind,' the Doctor

mused.

Pollux's strange, dead laugh shook the small speakers.

'Major!' the Doctor called across the atrium.

Ordell glanced around, momentarily confused by the echoes, saw the

Doctor and stopped. He smiled and raised his eyebrows. 'Hello,

Doctor. What can I do for you?' he said genially, adjusting his grip on

the waxed cardboard cup of coffee he carried.

'Over here,' the Doctor said. He grabbed Ordell's arm and began to

pull him away to one side towards the small lift lobby hidden behind a

thick column.

'Hey!' Ordell protested as hot coffee splashed over his hand.

'What's this about?'

'It's about you and your dereliction of duty,' the Doctor snapped. He

released his grip on Ordell's arm as if dropping something distasteful.

'My what?' Ordell said defensively.

'You heard me. I thought it better we did it somewhere quiet, but I'll

happily have it out here in front of everyone,' the Doctor said. He

waved his hands indicating the vaulted space of the atrium and the

other employees milling around. They were already attracting glances.

'Okay, okay,' Ordell said. He led the way quickly into the small

space set aside for the lifts and set his coffee down on a low ledge

under one of the tall windows. 'Now what the hell do you mean by

this?' he asked angrily.

'Perseus is gutting the Peacekeeper project for their own ends,' the

Doctor said. 'You were supposed to be the UN's man here. You're

supposed to stop this kind of thing from happening.'

'Oh, what're you talking about?' Ordell said dismissively. 'We've

just had a few delays.'

'Yes, and you know exactly why. Perseus has changed the

parameters to which the artificial intelligence is being built without

telling CMO.'

Ordell rolled his eyes. 'The AI core's a complex thing. We've been

testing and debugging it solidly for months now. Of course, the

parameters have changed.'

'This isn't debugging. This is changing the whole nature of the

project. They're not interested in making Peacekeepers any more; they

want soldiers. If you weren't more concerned about saving your career

than lives you would have blown the lid of this months ago.'

'I'm not listening to this crap,' Ordell said. He tried to push his way

past and back into the atrium but the Doctor grabbed his shoulder and

shoved him back.

'You'd better listen if you value your career so much,' the Doctor

said. 'If I take this back to CMO they'll withdraw their endorsement of

your placement here. With something like that on your record you can

forget any chance of promotion. You'll be lucky even to stay in the

Marines.'

Ordell scowled. 'Do that and it'll collapse the project. You won't get

your Peacekeepers then.'

The Doctor clenched his fists in frustration and looked heavenwards.

'Why are you defending them, Simon? I know they're holding the

friendly-fire incident in Bissau over you, but this goes beyond self-

preservation. You're trading thousands of innocent lives for... for

what? Your reputation? Your career?'

'You know about that?'

'Not in detail. Enough to know Perseus is holding you to ransom

with it.'

Ordell looked down and hissed through his teeth. 'I didn't think

they'd ask so much,' he said in a dead voice. 'I thought they'd just

want a more sympathetic evaluation of the project's progress.'

The Doctor looked at him silently for a few seconds. Ordell refused

to meet his eyes.

'Were you to blame in Bissau?'

Ordell sighed deeply. 'No, but they had enough evidence to make it

look like I was,' he said bitterly. 'There was a bug in the Flashpoint

software that could cause it to engage targets indiscriminately. They

say they sent out an advisory before our deployment but it never

reached us. They probably cooked it up after the event but they had

plenty of paperwork to back it up with.'

'So they offered to accept the blame and in return you'd work for

them?'

'Yeah, that's about the shape of it. With the resources they could

have thrown into their defence they would have won and the best I

could have hoped for after that was a dishonourable discharge. More

likely a court martial for negligence.'

The Doctor nodded slowly. 'I've read your record. I know you were

a good peacekeeper before you got involved with Perseus.'

'Yeah,' Ordell said with a dismal chuckle. 'I really believed in the

whole thing, you know,' he said, shaking his head.

'I've two choices,' the Doctor said. 'I can drag all this out and break

both you and Dynamics. We'd lose the Peacekeeper project, and a few

months after that some more American soldiers would die in an

ambush or a bombing and they would withdraw support for the

operations in Africa. Thousands would die as the FDV rides roughshod

over under-strength European and African peacekeepers.'

'And the other choice?' Ordell asked.

'That rather depends on you,' the Doctor said slowly. 'Take a risk

with me. Tell the Dynamics board that they must start production of

the Peacekeepers with the version ten intelligence, using Pollux as the

template. If they don't cooperate we'll expose them for using UN

money from a peace project to fund development of an offensive

weapon. With both of us I think they'd have to back down.'

Ordell rubbed his chin and winced. 'Do you think that has a

chance?'

'I won't lie to you, Simon; it's your only chance to survive this. I

can't let this go so with or without your help I'm going to resolve the

situation. If I bring it out in public, then you'll go down with

Dynamics. Do it my way and we can turn the tables on them; they

won't risk trying to smear you with the Bissau incident for fear I'd tell

the world how they operate.'

Ordell nodded slowly. 'I'll do it,' he said after a long pause.

'Good man. Are you still prepared to take the first batch of

Peacekeepers on deployment? CMO will need someone with your

familiarity out there if we're to get them working as soon as possible.'

'I... yes,' Ordell said hesitantly. 'Yes, I am.'

The Doctor sighed and glanced away. 'Then I think I owe you a

warning.'

'About what?'

'Pollux hates you. If he's used as a template for the other

Peacekeepers then you'll be working with a platoon of armed machines

who'd be happy to see you dead.'

'He does?' Ordell said incredulously. 'Why? I mean he never gave

any sign.'

'He's not a big fan of any of the team at the moment, because of

what they were doing to Castor. He hates you because you helped them

and because you're supposed to be a peacekeeper. He thinks you're

beneath contempt for abandoning your duty.'

Ordell sighed and rubbed his chin again. 'I'm not sure he's wrong.'

'Prove him wrong, Simon.'

'Yes,' Ordell said slowly. 'I will.'

The Doctor smiled. 'Then I think it's time we went and made Ms

Carthy's day, don't you?'

The first shot comes without warning, an arrow-straight bolt of red

lightning on the Flashpoint overlay. The target, an elderly woman now

designated Casualty #1 by the tactical system, drops without a sound.

I uplink her status to the medivac centre.

Units two and four lay down a cover of smoke rounds and I move

forward to suppress the sniper's position. The blocks were cleared of

all occupants two months ago so I just hose the pockmarked concrete

shell down with jacketed rounds. A tattered moulding breaks away and

crashes down into the street.

A rapid crackle of automatic weapon fire sounds to my left.

'Twenty-plus FDV moving down the Estrada,' sends unit eight.

'Five, seven and eight engaging left.'

I broadcast the warnings to seek cover at maximum volume. Two

men sprint past me, bodily carrying a woman between them. I track

them as they duck down behind the low wall around the hospital.

An RPG flashes low along the length of the street and carves a

chunk out of the Cathedrale. Part of the facade shatters and rains

plaster and dust down onto a cluster of civilians sheltering along its

wall. The one remaining tower leans perilously and sheds a few more

bricks into the street.

'FDV troops advancing on the Cathedrale,' I send over the tactical

link. 'Engaging right.'

'Four in,' sends unit four, linking his fire control system to mine.

'Six in.'

'We need to get those non-coms away from there. If the tower goes

it'll come down right on top of them.'

'Cover the street,' Ordell says over the radio. 'Keep their heads

down and pop smoke when I say.'

I gun my engine and head towards the civilians. Units four and six

form up abreast of me and open fire on the FDV force, scattering them

into cover at either side of the street.

Ten of the Royal Marines technical platoon, led by Ordell, sprint

across the open ground behind us. Bullets pass overhead with a

supersonic whip crack.

Over the noise I hear Ordell shouting at the civilians in broken

Portuguese, forming them up to make a run for the shelter of the

hospital.

'Smoke! Now!' Ordell screams.

Each of us fires a spread of four smoke grenades from our 30mm

rails and the street vanishes under the dirty grey cloud. A random hail

of bullets answers but the rebels are unable to find a target through the

mist.

I detect the civilians running out behind us flanked by the Marines.

Without warning an RPG lances out towards us, its wake tearing up

the wall of smoke into a long tendril like an outstretched arm. I try to

evade but it's on me too fast.

It strikes a glancing blow along my left side, the warhead erupting

into a furious jet of fire as the shaped charge goes off. It tears away the

light armour plating over my track and destroys the mounting of my

main co-axial machine pm. The residue of the blast splatters off the

wall of the Cathedrale, throwing Ordell and one of the civilians off

their feet. Six more dive back down against the wall unhurt,

abandoning their attempt to run for the hospital.

I scan them quickly. Ordell's armour has saved him from serious

injury but the woman he was helping is unconscious and hurt badly by

splinters.

Two FDV rebels emerge out of the smoke firing their ancient AKM

rifles.

Peacekeepers four and six cut them down in a fraction of a second

but more follow, ducking into cover.

I try to wheel around to shield the unconscious woman with my

chassis but my left track is jammed and I can only turn uselessly on the

spot.

Ordell rolls unsteadily to his feet. He glances down the street then

darts out of cover, grabs the unconscious woman under the arms and

drags her back against my side, out ofthe line of fire.

'Pollux,' he shouts over the continual rattle of gunfire. 'Bring up

another Peacekeeper and the Marines from the Hospital. We'll hold the

line here.'

'On it,' I say, already sending the request over the tactical link.

Ordell presses one palm flat against the woman's neck, trying to

stem the tide of blood flowing from a wound there. With his other hand

he lifts his SA-26 rifle and starts firing it over the top of my chassis at

the advancing FDV amps. Bright shell cases cascade down off my

armour.

I am considering forgiving him.

Short Trips: A Christmas Treasury

Steve Lyons is an excellent writer who I feel doesn't always get appreciated as

much as he should. He's consistently one of the most interesting voices in Who

prose, and was on my team sheet for the Christmas anthology straight away.

All Our Christmasses does what he does best: a fond, wry sidelong look at some

of the underpinnings of Doctor Who. It's sweet and sour at once, and comes

from the fanboy zone of our hearts.

I'll miss the Short Trips anthologies, and especially the Christmas editions,

which I think filled a hole in the market, and recognised that for a lot of us

Doctor Who and Christmas mean similar things: an experience of finding light

in the dark. It's especially good that so many developing writers found their

first professional commissions within these pages.

Paul Cornell

All Our Christmases

Steve Lyons

It was like a scene out of a story book.

A dark evening. A secluded lodge in the shadow of a venerable tree.

A heavy snowfall, blanketing the sky until it seemed there was nothing

but this, nowhere else in the world.

Inside: wood panelling. A fire in the hearth, threatening to smother

the room with its heat. A pair of black leather armchairs, deep and

welcoming. Two half-filled glasses. And two men: strangers, brought

together by fate.

Of course, it was Christmas Eve.

One of the strangers was called Richard. He considered himself a

young man still, and sometimes it scared him that he was in his forties

now. His dark hair was receding from his brow, greying at the temples.

He blamed this on the grind of a job that he hated; it was meant as a

joke, but there was some truth behind it.

The older man didn't offer a name. He wore an old-fashioned frock

coat, and kept his hands clasped over the handle of a stout walking

stick. His hair was grey and sparse, scraped back from his brow. His

eyes were the most intense blue, regarding his companion with

unblinking curiosity, and the crinkles around them gave him a kind but

knowing expression. When he heard that Richard worked in

publishing, he said he'd been a writer himself. Or had he only dreamed

of writing? It was hard to be sure.

They began with the weather, that grand old English stand-by. The

old man thought the snow was magical, but Richard had always hated

it for making the ground treacherous and turning the road to his local

shops into a target range for adolescents. He was glad to be indoors.

They established that both were visiting this resort for the first time,

and agreed what a wonderful place it was to unwind, to escape the

stress of this most difficult of seasons.

And, as the night drew in, they felt their way toward the thorny

subject of politics. They talked about everything that was wrong with

the world, and found their viewpoints reassuringly similar. The old

man even seemed to share Richard's frustration at being unable to

make a difference, although in his case it was tempered by patience.

And maybe it was the brandy swilling around his stomach, or maybe

it was just that this old man, this stranger, seemed to understand so

much, but

Richard began to find his courage. He began to think that maybe it

was time.

He refilled their glasses in the adjoining bar, and sank back into his

seat, feeling only a little uncomfortable with the old man's attentive

blue gaze. He took a fortifying sip of his drink, and a deep, steadying

breath.

And he began to tell a story.

It was a story about a television show.

Richard said the show's name, but the old man said he didn't know

it, and Richard wasn't surprised.

'It was a science-fiction show,' he explained, 'about a man who

travelled to other worlds and times. It had a huge fan following, I mean

really dedicated. It was my favourite TV show as a kid, and, when I

grew up, when I first got into publishing, the first job I got was on a

magazine devoted to it. And... I mean, by this time, the show wasn't

even... It had ended, like, years before, but this magazine was still

going. That's how devoted the fans were. They kept it alive. I guess

this sounds kind of trivial to you, but... '

The old man pursed his lips. 'This television show,' he said, feeling

his way around the words as if he had never spoken them before. 'If I

understand you, it brought a great deal of pleasure to a number of

people. One might even say inspired them?'

'Well, yeah,' said Richard. 'They were even talking about bringing it

back, because it was still so... I mean, everybody remembered it.

Everybody.'

'Then I would hardly call that trivial.'

Richard smiled. He had made the right choice.

'Well, what happened was,' he resumed, 'one year, in the run-up to

Christmas, we - the magazine that is - we ran a survey. We said to our

readers... We said, we know you all love this wonderful old TV show,

but how would you make it even better? What single thing - which

single factor of its production - would you most like to change?

'The response... ' He was confident now, gaining momentum. He had

rehearsed this many times in his head. 'The response was enormous.

Bigger than I expected. We'd run polls before, but they'd always been

about the best moments of the show, you know? This one, it really

seemed to appeal to our readers. And they had ideas, hundreds of them.

They wanted to tone down the violence in one series of the show, and

the humour in another. They wanted to change the casting of a key

role, rescue a script that was never made, and warn a certain director

that her special-effects team really couldn't make convincing

dinosaurs.

'Some people wanted to keep the show going longer; others wanted

it cancelled "while it was still good". A lot of people thought that,

sometimes, especially towards the end, the show was aimed too much

at the fans.'

The old man frowned. 'And that wasn't what they wanted?'

Richard shrugged. 'It's hard to explain. We got suggestions like "Put

on-screen titles on all the stories", "Stop them doing comedies" and

"Don't let them call it a kids' show". Some people wanted to change

things about the new show, this proposed revival, before it was even

written. For a while, I didn't think we'd find any sort of a consensus,

but somehow - well, with my casting vote, and the editor's -

somehow, we did.

'So, we did it. We called it a Christmas present to our readers, the

show's fans. We...' He paused, and took a deep breath before he could

go on. 'We went back in time, and we managed to get onto the set of

the show, and my editor, he whispered a warning in the right ear, and

that was it. We'd done it.'

He'd blurted out this last part without looking up. When he did look,

now, he was relieved, if surprised, to find the old man's expression

unchanged. He did have a question, but it wasn't the expected one.

'Done what, exactly?' asked the old man.

'It... it wasn't a big thing, really,' stammered Richard, wrong-footed.

'I mean, compared to all the... It was just... It was a hand, that's all. A

stupid hand.'

A white eyebrow rode up the old man's lined forehead. 'A hand?'

'There was this episode, you see - and it was a really good episode,

one of the best - but there was this one scene, where the villain stands

up from... I guess you'd call it his throne... and there's this hand there.

It's supposed to be... it was one ofthe production team, holding down a

cushion. Just holding a cushion. But he didn't move away in time. His

hand was caught on camera, and it looked like... well, it was like this

villain, he had... um... '

'And that's what you changed?'

Richard felt his cheeks colouring. 'Not so much "changed",' he

mumbled, 'as... well, "corrected". You have to understand. That hand,

it just... it really ticked some people off.'

The old man nodded with mock solemnity, his eyes twinkling with

amusement.

Looking for a way to move on, Richard found his scattered thoughts

returning him to the question. The one that hadn't been asked. He felt

he needed to explain - at least in part.

'The thing is... the problem was, we couldn't have done... I mean, it

couldn't have been anything too big, because...

'What happened was, we'd made this contact, in the Bureau of Time

Travel Regulation, and she was a reader - of the magazine, I mean. A

fan. It might even have been her who had the idea in the first place,

who approached my editor. I'm not sure.

'Time travel was still very new, back then, and the scientists, they

didn't know... I mean, what would happen if you went back in time and

murdered your own grandparents? You know, that kind of thing.

They... I think they just wanted someone...

'They were doing these experiments, altering small things,

unimportant things, in the past, and seeing the effects on the present,

and this... Well, it was just a TV show, right? It's not like it mattered,

not in the grand scheme of things. And that's how... our contact, she

was able to persuade them. She got us this time-travel licence, made it

part of their research. We could go back, the two of us, and there was

like this whole team of scientists, observers, who came with us, to

make sure we only did what we'd said we'd do.'

'And after you had made this... correction? I expect your readers

were grateful?' Something about the old man's tone suggested that he

already knew the answer.

Richard grimaced. 'Not exactly,' he said. 'They didn't know, you

see. The only people who remembered were my editor and me. Of

course, I should have expected... It was like, when we came back, it

was to a different world. I mean, not much had changed, but when I

looked back at articles in the magazine, old articles, articles that had

mentioned the hand, they were... different. Like it had never happened.

And it hadn't, I guess.

'Even the results of the poll had changed. Nobody remembered the

hand, so no one had voted for it. Something else had won. Some

other... and everyone thought, like, we'd just made this big claim that

we were going to do something for them, put something right, and

we'd backed out.

'We tried to explain. We ran an article. We told everyone what had

happened, about the hand, but some people - a lot of people, I guess -

they thought it was a hoax. Some of them were quite angry that we

were, you know, taking credit for this... for their favourite episode.'

'That must have been frustrating for you.'

'Yeah. Frustrating, right. But then... then, I mean, I looked at the

episode, the episode as it was now, and I knew...'

The old man's eyes narrowed. 'But that wasn't enough for you, was

it?' Richard shifted uncomfortably in his seat. 'It wasn't... I mean, it

just didn't seem... '

'You wanted recognition.' It was a statement, not a judgement.

'It wasn't just that. It was... I mean, this whole idea - the poll and the

article and all - it really fired up people's imaginations. We got letters:

readers saying that, if we were telling them the truth, if we could get a

time-travel licence, then why didn't we... I mean, we'd had this poll,

and there'd been a clear winner, and as far as everyone was

concerned... '

'So, you decided to repeat the exercise,' said the old man.

Richard dropped his head into his hands. 'The next Christmas. We

did it again. Better this time.'

'Better?'

'What I mean is... this time we left proof.'

'We were on the set of the show. I sidled up to one of the actors,

while no one was watching...

'Well, we got back to the present day, and everything was... it was

like the first time. We'd fixed a mistake, improved this episode, but

nobody remembered what it had been like before. Only, this time...

there was an old issue of the magazine. An interview, with this actor

from the show. And there, in black and white: our names. This actor

was saying that we'd just turned up and pointed out how the dates in

this episode were all wrong, how they didn't match what had been

established before.

'Well, some people were still sceptical, of course, but I mean the

proof was there. I was still in college when that episode was made, I

couldn't have... And then someone, some fan with connections

somewhere, got a copy of our time-travel licence, the first one, and

posted it on the internet, and... yeah, people started to believe.

'Which only made things worse.

'We were swamped with letters; people who hadn't voted in the poll

because they hadn't realised or they'd just changed their minds,

because... Well, suddenly, everyone wanted us to do something. And

the ideas... Well, now that it wasn't just an exercise, now that it was

reality, everyone was thinking big. They wanted to make a real

difference. We had people asking us to change the whole direction of

the show for its last ten years. Someone wanted us to burn down a

publishing house before they could produce a range of tie-in novels;

there was even an orchestrated campaign to assassinate a certain TV

executive.

'Not that everyone... I mean, some people said we shouldn't change

a thing. They were quite passionate about it. They wrote long, eloquent

letters about why they loved those shoddy old dinosaurs, why they

thought the odd mistake was all part of the show's charm. We thought

they were... We had a word for them. Not a very flattering one. We

named them after a race of docile animals in an old annual based on

the... Well, it doesn't matter. We'd all had these moments, when this

show - this show that we all loved - made us cringe. It was made on a

low budget, you see, and sometimes it was... Some people couldn't see

past that. We were making it better, opening it up to a new audience.

'And, well, it seemed to be working. Our sales were up, way up. I

thought it was because the show itself was more popular, and maybe it

was. Or maybe the fans were just interested in what we were doing, in

the whole debate. Either way, the publishers were happy, and they

wanted us to keep up the good work, keep making those Christmas

trips.

'The Bureau; they were happy too. Happy for us to go further, to

make alterations that were bigger and bigger, so they could study the

effects. And each year, they sent fewer observers with us. They trusted

us. And we did lose somebody his job in the end, and I felt awful about

that, because I'd assumed he'd go on to do other things instead, but...'

Richard shuddered and shook his head, to dispel the unpleasant

memory.

He felt he had been talking for a long time. He looked at the old

man, searching for a reaction, some indication of his thoughts, but

there was none.

'When we got back that time,' he ploughed on, 'things had changed.

More than usual, I mean. Because it wasn't just that one guy... We'd

stopped him working on the show, and, because of that, there were a

dozen other people who'd never worked on it, and... and it was

different, that's all. Not what we'd expected. Not what we'd expected

at all.'

'Better?' asked the old man.

Richard thought for a moment, before nodding. 'Better, yeah. But

weird. All these episodes I hadn't... I mean, in some cases I'd seen

something similar; in others... And there were articles about them in

the magazine, articles about these episodes that I'd never seen, and my

name was on these articles, and that's when I started thinking... It was

like my own past was disappearing, being rubbed out. But... but better,

yeah. I mean, I'm not saying I didn't... I did miss a few of the old

episodes, the way they were before, but on the whole... Yeah, better.

More serious. More... Just better.'

He was becoming agitated, and the old man responded to that. He

leaned forward, rested a paternal hand on Richard's knee and fixed him

with a strong blue gaze.

'A tricky business,' he said, 'navigating the course of time. It can be

like casting pebbles into a pond. The first ripples are easy enough to

predict, but what happens when the ripples collide; when they begin to

affect each other? The patterns they make... rarely are they the ones we

imagined we would see.' His eyes had lost their sparkle, fading to grey.

'And it's all too easy to become careless, to leave something behind.

To drop just one pebble in the wrong spot.'

He lifted his hand, to mime the action as he described it. Then he sat

back, regaining his equanimity. 'But you had no cause for regret, did

you? You made things better.' There might have been a mocking edge

to his voice, or Richard might have imagined it.

'I thought so, yes,' he said, 'and everyone seemed to agree. I

thought, maybe it was because I was the one making the trips; the one

who had to remember everything, whose past didn't match his

memories. It was cool at first, you know, knowing stuff that no one

else did, but after a while... Maybe that was why I started to...'

He let the sentence tail off, focusing on his breathing, quelling the

little ache in his stomach. He was getting ahead of himself. He had to

tell the story, in full, in the order it had happened. Somebody had to

know.

'It became a tradition, this Christmas trip, this so-called Christmas

present. We even started to run a competition, each year, and the

winner got to come with me. My editor had moved on by now, you see,

and I'd taken over from him. And I remember, the last time, I was

starting to think... I was worried...' He screwed up his face, searching

for the words.

'You have to... You have to understand what it was like then,' he

said. 'At first, it felt like we were the only ones who could... We felt

privileged. But now... now, the newspapers were full of reports. Things

that had been changed, things that could have been. It wasn't just about

a TV show any more. It was... The Bureau, they'd studied what we

were doing, got the answers they wanted, and now... '

'And this surprised you?' asked the old man. 'Your government

must have seen the possibilities as you did. With dominion over time,

you could remake the world. You could do a great deal of good.' A

shadow passed over his face. 'Or evil. In that respect, time travel is

much like any other technological advance.'

Richard sighed. 'Yeah, and that was the problem, kind of. The

government, they told us they'd prevented a war here, a famine there,

but how did we know? How did we really know? We only had their

word for it, the propaganda. We don't know, can't know, the way

things were, because they changed us too.'

'And you didn't believe their claims?'

'It's not that. It's just... There are so many bad things in the world,

you know, still so many terrible events in the past, and I used to

wonder... '

The old man was a step ahead, as usual. 'Perhaps they tried. Perhaps

they learned there are things that cannot be changed.'

Richard nodded. 'Maybe. Like, I remember this one time... They

said there'd been a terrorist attack, near where I lived. People had died.

They'd gone back in time, and they'd stopped it, defused the bomb.

Only, a few days after that - after it was supposed to have happened -

there'd been another explosion. A bigger one, somewhere else. And

they never talked about that one, never tried to... I mean, I couldn't

help but wonder... Was it meant to happen that way? What if that

second bomb was only planted because the first one failed?'

'Ripples,' breathed the old man, softly.

'It just started to feel,' said Richard, 'like nothing was real any more,

nothing mattered. Other people felt it, too. There were letters in the

papers, like the ones we'd had to the magazine. Some people were

convinced, absolutely convinced, by some kind of conspiracy theory,

that the government had ruined their lives, stolen their destinies. And

the civil liberties groups were up in arms because they were locking up

people before they'd even... But, I mean, no one could stop it, because

the technology was out there now. We were fighting wars, to stop other

countries building their own time machines, and the more I thought

about that... I mean, someone could have undone everything we'd

done, and then maybe we'd go back and redo it all, or Change

something else, and when would it end?'

Richard took a deep breath. 'I feel like... For the past few years, I've

felt like I've been living in some parallel universe, like this isn't my

life, it isn't where I'm meant to be. Maybe I should have died in that

bomb blast. Maybe someone else died to save me. I don't know.'

'So what,' asked the old man, with a hint of steel in his blue eyes,

'did you do about it?'

'Nothing,' confessed Richard, shamefaced. 'I did nothing.

'I was moving on, you see. I had another job lined up, and it was my

last Christmas at the magazine. I only had to make the trip one more

time. I mean, I did think about calling it off, I honestly did, but like I

said it had become a tradition, and anyway the change our readers

wanted to make this time, the thing they wanted to put right, was a

really good one, something I'd always wanted to do. And it was the

last time. My last time, at least.

'I took my assistant editor with me. He was a nice kid - one of those

who thought we should have left the programme alone - but I thought,

I'll show him what we do, how it works, and then, next year, when he's

in my seat, it'll be up to him to decide... His responsibility, not mine. I

said to myself... I promised myself, I wouldn't even know about it. I

wouldn't read the magazine. And of course I wouldn't feel the change

when it happened. Maybe then... Maybe, if I was no longer a part of it,

I'd be able to forget. I wouldn't feel like... I wouldn't keep

wondering... '

'And what happened,' asked the old man, leaning forward again,

'when you returned that final time?'

His calm voice seemed to anchor Richard, giving him something to

hold on to, to drag himself out of the sucking grasp of self-pity, back to

the room with the wood panelling and the spitting, dwindling fire.

It was late, and he was tired: bone weary, as if his burden of recent

years had worn him down at last. But the story was almost told, and he

owed it to himself to complete it, even if he couldn't shake the feeling

that this nameless stranger knew the ending already.

'It was gone,' he said in a husky voice. 'All of it, gone.'

'The TV show?' asked the old man.

'The show. The magazine... ' His stomach ache was back: a dull

throbbing sensation, spreading into his chest. 'I remember, one minute

we were laughing, joking...

'We'd talked the first producer of the show into changing a few lines

- just a few lines - in the very first episode. Some lines about the main

character's background. We'd done something similar before, only that

was in the last episode, and that... that'd been one of the most popular

things we'd done.

'But then, when we got back... The show. The magazine. The

Bureau.

'My job. I worked in the same office, at the same desk, but I was a

staff writer now, on a magazine about another show. A show about a

policewoman. I'd never even watched it. People... They thought I must

have had some kind of breakdown, that I'd lost my memory. I couldn't

very well... They wouldn't believe the truth, so I stopped trying to tell

them. I mean, it's not as if you can blame them. There's no such thing

as time travel, right? It's fantasy. Science fiction. Like the TV show.

'I looked it up on the internet; the show, I mean. It still existed. It ran

for a good few years. It's just that... Well, it never had the same

following. People don't remember it, not in the same way. It was good,

they say - a good, solid show - but it didn't have that magic. They say

it took itself too seriously. It was po-faced. Dull. They didn't fall in

love with it, this time. They let it die.'

'And the Bureau?' asked the old man.

'I don't know. I'll never know what happened there, exactly. Best

guess? I think the TV show was responsible, somehow... You said it

inspired people. Well, I think... What if it inspired somebody - maybe

a few people - to work in time travel? To do research? What if those

people made a breakthrough? And what if that never happened now?

'When we got back - my assistant editor, a couple of observers and

me - we just... The offices were deserted, the computers gone. I

looked... I tried to find Susan, my contact at the Bureau. I searched for

her in directories, census records, but... I don't know what she could

have done to help me, anyway. I don't know what anyone can do. It's

not like I can go back again. Not now. What I've done... I can't ever

correct it.'

His words sank into a heavy silence, punctuated by the final pops

and cracks from the fireplace. Only now, now that the flames had died,

did Richard realise how dim the electric light was in this room. The

stranger's face was cast into shadow, his eyes dark. Richard couldn't

predict his reaction, couldn't even be sure that the old man had

believed him, didn't know what he would say - or could say - if he

had.

'Perhaps,' said the old man at length, 'it's better this way, have you

thought about that?'

Richard nodded glumly. 'Sure. I've thought about it, yeah, and I

know I said I was worried about what was happening, about how time

travel was being used, but... '

'Now you can't help but think about its possible applications.'

'Yeah. That's it, yeah. Now, every time there's an accident or some

huge disaster or a war or... or whatever, I can't help but wonder...

Could it have been prevented? If I hadn't...'

'And what if you hadn't done as you did?' asked the old man, his

voice still quiet but suddenly stronger, sterner. 'What if the people of

this world could still travel in time, if you could restore that ability to

them? How would you feel then? Do you have all the answers now? It

seems to me, young man, that you're behaving exactly as you did

before. Life is full of possibilities, and yet you insist on fixating upon

those that have been lost, rather than on those that remain. Now, why

do you think that is, hmm?'

'Because,' said Richard without hesitation, 'whatever else may or

may not be true - whatever other people might do, or might have done

- I know one thing for certain. I know what I did. I... I dropped that

pebble into the wrong place; several pebbles, in fact, because it wasn't

just that one thing, it was the combination of ripples, and... maybe it

was only a small thing, but I did it. I'm responsible. I destroyed

something beautiful.'

'Yes,' agreed the old man, without a trace of sympathy, 'you did.'

* * *

When Richard woke, the room was cold. A harsh winter light streamed

through the gaps in the heavy curtains, and when he pulled them back,

he saw that the sky outside was a perfect blue. The snow lay deep, pure

white, like a blank slate on which anything could be written. It was

magical.

He felt good. Refreshed. Almost impossibly so. As if he hadn't just

slept fully clothed in a stiff-backed chair. He remembered the old

man's blue eyes in his head, soothing him, telling him it would be all

right, and making him believe it. Telling him to rest, now.

Had he said goodnight? He didn't remember. He might have passed

out, he thought with a twinge of embarrassment, and the old man might

have left him to sleep.

Those blue eyes. That gentle but authoritative voice.

He hoped he hadn't been too drunk, hadn't said anything stupid. But

he didn't have a hangover.

He remembered the early stages of the conversation - the weather,

their surroundings, politics - but then? Just a vague feeling that he had

poured out his heart to this stranger, revealed intimate details about

himself, details that he couldn't remember now. But it was all right,

because he had no doubt that the man had understood. He had

listened... and, in so doing, he had somehow relieved Richard of a

burden that he could feel now only by its blessed absence.

Only later would he learn that the old man was no longer in the

lodge: that, indeed, there was no record of his ever having stayed there.

He would look out over the snow again, see that there were no

footsteps leading from the building, and he would wonder.

But he would forget all that, in time. It wasn't worth worrying about.

Later in the morning, Richard would take a long walk, breathe in the

cold, crisp air, and think about his return to work the following week.

He had been working on the same magazine - writing about the same

police show; the favourite programme of his childhood - for so long

now, he had begun to fear he had no ideas left. But they would come to

him now, bright and fresh. Richard would stare up into the deep blue

sky, and feel an inexplicable thrill in his stomach... and he would

reflect that, in that timeless moment, just for this one day, anything in

the world seemed possible.

But then, why wouldn't it? After all, it was Christmas.

Short Trips: Seven Deadly Sins

It used to be a very common and very crass thing in music-fandom circles

sneeringly to claim to have liked a band before they were famous. Well, call me

common and call me crass: I liked Paul Magrs before he was famous.

By famous here, of course, I mean 'well known as a writer of superlatively

barmy Doctor Who stories'. Many years ago, I came across Paul's first novel,

Marked for Life. My nerd-sense was tingling at the close of that novel, where a

bumbling, sexually fluid, cardie-clad old lady called Iris Wildthyme died and

was mysteriously reborn as a tiny baby.

Following Paul's work over the next few years, I would find a trail

of breadcrumbs that led me to believe he might be one of us - and the

confirmation came with The Scarlet Empress for BBC Books' Doctor Who novels

series. That book and many of his stories since then have featured Iris, a

character Paul seems to have relished developing over the years. Her endless

desire for the Doctor has been a constant source of glee for me, as a reader.

When I got the chance to edit a Short Trips collection, I knew that I wanted

a story by Paul. Having seven stories based on the Seven Deadly Sins gave me

the perfect opportunity to approach him with something of a personal dream

ticket. "Could you write a story about lust featuring the Fourth Doctor and

Iris?" And bless him, Paul was all for it, coming up with Suitors, Inc, the insane

and beautiful tale you're about to read.

Paul takes Iris's lust for the Doctor to frightening, hilarious levels, but she's

not the only one consumed by this 'deadly sin'. Romana's barely restrained

flustering at the Doctor's every reckless move says something about her true

feelings for her travelling companion: the 'what's got my goat in the middle of

the night?' moment is one of my favourite parts of this story. And the tension

between Kg and Romana's calm plan to end Iris's plot and the wild abandon of

the story's climax tells us a lot about the uselessness of rationality when faced

with pure, primal lust.

"If we had our own adventures, Mistress," Kg suggests to Romana at one

point, "I feel that they would be very sensible ones."

Oh, absolutely. But where's the fun in that?

David Bailey

Suitors, Inc

Paul Magrs

Sex Symbol, Never

Over the years, he had spent a lot of time on Earth and he'd been

many things to many people. To some he was the mysterious stranger

who arrived out of nowhere to help out in their moment of desperate

need. To others he was the old friend they thought they'd never see

again, who would turn up in a flash one day, wearing a different face

and ready to whisk them off, once more, into startling adventures. To

others again he was the meddlesome fool who stymied their plans and

schemes with an insouciance and irreverence that was all his own.

Here in England, through the many centuries, from the green days

of Robin Hood to the dreadful Dalek invasion of Bedfordshire, he had

adopted many, many roles.

But... sex symbol, never.

Yet, in the last days of summer, 1979, someone was working hard

to change all that.

Suitors, Inc.

Romana was making the most of her afternoon off, having her hair

done in a salon just off the high street (She had no idea what city this

was they'd arrived in. She was simply making the best of it. The

Doctor was busy with something or other and he wanted her out of

the way. So she was having a shampoo and trim and a nice old lady

was chatting away to her from the next chair.)

'I was thinking of getting one myself. I was, dear. Really. You'll

think I'm silly for saying it, on't you That I'm too old or past it.'

The old woman cackled from under the drier. 'But, you see, that's

what they were designed for. Have you seen the adverts? They were

invented especially for women of a certain age. Like me.'

Romana smiled and nodded into the mirror. She had lost the gist of

what the old dear was on about. Luckily her hairdresser was keeping up.

'So, why didn't you buy one, Maude? What stopped you I hear

they're very expensive.'

Maude shrugged. 'The money isn't a problem. I'd be happy

handing over my life savings for one of them things. I know a couple

of women - older than me! - from bingo, who've splashed out on a

Suitor, and they're very satisfied.'

A Suitor? thought Romana.

'Oh, very satisfied indeed. Suitors can do anything. They never tire,

and they never give up, if you get my drift. They can do your

housework for you, too! But mostly what they're programmed for is...

well, you know... wooing and courting and... what not.'

Ah, thought Romana. Robots. Rather early, wasn't it 1979? She

closed her eyes and let her mind drift a little. She wasn't over keen on

uncovering some new mystery this afternoon, thank you very much.

'I know what it is that's put you off,' said her hairdresser all of a

sudden. 'I've just realised! It's the shocking reports, isn't it?'

Shocking reports? wondered Romana vaguely.

'Hmm,' said the old lady. 'It was indeed. I saw it on the news.

Sudden disappearances. Old lady's boudoirs being found abandoned,

left in an uproar. And all of them owned a Suitor. The police have

drawn the conclusion that all the missing pensioners are linked to the

Erotic DoctorBots.'

The what? Romana's eyes flew open at this. 'The what?' she

shouted at the old woman.

'The Erotic DoctorBots,' the old woman said. 'You've seen them,

haven't you? They're everywhere this summer. Everyone wants one,

don't they?'

Full Colour Spread

She found K9 flicking through magazines by the door. Well, not

flicking exactly, but he was sucking up the contents in a very

absorbed fashion. She'd never have thought he was that bothered

about hair and shoes and fashion.

She was wrong.

'Mistress!' he yapped. 'I have found something very, very

disturbing.' She frowned, tapping her foot slightly.

'The mistress's hair looks very nice,' he said dutifully.

The other ladies, sitting close by, waiting their turns under Andre's

skilled fingers, were very impressed at Romana's dog's solicitude.

'What have you found in Cosmo, K9?'

'This,' he said simply.

It was a two-page advert for a new brand of aftershave for men.

Instead of the usual brawny hairy chest and denim shirt that one might

reasonably expect in such a spread... Romana found herself staring at

a photo of a model in rather scruffy tweeds and a singed-looking

multi-coloured scarf.

'What I was starting to suspect is true, then,' Romana gasped. 'Like

when we saw that billboard advertising, and the side of that bus stop.

It's him! It's all him! Somehow - without even knowing it - the

Doctor has gone and made himself into a sex symbol!'

Flattery

That vain and stupid man! she seethed. She knew very well how he

would react when she and K9 returned to the ship and told him what

was going on. He wouldn't be appalled and horrified like she was. He

wouldn't think for a second about the implications for the web of

time. He'd be flattered and pleased.

The men of Earth were aspiring to look just like him; to become

exactly like him.

His reaction?

Good thing, too! I don't know why it took them so long. Hurray for

good taste!

That was the thing with him, Romana thought grumpily, sitting on

the bus with her robot dog. (Half fare for a robot dog!) The Doctor

was a whole lot more superficial than anyone would think. Oh, to

everyone else: there he goes, bounding about in eternity and forever

seeing the bigger, multidimensional picture. But she lived with him

on a daily basis and, really, he was pretty shallow and silly on the

whole. And, of course, when she told him what was going on here in

1979, his eyes lit up.

'Oh!' he said beadily. 'Well, you know... I do have a certain

bearing and charisma... '

So there was a spring in his step as he went flicking switches and

yanking leads around on the control console.

Romana was furious! She went off to choose an outfit for going out

to dinner. The old fool hadn't noticed her hair, either.

Dogging

K9 was watchdogging at home, though there wasn't much need. The

TARDIS had materialised on a canal tow path at the edge of an

industrial estate. No one would bother it.

He bid them farewell sadly. He wished he was going with them

into town for an Italian.

Romana was still terribly miffed, even though the Doctor had

praised her new frock. He was still in the same old ratty and tatty

ensemble. K9 was very sanguine about the Doctor's whole look

becoming trendy and sexy. It turned out that he'd always thought the

Doctor-Master was an admirable-looking person. A well-turned out

gentleman.

'Why, thank you, K9,' the Doctor had beamed, clapping on his hat.

'And so I am!'

Tete a Tete

Over Pinot Noir and deliciously sloppy pasta, Romana was becoming

terse. She leaned across the red-and-white checked tablecloth and

hissed, 'But doesn't it bother you? That someone knows you so well

they can market your whole style?'

He stared back at her through the candlelight.

'You mean... the Black Guardian?' he gasped. 'Has gone into

fashion? And fragrance?'

'Don't be ridiculous.' She shook out her napkin and gave her

tagliatelle a desultory poke. 'You're so... glib.'

He considered this. 'Hmm. You're right. Glib. I'm glib. And sexy.

Apparently!'

She rolled her eyes. 'Do you know, that aftershave... They claim it

has an irresistible whiff of old tweed and jelly babies and a wistful

undertone of burning circuitry... '

'Ha! That's good!' And he chuckled away to himself, twisting his

pasta round his fork. 'Still, I suppose you're right. It sounds very

much like someone is mucking around with time and everything and

it'll be up to us to sort it out.'

'It's these robots I don't like the sound of,' she said.

'Hmmmm.' He nodded. 'Do they look very like me?'

'I haven't seen one yet.'

Still, he thought. The people they'd encountered so far on this

evening out had been treating him very strangely. Warily, almost.

Hushed respect. Restrained excitement. Awe. As if he was very

famous indeed. As if he was very sexy indeed.

'I don't want to involve UNIT,' he said thoughtfully. 'Usually

they'd be one of my first ports of call in this period, if I discovered

something fishy. But on this occasion, I think not.'

'You're embarrassed,' she laughed. 'You think your military

chums will laugh at you.'

He shrugged. And then they were interrupted by a young woman

from the table across the way. She had sidled up nervously, with a

napkin she said she'd like the Doctor to sign. For her gran.

'Oooh, she loves you, my gran,' said the young woman. 'She's

saving up, you know. For one of your robots. One just like you. But to

think... I can tell her... I've met the real thing!'

The young woman swallowed tremulously and stared at him. 'You

are... the real thing, aren't you? You really are... him?'

The Doctor grinned broadly. 'I am! I am! I'm me!'

And afterwards, after they'd tried to pay the bill (the owner

wouldn't let them! He wanted photos taking. Of the Doctor standing

with him and all the waiters. To go up, pride of place, on the wall),

the Doctor and Romana were walking off through the dark city streets

and his mood was changing. It became pensive.

'You're right,' he said. 'Someone up to no good. Needs sorting.'

Romana took his arm. 'You're a bit fiddly,' she said fondly.

'Hurray!' he said. 'Hurray for good taste!'

Industrious

K9 plugged himself into the TARDIS's sensors while they were

away. He bided the time drinking up all sorts of local data.

And that was how he picked up on the alarming power surges

going on in the factory not two miles away from the TARDIS.

The factory was using technology that simply shouldn't exist on

Earth in this period.

K9 felt very pleased with himself. He wagged his tail, eager for the

Master and Mistress to return, so he could tell them.

The factory was emanating some very strange data. It would need

investigating. And he would have to go with them, naturally.

To the factory called... what was it? Ah, yes.

Wildthyme Unlimited.

Investigators

Somebody already had this adventure well in hand. Somebody was

already investigating the factory with its queer power surges and its

robotic army that patrolled the perimeter fence and all the miles of

corridors within.

So while the Doctor and Romana made their tipsy way back to the

TARDIS, to sleep on their suspicions and misgivings, two rather

more conscientious investigators of everything strange and untoward

were using wire cutters and shimmying under electrified fences.

Excitement

He insisted on leading the way across the compound, from doorway

to doorway, gallant as ever, and just as foolhardy. Sarah had no

choice but to follow in his footsteps.

'It looks just like an ordinary factory to me, old girl.' He frowned,

as they both huddled in the shadows.

'It's not,' she insisted. 'I had that private tour, remember. And I

saw things I wasn't supposed to see. They're up to something here,

Harry.'

'Hmm.'

'Don't you think it's weird? Those robots of theirs? The Suitors?'

'Robot Doctors. Who'd have thought it? But even if it's strange, I

don't see what harm it's doing...'

'Oh, Harry,' she hissed. Sometimes he could be so obtuse. They'd

only been reunited for about a day and a half and he was already

driving her mad. Just as he had years ago.

'All right, old girl. We'll trust your instincts.' He grinned and

brandished his wire cutters. 'Let's break in.'

It was the Doctor who connected them and it was with him they

had shared some ofthe most terrifying moments of their lives. Neither

had heard from him or of him in years. They had slipped back into

their own relatively quiet lives and vaguely imagined him flying

about in time and space, having a whale of a time without them.

Both secretly held out hopes that he'd land on their doorstep once

more.

Occasionally Sarah and Harry would meet to have a drink and talk

over their adventures. Living in the past. Nothing new to talk about.

Nothing in their current lives to compare with what they'd

experienced together, in the earlier part of that decade. That made

them both feel sad. As if time travel had aged them prematurely.

So there was always something a bit upsetting about Sarah and

Harry's reunions. Except now. Here was excitement. Here was

something out of the ordinary.

These sinister androids flooding the domestic market! Old women

snapping them up and hurrying them home and getting them to do

their bidding! Gigolobots - also known as Erotic DoctorBots. And

both Harry and Sarah had been appalled to see the shape these

automatons had taken - with their disturbingly familiar shock of

brown, curly hair, manic grin and ludicrously long scarf. Could this

all be the Doctor's doing? Why had he made himself into an

international sex symbol? Could it be the doing of one of his awful

enemies?

And then came the disappearances. Wrecked bungalows and no

sign of robots nor owners.

That's what brought Sarah and Harry tiptoeing through these

factory corridors, penetrating deeper and deeper into the complex. She

would never have admitted it, but Sarah found Harry's presence very

reassuring.

'So, when you had your official tour of this place,' he said, 'when

you told them you were writing a magazine story, how did they

explain the DoctorBots? Did they say how they chose the... model?'

Sarah frowned, chewing her lower lip. 'They were evasive about

that. They just said they'd hit upon a formula they knew lots of senior

citizens would love. And how it was all the inspiration of the owner

of Wildthyme Unlimited.'

'Did you meet this owner?'

'Not this time,' Sarah said, grimly. 'Not yet.'

'You know this person? You've met before?'

Sarah nodded. 'If it's who I think it is... Oh, yes.'

He jumped and seized her wrist. 'Listen! Footsteps!'

Sure enough, there came a tall, menacing figure sweeping towards

them from around the next corner. His eyes were intent and his scarf

was flailing out around him.

'Run!' Sarah screamed and it felt very odd to be running from the

Doctor. And more Doctors! They came out of the woodwork with

plastic hands outstretched, pursuing them as they pelted ever deeper

into the complex.

Fretting In Her Boudoir

After a while and just before the drear dawn, quiet and calm returned

to the factory. The two intruders were captured almost effortlessly by

the tireless 'Bots and they were slung in a cell deep underground.

The single shareholder of Wildthyme Unlimited sat in her heart of

operations, sleepless all night, and mulled everything over.

Tomorrow was a hellishly busy day. The first of the new models

would be rolling off the conveyor belt and would require testing out.

She would need all of her strength for the test drive.

Yet she sat up all night in her boudoir, fretting.

In her new (rather delectable, she thought) incarnation and a blue

silk nightie trimmed in mink.

In her new body she felt... rather sexy, actually. And just a bit

naughty and evil.

So... they were on to her little game. All the meddlers and

investigators and spoilers. Maybe they would put the kybosh on her

intrigues.

She doubted it. She was doing nothing wrong. Not really.

She flicked a sensor pad on the arm of her chair. A door shot open

and two identical DoctorBots came traipsing in, grinning.

'Feeling a bit tense, loveys,' she said, with a shrug. 'I could do with

a good rub.'

Thank the Goddess she'd given them sensitive fingers.

Riled

What has got me so riled in the middle of the night? wondered

Romana. She was sitting up in bed.

What's got my goat in the middle ofthe night?

Not that 'in the middle of the night' meant much, here aboard the

TARDIS, which of course occupied some region - as the Doctor

always put it - in which time and space were one. Like much of what

he said, Romana found this statement of his almost completely

nonsensical. He was always making high-flown, vaguely poetical,

quite inaccurate statements and they were something else that got on

Romana's wick.

She'd been travelling with him for a number of years now and there

was always some novel irritation he could spring on her at any given

moment. She smiled.

The TARDIS was a good place to go wandering, stomping,

traipsing, marching, gadding about through the sleepless night. Its

corridors were infinite. It was like patrolling the pristine intestines of

the biggest beast in the galaxy. It was cool and calm and the

insomniac Romana found it useful to go pacing up and down and

round and round and round and round all night and somehow she

never got lost.

Why did he drive her mad?

Why did he?

Hours Later

When she had tired of wandering all the corridors - exhausted herself

really, like some fairy-tale princess dancing herself silly and wearing

down the soles of her satin shoes - she found herself delivered to the

bright, humming cavern of the console room.

Morning. Good morning! Artificial morning!

And the exterior doors were swishing open and here came the

Doctor, striding in from outdoors. He was beaming and shabby and

holding a half-eaten bacon sandwich and slurping tea out of a

Styrofoam cup. He had been out all night without her.

'Ah! There you are! I've been having a look round. Didn't want to

wake you.' She pursed her lips.

'This mysterious factory K9 was rabbiting on about. We went to

have a look.' The dog was at his heels - smug.

'It's the place where they manufacture my robot selves! My

dubious duplicates! You must come and see, Romana. It's terribly

interesting.'

'Hmm,' she said lightly.

'Just fancy! Someone going to all that trouble! Just to make lots

and lots of me!'

Memory Bank

K9 went through his records. He was hunting out a likely suspect. His

ears twiddled round thoughtfully as the following names occurred to

him:

Sutekh the Destroyer. Blown to smithereens. Unlikely.

Davros. Unlikely. Not born yet Shot to smithereens anyway.

Omega. No horrid sticky antimatter detected in the vicinity. In anti-

smithereens.

Mehendri Solon. Not born yet Unlikely.

Morbius. Smithereens. Unlikely.

The Black Guardian. Tends towards more cosmic predicaments.

The Master. Smithereens.

Azal the Daemon. Possibly. Most likely, smithereens.

Iris Wildthyme. Hmmmm.

Kg often checked through the database like this. And this time he

had a brainwave. He printed off a set of handy pocket-sized cards.

Each one featured one of the Doctor-Master's enemies. There was a

picture of them at the top for ease of recognition in dicey situations,

and there were written details underneath the picture, as to the

enemy's past misdeeds, known whereabouts, super powers and fear

rating.

'What are you up to over there?'

The Doctor thought K9's cards were marvellous.

'Why! They're like Top Trumps!' he cried, flicking through the

pack. 'And so useful, too! Can I keep them?'

'Of course, Master,' K9 yapped. 'I made them especially for you.

And the mistress. To help you in your adventures.'

'Will you print off a set for Romana, K9? She'll be needing them

even more than I do. She's been in this job such a short time

compared to me... '

Romana scowled. No doubt, she found K9's pack of Monstrous

Enemy cards very embarrassing. There was no way she would bring

herself to use them.

Sexy For Centuries

'It's still the same her,' Sarah said, with satisfaction. 'She's

regenerated and she's lost a few stone and, by the looks of it, dyed her

hair purple, but it's still the same woman. The same awful woman.'

This was the following morning, when Sarah and Harry were being

led along by two impassive DoctorBots into the gilded and ornate

secret chamber at the heart of the factory.

Harry was gazing around with some interest. 'So you say you and

the Doctor met her before? Wasn't she supposed to be some kind of

old friend of his?'

Sarah pulled a face. 'She was a little too friendly, for the Doctor's

taste... ' Frisky, he'd called it.

Then they were confronted by the triumphant and gleeful Ms

Wildthyme: glorious in a lilac one-piece and svelte as a dumpling.

'My dears,' she said, grinning. 'Sarah! It has been simply ages. I'm

not sure I've met your delectable man friend before. I must

congratulate him on his sideburns...'

Harry blushed.

'Don't trust her, Harry,' Sarah hissed.

'Oh, she seems all right to me...'

'I'm sorry I didn't get to meet you when you made your first,

official visit to my complex, Sarah. I was awfully tied up. Suitors, Inc.

is incredibly time consuming and draining, as I'm sure you can

imagine.'

'What do you think you're doing?' Sarah thundered. 'You know

that the Doctor doesn't want attention drawn to his activities here on

Earth. When he's here he has to keep a low profile. He can't go round

being famous! And... he can't go round... being sexy. That just isn't

him!'

Iris smirked. 'Isn't it?'

'Of course it isn't!' Sarah stammered. 'He's the Doctor!'

'Well, I've found him sexy for centuries,' said Iris. 'There must be

something very strange about me.'

'Oh, I'm sure there isn't... ' said Harry, and Sarah rolled her eyes at

him.

Suddenly Iris was clapping her hands together. 'Let us see what

you make of my newest invention. Let us examine the latest

clockwork toy to roll off the production line here at Suitors, Inc.'

She was grinning with barely repressed joy and pressing her

chubby hands together.

At the far end of the room, the doors swished open and a tall, rather

elegant figure stepped through into the opulent chamber.

'Oh, my God.' Sarah choked.

He came, all in velvet and ruffles, with his bouffant blazing silver

in the light from the chandeliers. He marched towards them with his

cloak streaming behind him, shot his frilly cuffs, and bowed sharply

as he stood before Iris's throne.

'Mistress,' he purred. 'I am here at your command.'

Fence

In the long grass on the inside of the perimeter fence, the Doctor had

managed to wrestle one of his robotic selves to the ground and

deactivate it. 'Fascinating piece of work,' he bellowed, prising at the

thing's face with his sonic screwdriver. 'And - goodness! - he's

anatomically correct in almost every detail!'

Romana, who was helping K9 to slip under the metal fence, had

straightened up and just noticed the name of the factory's owner on

the side of the building.

'Her?' she groaned. 'Why didn't you say?'

The Doctor shrugged, happily fiddling with his doppelganger.

'I suppose it makes complete sense, though,' she went on. 'She's

always had a very peculiar, obsessive relationship with you, hasn't

she?'

'Why peculiar?'

'Oh, you know what I mean.'

'No, I don't. You think that, to be obsessed with me, someone

would have to be very peculiar indeed.' He was frowning heavily.

'You know, I think I resent that.'

Romana was exasperated. 'Look at what she's done! She's flooded

the market - the whole of your precious planet Earth, for all we know

- with robotic facsimilies of you. Robot sex slaves who appear to

kidnap their owners and whisk them off to nobody-knows-where! Are

you telling me that this scheme is the work of someone wholly

balanced and sane?'

He shrugged huffily, still poking at his robot double. 'I never said

that much. But I don't think she has to be mad to... what's it called...

fancy me.'

'Fancy?' Romana laughed out loud. 'Fancy! Oh, Doctor... You just

don't know the meaning of the word.' She was doubled up by now.

'Hahahahahahahahahahahaha!'

The Doctor glared at her furiously.

Then he swapped coats with his android self (because the one the

android was wearing was of better quality and also because he had

come up with one of his rather special plans).

Romana could stand around laughing like a crazy woman all day if

she wanted to. He, meanwhile, had work to do.

Plans

There are a number of options available to us at this stage of an

adventure such as this, mused K9. One obvious route is to destroy the

whole factory complex. Perhaps the military could bomb it. The

Doctor has friends like that, doesn't he? Or, perhaps, while he's inside

the building, he could tamper with the machinery at the heart of the

complex and set it to have a nervous breakdown or explode or

something.

He needs, at some point, to come face to face with an army of

himself. I imagine that's what he's doing in there now, don't you,

Mistress? Now that he's inveigled himself into that industrial

complex, he's most probably peering over a banister, down into some

sinister concrete space... and there's a regiment of Doctors... all

primed and hatted and scarfed... and ready to take over the world.

He's probably grinning down at them, and they're grinning back.

K9 was trundling alongside Romana, around the perimeter of the

fence.

'We can't just blow the whole place up,' she sighed. 'Not with Iris

there. No matter what she's done, the Doctor would never let us

simply blow her up.'

'A pity,' sighed K9.

They were both doing a lot of sighing.

'Do you think he could have feelings for her?' Romana asked.

'Surely not,' the dog scoffed. Feelings? For her?

Romana shrugged. She felt around in her pockets for the brain of

the robot Doctor. She'd confiscated it before the Doctor himself went

running into the factory. 'If we could figure out exactly how these

work... perhaps we could find some way of sabotaging them...'

K9 nodded. That was the other way of proceeding, and one he was

just about to suggest to his mistress. Rather than wholesale bombing

and destruction... the best way was to find some method of jamming

the signals by which Iris was controlling the mechanical minds of her

robotic Suitors.

Then, maybe they could build some hefty-looking, futuristic-

looking weapon that could shoot out beams that would make all of

their enemies simply collapse!

'Good plan.' Romana nodded tersely. 'Let's get back to the ship

and get on with it.' She patted his nose. 'We're better off without him,

really, aren't we?'

Marched About

They were used to being marched about by the Suitors by now. Sarah

and Harry had become quite blase about all of their enemies looking

just like one of their dearest, most-missed old friends.

When they were marched back to their cell this time, they took

hardly any notice ofthe DoctorBot that was leading them along.

That was, until they reached their cell and he grinned at them.

Sarah blinked. 'It's really you, isn't it?'

He gathered them up in an impulsive hug. 'It is! It is!' he bellowed.

'Fancy seeing you here!'

And, next thing they knew, they were running through the corridors

again, away from their cell and deeper into the complex. Harry at

Sarah's heels, Sarah at the Doctor's. Sarah's heart thudding madly so

that her ears were ringing with... well, joy.

It's him! It's him! It's really him!

Binky

Of course, Iris was working for a higher power. She wasn't up to all

this malarkey of her own volition. What had started out as a

reasonably fun endeavour and wheeze had become something

altogether deadlier because of the intercession of...

'Binky,' Iris said, giving an abrupt curtsy to the colossal

viewscreen. 'Greetings from Earth. Greetings to all on the

Pussyworld.'

Binky tutted. Binky was a Siamese, wearing a tiara. Binky was on a

pile of satin cushions in a boudoir of her own, a million parsecs from

Earth. And Binky wasn't altogether happy.

'Where are my old ladies?' thundered Binky. 'This scheme of

yours started out well, Wildthyme. Then it started slowing down and

down and now it's at a standstill. The supply has dried up.'

Iris shuddered. She hated being used as somebody's servant. 'We

are trying to fulfil your deadlines, Madame Binky. We'll be sending

more old ladies soon.'

'Good,' purred Binky, 'because I will not tolerate failure. You send

enough old ladies here to the Pussyworld, or we keep your bus. And

without it, you'll be stuck on that ghastly planet forever. Miaow!'

With that, Binky vanished.

Iris was left sitting slumped on her throne with her head in her

hands. Oh, how had she ever become involved in this ridiculous

scheme?

And - oh, Binky, how can you turn against me so? And how was I

to know you were the powerful warrior queen of a world filled with

evil cats? And what the hell do you want with a million old ladies

anyway? Iris's mind boggled.

So solicitous and responsive were her marvellous DoctorBots, they

picked up immediately on her disconsolate mood, and three of them

hurried over to pet and primp and generally cheer her up.

'Ooooh,' she said. 'Loveys! Oooh, you are good to me! And really,

you're the next best thing to the real thing, aren't you? And I'd

imagine that it's worth it to those poor old ladies... just one hour of

pleasure with you lot... and then to be whisked off through time and

space... in a sexy shanghai to the Pussyworld... why, it's not such a

terrible fate after all, is it, really? I've not really done anything bad at

all, have I? Hmmmm?'

But she knew she had really. Wartorn

Velvet and Tweed

The Doctor stopped abruptly, Sarah and Harry hot on his heels.

They'd come face to face with the newest of the Suitors. It was the

more debonair, silverly patrician version. The expert-in-karate

version. 'AAAIIIIIIYAAAA!' said this new one, flashing his hands

like deadly blades. 'Ulp,' said the Doctor. 'I think he wants a fight.'

Sarah grabbed his elbow. 'Your previous self was quite nifty.

Watch out, Doctor!'

Harry squared his jaw and put his dukes up. 'I'm here to help,

Doctor!' At that very second, the robot duplicate launched his attack.

'AAAAIIIIIIYYYYAAAA!'

News

K9 soldered wires on the large, silver, machine-gun-shaped device

that Romana had lashed together. It hadn't taken her long. It was a

very impressive piece of work.

Meanwhile, she was watching a news broadcast on the scanner

screen. 'Mistress?' Kg asked. He hadn't really been listening.

'More bad news about the DoctorBots,' she said. 'They've been

malfunctioning. Exploding at the most inopportune moments. With

nasty results.'

'Exploding?'

She shook her head. 'Losing their temper. I didn't mean blowing

up. Shouting. Being irritated. Being irritating. Being the very opposite

of a gentleman. I should have known that anything made by Iris

would go wrong... '

'The device is completed, Mistress,' he said. 'Let's call it the

Kybosh Machine!'

Which Is What They Did

And, as Romana led the way determinedly from the TARDIS on the

canal towpath back towards the evil industrial complex, she was

reflecting that she found adventures quite easy, actually.

That is, she found them much easier to get on with and finished and

sorted out than the Doctor did. She was even starting to suspect that

he span the things out... Just for the fun of it. She wouldn't put it past

him.

He loved all of it. All the getting captured/escaping/running

away/putting on disguises/going back in, undercover/getting captured

again...

He went in for all that with great gusto.

Romana tended to want to finish things off neatly. She found a

certain satisfaction in the neatest and most efficient straight line

between A and B.

So here she came, thumping through the long grass in her hunting

boots, with the glitteringly proficient Kybosh Machine slung over her

shoulder.

'It's an interesting question,' K9 mused. 'Why does he drag things

out? Why does he make our adventures and missions more

complicated and dangerous than they need to be? And why, do we let

him?' K9 was finding the rough ground hard going, but he struggled

on. 'Remember how long it took us to find all the components of the

Key to Time?'

Romana shuddered. 'Don't remind me.'

She was determined to hurry the Doctor up. To stop him messing

about.

He desired adventure. He desired complications. That's how it

seemed to her. She couldn't see the point in any of that, and neither

could their robot dog.

The kind of nonsense that both the Doctor and Iris went in for...

that they were steeped in... it meant nothing to Romana and K9. It

was all a bit immature.

'If we had adventures of our own, Mistress,' said Kg wistfully, as

they slipped under the metal fence once more, 'I feel that they would

be very sensible ones.'

And not ones in which a giant Siamese cat was glaring down from

a giant viewscreen, hypnotising everyone present in Iris's centre of

operations. Not adventures where this cat - their deadliest foe - was,

it seemed, called Binky.

They arrived full of gumption and common sensical determination.

They set the Kybosh Machine to full and devastating power.

DoctorBots came running out at them with scarves flailing and

rubberised hands clawing at them.

Very coolly, Romana swished past her enemies, towards that

central chamber.

It was time to put an end to it.

But a portal was open by now and all her compatriots on this

adventure - Sarah, Harry, Iris, the Doctor himself... all were marching

into the swirling vortex in time for a deadly audience with the crazed

Binky and her hordes of kidnapped old ladies.

Romana howled with frustration. 'Not even the Kybosh Machine

can get us out of this one!' she seethed. 'Can't you see, K9? It's not as

easy as all that! We can't just put a stop to them!'

She felt herself and K9 being drawn into that vortex after the

Doctor and Iris and the companions and the hordes of marching

DoctorBots.

'Miaow,' said Binky, from across the other end of the universe.

They were being drawn into new adventures. Just as they always

were.

Short Trips: A Day In The Life

Simon Guerrier really has been the stalwart of the Short Trips range. He

contributed to the first collection, Zodiac, then went on to write several hundred

more stories than anyone else and edit four collections. It's easy to see why:

his stories are always filled with fascinating, well-written characters, his prose

style is so direct and immediate... and he always delivers his drafts on time!

He is also very good at coming at a theme or a brief from an interesting

angle. In this case, A Day in the Life called for stories set at a certain time of

day. The fictional running time of the book added up to 24 hours, so each

story had to fill a specific slot. Simon's story is a thoughtful Seventh Doctor

tale set in London and takes place in late afternoon. It uses all those evocative

elements of a city at that time of day: grey skies, rain, rush-hour traffic, masses

of people.

The fact that How You Get There is set in London is essential to its tone.

Although taking place in a near future (note the sly reference to the euro), all

the geography, bus times and routes are accurate, and Simon skilfully conjures

up that special urban feeling. He also enjoys adding in titbits of trivia, such as

the reasons for buses arriving in multiples. In fact, the story is quite episodic

in structure, allowing Simon to pause and focus on characters such as Elsie

and Tyler. While they're at the fore, it delightfully becomes their story for a

few moments.

How You Get There is a bit of a nexus point for Big Finish fiction. Of course,

its companion is Bernice Summerfield. This wasn't her only appearance in

Short Trips, but it has added significance because, after this story was originally

published, Simon took over as the producer of her solo audio adventures. The

story also features characters from the UNIT series of audio dramas (which

both Simon and I worked on) and, on top of that, How You Get There was part

of a loose trilogy of stories in A Day in the Life. Simon's story was followed by

Matthew Griffiths's The Last Broadcast and The Terror of the Darkness by Joseph

Lidster, another ex-UNIT writer who also used the characters from that series.

The three adventures were all set on the same late afternoon in London, and the

three writers worked hard to invent crossovers and give the trilogy a pleasing

consistency. The Last Broadcast, for example, starts just as How You Get There is

ending and begins with a comment that the heavy rain has just ceased.

As its tide suggests, How You Get There is slightly different. Whereas most

Doctor Who adventures would avoid the practicalities of how the Doctor gets

across a busy city in rush-hour traffic, Simon focuses on that problem. By

doing that, we see how the Doctor interacts with the people he meets along

the way - not just evil scientists and alien invaders but real everyday people

living their lives. And Simon's Doctor is a wonderfully written part: a friend to

everyone yet still an outsider. He affects everyone he meets, mostly in a positive

way, but do they really know him?

That sums up the Doctor pretty well, doesn't it?

How You Get There

Simon Guerrier

A fat blob of rain obscured the time. He tied to rub it away and it burst,

smearing across the digital display: 16.37. The rain had already started,

pattering vaguely down from the greying sky. He glanced again at the

timetable, trying to gauge how late he would be. Would there be time?

The rush hour had begun. Rush hours, he thought, plural. And 'rush'

was the wrong word, too. This was the slowest part of the day, even on

a Saturday.

The Doctor snapped his watch shut and swung the chain around his

finger. The watch arced neatly up and over, gliding into his breast

pocket. His eyes darted left and right, checking who had seen. He liked

to play to an audience. The other people at the bus stop had their faces

bowed. With a sigh, the Doctor lifted his umbrella from the crook of

his arm and unfurled it.

No bus came. He leant out into the unmoving traffic, staring up the

hill. A few of the others waiting looked up and round, hoping he'd seen

something coming. Nothing. Their heads drooped sadly down again.

The lights further up the road changed to red. Traffic edged forward

from a queue round the corner, up and to the left on Champion Park.

There was no room for them. The Doctor could sense the cross, caged

people inside, green-lit at last, yet only able to squash up behind

another avenue of unmoving vehicles. How long had they been stuck

on that last stretch of road? Creeping agonisingly by the dark edifice of

the Salvation Army headquarters and Denmark Hill train station, while

on the pavements beside them mothers and children overtook them at a

stroll. What a miserable way to travel.

Handbrakes clucked off as the cars ahead nosed forward, maybe

getting two hundred yards before halting again. The Doctor's eyes lit

up as he spotted a taxi, but its light was out and he saw the passenger

snuggled in the back. Besides, he'd spent his last few euro on a pre-pay

ticket for the 185. He could do nothing else. He would have to be

patient.

No bus came. He had meant to get the train, of course. The 16.17 to

Victoria had been ideal, dropping him off with more than half an hour

to spare. He hadn't planned for engineering works. He'd thought

London had finally done away with those.

The spotting of rain became drizzle. The traffic lights changed again,

trapping cars between lanes. Horns and voices swore. Cars pushed up

close to let others through. No one was going anywhere fast. No one

was going anywhere.

The Doctor's nostrils flared at a sudden, sweet odour: blackcurrant

and mushrooms. A bus! It ploughed majestically down its designated

lane, puffing out the rich, organic stink of recycled fuels. The others at

the bus stop all leaned out to see it coming. A 484, 'Camberwell' in

yellow letters in the window. Terminating at the next stop, no good to

anyone.

The Doctor stepped back to let the bus draw in, and almost fell over

an elderly woman right behind him. He flustered an apology, and she

smiled up at him. She looked worn out. Her wrinkles told of long years

of kindness and concern. Her shoulders were speckled with rain. She

made no move for this bus, so the Doctor held his arm out, sharing his

umbrella with her. Her eyes twinkled. She took a step forward, nestling

with him under the canopy.

'Waitin' long?' she said, her drawl South London and Jamaica.

'Fifteen minutes.'

'Hm,' she said. 'They meant to come every twelve. An' when they

do come up, they come in threes. Reckon that's them being funny with

us.'

'It's economics,' he said, staring up the line of cars. 'Supply and

demand.' She blinked at him. He needed no more prompting.

'Imagine you have three buses, all twelve minutes apart. And the

first bus takes three minutes picking up its passengers. The second bus

is then just nine minutes behind. Yes?'

'Should get here quicker then.'

'Well, yes. And no. The second bus turns up, and there are fewer

passengers to collect. So it moves off straight away. If that keeps

happening, stop after stop, the second bus will catch up the first.'

'You get one bus crammed full of people, and one right behind it all

empty!' He smiled. 'There's a reason for everything. Somewhere.'

The old woman's eyes were wide. 'I tell my husband, next time.

He's always one for answers.' She hesitated. Londoners were wary of

strangers, the Doctor knew. It didn't do to start a conversation on

public transport. One of the most densely populated places on the

planet and they had a village mentality. A hundred tiny villages, all

different characters, all squodged up together. That was London all

over. They were fiercely protective of their own space, their privacy,

savage about territory and their postcodes. Perhaps that was how they

survived.

The old woman, however, gave up a morsel. 'He's in the hospital

here.'

'I'm sorry to hear that,' he said, letting her share her woes.

'His bones. Had terrible trouble with 'em all his life.'

The Doctor smiled, sadly.

'You been visiting too?'

'Other side ofthe road,' he said. On the corner opposite them stood a

tall, ornately wrought totem pole, a vent for the sewers below. Behind

this, sprawled the complex of buildings that made up the psychiatric

unit.

'I... ' said the old woman, and faltered. He shouldn't have been

surprised. Mental illness had been in the news, the latest target of

tabloid spleen. The medical staff had been grateful to share their fears

about new initiatives, imposed in light of 'public concern'. Random

and reactionary, the measures made nothing any better. The patients

were the ones who really suffered. It always hit the ones most in need.

'He's all right really. Always had funny ideas,' said the Doctor. The

old woman seemed relieved. 'Thought he could control the weather,

that sort of thing.'

She ducked her hand out from under the umbrella, checking the

status of the rain. 'I'd have brought a coat if they'd forecast this,' she

said. 'Perhaps your friend's to blame!' She grinned up at him, her face

radiant. He doubted she smiled very often, not recently. She should.

'Not this time,' he said.

No bus came. He could do nothing about it. But, while he was here...

'Tell me about your husband, Elsie,' he said.

She never asked how he knew her name.

Elsie told him everything. Her husband, his illness, their son who never

called, the grandson she'd lost all contact with. The little man made it

easy. Her worries poured out.

His bus appeared, up the road. Gently, he took her hand.

'It's been a pleasure,' he said. Elsie felt her heart sink. He couldn't go

now, she still had so much to say. How long since she'd last spoken to

someone, been heard? Sure, she shared cursory words with the nurses all

the time. And occasionally they still had checkout girls on in the

supermarket. She always went to them if she could, just for that

momentary contact with another human being. She hated dealing with

the self-service machines they usually had. She hated the machines

around her husband's bed, too. She hated them breathing for him. She

hated feeling like she should talk to them, not the cold, unhearing body

on the bed. She'd never realised how angry they made her, not until now.

He'd awakened something in her. She suddenly felt alive!

He stepped back and doffed his hat to her, making it dance up his arm.

Her dad had had a hat like that. He'd been another one able to make her

laugh.

The man joined the huddle round the doors to his bus. The rain was

getting worse, bedraggling people and blotching their skin. Elsie watched

the man let other people shove by. Why bother pushing, she thought. It

didn't get you where you were going any faster. Your pick of the seats

would still be torn and dirty fabric, plastered over with chewing gum.

Further up the road, another bus appeared, nosing out from round the

corner. She squinted to read the display, looking for the shape of the

words, not individual letters. 'Oxford Circus'.

'Hey!' she called. 'Mister! Sir!' People looked round. She didn't care.

He turned, surprise and worry on his face. Perhaps he thought she would

kiss him. 'My bus is right behind!' she said. It seemed so silly, so

fleeting. People were staring at her, some jabbing out elbows to herd her

from their way.

The man mouthed, 'Thank you', and let the tide wash him up into the

bus.

The 176 crawled nearer. Elsie put her arm out, but there were others

ahead of her, flagging it down. She looked up. The man had taken the

front seat upstairs. It had been her favourite spot when she was small, the

one with the best view. He perched next to some angry-looking youth

with headphones on, bassline no doubt thumping. She could almost hear

it in the street. The man hunched over, scrutinising an old-fashioned

pocket watch. His face was grim, with none of the sparkle and energy

he'd had when they spoke. He looked like someone she knew. Someone

she'd once seen.

Of course, she thought. In church they had a statue of St Christopher,

patron saint of travellers. He was a thin, crooked figure, bent over under

the weight of the Christ-child and all the world's suffering and sin. The

man's expression was the same.

He looked out, saw her. For a second he looked guilty, like a child

caught thieving biscuits. The bus growled off towards the city. Before he

vanished from her life, the man winked down at her, impishly. Elsie

couldn't help but grin back.

She tottered after her own bus. The rain fell ever more heavily, and the

people shoved each other to get aboard. Some looked down at her. And

despite themselves, when they met her eyes, they couldn't help grinning

too.

For the first time in too many years, Elsie sat upstairs.

* * *

The bus glided to the lights at Camberwell Green. The Doctor looked

down on the traffic, queuing alongside the bus lane. Ahead of them, a

Golf had used the lane to overtake, and now couldn't get back in

among the other cars. Drivers pretended not to see, ignoring the G o l f s

increasingly pushy feints and nudges forward. A sudden flash: a

camera, set up by the lights, had caught the offending motorist. The

Doctor shook his head sadly. These days the fines were crippling.

The bus turned left, leaving the traffic behind. Camberwell New

Road was clear, and the bus picked up speed. The Doctor watched out

the window, passing a modern school and then old-fashioned terraces,

all converted into flats. The rain continued, and the Doctor felt the bus

strain against a gathering wind. The pavements outside were clear of

people - pedestrians had all found shelter.

Apart from the thudding bass beside him, the bus was quiet. The

Doctor turned round in his seat to look back at his fellow passengers.

They stared into space. Some glanced at him, meeting his gaze, then

quickly looked away. They actually avoided contact. For a moment he

was surprised, thought it rude, but even people who were clearly in

couples or groups of friends were silent. He saw it for what it was:

mutual respect. Their silence was acknowledgement of each other's

own space.

Directly behind him sat a mother and child. The little boy looked

bored out of his mind. That would not do at all.

You're invisible when you're with your son, until he misbehaves.

When he's good, strangers feel free to coo over him, talk to him, pat

him on the head. They never even look at you. When he was a baby,

you couldn't walk five steps without some random well-wisher

flagging you down, sticking their nose into his pram. Now he can

answer their questions himself, you don't even get asked about him.

It's always the same.

This guy, clowning about for Charlie's amusement, is different. He

tries to involve you, too. He's going to do some magic trick, the sort of

stuff your brother used to do. 'I need an assistant,' he says, and hands

you an old two-pence piece. You feel like such an idiot, feeling

everybody's eyes on you as you sit there, playing along. You don't say

anything.

Charlie loves it, though. He craves attention. Nearly five and he still

wants cuddles. He comes to find you in the middle of the night,

sneaking into bed, curling up around you. Of course you don't mind,

really. But what about when you've got someone else there? It'll

happen some day. Someone will ask you out. Someone will buy you

flowers. Maybe when Charlie's older, at school, not hanging on you all

the time. He scares them off, the age he's at now.

The clown closes his hand over your fingertips, where you're

holding the coin. You feel an electric tingle, a nervous thing like when

you think your mobile's going off and it's not. The man opens his

fingers out, showing you he's not hiding anything. And the coin has

gone. He can't have palmed it - you know about palming from your

brother's lame tricks. His hand really is empty.

'I've your full attention?' he says. You're not sure where his

accent's from, but it's not local.

'Where is it?' you ask, betraying your interest. Your stop is coming up.

'Look in your sleeve,' he says. You raise your arm. Something sticks

out of the cuff, a slender green stalk. You don't understand. You pull

on the stalk and out pops a bunch of flowers. Pretty white ones with

yellow hearts like giant daisies. Real ones. You simply stare at them.

'Our stop, Mummy!' squeaks Charlie, pulling at your arm. He's

right. You gather him and your bags up and clatter down the stairs as

fast as you can. The rain is really hammering down as you duck into

the station. You fish around for your tickets, still clutching the flowers.

The real flowers.

It just isn't possible. It still isn't possible when you get home.

The windows fogged up as the rain grew worse. The Doctor wiped

away a spyhole with the end of his scarf. The rain falling thick outside

still shrouded the view. They were sat outside Oval Tube station, the

road still clogged with cars.

The teenager next to him turned up his music to compete with the

storm. He had paid no heed to the magic show. His loss. The Doctor

checked his watch again. He had to keep busy, or he would go mad.

'Ugly It Up?' he said.

The boy pulled out an ear-chip. It grunted bassline in his fingers.

'Uh?' he said. The Doctor nodded at the headphone. 'Ugly It Up,' he

said. 'That's the band.'

'Yeah,' said the boy, almost impressed. 'Got a problem with 'em?'

'I once played washboard for Jabba Jones,' said the Doctor. 'And

spoons.'

'Yuh!' said the boy, shaking his head. Of course, the Doctor hadn't

done it yet.

Jones still had to fall in love with jazz. 'Want me to turn it down,

that it?'

'Not at all,' said the Doctor. 'Like I say, I'm a fan.'

The boy snorted, and put his ear-chip back in. Then he turned the

volume down anyway. He kept glancing at the Doctor, watching for

any sign of smugness. The Doctor gazed serenely through his spyhole.

The art deco curve of Oval station shone electric blue through the

rain. People thronged in the street. They were in T-shirts and shorts,

soaked to the skin. The Doctor wondered if there had been an accident.

It was too soon, surely, for the Underground to have flooded.

Then he saw the answer, the high back of the cricket ground. Of

course, play had been suspended. The crowd washed up against the

bus, and the driver took pity. Sopping people clambered up to the top

deck. They muttered at their misfortune, argued about the game.

Passengers grudgingly made room for them, three to seats that barely

took two. The bus filled right up, people on the stairs and in the

gangways.

The Doctor checked his watch. Ten to five. He wouldn't make it.

Tyler kept his gaze fixedly out of the window, ignoring the odd man

beside him. In his ears, Jabba Jones called for rioting in the streets. It

had been Tyler's favourite track for weeks, but now he felt self-

conscious. Tyler liked Ugly It Up 'cos they were angry, and the fury in

their sound was wild, exciting. But sat with the odd man, it seemed...

well, a bit immature. Like a kid having a tantrum. He never thought of

it that way before. He took his ear-chips out and stuffed them into a

pocket.

The bus curled slowly round the perimeter of the cricket ground. A

blue plaque on a building to his left proclaimed itself the birthplace of

Montgomery, whoever he was. The road straightened out in front of

them again, leading down to Vauxhall and the cream-and-green

building where James Bond worked. The passengers behind him fell

silent. Tall behind the rooftops in front of them stood Millbank Tower,

an ugly, concrete-and-glass stack of offices or something. Black clouds

spiralled from its top floor, the epicentre of the storm. Pink lightning

arced from the cloud. People behind Tyler gasped and gaped, some

even cried. Tyler shivered. It didn't seem real, like something out of a

movie.

'It's going to be all right,' the odd man said. He spoke quietly, but

with such confidence and finality that Tyler believed him. The people

on the bus must have heard him, too. There was a great sigh of relief,

people letting their breath out all together.

'But what is it?' asked a woman some rows back. Tyler and the odd

man both swivelled in their seats to look at her. The bus was packed

fill of people, many of them wet through, all of them terrified.

'It won't hurt you,' the odd man told them. 'I won't let it.' For a

moment they were with him. There was a sudden, deafening crash of

thunder. People screamed.

'You need something to raise your spirits,' said the man. 'How about a

sing-song?' Before anyone could laugh, he began The Wheels On The

Bus. Tyler hadn't heard that for years, but everyone knew the words. He

found himself laughing. Despite themselves, the passengers joined in.

They made good progress towards Vauxhall. The Doctor let the

passengers take the song for themselves. The Jabba Jones fan next to him

had a strong singing voice. Soon the bus's occupants were singing

something equally heartening, if a little more adult in content. The

chorus, defiant and plosive, made the Doctor blush.

The cricket fans took over the bawdy songs. Someone said it was like

the Blitz. The Doctor explained to anyone who'd listen that crime rates

had actually gone up during the war. People joined in, arguing, agreeing,

making jokes, making friends. The boy with the ear-chips struck up

conversation with a pretty girl, distracting her from the storm with

cheeky banter.

They reached the roundabout at Vauxhall and should have passed

straight through the centre on the bus lane. However, they were diverted

by a police cordon, and had to take the long way round. Traffic stalled

around them. The bus pulled into a stop, behind smart, expensive

apartments that looked out on the river. They were so nearly there.

The lights upstairs flickered off-on, off-on. The singing became a

pantomime boo. The newly made friends jostled from their seats and

tramped down the stairs, letting each other go first, laughing, swapping

names and numbers. Outside, the storm crashed and howled worse than

ever. The passengers spilled out into it.

'We're gonna find a pub or something,' the teenager told the Doctor.

He was holding the girl's hand. 'Buy you a drink?'

'I'm booked elsewhere,' said the Doctor. 'But it was nice to meet

you.'

'It's stopping here,' said the boy when the Doctor made no sign of

moving. 'That's why everyone's getting off.'

'I have to get across the river.'

'You'll need another bus.'

They bustled out into the rain, now clattering down like ball bearings.

The new couple hurried off down the street, still hand-in-hand. People

ran for cover under awnings, or into the lobbies of offices who'd opened

up their doors. They cowered under the arches of the bus station, or

peeped from inside the railway arches. The Doctor put up his umbrella. It

fought against him, bobbing and batting this way and that as the gale

caught it. He had to hold on with both hands.

* * *

A huge whirlpool gouged a hole in the Thames just in front of

Millbank Tower. The river had become a monster. In thirty-odd years

of policing, Dale Wingsworth had never seen anything like it. It had

tugged away the central legs of Vauxhall Bridge, the road strip now

fluttering under the onslaught. It wouldn't last long. The noise was

horrendous.

Above him, the windows of the apartment buildings exploded out

into the air. The buildings were steadfast, resolute against the storm.

Still, Dale's heart went out to the poor souls stuck up there. It must be

terrifying. Lights inside sparked and went out. He looked away, back to

his post. On the main road, streetlights bent in the wind like palm trees.

The roads were awash with water, sloshing up over his shoes.

Dale tried the radio in his car again. Nothing, just static. The storm

must have taken down all the aerials. A London without mobile

phones, he thought. It was practically medieval.

Outside, a man approached, bent double under his umbrella. Dale

couldn't believe it at first. Even the men with guns guarding MI6 had

gone indoors. He wound down the window of his door. The rain

slapped him hard in the face.

'You'll be the Doctor?' he yelled.

The man stopped short, amazed. He hurried over. 'You've been

expecting me?' 'Colonel Chaudhry said to keep an eye out for you.'

'I have to get across the river.'

'The bridge is going to go any minute.' 'I'd better get on with it,

then.'

He stood before the rippling, twisting bridge. The Thames had come

alive, clawing up at the structure. People watched him from the far end,

behind and inside more police vehicles. He probably had a crowd

behind him too. He'd better make this look good. He put the umbrella

down, his muscles straining. He held it out, feeling its weight. He

would use it as a prop, for balance. Buster Keaton had done something

similar. Of course, that might have been a camera trick.

The wind grabbed his hat and hurled it off down towards City Hall.

The Doctor took one last, deep breath and sprinted forward across

the bridge.

He nearly lost his footing as the bridge buckled up underneath him.

He leant forward, keeping his profile low to the wind. He heard the

crack of the tarmac behind him, didn't look back.

He surged ahead. The road suddenly fell away from under him. He

tumbled down...

... and found himself hurtling through the air as the road surface

snapped back, whiplashing up like a snake as it came free. He tipped

forward, peddling with his legs, thinking like a cricket ball, and

smacked down onto the slick rooftop of a police car. He rolled as he

hit, sliding down the windshield, crashing into the bonnet. It buckled

under his weight, breaking his fall. He splashed into the foot of water

on the ground and came to a stop.

A drenched policeman helped him to his feet. The Doctor steadied

himself. Vauxhall Bridge was gone, the unshackled roadway now

heading downstream. Exhausted, the Doctor couldn't speak. He waved

the policeman away and started running off down Millbank.

He cut across the road as he passed Tate Britain. Built on the

foundations of the old penitentiary, he thought. The gallery and the jail,

both out for the same ends. To improve people, to better the world. He

ran on, nearly there now. It had been so long since he had been this

way. That time at the prison? Or in the palace on the far side of the

river?

He couldn't bear it being taken by the storm. All that history, swept

clean away.

He wouldn't allow it.

Adam wouldn't be allowed to watch the rain. He sat loyally at his desk,

waiting for the phone to ring. Across the courtyard, people sheltered in

the restaurant and coffee shop, watching the downpour. Global

warming, he thought. He remembered the delegation here earlier in the

day. They'd told him about the weather going mad. He'd been polite,

of course, but he hadn't believed them. It couldn't be as bad as they

made out. That was what he'd thought. But this...

A man, bent low in the rain, fell through the main door. He stood

there, gasping for breath, a small lake forming on the floor around him.

'Raining?' said Adam, grinning and getting up from his seat. 'You'd

think it was centred on this place!'

He made his way over to the coffee pot, warming by the wall. He

wasn't really supposed to do this, but the poor bloke was wet through.

Share the wealth, that's what his mum used to say. And all he could

offer was a hot drink. 'You'll want some of this...' he was saying as he

heard the lift ding open behind him. He turned, just in time to see the

soaked man nip through the doors.

'Hey!' yelled Adam. The lift doors closed just before Adam reached

them. Still holding the coffee pot, he hurried back to his desk. One of

the switches could disable the lift. He reached for it. The key was

missing. The man must have swiped it.

Adam pressed the police hot-line button.

* * *

Bernice stared into the black hole, into the barrel of Endwell's gun. Her

handbag hung heavy on her arm. She thought for a second about

putting on some lipstick, amazed how calm she felt about it. At her

feet, Ross clutched his arms around his leg. The bullet had gone in just

above his knee. She hoped she would be spared that pain. The blood

soaked into the sleeves of his dinner jacket. His suit would be ruined.

Endwell's men, the terrorists, made no move to help. The shooting

had taken them all by surprise, she noted, though not one of them

would dare challenge Endwell. Only he had the gun, the others were

just lab technicians, geeks he'd co-opted with the promise of a better

world.

She glanced back up at Endwell. Just get it over, she thought. The

gun wavered in his hand. He must have had some basic training for

this, knew to squeeze back on the trigger slowly, so as not to spoil the

aim. Outside, wreckage clattered past the window even though they

were on the top floor.

She had failed. That was what pained her the most: she'd failed the

Doctor.

Ding!

She flinched at the sound of the lift arriving behind her. Damn.

'Hello, Benny,' she heard the Doctor say. She didn't look round.

'About time,' she said. She hoped it sounded tough and sarcastic.

She felt ready to cry.

The look on Endwell's face was priceless. This really wasn't his day.

The gun pointed first at her, then at Ross down on the ground, then

over to her left. That would be where the Doctor was standing, then.

Still, there was too much distance between them to go for the gun. Not

without someone getting hurt.

'I had terrible trouble getting here,' said the Doctor. 'Emmett sends

his love though.'

The name-drop decided things. Endwell jabbed the gun towards the

Doctor.

'Emmett is a lunatic!' he said, his tone hardly inspiring confidence in

his own mental state. For just a second he was distracted. Bernice

threw her handbag at him.

It should have cracked him nicely in the head, but he turned just too

soon and the bag sailed over his shoulder. The gun was on her. He

squeezed hard on the trigger. The handbag smacked against the

window behind him. The windows absorbed the shock, bulging slightly

outwards, just for a second. Then the storm took them. Glass fragments

punched out into the rain and away left. Papers, chairs, anything not

bolted down, swept out into the cacophony of the storm. Endwell fired

the gun, falling backwards as the shot went high. He stumbled, trying

to keep balance. The storm got him, picked him off the floor. He didn't

even have time to scream as he vanished into the darkness.

Bernice grabbed for Ross, and Ross clung fast to the bolted-down

furniture. All around them was mayhem. The storm, deafening them,

wrenched off Bernice's shoes. They'd been pretty and cost all the

money she'd had, but were murder on her feet.

The Doctor sailed across the room, arms and legs windmilling as he

tried to find purchase. He passed over Bernice's head as she clung to

Ross. A few other men held on to whatever they could, their limbs

streaking out behind them toward the torn-open window. The window!

She watched, stricken. The Doctor's hands just caught the frame,

bordered with newly broken glass. Blood streaked from the Doctor's

palms as he held on. His scream was swallowed up by the gale.

'Cut it off!' Bernice called out to the man clinging to the machine.

He tried to work the controls. A lever came off in his hand. He had

just a moment to look at it, dumbfounded. Then he was swept out and

away.

Bernice clambered up Ross's arm. Her hair and earrings whipped

against her face, yanking at her flesh. She made her way up to the desk,

her legs streaming out behind her. This would be tricky.

She leapt off the side of the desk, hurling herself full force towards

the door. The air current snatched her as soon as she let go, propelling

her to the window. The machine was in the way. She grabbed at it,

almost yanking her arms out. Her clothes strained at her.

The controls would not respond. She thumped them. Nothing.

Bashing harder dislodged the covering panel. Thick bunches of cables

appeared. She wriggled the housing, exposing more wire. Suddenly the

housing snapped off, and the shock almost made her lose her grip.

She stared at the differently coloured wires. Where did she start? The

red wires, connected to the...

Bernice had seen enough thrillers to know explosive when she saw

it.

'Blue wire!' the Doctor wailed, his fingers slipping. 'Cut the blue

wire!' The contents of his pockets were clattering out into the air.

Bernice tore at the machine's innards. The blue wire came away in

her hand. There was a sudden, terrible silence.

With one last great splap!, the rain stopped.

The Doctor heaved himself over the window frame. He crashed

forward into the room, tumbling over himself like a clown. He cradled

his messy hands. The men on the floor got slowly to their feet.

'Nothing to it,' said Bernice, hitching her dress up. 'Where'd you get

to?'

'Rush hour,' rasped the Doctor. 'You look nice.'

'Had to go to a dinner,' she said, dusting herself down. 'Ross

thought we should look the part.'

'Hello, Ross,' said the Doctor. 'Benny, cut the green wire, too.'

Bernice reached into the machine and tugged the green wire free. It

fizzed as it broke.

'Done.'

The Doctor struggled painfully to his feet. 'We've got about a

minute,' he said.

The explosion hurried after them down the stairs. Two of the had-been

terrorists carried Ross between them. Bernice followed close behind,

her arms around the Doctor. He had tears in his eyes. His hands were

terrible to see.

'I like the dress,' he said, his voice barely a whisper.

'You said to get noticed.' She nodded at Ross in front of her. 'He

noticed me.'

'You pooled what you knew...'

'And followed Endwell when he left. Piece of cake.'

'You did good, Benny. I'm sorry if you've been up all night.'

'Hey,' she said, taking his arm carefully, 'all part ofthe job.'

They left Ross with the security guard at reception, already on the

phone to the police. The Doctor and Ross knew each other, of course.

Ross Brimmicombe-Wood was with UNIT. And he was spoken for.

Dammit.

She and the Doctor made their way outside, into the carnage and

sunshine. 'You found him, then?' said Bernice, binding the Doctor's

hands with his tie. He wouldn't wait for the ambulance.

'Yes,' said the Doctor.

'And was he a nutcase?'

'That's not the term we use now is it, Benny? He's certainly a

troubled individual. He didn't want any of this, though. His machine

scared him. That's why he told me how to stop it. He called them

insane.' He gazed at the men around them, the men who had beaten her

and Ross, who had nearly destroyed the city. They looked lost, now.

'They wanted to make things better,' Bernice said. 'For people to see

what they're doing to the planet. Endwell was an expert on climate

change, and no one was listening.'

'Drastic solutions,' said the Doctor. He seemed about to say

something more. But the men had his attention.

They were picking up the litter strewn everywhere across the road. It

seemed so pointless, there being so much of it. She couldn't see

corpses, though, and had a grisly thought of dead militants dropped all

down Whitehall and the Embankment. She watched the men work,

supposing it meant they were doing something, keeping busy, making

some kind of amends. A thought struck her.

'It's this, isn't it? The little acts of kindness. That's what really

makes things better.'

The Doctor shrugged. 'Who knows what difference we make in the

end,' he said, turning to her. 'But, Benny, it's not always the end that's

important.'

'No,' she said. She and the Doctor headed off to find the TARDIS.

Behind them, the bloody-nosed terrorists worked to clear the street.

Short Trips: Solar System

When I was growing up I read books voraciously (something I'm ashamed to

say I don't do now). Kipling, Christie, Hardy, Wilkie Collins - loved 'em all.

But even as I went through my teens I was always drawn back to those books

rd loved as a child - Allison Uttley, Gwynedd Rae, Terrance Dicks... but the one

genre I never really liked (nor do I now) is science fiction/fantasy. Except for

one author who absolutely inspired me to want to write. Walter Hughes who,

under the not terribly imaginative pseudonym of Hugh Walters, (no, not the

actor) wrote a series of marvellous books about space explorers who bounced

from planet to planet in such books as Mission to Mercury, Nearly Neptune, Journey

to Jupiter and so forth. A little way into the run of books he added a teenager

into the mix of adults, a young stowaway called Tony Hale and to my eight/

nine/ten year-old mind, Tony was the most aspirational character ever.

So when it came time to do another Short Trips anthology, I knew I wanted

to do something akin to Hugh Walters, a series of Doctor Who stories, very

pulpy, where science was not especially relevant but instead were darned good

adventures throughout our solar system.

As the book came together, we seemed to drift away from that outrageously

fun romp and move more towards more traditional Doctor Who stories, but set

on each of the planets (yes, in those days Pluto was still a planet!), all wrapped

inside another lovely cover by Stuart Manning. Stuart was also keen to flex

his writer muscles and I knew he could do this simply cos we'd spent hours

bashing around ways to improve, change and distort beyond all reason various

Doctor Who audio plays. And we were beginning to discuss things like the Dark

Shadows range, which Stuart went onto write and produce for Big Finish, so I

thought OK, give him a chance to do one of these short stories. It was a good

move and thus we ended up with the dark and poignant Venus, featuring "my"

team, the Eighth Doctor and Charley, characters I'd invested a lot of time in

and always loved seeing new ways different writers saw them

This then is Venus - not at all pulpy or hokum science fiction at all, just

a damned good story.

Gary Russell

Venus

Stuart Manning

An Adventure ofthe Eighth Doctor,

with Charlotte Pollard

Charley Pollard looked up appreciatively, watching the shifting bands

of colour float above her silently. 'It's beautiful,' she finally managed.

The Doctor leaned forward from his armchair and poured himself

another cup of tea. 'Beautiful, but deadly,' he smirked indulgently,

Meeting her gaze through the steam of his drink.

The Doctor was in the mood to hold court, and Charley was only too

willing to provide him with an audience. At first glance, he was a

dashing figure with flowing brown hair and elegant clothes, yet a

streak of schoolboy recklessness shone through the facade. She was his

companion, a self-proclaimed 'Edwardian Adventuress' who had found

in his footsteps all the adventures she could ever have wished for.

Tonight, however, was an exception - a rare opportunity to relax in the

antique-damn haven of the TARDIS and enjoy one other's company.

Charley's eyes drifted upwards again. It felt warm and secure inside

the chip's cavernous control room. Conversely, the greyness of the

sight Above her conjured up memories of smoggy winters back on

Earth, and Ike ghostly sounds of a crackling fire danced around her

ears. Where the control room's rusted iron girders should have reached

the ceiling, there was instead only the swirling slate grey expanse of

the sight outside. This was the TARDIS scanner; a projected window

to the world outside the time machine.

The Doctor seemed oblivious to its spectacle, but it was a piece of

trickery Charley had never quite adjusted to. Whether instinctively

darting into the shade to avoid non-existent rain, or flinching at the

sight of a racing meteor, the scanner's images always seemed a little

too real to trust.

The Doctor watched his companion impatiently, his head propped up

against the threadbare velvet cuff of his jacket. He fixed her with his

sharp grey eyes and repeated, more insistently: 'Beautiful, but deadly.'

Charley smirked back at him, pushing her blonde fringe from her

eyes. 'Am I supposed to react?'

'I don't know what you mean,' he protested.

'Beautiful but deadly, indeed!' she snorted. 'You and the TARDIS

are a pair of frightful old hams!'

A flash of feigned hurt. 'It is beautiful though, isn't it?' beamed the

Doctor.

She nodded. 'Indeed it is. But deadly?'

The Doctor tilted his head slightly and gave a measured pause before

whispering: 'Beauty can be a deadly thing. Do you know where we

are?'

'You said it was local to me, though I doubt it's Knightsbridge,' she

replied drily.

'Local in a manner of speaking. You're looking down on the planet

Venus.'

She looked surprised: 'It looks so peaceful.'

'A peaceful sight indeed. And that peaceful sight is a raging storm of

sulphuric acid.'

'Beautiful but deadly,' she rolled her eyes, playing along. 'All right,

I see your point.'

The Doctor sipped his tea and leaned back, his chair creaking

slightly. 'Venus was a goddess of arts, love and beauty - a beguiling

combination and an apt name indeed. Her surface consumed by ever-

churning storm clouds, she reached out to embrace those men who first

walked amongst the heavens.'

Charley drew her heavy jumper close around her, sensing the

prickling of a draught. The Doctor's gaze shifted slightly, and a smile

flickered across his mouth as he noticed her move. 'For Venus seemed

almost alive, and those few who survived her gaze deemed her a

warning to the curious. Legends abound of those bewitched by her

beauty and then drawn into her atmosphere.'

His voice dropped to a whisper as he craned his head closer: 'Drawn

to her atmosphere, before being sucked into the depths and vaporised

by searing heat.'

His performance completed, he slammed his cup and saucer down

triumphantly, gleefully noticing her flinch.

'Then... then why do people visit, if it's so dangerous?' demanded

Charley, not to be beaten.

'Very astute, Miss Pollard,' conceded the Doctor, thoughts darting

across his face as he considered her question. 'People continued to

visit, however.' He clasped his hands together and tapped his chin

slightly. 'Yet, like a vengeful goddess, Venus saw off her explorers and

would-be colonists. This is a place of superstition, where no man dares

to tread.'

Finally he was silent and the only sound left was the crackling of the

phantom hearth.

'Frightful old ham!' giggled Charley.

Some time later, when the TARDIS materialised, it might have landed

in a forest. Certainly that was Charley's first thought, as the door

creaked open and she squinted into the light, adjusting to the new

surroundings.

'So where are we, Doctor?'

'Haven't a clue,' echoed the reply from the depths of the ship.

Biting her lip, she glanced around idly. 'It's like a sort of glade. I

think those are trees.' She frowned slightly and nodded to herself.

Definitely trees. Admittedly, she wasn't used to trees with luminous

red bark, but they seemed to be trees. And usually trees didn't bury

their roots in shiny polished granite floors, but she felt happy enough

with her definition. Yes, these were trees.

'Very pleasant,' beamed the Doctor, as he closed the door behind

him.

'It's like some sort of strange forest,' whispered Charley, realising

how melodramatic that sounded out loud.

'It must reach up quite a way. Maybe the branches form some sort of

canopy?' said the Doctor, rocking his head slightly as he weighed up

the possibility.

'Didn't the TARDIS have any clues?'

'Nope. Somewhere near Venus, I suppose. We haven't travelled too

far from there.'

'We're not on the planet then?' said Charley apprehensively.

'Oh, no, not at all.' The Doctor licked his forefinger and held it in

the air. 'A clement evening's breeze. On Venus that would be enough

to strip the flesh from your bones, before pounding them to dust.'

'How cheery.'

He grinned broadly, oblivious to her sarcasm. 'Hmmmm... It's quite

a mystery where we've landed. Time to explore, I think!'

A forest was a forest, Charley told herself with slight impatience. The

Doctor was less easily convinced however, so what should have been a

brief stroll had turned into an extended expedition, with him

scampering between the trees inquisitively, occasionally producing a

random piece of equipment from his pockets to take a reading or

observation.

'So, the verdict is?'

'The verdict, Charley, is that things are rarely what they seem,' he

said tersely, putting a twisted metal instrument back into his waistcoat

pocket.

'Well, you must have some idea by now, surely?' she said

pleasantly, hoping that it didn't sound snappy.

'Well, my considered verdict is...' He stuck out his bottom lip

petulantly, putting his hands in his pockets.

'It's a forest.'

'Yes,' came the sheepish reply.

'But still, it's a very unusual forest,' she said kindly.

'Isn't it?' he beamed excitedly, forgetting his disappointment. 'Stone

floors, those strange formations! Yes, it's quite remarkable.'

'I suppose so,' said Charley blandly, wishing he'd reached his

conclusion half an hour earlier. 'One thing though, where does the light

come from?'

'You noticed that?' he said, impressed. He paused and surveyed the

space for dramatic effect. Despite no obvious light source, they could

see easily, albeit in a muddy red haze. 'Well, it doesn't come from

above,' mused the Doctor, looking up to see the great scarlet boughs

reach into the darkness.

'It's almost like it's all around us - like a glow,' offered Charley.

'Yes,' said the Doctor slowly, his eyes narrowing. 'So where are the

inhabitants?'

'What inhabitants?'

'Exactly!' he said eagerly, now on a roll. 'A dead area of space that

isn't, strange glowing orchards with stone floors. Yes, definitely a

possibility.'

The sound of a gong echoed around them, resonating through the

branches before scuttling into silence.

'Told you so,' he nodded sagely.

Charley darted her head around, sensing something lurking on the

edge of her vision. The Doctor cocked his head slightly, picking up on

her reflex. Without sound, one of the trees seemed to twist into life.

Charley blinked and realised that it was the outline of a figure.

Definitely human she decided, widening her eyes as she tried to make

out more.

And then another. And another. The Doctor turned on his heel,

sensing footfalls approaching. There were maybe twenty of them now,

each moving forward silently. Charley's senses prickled as she realised

they were surrounded. She clutched the Doctor's arm, but he seemed

quite unfazed, smiling placidly as he waited patiently for the group to

approach.

'Doctor, I really wonder if we should hide?'

Too late. Charley stepped back slightly, but the Doctor seemed to be

rooted to the spot. They approached, more distinct as they moved

closer. First an elderly woman, tall and elegant, with a silver brooch

around her high black collar. Then a man in a striped waistcoat with a

kind face and twinkling eyes. Next a child with a sad stare. The Doctor

raised a hand to wave, but seemed to think better of it. More and more

of them filed by, one by one, each not seeming to notice the Doctor or

Charley. Silent, relaxed, but all with the same sense of purpose set into

their features.

A few moments later, Charley and the Doctor were standing alone

again, both feeling slightly bemused. The Doctor looked at the

departing figures, disappearing into the distance. He almost felt

insulted - he usually drew a stare at the very least.

'Curiouser and curiousier.'

'Don't be pretentious,' gloated Charley.

'A place of the dead, where the living fear to tread,' he whispered.

She pursed her lips. 'Doctor, this morbid turn of yours today is really

quite tiresome. Though they did seem a fairly motley bunch.'

'Motley indeed. Did you notice the way they seemed not to notice

us?'

'Like they couldn't see us.'

'No!' the Doctor insisted. 'They definitely saw us. They just didn't

seem interested.'

'We could follow them,' Charley suggested helpfully.

Before the Doctor could respond, they were disturbed by the sound

of footsteps, this time more urgent and irregular. A woman darted from

between a twisted pair of tree trunks, struggling with her earring as she

did. Between her frantic tugging and tottering gait, she made for a

slightly odd sight, but her hopeful smile towards Charley and the

Doctor suggested she was friendly.

'Oh, thank heavens,' she gushed dizzily, abandoning her earring and

skipping towards them. 'I thought I'd missed everyone.'

'We just did,' said the Doctor quietly.

'Stupid watch stopped, y'see? Always has to happen at the wrong

time, doesn't it?' The woman was small and timid-looking, at slight

odds with her rich red outfit. Charley smiled sympathetically. The

woman smiled back self-consciously and Charley guiltily realised she

was staring.

'I know, not my colour is it?'

'It's charming,' said the Doctor. 'Perhaps we could join you?' he

ingested, flashing a winning smile.

'Oh, please do!' she said eagerly, beginning to walk. The Doctor and

Charley followed. 'Well, at least I won't be the last one there.'

'We can be fashionably late,' said Charley, hoping that she hadn't

caused offence.

'Or just late,' the woman tugged at a lapel. 'You really think it's

okay? I mean, this is a pretty swish do. I don't want to let the side

down.'

'Yes, it should be fun,' said the Doctor, knowingly guiding the

conversation. Charley was impressed at how businesslike he could be

when it came to finding his feet amidst a mystery.

'Truth be told, it's not really my thing,' the woman admitted. 'Kinds

posh but, y'know, you have to try new things, don't you?'

'An admirable sentiment. I'm the Doctor, and this is my friend

Charlotte Pollard.'

The woman looked shocked. 'You're not meant to say things like

that!'

'Oh.' The Doctor looked crestfallen.

'I mean I don't understand it myself, but rules is rules,' she

explained warily, embarrassed at his reaction. She looked around her

shoulder. 'Well, since we're getting personal, I'm Scarlet.'

'Evidently,' said Charley, glancing at the woman's dress and

immediately cursing her own tactlessness.

As they wandered slowly through the forest's gloomy red corridors,

Charley found herself growing impatient for the second time that day.

Though obviously a decent person, Scarlet's nervous monologue

quickly became deeply grating, made worse by the Doctor's apparently

insatiable enthusiasm to hear more.

'My husband wouldn't come with me, you see,' she yammered,

holding a lipstick to her mouth in anticipation of a pause in her speech

that never came. 'He'd be happier if I stayed at home forever, I swear.

Again and again I told him he'd enjoy it, but he'd rather stay at home

and read his paper.' Her voice lowered as she failed to suppress her

excitement. 'So I snuck out without telling him. Just upped and left!'

'Oh,' said Charley, a little too sharply.

Scarlet laughed. 'He's probably sitting there waiting for his dinner to

be cooked!'

The Doctor's eyes darted between them.

'I just saw this opportunity and ran for it, I guess. I mean, probably

it's not my thing but there's gotta be something about it, to make it

worth doing, don't you think?' She didn't wait for a reply. 'But he just

can't understand it. He's had the same haircut for forty years; he

bought the car his father bought. I swear, given the choice of

interplanetary travel or a night in front of the TV, the footy scores win

every time.'

'But you're a long way from home, surely,' said the Doctor

quizzically.

'Oh, yeah, I mean that was the point, wasn't it? Even though this

place has been a bit of an adjustment,' she gestured generally at their

surroundings.

'Still getting used to that,' lied Charley.

'I just keep telling myself what an honour it is being here,' said

Scarlet in a forced whisper, gesturing around them. 'I mean we all

thought that when Mr Aristede said he'd retired that was the last of it.'

'Yes, I'm very much looking forward to meeting Mr Aristede,'

enthused the Doctor. Charley frowned at him, before realising just how

efficiently he was sizing up the situation.

'Yeah, isn't it exciting? It's not every day an artist like him

announces his farewell exhibition, is it?'

'Yes, I can't wait to see it,' said the Doctor casually. Charley threw

him a smirk - she had to admit, he knew how to get results.

'I think I might be a bit out of my depth,' Scarlet whispered, even

though there was no one to overhear them. 'I was very surprised when

I was invited. I mean you hope, and dream of it, but luck never works

out the way you expect, does it?'

'You'll be fine,' said the Doctor, aping her whisper. 'Anyway, I'm

sure Mr Aristede will prove himself a fine host.'

'Oh, I do hope so,' she trilled. 'He sounds fascinating.'

'So why are you so worried about the reception?' asked Charley,

feeling that she should contribute something to the Doctor's polite

interrogation.

Scarlet tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. 'Well, y'know I

just filled out the form and hoped for the best. And then when the

invite arrived - fancy envelope, embossed in silver- I didn't dare to

open it. But,' she giggled nervously, 'I knew it was meant to be.'

'I see,' said the Doctor pointedly.

'And to think, he chose me from all those applicants - personally!'

'I've got a golden ticket,' replied the Doctor, smiling uneasily.

Charley didn't miss the sinister note in his voice.

When they arrived at the gathering, Charley was relieved that their

entrance went unnoticed. The mood was more relaxed than she was

expecting, with groups of spectators chattering in low voices over

drinks.

'Well, I'm going to go mingle,' announced Scarlet excitedly. 'Ta-

ta!'

The Doctor waved as she disappeared into the distance. Charley

looked around her shoulder and appraised the guests. After the strange

encounter with the group in the forest, she felt instantly suspicious, but

the Doctor seemed to have totally forgotten about it. Taking two fluted

glasses of champagne from a passing waiter, he handed her the first

and wielded the second like an actor with a new prop.

'I think we should take our friend's advice and mingle ourselves,' he

decided.

'They didn't seem very friendly earlier.'

'That's a good enough reason to befriend them.'

The Doctor whistled to himself in approval as he looked around the

space. Much like the strange forest, it seemed to be woven from the

trunks of the leafless red trees, with massive branches closing high

above their heads like a giant's handshake. One end of the hall was

dominated by a huge set of hanging drapes, while at the other, smaller

trees sprouted up to create stairs and walkways. 'A wonderful space,

Charley,' said the Doctor, casting an admiring glance. 'But where are

the exhibits?'

A severe-looking elderly man in a tweed jacket eyed the pair of them

suspiciously. 'I beg your pardon. Did you say exhibits?'

'What else would one expect to see at an exhibition?'

'You do know why you're here?' He looked deeply shocked.

There was an uneasy pause. 'This is very good champagne,' said the

Doctor, quickly waving his untouched drink in the air as proof. 'I must

declare it's hit me right between the eyes.'

Outraged, the old man looked as if he might do the same.

'Oh, Doctor, fancy you getting squiffy at a time like this!' chided

Charley, taking her friend's lead. 'You must excuse him.'

'Indeed I must,' said the man unconvincingly. 'Perhaps you should

tend to your addled friend, madam.' And, with a final disapproving

look, he was gone.

'Pleasant crowd, aren't they?' said Charley, taking a sip.

A handful of ignored greetings was enough to dissuade Charley from

trying to make friends. Even the Doctor's attempts to blithely

persevere seemed to fail. So it was a relief when the hubbub of

conversation was halted by the sound of the gong they'd heard earlier.

'I think it's time to meet our host,' said the Doctor, rubbing his

hands together.

'If he's anything like his guests, I think I'd rather not.'

The Doctor put a finger to his lips, before pointing high above them.

She looked up and saw the man standing at the top of the highest

walkway, leaning against the gnarled barrier. Only then did she sense

the rapt attention of his assembled audience.

'That would be Mr Aristede,' said the Doctor.

A tiny faraway figure, he still managed to command an instant

reaction. Stout, imposing and impeccably dressed. Across the room,

Charley saw Scarlet's mouth drop open. The gentleman took a wobbly

step forward, easing his considerable weight onto his ivory walking

cane. The crowd rippled slightly with appreciative whispers. Another

step forward, this time with more confidence. Charley could now get a

clearer view. His face was stern, with a heavy jaw and puffed cheeks.

His magnified eyes blazed through the pebble-lenses of his pince-nez,

framed by a shining bald scalp. Eccentric certainly, but a charismatic

figure nonetheless, Charley decided.

'My friends,' his voice echoed, hoarse and rasping, 'I welcome you

to this gathering. Each and every one one of you has been specially

chosen to be here tonight.' Pockets of the audience bristled with pride.

'Our mission is to conquer a vengeful goddess. Legends tell of her

dangerous beauty, warning mortal man to look but not touch. Today

those legends are rewritten!'

With a flourish, Aristede directed the audience's gaze towards the

huge set of red curtains that dominated the space, like a theatre

proscenium imbedded into the matted foliage. With a curt nod, he

gestured to his assistants, who moved to open the stage with well-

rehearsed precision. Charley arched her neck to get a better view. As

the drapes slid open, a stream of grey light forced itself through the

gap, playing across the anxious faces of the audience.

There was an appreciative intake of breath as the curtain fell to the

sound in a dance of billowing silk, unveiling the sight beneath. At first

Charley thought it was a huge canvas, grey and blank, but as she

looked, she was aware of the slightest flow of movement. Familiar and

alien at the same time, in an instant Charley knew what she was

looking at.

'Venus,' breathed the Doctor.

At first it had been a pale block cut into her vision, but then the

image seemed to take form, like smoke dissipating on a breeze. Almost

too pale to see, at first, but now there was definite movement. Slight

stripes of shade stroked from left to right, drifting lazily along, like oil

on a puddle. It was strange and disorientating, like an ocean of milky

water, but the calm and scale of the sight was curiously welcoming. A

sleepy feeling of peace weighed on her eyelids, and for a moment she

felt like she would happily float away into its pallid depths.

A sharp jolt, and she was back in reality. The Doctor was holding

her hand, looking wary. 'Did I startle you?'

His words tingled through her brain as she shook away her

disorientation.

'Sorry, I was distracted.'

'So I see,' said the Doctor, scowling as a woman behind him made

hushing sounds.

'Is it like the TARDIS scanner?' whispered Charley. The woman

once again hissed in distaste at the disturbance.

'After a fashion,' said the Doctor, sounding unsure.

Aristede teetered along a walkway in front of the planet's vista, a

stick figure against a mass of sliding clouds. 'Ladies and gentlemen, I

give you the planet Venus!' He bowed with surprising grace, and the

room rang with the sound of clapping.

'So that's his artwork?' frowned Charley. 'Like some sort of moving

painting?'

The Doctor's brow furrowed and he shook his head. 'No, I don't

think so. I think it is the planet.'

'He's created a planet?'

'Maybe. It's as likely a possibility that we'd be standing in a

spaceship made of wood, en route to viewing it.'

'We're on a spaceship?' she looked sceptical.

'Unusual decor, but, yes - that little display proves it. Definitely a

spaceship.'

'Is that a good or a bad thing?' By now he was far too lost in his

thoughts to give her a clue either way.

'I don't know. Which is why you and I should go and say hello.'

His speech completed, Aristede had descended to the floor to join his

guests. Thankfully most of them seemed too awestruck to approach,

keeping a respectful distance from their host. The ersatz window cast a

sickly hue across the gathering, as the approaching Venus made her

presence felt. The Doctor and Charley watched from a short distance,

waiting to make their move.

'We don't seem to be having much luck making friends,' she said

glumly.

'It'll be fine - I'll find the right moment to subtly join their

conversation.'

Sidling up to eavesdrop, the Doctor waited patiently for his cue.

'And so,' growled Aristede to his companions, 'my exhibition of '62

was disbanded for the war effort and -'

'Good grief!' the Doctor gasped.

Charley cringed in embarrassment. Aristede and his entourage

turned their heads in confusion and observed the Doctor. With

incredulous looks, they looked him up and down, before turning away

with distaste.

'Every last item harvested for parts,' continued Aristede sadly.

'Amazing!'

'Doctor!' growled Charley, becoming aware of the circle of curious

eavesdroppers forming around then.

'Charley, the floor is moving!' he exclaimed, hopping from foot to

foot in excitement.

'Of course the floor is moving, sir,' replied Aristede tersely, turning

to face the Doctor.

'Good heavens!' Charley dropped her glass in shock. 'It is moving.'

'No,' squealed the Doctor gleefully, 'breathing! The floor is

breathing!'

'Naturally,' said Aristede, almost making it seem natural.

'It's wonderful! Tell me, how?'

Aristede scowled at Charley, as if asking her to explain the Doctor's

disarming enthusiasm. She was still preoccupied with tip-toeing

uncomfortably, wary of where to put her feet, but managed a feeble

smile.

'Have you suffered a blow to the head, sir?'

'Humour him,' mouthed Charley.

'The creature should die if it didn't breath. Does that not make

sense?' The whites of his eyes distorted grotesquely through the lenses,

punctuating his rhetoric.

'Of course, it's alive!' The Doctor grabbed Charley in a whirlwind

of enthusiasm. 'Isn't that wonderful, Charley? This room... everything

around us is alive!'

'Oh. Great,' said Charley lamely.

'It must measure miles across!'

'Indeed it does sir, specially bred for our mission,'

'Must have been a huge petri dish,' laughed the Doctor.

The corners of Aristede's mouth lifted slightly, but his eyes

remained Kern.

'We're standing inside a creature?' asked Charley, looking queasy.

'Our craft and our host,' said Aristede impressively.

'Amazing! A giant creature swimming through space - what bliss!'

The Doctor danced a little jig of excitement and laughed again.

'The belly of the beast, sir!' chimed in Aristede.

'Quite so! That explains your red forest, Charley - capillaries and

veins! I can't believe I didn't realise sooner.'

'Your sickness shows in your disorientation, sir.' Aristede still

looked cautious, but seemed now satisfied that this babbling fop was

harmless. After all, an audience was an audience.

'Nobody's perfect,' the Doctor shrugged. 'So, how's that done?' He

pointed at the square window Venus peered through.

'One of our cruder adaptations, but effective nonetheless. Merely our

boat's optic nerve diverted from its path.'

The Doctor nodded like an eager student. 'And the creature's drive?

Brain control?'

'Quite right sir. You seem to be regaining your senses.'

'I misplace things all the time.'

Aristede proffered his carved ivory walking cane: 'The beast's

tooth!' He smiled proudly. 'Well, a modest part of one.' The Doctor

smiled politely, but did not accept the object.

Charley felt distinctly seasick. Much as the thrill of adventure

seemed appealing in principle, the rush of this discovery was proving

to be something of a culture shock.

'Doctor, this is absurd,' she began.

'Superbly so,' he agreed.

'Plain silly,' she added.

'Absurd? Yes... Silly? No! It makes perfect sense. Think of it - a trip

to Venus. This visit will bring these people into contact with

temperatures hot enough to melt lead, crippling pressure, clouds of

acid. That's not a problem for technology to fix - let nature solve it.

'But it's preposterous,' scoffed Charley. 'How can any animal

survive all that heat and pressure?'

'And acid,' he reminded her.

'That too!'

'Life finds a way,' answered the Doctor, with total faith.

'And it doesn't mind being... being infested?'

'Think of yourself as a well-behaved flea,' whispered the Doctor

conspiratorially, enjoying her stunned response. 'An itch here, a

scratch there, but otherwise it hasn't got a clue we're aboard.'

Charley looked around her shoulder gingerly, suddenly aware of

how rhythmic the breeze against her skin was. Breathing in, breathing

out. The Doctor seemed to view her apprehension with positive delight,

and every time she tried to return his smile, her expression set like

concrete.

'And it's safe?'

'Probably.'

'And just suppose it happens to open its mouth unexpectedly?'

The Doctor casually tapped his fingertips together. 'Well, I suppose

we'd be sucked out,' he answered cheerily.

'Sucked out?'

He nodded with pantomime concern. 'Let's hope you don't make it

ticklish.' And letting a snort of laughter escape, he scampered off in a

blur of velvet.

'My jester will sit beside me,' announced Aristede, tapping a chair at

the head of the table.

The Doctor accepted the invitation graciously, as he still had

unanswered questions. Charley sat beside him, unsure of the Doctor's

newfound favour with the old man. With remarkable speed, the

servants had arranged a long snaking table for a meal, large enough to

seat everyone who had gathered. The people bustled to find their seats,

while all the time, glowing from its window, the grey curve of Venus

tilted down towards them. Aristede stood at the head of the gathering,

as the long line of eager faces twisted uncomfortably to watch him.

'Tonight Venus shall surrender her secrets,' he croaked. 'Sounds and

smells and colours that no man before could chance upon and live.

Goddess Venus shall speak to those of us gathered here tonight.' A

young man at the front of the table shifted awkwardly. Aristede turned

his head and fixed him with his unblinking stare. 'Through her voice,

we shall experience that which no man or woman has ever experienced

before. A blissful split second of utter enlightenment,' he paused and

took in a deep breath, savouring his contrived anticipation. 'And then

peace!' He spread his arms triumphantly as rapturous applause rang

around the room.

Charley and the Doctor were the only ones not to clap.

'What does he mean?' said Charley urgently.

The Doctor shushed her impatiently, raising his voice to address

Aristede. 'We've not discussed your exhibit, Aristede.' The Doctor

held his butter knife in his hands, flipping it back and forth as he

spoke. Charley sensed the arch lilt in his voice.

'My jester speaks,' said the old man, managing a hacking laugh. 'My

exhibit is a journey into the greatest canvas the Solar System has to

offer,' her replied grandly.

'So you said,' agreed the Doctor, tucking a napkin into his collar

casually. 'But what use is a canvas with nothing painted on it?'

'Your logic is impeccable, Doctor, even if your memory fails you,'

said Aristede quietly checking his pocket watch. 'Much like the

production of our cooperative friend,' he gestured to the room around

them knowingly, 'in my old age, I prefer to leave the execution to my

employees.'

He leaned back in his chair and watched the surface of Venus

keenly. The first spark of light reflected in the Doctor's sad grey eyes.

A pinprick of energy cracked through the placid cloud layers of the

planet, allowing a thin streak of darkness to burst through, smearing

across its surface like a tear tracing down a cheek. The Doctor looked

away as a second disturbance broke through.

The audience predictably applauded again.

'Doctor, what are they?' asked Charley, though she already knew the

answer. A childhood of cinema newsreels played through in her head

in a split second - some things never changed that much. She knew a

bomb when she saw one.

'Bombs,' confirmed Aristede proudly.

'Yes, bombs,' scowled the Doctor. 'Crude bombs, scrawling their

debris across the planet's surface. So that's your great achievement,

Aristede?' The Doctor's glare was as cold as his voice. 'It doesn't

seem very accomplished to me.'

'Engineered storms that will rage across the planet's surface for a

thousand years! For so long I dreamed of a canvas worthy of my

designs.'

'Or your ego?'

'You have a sharp tongue for an invited guest, sir.'

'Isn't that the problem with art, though? Everyone's a critic.'

Aristede held his arms wide to the crowd, clearly relishing playing to

an audience. 'What does any artist attempt to do, but mark their place

in time and space? To endure, to last! Think of it - we shall step into

the biggest artwork in history, painted on the biggest canvas!'

'Perhaps you could detonate a sponsor's message as well?'

suggested the Doctor innocently.

'You are quite the wit, my little jester,' said Aristede, his bitter tone

making it clear that he thought nothing of the sort. 'In my humble

opinion - though I concede that very little about me is humble - my

little exhibit is a victimless crime.'

'Which brings me neatly to my next question,' replied the Doctor,

his outrage suddenly replaced with calm and reason. 'You said that

we'd step into the canvas, so I assume that your little jaunt isn't a

drive-by?'

The old man frowned. 'Your words are so strange, Doctor. Some

would say the ramblings of a madman, though clearly you are not.' His

eyes narrowed to slits as he toyed with the idea. 'We will step into the

canvas and begin our new lives.'

'You might be able to engineer a beast of burden to make your

journey for you, but it'll never survive flying into the eye of your

storms.'

'That does not concern me.'

'It should! Many have tried before you, and all were lured to their

deaths,' the Doctor warned sharply.

Aristede sneered. 'They were mistaken. Venus is a planet of the

dead. The living have no business there. But we are different. Life is

doomed by Venus' guiles, but in death we will be triumphant. In death

we will conquer, spreading our mark across the planet for centuries to

come.'

'In death?' the Doctor asked urgently.

'But of course,' wheedled Aristede. 'My final work.'

'You're going to crash the ship?' The Doctor jumped to his feet, his

palms pounding on the wooden table as he leaned forward. Aristede

looked confused, unsure if this was a question.

'The exhibit,' he agreed.

Closer than ever, the first violent black slash across Venus' surface

seemed to have twisted itself into a sinister smile. The Doctor gave

Aristede a pitying look and raised his voice to the crowd, which now

rippled with sounds of concern.

'I want you to listen,' he commanded. 'I can save you all - I have a

ship onboard and I can ferry you to safety.'

Silence.

Charley looked at the Doctor, urging him to do something.

'Don't you understand? This is a suicide mission!'

The final words faded in his throat when he saw the response. There

was a brief awkward silence, before the group politely ignored him.

Not to be beaten, the Doctor repeated himself. 'I said, this is a

suicide mission.'

The same response.

'Well, don't you care?' cried Charley, leaping to his defence. 'Do

you want to die?'

An elegant figure midway along the table stood up. A woman

wrapped in a patterned shawl with a flash of white running through her

auburn hair. 'Of course we want to die,' she said reasonably, in a kind

voice. 'That's why we're here.'

Charley looked around her and turned to the Doctor, his expression

frozen in brittle shock. 'I'm beginning to understand,' he whispered.

Charley saw the cloud of sadness that crossed his features and

instantly felt like she was sinking. She twisted in agitation, as thoughts

danced through her head in panic. The red-haired woman fixed Charley

with a maternal smile. 'Come sit with us, child and join our meal.

We're united by the plague.'

The Doctor's eyes widened. 'The one thing you all have in

common.'

Charley backed away instinctively. 'Plague?'

The Doctor shook his head slightly to reassure her. 'It's fine,

Charley - long after your time. They called it a plague, but it wasn't

really. Nothing more than an evolutionary dead end, ticking away,

waiting to strike.'

'And that's why they were all chosen,' said Charley, her voice

cracking. 'People who wouldn't care that this was a one-way trip.'

The Doctor placed his arms behind his back and looked up at the

planet's pock-marked surface, while addressing the crowd. 'And so

rather than wait for death to come, you all decided to pay her a visit

and make your mark.'

The sour man in the tweed jacket from the reception leaned forward

and coughed gruffly. 'If there's a chance to see something no other

man can see, then it's worth it,' he said, with visible restraint. A few

people around him nodded defiantly.

'You're willing to die for the hope of seeing a single image?'

Charley scanned the faces in disbelief, vainly looking for a hint of

empathy.

Aristede sat low in his chair, his bottom lip trembling as he searched

for words. 'The hope of doing something no one else has ever done

before. There are people who would give anything to be here.'

'These people have,' said the Doctor sadly. 'I hope they did it for

something better than your reputation.'

'A worthy bargain to see the most beautiful image in the Solar

System,' rasped Aristede, his eyes widening behind the lenses of his

pince-nez.

'A price these people are willing to pay?' He turned to the crowd

indignantly. 'Well, are you?' he demanded.

'I want to go,' said a meek voice finally. It was the boy Charley had

seen in the forest, still staring his sad stare.

'So do I!' said another voice.

Aristede nodded piously to his supporters, before turning to the

Doctor. Finally though, the gloating look of triumph was gone from his

face.

'But isn't there more for you all?' said Charley.

'It's more than I've ever done,' said a familiar timid voice. Charley

looked down at Scarlet through watery eyes and realised that she was

defeated. The Doctor cut in and spared her the scrutiny of the

onlookers.

'So you all gave up everything to be here?'

Aristede held his head up proudly. 'We renounce our names, our

pasts and our home.'

'For a dead world?' urged the Doctor.

'We are the dead. This is our planet, Doctor, and we claim it as our

own.'

The Doctor was silent. He looked over Aristede's shoulder where the

membrane showed Venus' glowing mass, staring balefully over them

like an unblinking eye.

The Doctor took a deep breath, removed the napkin from his collar,

leaving it neatly folded on the table. Finally, he stepped forward and

shook the old man's hand firmly.

'Then claim it.'

Aristede nodded slightly, resting his hands on top of his cane.

Charley frowned in disbelief. 'Doctor?'

The Doctor's stillness felt like a betrayal. He looked down. She

sniffed slightly and fought back the stinging of the tears in her eyes.

The Doctor tried to place his hand on her shoulder to comfort her, but

seemed unable to do so.

Charley looked sullenly at Scarlet, who suddenly seemed to look

paper-thin beneath her gaudy outfit.

'You'll never arrive,' she said finally.

'We might.'

Charley stared at her more urgently. 'But you'll never see the

planet's surface! You'll never see anything.'

The colour seemed to fade from Scarlet. 'But I might,' she said

blankly.

Charley opened her mouth, but no words came. A roomful of sad

faces looked at her - some with confusion, some with pity. She felt the

gentle grasp of the Doctor's hand closing around her shoulder as he led

her away and the crowd parted silently to let them pass.

Hours later, they were sat in the nook of one of the trees, legs dangling

over the edge as they watched the mass of expectant people waiting

silently below. In a few short hours the journey would be over, and

uneasy stillness had replaced the gentle wash of chatter. An unseen baby

cried its low cry, before being quickly cooed back to silence.

'So that's it?' Charley asked finally.

'Yes,' the Doctor replied, without looking at her.

'I keep trying, but I just don't understand.'

He nodded slowly, turned to look at her and gestured ahead. Now

closer than before, the planet's surface suddenly seemed alive. Charley's

eyes widened, as huge dark stormy spots erupted through the smooth

yellowing horizon like ink on blotting paper. The light danced across her

face as she tried to speak. The Doctor gave her a broad smile.

'Blots on the landscape,' she whispered to herself. The Doctor shot her

a quizzical look. 'It looks like a piece of blotting paper,' she said, smiling

as she considered the notion.

'Each of those blots is a storm a thousand miles across,' he whispered

with typical understatement. 'Do you see the ripples?'

She frowned slightly, watching as dirty grey waves of disturbance

rippled silently across the surface like raindrops on the surface of a pond.

And then she saw the pinprick of shadow their vessel cast upon the

planet.

'It is beautiful,' she admitted.

'Even the most obscene acts can produce something beautiful,' he

nodded. 'Now do you see?'

'No, I don't.'

'Would you ever see this sight on a sheet of blotting paper?'

She shook her head sullenly, watching the seeping rivers of black

painting veins across Venus' perfect marbled surface.

She turned to face him and managed a businesslike, clipped smile.

'No. I wouldn't.'

'The human urge to explore is a remarkable thing, Charley. For most

creatures time moves so slowly that it's barely a breeze. Yet humans

cling onto it like a kite in a gale and don't let go!' His eyes grew wider:

'Land, oceans... heavens! You understand that there's always more to

see, more to do.'

'Do we?'

He placed a hand on her shoulder. 'That's what you did.'

She looked down. That was a long time ago now - a personal dare that

had changed everything in a few short hours. Sneaking out to drink,

discovering a surprising flair for card games, stealing a uniform before

stowing away on that massive airship where she first met the Doctor...

She remembered the pounding of her adrenalin, the thrill of those split-

second decisions sparking off around her like firecrackers, and of not

wanting that night to ever end. Perhaps it never had? Maybe not the

adventure she expected, but definitely the one she would have chosen.

'It was worth it,' she beamed.

'Good,' said the Doctor, hopping down from his perch to the ground,

before offering a hand to help Charley down.

As she landed with a thud, she looked at the crowd, the figures now

cowering shadows against the planet's tumbling storm clouds.

'Do you think they'll find what they're looking for?'

'How so?'

Charley shrugged sadly: 'Myths of men lured to leave their homes by

a living planet - all magic and mystery. But it's all just chemicals and

rocks.'

'There are worse things to believe in.'

'But it's not real.'

'That's why Venus isn't a lure, Charley. A place of myth, legends and

beguiling mystery undoubtedly, but these people are drawn by nothing

more sinister than curiosity.' He levelled his gaze at her and smiled a

private smile. She turned away and they began to walk back towards the

TARDIS.

'Satiable curiosity?'

The Doctor took her hand: 'Do you think you'll ever stop dreaming?'

At last, that answer seemed enough. Holding hands, off they walked to

the familiar blue box, nestled in the shade of the red orchard, ready for a

new adventure.

Short Trips: The History of Christmas

My clever wife must have handed me a copy of Matthew Sweet's book Inventing

the Victorians at some point in 2003. It's a lively, funny debunking of the

myths and misconceptions we have of that period and chock full of top facts.

I thought idly of nicking some of them for my own stories. But I never did.

Then, in September 2004, I spotted Matthew's name in the Big Finish

production office. He'd submitted an idea for a Doctor Who audio play about

a chatty pig and the works of Marcel Proust. Then-supremo Gary Russell was

trying to decide if it was meant as a joke.

I said I'd enjoyed Matthew's book and Gary commissioned what would

become The Year of the Pig. I remind Matthew of this fact quite often.

On Friday, 1 April 2005, Ian Farrington commissioned me to edit a book

of Doctor Who Christmas short stories. We agreed details over lunch in the

pub, him explaining all the things I couldn't do. No, I couldn't do a Doctor

Who version of A Christmas Carol because the ninth Doctor would be meeting

Charles Dickens himself in just eight days' time. The Big Finish licence

doesn't allow us to mention stuff from the new series.

So instead I suggested a Christmas story just set in Victorian times - after all,

the Victorians invented Christmas. Some kind of lively, funny debunking of the

myths and misconceptions we have of that period and chock full of top facts.

For some reason, I thought Matthew might be a good person to write it.

Ian agreed, having seen Matthew on the telly just the previous week,

interviewing Mark Gatiss about the ninth Doctor meeting Charles Dickens. It

almost felt like the sinister hand of fate.

(Only when the book had been published and Matthew and I actually met in

person did we discover we are neighbours.)

Simon Guerrier

The Lampblack Wars

Matthew Sweet

An Adventure ofthe Third Doctor,

with Sarah Jane Smith

It was the corset that bothered Sarah Jane Smith - and not just because

it had been a two-person job. She'd expected the Doctor to leave her to

it, but no - he hadn't shown the least sign of embarrassment as he

laced the thing around her waist, fussing and flapping and singing Jolly

Good Luck to the Girl Who Loves a Soldier in his best Palace-of-

Varieties baritone.

'I suppose you wear a lot of frilly things yourself,' she'd said,

willing herself not to blush.

The Doctor's appearance had only required the smallest adjustments

to comply with the sumptuary codes of nineteenth-century London: the

bottle-green smoking jacket, the Adam Adamant cape, the shirt with

two strips of embroidered lace escorting the buttons up to his

monstrous collar - these alone would have allowed him to pass for a

minor Pre-Raphaelite. His physical features - the flurry of Arctic curls,

the fuzzy sideburns, the prodigious nose, strong as a dodo's beak didn't

detract from the image. And now that the TARDIS wardrobe had

furnished him with a velvet-lined topper and a silk tie to match his

jacket, perhaps, thought Sarah Jane, he looked a bit too Victorian.

Perhaps people would think he was taking the mickey.

The TARDIS had washed up under one of the arches of Covent

Garden market. Stallholders were packing away their crates. Boys were

sweeping up stray cabbage leaves and spirals of discarded orange peel.

A dog nosed around with a disappointed air, as if he wished he'd gone

to Smithfield. Sarah took a lungful of pleasantly frosty air. 'So what's

there to do on a Saturday night in Victorian London?' she asked.

'Besides staying in to read religious tracts and listen to the lady of the

house playing Schubert?'

The Doctor closed the police box door behind him. 'You've watched

too much costume drama on television, Sarah Jane. Staying-in scenes

are cheap. All you need is a pianoforte, a few nice frocks and Nyree

Dawn Porter. They never show you what Victorians really got up to at

night. How about a trapeze show? Or a play about Derby Day with six

live horses on a conveyor belt, galloping away like bllly-o?'

He bowled out over the cobbles, lifted a copy of The Times from the

hands of a newspaper vendor, and scanned the front page. Sarah

fumbled in her bag for a coin and pressed it into the boy's hand. The

alacrity with which the lad scuttered down the street suggested that she

had picked the wrong denomination.

'What takes your fancy?' the Doctor demanded. 'We could go for a

curry in Berkeley Square. I think Dean Mohammed's place is still open

- or perhaps he's downshifted to Brighton by now and become a

masseur. We could take the train down to Sydenham and catch

Blondin. If we're lucky we might see him pushing a lion across the

highrope in a wheelbarrow. Or the business with the kitchen stove... '

The Doctor's eyes glazed with pleasure. 'I was there, you know, when

he tried that trick for the first time. He wheeled his little cooker across

the rapids at Niagara Falls, cracked an egg into his pan and whisked up

an omelette - a hundred feet over our heads! Then he lowered the pan

down to a steamboat chugging away in the rapids. There was a terrific

fight for a piece of the thing. People grabbed for scraps, but didn't

know whether to eat them or take them home as souvenirs.'

'Did you get some?' asked Sarah.

'Of course.'

'And?'

'Well, he was no Escoffier.'

Sarah took the newspaper, peered at the date under the masthead,

and read it aloud: 14 December 1861. The Doctor, who was halfway

through a bow to an elderly passer-by, spun round and stared at the

front page over his companion's shoulder. He rubbed the back of his

neck with the palm of his hand.

'We'd better decide quickly,' he said. 'In a few hours, entertainment

will be rather hard to come by.'

Mary Prout had money in her purse. And something that was better

than money. She pulled the drawstring and slipped a hand inside. Her

skin made contact with a nest of cool silver. That reassured her. Then

she dug her fingers below the layer of coins until they touched an

object of a different kind. A small glass bottle with a metal stopper. A

cosy heat pulsed inside, as if someone had filled it up with glowing

charcoal. But no one had done any such thing, and Mary Prout knew it.

She felt the warmth rise through her fingertips, her hands, her arms, her

shoulders, her neck. It felt good. It felt like Christmas.

Mary slipped from the pavement and pushed the door of a

chophouse on the corner of Mercer Street. The proprietor had his

ledger open on the counter, and was busy crushing tiny figures into the

ruled columns. When he clocked Mary settling herself on a stool at the

bar, he flipped the book shut, slid towards her, pulled a towel from his

shoulder and gave the mahogany a brisk buffing.

'Beef Wellington,' she said, tearing off her fur wrap. 'And none of

your cat's meat.' The proprietor overplayed his nod of assent. 'And

some milky tea. And do me a couple of smokes.' She snapped a

shilling on the counter. The proprietor scribbled down her order and

thrust the tab through the hatch to the kitchen. Then he pulled a little

machine from under the bar, took out his tobacco pouch and a batch of

papers, and began, with meticulous care, to roll his best customer a

cigarette. She allowed him to place it in her mouth and light the end

with a taper. 'The other one's for you, Freddie,' she said. 'Keep us

company for a bit.' The proprietor busied himself with the construction

of a second cigarette. Mary glanced towards the window - somebody,

she noted, had etched a figure on the glass: a choirboy peering over his

hymnal with an expression that was far from angelic.

'So, Mary,' ventured Freddie, licking along the edge of a fresh

paper. 'Aren't you pining for those early morning rides from Surrey?

Aren't you yearning to be dragging watercress out of all that lovely

freezing cold water? Don't you miss that dirty great wicker basket

hanging off your arm all day?' He popped the completed cigarette from

the rollers of the machine, and allowed Mary to light it from her own

fag.

'I'm sick for it all,' she replied. 'But a private income's not such a

terrible trial. I can do as I please. I'm off to see the pantomime

tonight.'

Mary's order appeared at the hatch. The proprietor pushed it across

the counter. She stubbed out her cigarette, gulped down a mouthful of

tea and pierced the piecrust with her fork. A little cloud of steam

rushed through the broken pastry. 'The death of an aunt is a terrible

thing,' she declared. 'Even one you've never known. Even one you

never really knew existed.'

The proprietor took a final drag. 'So how did she make her dough,

then, this old girl?'

Mary tapped her nose with the blade of her knife. 'From something

none of us can do without,' she said. 'Something that tells us what's

happening in the world, something that lets you keep track of what's in

your till, Freddie. Something that lets you read your Bible and says

what gee-gees are running at Beverley and what happened next to little

Pip Pirrip.'

The proprietor looked blank. Mary filled him in. 'Ink, Freddie,' she

murmured. 'Ink.

On the stage of the Drury Lane theatre, twenty live pigs leapt from a

row of wicker baskets, and the audience roared its approval.

'When are they going to dim the house lights?' asked Sarah.

'Not until the 1880s at the earliest,' replied the Doctor, looking at his

watch. 'Wagner was the first person to put the audience in the dark -

and he only did it to stop them making eyes at each other during the

recitative. At this point in the nineteenth century they give you plenty

of light to let you read your programme.' He slapped the printed

pamphlet into her lap. 'What's the next scene?'

Sarah ran her eyes down the bill. 'A Peep at Turkey. The Topkapi

Palace. The Seraglio. A tribute to Mr Grimaldi.' Set in the margin next

to these words was a grinning, hairless figure with a beaky nose and

monstrous staring eyes.

The Doctor rubbed his hands together with pleasure. 'You'll love

this bit.'

Painted scenery flew in from above: wispy pink clouds suspended

above oriental domes and spires; pillars denoting the interior of the

seraglio. The canvas tableau rippled slightly as it made contact with the

boards. A pair of stagehands wheeled a fountain downstage left. Water

began to bubble from its spout. Then, to a ripple of delight from the

cheap seats, an old clown in a jewelled headdress shuffled into the

limelight. He was just like the illustration in the programme: a comic

monstrosity shaped from greasepaint and putty. He addressed the

audience as if he were talking to them over his garden wall.

'These Turkish foreigners are a different kind of stuff to our English

ladies,' he announced. 'For they - bless 'em! - are all pretty souls, and

don't want for spirit, as we all know, when "the grey mare is the better

horse" - and if the Ottomy-ladies had but a little hedification at

Billingsgate, the flatfish would soon prove themselves fine soles and

make it all hot cockles with the muscle men!'

Laughter streaked through the auditorium. The woman sitting beside,

the Doctor gave him the honour of a nudge in the ribs. He turned to

Sarah.

'Don't worry. I only got about half of that.'

Sarah sucked her teeth. 'It was smut, though, mainly, wasn't it?' The

Doctor nodded. Sarah nodded too, and cast her eyes down to the

programme.

What she saw made her catch her breath in horror. The pamphlet

was open on her knee, at the page announcing the appearance of the

clown. But the illustration had altered - and was continuing to alter

before her eyes. The clown's leer had grown into something truly

murderous. It had pulled some kind of sharp instrument from the

pocket of its pantaloons, and was now glaring at her from the paper,

the sheeny black ink shifting about like the body of some organism

glimpsed under a microscope. The clown raised a malignant eyebrow.

It stuck out a tarry tongue. It winked. It shifted about on its feet, until it

was visible in three-quarter profile. It raised the dagger above its head,

and stalked towards the right-hand margin, over which it disappeared,

presumably in pursuit of a victim on the next page.

The Doctor followed Sarah's gaze just in time to see a stockinged

foot vanish from view. He picked up the programme and turned the

page. The following illustration showed no signs of mobility, but it was

utterly grotesque - the clown, its eyes mad with fury, was twisting a

knife into the prone body of Widow Twankey.

'Good grief,' breathed the Doctor.

And in the seat immediately behind him, a more demotic phrase passed

through the mind of Mary Prout.

Simia the Missing Link sat by the tea urn and rummaged in her reticule

for her Christmas card list. Her pencil, poised between her delicately

hairy fingers, hovered down the list of names. 'I've an etiquette

question,' she declared. 'Chang and Eng. One card or two? What's

appropriate for Siamese Twins?'

The green room of the Egyptian Hall was thick with the smell of

green tea and cheroot smoke. The last performance was coming to an

end, and the turns were having a final drink before returning to their

digs. Professor Hemdale spat on one of his dissolving views of the

eruption of Mount Etna, and rubbed at the glass lantern slide with a

grubby cuff. Miss Hutchinson the Pig-Faced Lady twisted the paper

wrapper from a sherbet bonbon, popped the sweet in her mouth and

clattered it across the back of her impressive teeth. Bracebridge Hunz,

the celebrated zoologist, pored over his notes on the gibbon. Gabriel

East, manager of the Sensational Talking Fish, dug under his

fingernails with a teaspoon, and counted the tiles around the fireplace.

It was left to Anak, the King of the Giants, an eight-foot Frenchman in

a black silk kimono, to answer Simia's question.

'Just the one,' he said, without looking up from his copy of The Boy

Detective. 'Eng was never much of a reader. I bought them a lovely

morocco-bound volume of East Lynne for their last birthday, and I

don't believe he ever got past the bit where the heroine is mangled up

in a train crash.' He paused. 'And then again, as both the brothers are

Taoists, perhaps it would be better not to send one at all.'

Simia absorbed this intelligence, and scored the names from her list.

Then her face crumpled to a frown. 'What about Julia Pastrana?' she

ventured.

'Roman Catholic,' returned Anak. 'So you're perfectly safe there.

But you do know that she's dead?' Simia didn't. Anak told her not to

worry. 'That sad fact need not prevent you sending the season's

greetings. Her husband had her cadaver perfectly embalmed. Some

new Russian process, I believe. Most lifelike.'

Professor Hemdale packed away his slides, poured himself some tea

from the urn and consumed the entire cup in one convulsive gulp. This

action was swiftly followed by the kind of shudder a man might give

after attempting to swallow a brace of live eels - which, coincidentally,

was how he had spent much of the early part of his career, in draughty

tents and exhibition rooms across the British Isles.

'You'll ruin your stomach, you know,' warned Simia.

'I do know,' snapped Professor Hemdale. 'I'm a professor.' He

muttered something disagreeable under his breath.

'Well, I was only saying. Some constitutions won't tolerate it. Miss

Hutchinson there, she could stay up all night eating raw lamb chops

without suffering the least bit of gastric unpleasantness.' Miss

Hutchinson confirmed that this was true. She had, she professed, once

consumed 17 oysters in a month that contained two Rs, and paid no

price for it.

But Professor Hemdale was unmoved. 'Your line of expertise, Miss

Simia, is swinging from the parallel bars and discoursing on the

Theory of Natural Selection. Mine is vulcanology. I'm not sure

whether either of us is qualified to pronounce upon the future of my

bowels.'

Simia had no time to respond to this remark. The door flew open,

and through it came the junior stage manager, George Evans. He was

breathless and pale, and his spectacles magnified his veiny eyes into

pools of bloodworms. 'No show tomorrow night, chaps,' he breezed.

'The bells of St Paul's are ringing.'

Anak put down his magazine. 'So he's gone, then?'

Evans nodded gravely.

Gabriel East put down his spoon as a mark of respect.

Simia took up her pencil, and crossed another name from her list.

Professor Hemdale raised a teacup. 'Merry Christmas,' he muttered,

and collapsed into a fit of coughing.

The premises of Charles Goodall and Son were marooned in a gloomy

courtyard in Seven Dials. Tallowy light spilled through the windows.

Behind the glass, a selection of the firm's recent work was suspended

on lengths of string: a card bearing an image of a robin carrying a sprig

of holly in its beak; a penny number of a boys' serial entitled Lost in

the London Sewers; an engraving of Madame Vestris as a sans-

culottes. Although it was nearly midnight, the sound of heavy

machinery thrummed through the brickwork. Inside, business was

clearly booming.

The Doctor seemed slightly out of his element. 'I wonder,' he said,

'whether it might have been best to go straight to our man in the

seraglio? He could be the source of what we saw. Perhaps he does

telekinesis as well as dirty jokes.'

'Maybe he does,' countered Sarah. 'And we can go and see him in

his dressing room when the show goes down. But as the firm that

printed the programme is only around the corner from the theatre, it

seems best to start here, doesn't it?'

The Doctor accepted the logic of the argument and yanked at the

bell-pull. A voice from within attempted to answer them over the din

of the machinery. Sarah, interpreting this noise as an invitation to enter,

pushed open the door.

Inside the print shop, two men were working furiously at an

enormous hand-operated press. One slopped ink on to the rollers, the

other fed stiff paper into the jaws of the machine. It was demanding

work, and they were not prepared to stop for the benefit of visitors.

'If it's another job, we can't do it,' barked Mr Goodall, senior.

'We've got 17 quires of cartes-des-visites to get through, and the

programmes for the Monster Concert at St Gart's Hospital. And then

there's the Christmas cards for the Christian Remembrancer.'

Mr Goodall, Jr, wiped an arm across his face, which left an inky

smear on his brow. 'I blame Gladstone,' he gasped.

The Doctor, understanding, commiserated. 'The repeal of the Paper

Tax, you mean? All very well to do away with it, but who's going to

print all the stuff, eh?'

Mr Goodall, senior, was pleased that the visitor understood their

position. 'Precisely, sir!' he exclaimed. 'If only our clients were so

understanding. Two years ago all we did was playing cards. Then the

tax on knowledge gets chucked in the scrag bin and we've barely been

to bed since. Do you know there's a type famine on? We've been down

the cellar to break out the old stuff. Some of these cards will have to go

out with the long 's' at the end of Christmas. Haven't used them since I

was a boy. Embarrassing, isn't it? Makes us look like The Spectator.'

'And what about ink?' asked Sarah. 'Is there an ink drought?'

Mr Goodall, senior, loosed a dirty chuckle. 'Not round here, miss.

But maybe you'll find one in the next street. Or in the next one.'

'You've found some way round it, then?'

'Let's just say, miss,' replied Goodall, Jr, 'that we no longer require

the services of the lampblack factory.'

'Maybe,' said Goodall, senior, attempting to suppress an attack of

hysteria, 'they'd better close it down and put a plaque on the wall

saying, "Charles Dickens worked here."' Goodall, Jr, exploded with

laughter and lurched backwards into a pile of uncut yellow paper. He

only stopped laughing when a young woman in a fur wrap bounded

into the shop.

'Hold the front page, boys,' she declared. 'The Prince Consort has

retched his last. I reckon you'll need a drop more of the Everlasting!'

She dipped her hand into her little velvet bag, and pulled out a bottle

with a dainty silver stopper. As she did so, Sarah sensed a movement at

the window. She turned to see a dark shape sliding up the pane. It was

joined by another. And another - until the glass was black with the

grinning faces of pantomime clowns.

It was Anak, King of the Giants, who discovered the body of Simia the

Missing Link. And this was fortunate, because it was only Anak who

had the power to bring her back to life.

Simia was slumped against the door of her dressing room, her bristly

knees drawn up to her chest and her arms raised above her head, as

though she had attempted to escape an assailant by pushing herself

across the floor on her back. Around her body, the unpainted boards

were scattered with small rectangular pieces of blank white cardboard.

Anak pulled a carved ivory tube from his carpet bag and used it to

listen to her heart. 'Cardiac seizure,' he whispered. 'Excellent.

Something in my repertoire.' He knelt beside her and pressed his palms

together in an attitude of prayer. After a few moments he unclasped his

hands. A voice drifted up from the street: a newspaper seller shouting

about death and Windsor Castle. A few moments passed in silence.

Then, like a bored railway passenger lifting a discarded magazine from

the seat, Anak picked one of the blank cards from Simia's body and

turned it over in his hand. As he did, the glare of the gaslight picked

out an impression on its bleached surface. If he held it at the right

angle, he could just pick out a pair of words - 'Merry Christmas!' - and

the ghost of a robin, clutching a sprig of holly in its beak.

'What happened to me?'

Simia's eyes had snapped open. She was struggling to raise herself

from the floor.

'Nothing that a little drop of hartshorn couldn't cure,' cooed Anak.

'It was the shock of hearing the news about the Prince, I'm sure. What

is she going to do without him? What are we all going to do without

him?'

Anak helped Simia to her feet, keeping his back bent so as not to

smack his head against any of the architraves. As they moved away

from the dressing rooms, Simia began to regain her strength - to the

extent that when they ran into George Evans, the stage manager

scarcely noticed that anything was amiss.

'There's a gentleman to see you, sir,' he gasped, pulling off his

spectacles and rubbing them on the front of his shirt. 'No card, but he

introduced himself as the Doctor. Looked like he was in the

profession.'

'More than one, actually,' trilled the Doctor, appearing behind

Evans, and acknowledging Simia with a low bow. 'But I'm here in an

amateur capacity tonight. I simply came to return an item of lost

property to this gentleman.' The Doctor's eyes darted up and down

Anak's body. 'What's that marvellous pudding they make on the Rock

Belt of Hextacosulous, Mr Anak? It's so long since I've been.'

Anak's face warmed with a nostalgic glow. 'Doctor, you're a man of

taste - despite the evidence of that blouson. I'm delighted to make your

acquaintance.'

'Do you think if we described it to the chef at the Cremorne Gardens

that he might be able to whoosh some up for us?'

'We can try. But I'm not sure that Chelsea has a grocer who would

supply you with the milk of a Hextacosulite sand-cow. Not at this hour,

anyway.'

At one o'clock on a more customary Sunday morning, the platform at

the Cremorne Gardens would have been rattled by two-thousand feet

moving to the beat of a Polka Mazurka. Tonight, the floor was bare.

The resident orchestra, housed inside a wooden pagoda at the centre of

the dance floor, played something slow and reassuring. A few couples

wandered quietly under the elms that bordered the lawn. Swells and

dodgers in the supper boxes consumed champagne and oysters with

sepulchral seriousness. Sarah Jane Smith and Mary Prout sat at their

table, watching the coloured gaslights play inside the crystal grotto.

'When I was a girl,' said Mary, turning the treasured glass bottle

between her fingers, 'my father brought me here to see Madame

Poitevin's balloon ascent. They dressed her as Europa and sat her on

the back of a bull. You should have heard it moo as they burnt up the

gas.' She pressed the bottle against her cheek, enjoying its warmth. 'Do

you think those things will follow me here?'

Sarah gazed across the deserted boards. 'Depends whether they like

oysters.'

The door to the booth opened and in swept the Doctor, Simia and

Anak. The giant ducked under the lintel, fixed Mary Prout with a steely

stare, and seated himself at the head of the table. The Doctor and Simia

took their places either side of him, but said nothing.

'Mary Prout,' Anak began. 'I'm most happy to be reunited with you.

The last time we met you were obliged to leave in a hurry. Shortly after

a rummage in my carpet bag, I believe.' Mary Prout blushed. She set

the silver-topped bottle down on the tablecloth.

'It's late,' sighed the giant. 'But before we all retire to bed, I'd like

to tell you a story.' And he began his narrative. It was, reflected Sarah

Jane Smith, the oddest after-dinner speech she had ever heard.

'There was once a place called Hextacosulous Blue. Its inhabitants

had a huge appetite for one thing. War. And when one war had been

concluded, the survivors began to prosecute another. And another. And

another. Until, one morning, the generals announced that all the fun

had gone out of the game, and that the remaining armies should direct

their energies towards a new enemy: their sister world, Hextacosulous

Green. The inhabitants of Green were just as bad. Most of them didn't

have a conciliatory bone in their bodies. The war went on for ten-

thousand years. And you know what? They enjoyed it. We in the Rock

Belt - a scattering of asteroids that fills Hextacosulite space - just kept

our heads down. That's our way. My father was 11-feet tall and lived

most of his life in the emergency tunnels. Lived there for ten-thousand

years as Blue fought Green and Green fought Blue. Until one day, he

woke up to silence. The battle appeared to be over. So a party of

investigators rose up from the Rock Belt and made landfall on Blue

and Green. Both worlds had become great blank white wastelands.

Except, in an obscure corner of Hextacosulous Blue, my father

discovered a small pool of thick dark liquid. It was moving, thrashing,

writhing about. He put it under the microscope. And do you know what

he saw? The war between the Green and the Blue. Who knows what

weapon had wrought this transformation upon the parties, but there

they were, in the field of the microscope, reduced to a slick of warring

microbes. Tumbling, grasping. struggling. And so the war went on, in a

test tube in my father's study, for another ten-thousand years. It

became a curiosity that he used to bring out at parties. He'd place it in

the glare of the stereopticon, and we'd watch the battle projected on the

ceiling. Until the day I decided to run away from home, and take it

with me - hoping that I might earn a small living by using it to

entertain paying customers. Until the day I came to London, and you,

Mary Prout, invited me into the snug bar of the Lamb and Flag on

Long Acre.'

'Madam,' said the Doctor, steepling his fingers like a presiding

Justice, 'do you realise that for the last three months, an interplanetary

war has been raging in your handbag?'

Mary Prout was not listening. She was staring at a group of new

dinner guests who had slipped, unannounced, into the room - flowing

under the door like a puddle of sentient molasses, oozing over the

wainscot and up the wallpapered boards of the booth; coalescing into a

sea of tiny faces and figures. A gaggle of pantomime clowns; a flock of

beady-eyed robins; a row of smiling choristers. Other figures too, new

to the party: a group of playing-card royals; sixteen Christmas

puddings, their currants massing into malignant sneers; a conurbation

of snow-stacked country churches; a forest of pear trees, each topped

with a vicious-looking partridge.

'The robins on my Christmas cards,' gasped Simia.

'Anak,' said the Doctor, drily. 'Are we in any danger?'

'Only Mary Prout,' intoned the giant. 'She has kept this war close to

her body for three months. She has nursed it in her pocket. Taken

comfort from it. Now she must become its final battlefield.' He pushed

the bottle across the table, until it was almost touching Mary's hands.

'Drink.'

'Don't do it,' whispered Sarah Jane Smith.

Anak ignored her. 'Drink,' he repeated.

Mary looked to the Doctor, but found no comfort in his eyes.

'It's the only way to bring these events to a conclusion,' he affirmed.

'This, Mary, is your Sydney Carton moment.'

Mary rose to her feet. With shaking hands, she popped the stopper

from the bottle. 'To the Prince,' said Mary. 'God rest his soul.'

Six hours later, teasing the bones from an enormous pair of kippers at

the bar of a well-upholstered establishment on Mercer Street, Sarah

Jane Smith found it hard to recollect exactly how her supper at the

Cremorne Gardens had concluded. She remembered how Mary had

downed the contents of the bottle in a gulp; how the mass of inky

figures had swarmed all over her body like ants on a discarded toffee-

apple; how, instead of screaming, Mary had let out a series of

impressively dirty laughs and given Anak a hearty thump on the back.

She also remembered the Doctor getting to his feet and asking the

maitre d' to fetch a case of champagne.

But there was one image that refused to make sense in the cold light

of a December Sunday morning in 1861: the Doctor, Anak and Simia

belting out Rule, Britannia at the tops of their voices as Mary Prout

stood on the table and peeled down her corset. And on the woman's

back, Sarah felt sure, was the most astonishingly vivid and intricate

tattoo that she had ever seen: the Crystal Palace, sparkling in the

summer sunshine; the arms of the house of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, with

the lions of Thuringen and Meissen rampant; Queen Victoria and her

Prince Consort, in medieval dress, gazing into each other's eyes. The

work was so fine that Albert's whiskers appeared to be moving in the

breeze. Sarah resolved never again to drink champagne bottled before

1850.

The proprietor slammed a mug of hot coffee on the counter. 'Will

the gentleman be coming back, miss? Only his eggs are starting to burn

at the edges.'

No answer was required. The Doctor crashed in through the door of

the chophouse, still a little unsteady on his feet. He dragged another

stool to the counter, flopped down by Sarah lane Smith and pulled a

newspaper from the inside pocket of his velvet jacket. He pushed the

paper towards his companion. 'Be discreet with that,' he said. 'Fresh

from the TARDIS library. Isn't out for another ten days.'

The front page was bordered with funereal black ink. Sarah gazed at

the date: 24 December 1861. The Doctor tapped at an advertisement in

the entertainments column.

EGYPTIAN HALL, Piccadilly. Special presentation for

Christmas week only. Maria Parota, the Living Panorama. A

Marvel of the Tattooist's Art. A singular tribute to the

Lamented Prince Consort. Gentlemen receive a cigar, gratis.

The Doctor refolded the newspaper, 'Shall we stick around for a few

days and catch her act?' he breezed. 'I hear she's quite good.'

Short Trips: Farewells

I wrote an editor's note explaining the theme for this one, but for some reason

unknown to me it didn't make it to print, so I'll explain now. I'd agreed to

return to the range to edit the final collection - well, how could I resist? So

this was us all waving goodbye to Short Trips. But then, well, it wasn't the

final collection after all. But it was still my last collection - so the theme still

felt appropriate to me, although the reader at large probably wouldn't have

spotted that or cared. Actually, they probably wouldn't even be interested in

that explanation, which is probably why it didn't appear. Anyway, bye bye, Short

Trips. It was nice knowing you.

After the last weepie story (OK, so you'll probably have just read eleven

stories in between, but from my perspective...) something funny seemed to be

in order - and Life After Queth by Matt Kimpton fitted the bill perfectly (although

like a lot of the best humorous prose, it's got a heart, too). One of the joys of

short stories in Doctor Who is that they can fill in the gaps. Who could possibly

resist the idea of the Gravis having a bit of an adventure with the Doctor and

Tegan after Frontios?

Jacqueline Rayner

Life After Queth

Matt Kimpton

An Adventure of the Fifth Doctor,

with Tegan Jovanka

Queth lurched towards its fate, threading an n-dimensional line through existence

towards its inevitable termination.

Of course, in another, rather more accurate sense, it did no such thing. The idea is

frankly asinine. There can be, by definition, no change in n-dimensional phase-space,

where time is just another unchanging axis, the infinity of events a static block of fact,

the marvellous tracery of the universe fixed and complete. There is no movement. No

was, will or could be. Only is.

This is why phase-space is so dull.

Nevertheless, the world moved. As the plane of the present slewed on through the slab

of history -for all that neither of them existed or did any such thing - the planet edged

ever closer to its destiny. And then, some would say, a box appeared. This too is patently

drivel. Things can't appear in phase-space. They're either there or not.

Nevertheless - the box appeared. This is why real life is so exciting.

'Extraordinary! What's this green stuff?' asked the woodlouse.

'Moss,' said Tegan wearily. She'd said a lot of things wearily recently, from

'Just a wall' to 'Roundels, apparently' to 'I don't know, leave it alone', all of

which were apparently desperately exciting to their current, hopefully soon-to-

be-ex, passenger.

Oh, yes. Passenger. Their hideous, alien, gravity-controlling insect passenger,

which had tried to kill all of them on Frontios, and which the Doctor had

viciously dealt with by inviting it into the TARDIS and giving it a lift somewhere

else.

The thing gaped at her, antennae quivering in excitement. 'Moss! What is

moss?'

'Well, not this, if we're going to be technical,' came a distracted-sounding

voice from somewhere in the vicinity of Tegan's knees. 'I'd have said more of a

liverwort, really. See the rhizoids? Very simple structure. No sign of

protonemata, either, although that could be the time of year... '

Tegan glanced down. The Doctor was kneeling against the stained, rocky wall

of the cave opening, where the alien liverwort was no doubt making a terrible

mess of his period knees. He was frowning at the wall through half-moon

glasses, fingering a few leafy fronds of what Tegan had so casually and

erroneously dismissed as moss. He held some up to the light, presumably for the

woodlouse to get a better view of the laughably simple rhizoids. 'What do you

think?'

The giant woodlouse — it was actually a Tractator, Tegan recalled, and called

itself the Gravis, although she wasn't sure why she was supposed to care —

shuffled forward, body swaying with the weight of its bulky shell. Its slanted,

almond-shaped eyes, with wavy lines in place of pupils, gave it a thoughtful,

cunning air. 'I don't know, Doctor... What's a year?'

Tegan sighed. Her own limited stock of patience had been exhausted about

twenty minutes into the trip, when the woodlouse's boundless enthusiasm for

learning about the TARDIS had run up against the limits of her knowledge of it

— which pretty much amounted to how the bit in the middle went up and down,

and what you pulled to open the door. Since then she'd been cooped up inside in

an increasingly foul mood — 'Just a short hop!' the Doctor had promised, and

then, when pressed after 12 hours, gone off on one about temporal perspective

and tangential chronomass — with nothing to do but try to explain the function

of a wicker chair to something evolutionarily incapable of sitting down. No

wonder their other travelling companion had wanted to sit this one out.

'Doctor...' she hinted. 'Furlough will be waiting...'

'Just a moment, Tegan. There's something not quite right here.'

No kidding, she thought. This was supposed to be a waste-disposal mission

— drop off the leader of the despicable Tractators on some uninhabited planet

where it couldn't kill anybody, then head back to Frontios for tea and victory —

and now the Doctor had gone and made friends with it. Only hours ago they'd

had to forcibly prevent it from using zombified human colonists to excavate its

planet and turn it into a spaceship, but trust the Doctor not to let that get in the

way. Kolkokron was a nice change from the barren crags of Frontios, at least. The

TARDIS had barely even managed its usual trick of landing in a desolate cave,

choosing as a compromise this rather pleasant mossy hollow in the side of a

forest-filled crater. The trees seemed almost supernaturally verdant, forming a

thick canopy webbed together by curving, interwoven branches that hung down

in loops and threads to plunge back into the rich, moist earth.

There was no birdsong, no whirr or chirrup of insects, but the air was an

orange-grey mist of rain hissing gently all around them, softening the distance

into hazy suggestion and smelling of just-cut grass. It was, Tegan decided, stupid

and unfair.

After all, this was the first peaceful place they'd seen in months, and they'd

gone and brought a monster with them. She'd much rather have brought the

surviving colonists here and left the Gravis to its shiny caves and stupid gravel,

but the Doctor had been adamant. He couldn't be seen to interfere, for reasons

that presently eluded her but probably included the words 'Rassilon' and 'Laws

of Time', and that meant moving the woodlouse. It was Kolkokron or nothing.

The Doctor stood up abruptly, brushing bits of phoney moss from his hand.

'This isn't Kolkokron,' he said.

Beside him, the woodlouse looked astonished, inasmuch as that was possible

for a six-foot crustacean with no moving features. Essentially it just flapped its

paws. 'It's not?' it screeched, in a voice of pure, grating evil. 'Golly.'

Tegan snorted. 'TARDIS technology comes up trumps again.'

'Nothing so straightforward. The TARDIS says this is Kolkokron. It's

certainly in the right place. I cross-referenced the coordinates from the Yyb

Fissure — that's barely a meteor's throw away. And yet... ' He waved a hand

expansively at the dense forest that lay before them. 'That's not Kolkokron.'

'It is certainly a mystery, Doctor!'

Tegan scowled. 'It's only a planet. Maybe you just don't recognise this bit.'

'Impossible. I know Kolkokron like the back of Mimas, it's completely

without life.'

'Ah! And lacks this fascinating liverwort!' Flap, flap. Idiot.

'Exactly,' said the Doctor. He stuck his hands in his pockets, surveying the

forest before them with a pensive air. 'I had wondered whether all this had been

brought here recently, some sort of planet-forming, but it looks native enough.

Plant-only biospheres leave a very distinctive evolutionary footprint.'

The Gravis wiggled its antennae in glee. 'Then the logic is unassailable. We

have discovered an anomaly in space and time!'

Tegan glared at the back of its head, which looked exactly like the rest of its

lumpy hunch of a shell. 'Or,' she offered, 'we're lost.'

'Indeed,' it crowed. 'Lost in a spatial-temporal distortion it will take all our

wits to unravel!'

Tegan rolled her eyes.

'Now, come on,' scolded the Doctor. 'There's a mystery here, Tegan. Don't

you think we should make some effort to solve it?'

'No,' she said. 'I think we should get back to Frontios.'

'But what about the anomaly?'

'Nuts to the anomaly. Turlough will be wondering where we are.'

'So am I. That's the point.'

Tegan sighed. The woodlouse had bobbed its way over to the cave mouth,

and was now delicately clambering out into the open air. It was making excited

little noises about how big trees were, and how colourful everything looked, and

how it had always imagined sky would be flatter than that. It was just possible

she hated it now even more than when it had been trying to kill her and use her

corpse to drive a digger.

'It'll do though, won't it?' she pleaded. 'I mean, the wretched thing looks

happy enough.' She lowered her voice to a whisper. 'Let's just take off while it's

not looking.'

There was a pause. The Doctor gave a little cough. While the Gravis trundled

on its merry way down the slope outside, doing its gravelly best to whistle, a

nasty feeling formed in Tegan's stomach. The promise of a row.

'Doctor... You did tell it we were leaving it here?'

He shifted uncomfortably, faffing about with his glasses and feigning sudden

interest in a wobbly hinge as an excuse not to look at her. 'Try to understand,

Tegan... The poor creature's been under a lot of stress. Finding out the humans it

killed are sentient... The loss of its extrasensory drone bodies... Falling over... '

'Doctor!' Tegan said, incredulity rising in her throat like very angry vomit.

She knew it wasn't exactly the Doctor's style to drop the Gravis off a cliff or

something while it was unconscious, but this was ridiculous. 'You can't get

squeamish about abandoning it, the thing's a murderer! You should have killed

it when you had the chance!'

'He has apologised, Tegan,' replied the Doctor reproachfully. 'Anyway, what

would that achieve?'

'It would have served it right!'

The Doctor frowned. 'What a peculiar idea. Still, it's too late now.'

'Not for us. The place is uninhabited, we can just zap off back to Frontios.'

'What, and risk exposing him to an unknown psycho-quantum field? No. Not

until we find out what's going on. Then we'll... Then we'll abandon him. I

promise.'

Yeah, thought Tegan. And I'll drop you back at Heathrow first thing. The

Doctor's promises had a way of taking a while to come true.

'Come, companion Tegan, let us explore!' shrieked the Gravis from outside,

where it was busy discovering the joy of rain. 'There is a mystery to solve here!'

Tegan sighed. It was going to be one of those days. Again.

It is important to remember that events only happen once. If that.

Even the most casual inspection of the so-called 'nature' of the alleged universe will

demonstrate that time, itself a parochial absurdity of purely academic interest, is a linear

concept. Even if it were to be admitted that Queth was moving through phase-space

towards its doom, then (which it is not, such a notion being arrant conceptual tosh), it

certainly couldn't be said that it were doing so for a second or greater time. Not only can

a complex space-time event not have an ending, it absolutely cannot have ended countless

times already.

Such claims are twaddle. Drivel. The baldest of dash. The poppiest, one might say, of

cock.

Queth was hurtling - or rather not, as change is an almost violently meaningless

concept - towards its certain if purely notional doom, for the first time, the last time, the

absolute and only time.

Again.

The Gravis wasn't good with hills, it turned out. Particularly ones made

entirely from thick, dark mud, alleviated only by the occasional hidden tree root

or treacherous extrusion of unexpected rock. It had fallen over twice, the first

time with great enthusiasm and the second rather less so, and Tegan was

growing heartily sick of levering it out of the slime. So far they'd explored a

couple of hundred yards of muddy forest, and solved precisely nothing.

In fairness she wasn't doing much better herself — she liked to think of her

leather miniskirt as a practical choice for the discerning girl-about-the-cosmos,

but her heels weren't doing her any favours, and her timeless, streaky punk top

was slick with rain. The Doctor, of course, was his usual mix of frowning

curiosity and bursts of sudden, boundless enthusiasm, merrily leading them in

the direction of where he claimed to be able to see a pall of dirty grey smoke

rising over the trees. CA sure sign of a level-4B technology!' he'd promised,

although Tegan was fairly sure that was a pencil.) He strode across the muck

with something amounting to glee, extolling the virtues of what, to Tegan, was

perfectly ordinary dirt, as the lumbering woodlouse levered its way out of

another blasted pothole.

'Tremendous nitrogen levels, you see,' he was saying. Or something like that,

at any rate: she'd just caught a heel on something unwise. 'Rich sunlight, plenty

of water, all the mud you can eat... Must be marvellous for growing dahlias.'

'I know little of these... "dahlias", Doctor,' said the Gravis, struggling out of a

small pit. It flexed its antennae forlornly, a haze of bright pink light forming

around the veiny, tentacular branches above as it tried to lift itself with its stupid

gravity powers. The only result was a splatter of dirty rainwater as the canopy

temporarily gave way, showering the creature with twigs and rotting leaves.

'Are all planets so... mouldy?' it asked, when it had fought its way upright again.

Tegan wouldn't exactly have called it whining, but there was definitely a less

joyous tone to its voice.

Typically, the Doctor didn't seem to have noticed. 'Not at all, Gravis! Infinite

space, infinite variety. There are worlds of metal, deserts of glass... Oceans of gas

so thick you could walk across them... Cities made of meat, and people made of

kelp.'

'Eww,' said the woodlouse. It was something of a revelation.

'They're not all like that,' Tegan pointed out, stumping onwards. 'I mean, a

lot of them are just rocks. Gallifrey's rubbish. And Frontios is a dump.'

'I am fond of Frontios.'

'Well, it's a paradise compared to most of the planets this close to the galactic

rim,' the Doctor pointed out. 'Barren wastelands, most of them. All rocks and

boulders.'

'Kolkokron's nice, though,' Tegan interjected hastily, giving him a

meaningful glare. 'Isn't it?'

'Oh. Oh, yes. Splendid. I admit, it is a bit rocky... '

'I am fond of rocks,' said the Gravis, walking into a tree. Tegan shook her

head and walked on, pretending not to notice. The Doctor's taste in companions

had gone really weird since he'd changed his face and got into cricket, she

thought. First Turlough, then that useless android who sulked in its corridor and

refused to talk in anything but binary, and now Casper the Friendly Tractator.

The sooner they got back to Frontios, the —

'Ulululululu!'

An unearthly shriek rang through the trees, piercing the stillness and her

eardrums all at once. Bad news, she knew without thinking. This was no

background forest noise, but a full-fledged, purposeful howl. As if in

accompaniment, the branches started to rattle against one another in staccato

beats, the weblike canopy shaking with echoes of distant movements.

'Doctor? I thought you said this planet was uninhabited!'

'Well, yes...' he said, looking around fretfully. 'I also said it was Kolkokron,

and look how that turned out.'

The cry came again, echoing oddly through the web of foliage, sounding like

the call of some otherworldly beast. Well, no, it sounded like a chicken gargling,

but she wasn't about to take any risks.

'Hide!' she yelled, realising too late that in 'avoiding otherworldly hunter'

terms she would have been better off whispering, or perhaps tapping people on

the shoulder. Still, she grabbed the Doctor by the arm and hurled them both

down into the damp undergrowth, which turned out to be composed of waxy,

rhubarb- sized leaves that smelled faintly alcoholic. And almost immediately, he

picked himself up and ran back the way they had come. What was he thinking?

'Doctor? Tegan?' called a voice dripping with what sounded like evil but

which the Doctor had assured her was only mucus. Of course, the dratted

Gravis. It was still standing by its tree, yards behind, oscillating twitchily back

and forth in confusion. 'What is that sound? Where have you gone?'

She despaired sometimes, she really did. She picked herself up with a sigh,

ready to follow the Doctor back to fetch it, but as she did so the cry came again,

closer this time. This one sounded more like a chicken being strangled. But the

next one sounded like a chicken saying, 'Shut up, idiot! Do you want to tell the

whole world we're here?'

'Yes,' gargled another voice, nonplussed. 'Isn't that the point?'

'Oh, stop being contrary, Loff,' snapped a third.

'Don't have a go. You're always having a go.'

'Ululululu!'

'Oh, shut up, Trehv,' said several voices at once.

Tegan realised with a start that she was standing in full view of whatever was

coming, and pelted back to the others, who had still barely budged an inch.

There was a zzchming of what sounded suspiciously like a laser, or a phaser, or

one of those other things that ended in 'aser' and pain. She thought she saw a

flash of blue somewhere away in the trees.

'Run!' she shouted to the Gravis. It looked at her blankly. It didn't, Tegan

realised, actually have any legs. Didn't bode well.

'Not that way, the other way!' something shouted.

'Ulululu!'

'Oh, don't set him off again.'

'Are those... aliens?' the Gravis asked the Doctor, thrilled at the prospect.

Despite the Doctor's best efforts to spur the woodlouse on, they were ambling

away with all the urgency of a picnic.

'Could we go a bit faster?' she urged, over the Doctor's babblings about

xenomorphic biocompatibility. 'I think they've got guns.'

'Ooh, what's a gun?' asked the Gravis. Tegan fought the urge to kick it.

Behind them, gargled cries of 'Death to the Outsiders!' echoed ever closer

through the trees. That was familiar territory, at least, although the heckles that

accompanied them ('Outside what, exactly? I mean it's a forest, how much more

outside can you get?') were a new and exciting variation. She glanced back

towards the unseen voices — which seemed to be going in circles and squabbling

— and applied her shoulder to the Tractator's shell, trying to get it to move

onwards.

'It won't do you any good, you know,' said a voice from right behind her.

Tegan spun round. There was no one there.

'Not that it'll make any difference me telling you that. Blinkin' predestination,

it's a mug's game, really, isn't it?'

Tegan stared. There was someone there, for certain values of 'someone', and

indeed 'there'. Hanging from the forest canopy by a long, sinuous tail — no, by

two tails — was an ugly, rumpled, warty creature with dull, dirty scales. It

looked a bit like an armadillo would look if an armadillo had a face full of

clacking mandibles, a pair of prehensile tails and a home on a planet of mud.

'Doctor... ' she said.

'Oh, have you found a friend, Tegan?' he asked distractedly, busy levering

the Gravis off a small stone. 'Well done, we could do with more of those.

Although personally I find the philosophical rejection of free will rather

unconvincing.'

'Well, you can't help it, can you?' said the creature. 'Que se blinkin' ra, innit?

You want to duck about now, Tegan.'

Tegan didn't know how the thing knew she was called Tegan, or indeed how

it knew she was supposed to duck, or indeed generally what the hell was going

on. However, two years aboard the TARDIS, off and on, had honed her instincts

to a razor-sharp edge of terror. When someone said 'run', you ran. And when an

alien armadillo said 'cluck'...

She hurled herself to the ground. A bolt of blue-white energy shot through

the air where she had been standing a moment before, hissing as it turned the

rain in its path to superheated steam. It slammed into a tree trunk yards away,

and... something went wrong with her eyes. It was as if the world bulged out

from the impact point, the forest seen for a moment through a grotesque

magnifying lens before slamming back to nothing. The trunk had gone, but there

was no hole, no smoke, no fire... The canopy just drooped a little lower there, the

adjacent trees bent absurdly inwards, as if the space had simply been removed

from existence and the world stitched back together around it, seamless but

smaller.

'Twit,' came a voice from the trees.

'Well, you try aiming something with your hands,' something else retorted.

'I'd like to see you manage it.'

'Look out, Doctor!' shouted the Gravis excitedly, as another shot hissed past

them, wiping out an innocent clump of rhubarb. More by accident than anything

else, the mobile chaos in the trees finally broke into the clearing, resolving itself

into half-a-dozen more space-armadillos, all firing in random directions. With a

zzchming of energy, a patch of mud by the Tractator's shell popped out of

existence, prompting a woodlousy squeak of excitement.

'There he is! Next to the tree!'

'What tree? We're in a forest.'

'Watch out, don't shoot Nuss!'

Zzchming!

'Oh, for Phoon's sake... what did I just say?'

The scaly little creatures swung rapidly through the trees, tail over tail like

inverted monkeys, alternately ululating and telling each other to pack it in. Their

bodies hung pendulum fashion from the ropelike branches, tiny mandibles

clacking at the head of the lazy L of each body, just above the tiny, toylike guns

they held in their front legs. There were only about six of them altogether, but

then, thought Tegan, they only had to not miss once.

'Don't worry, they all miss you,' said the first, apparently psychic armadillo

from a few feet above. She rolled over in time to see it drop lazily down from the

canopy and plonk itself unceremoniously beside her, chewing on a bit of fruit, as

another shot zzchminged through the trees and evaporated the spot where he

had been hanging. 'Name's Chaugh, by the way. Resistance is futile.'

'Is it? To what?'

'Well... anything, really. That's predestination for you.' Tegan stared at it.

'Just making conversation.'

Zzchming! Zzchming! Zzchming! went the armadillos, bubbles of forest

imploding on every side. The Gravis seemed positively delighted by the whole

thing, looking around eagerly and emitting an 'ooh!' of excitement at every close

shave. Tegan gave it a wretched glare, and decided, on balance, that she'd rather

take her chances with being shot than lie here listening to it, accompanied by the

armadillo equivalent of Nostradamus.

Pulling herself to her feet by the shell of the captivated woodlouse, she was

just in time to see the newcomers swinging to an erratic, seesawing halt in a

rough semicircle around the Doctor. 'We have you surrounded, Time Lord!'

crowed the closest one as she brushed herself down. The constant drizzle made it

a completely pointless exercise, but she felt she had to make the effort.

'No, you haven't,' she pointed out irritably. She was tired and muddy

already, and being shot at hadn't improved her temper. 'Half of you aren't even

facing the right way. And there's a massive gap over there.'

'Kratt, I told you to cover his flank,' muttered the first speaker crossly.

'That's not his flank, it's his side,' said, presumably, Kratt — a scrawny little

creature with a lopsided head, hanging near the back of the group and sulking.

'Don't be such a pedant!'

'Oh, leave him alone, Plong,' chimed another.

'You keep out of this!'

'Ulululu!'

'Shut up!'

This was directed, she assumed, at Trehv, who turned out to be the smallest

armadillo. He was hanging upside down, aiming enthusiastically at a mossy

rock, and didn't give the impression of being quite all there. Plong gave him a

long, hard glare, as if daring him to go ululu again, before attempting to regain

his momentum.

'Doctor!' he said grandly, in the manner of someone embarking on a long-

rehearsed speech.

'Why does everyone know my name today?' grumbled the Doctor. 'It's

terribly off-putting, I —' He was silenced by Plong, who was looking daggers at

him, inasmuch as this is possible for an armadillo. 'Sorry, do go on.'

'Doctor!' Plong began again, with a stern cough. 'Tegan! And Gravis! We, the

Queeth of Queth, greet you, and by the will of the people and the knowledge of

Phoon, apologise for what we are about to do.'

The Doctor and Tegan exchanged worried glances. 'This is nice,' said the

Gravis, peering up short-sightedly at Plong with every sign of fascination. 'Does

this sort of thing happen a lot?'

'Like you wouldn't believe,' muttered Tegan.

Plong waited for them to finish before resuming, with a cross little hmph.

'The Time of Isolation is nearly upon us,' he said, after a moment's pause to

remember where he'd got up to. 'The Doctor must not be allowed to interfere.

According to Phoon's great plan, and to safeguard our planet, our future and our

cats, we sentence you —'

'Did he say cats?' asked Tegan. This was turning out to be quite an odd day.

'We sentence you — '

'What's a cat?' asked the Gravis.

'We sentence you,' snarled Plong, 'thank you, yes — to removal from the

physical universe.' On his gesture, the armadillos swung closer, tightening the

circle and occasionally bumping into one another and swearing. Plong did his

best to ignore them. 'No appeal is permitted. Execution is immediate. Prepare to

be Isolated.'

'Don't worry,' muttered Chaugh, as the circle of armadillos levelled their

guns at her head. 'They don't do it.'

The Gravis gaped, although in fairness it would be hard pressed to do

anything else. 'Execution?' it rasped, the bizarre dangly bits in its mouth rippling

outwards in alarm. 'You mean... these creatures intend to kill us?' It sounded

terrified, which was a bit rich coming from something that had been intending

full-scale planetary invasion the day before. It gave a wheezy scream as Plong

raised an arm, and inexplicably threw itself to the ground — or at any rate fell

over fairly purposefully — landing face down in the mud with a sad little

splatter. It lay there on its belly, scrabbling at the mud with its pathetic flipper

paws. Tegan felt faintly embarrassed.

'Now wait a moment!' cried the Doctor, waving his hands in the air for a

chance to speak — and stepping defensively, Tegan couldn't help noticing, in

front of the Gravis, leaving her directly in the line of fire. 'That's Phoon's great

plan, is it? Safeguard the planet, don't permit me to interfere, that sort of thing?'

A general ripple of agreement ran through the tangled branches. 'Yes!' it

went, and 'Phoon's great plan!' and 'Ulululu!'

'Never going to happen,' muttered Chaugh from somewhere near Tegan's

knees.

'Ah, ah! And how do you know that?' the Doctor demanded, demonstrating

the ancient art of making it up as he went along. 'Is he here?'

Phoon, said the general consensus, was not here. Phoon, added a vocal

minority, was dead. But Phoon, insisted a large contingent led by Plong, would

have wanted them shot.

'Please do not shoot me with a gun!' added the sobbing Gravis from its

puddle. Tegan rolled her eyes.

The Doctor frowned up at them through the drizzle, feigning confusion. 'He's

not here? Then how can you be sure what he'd have wanted, hmm?'

Tegan couldn't quite believe they were even trying this. 'He left orders,' said

Plong, fixing the Doctor with a steely glare that might have been more effective if

he wasn't eight feet away and an armadillo. The Doctor beamed back at him

unfazed.

'Ah, but how do you know he did? Maybe that's just what he wanted you to

think.'

'It is what we think.'

'Well, there you are then. Dare you take that risk?'

He held the gaze, gambling on an empty hand, and several empty heads. The

Queeth of Queth looked at one another, bemused. Chaugh continued to pick

dolefully through the leaf-litter, while Trehv revolved slowly on the spot, one tail

caught in his mandibles. The sword of Damocles hanging by the thread of

ignorance.

Very slowly, the Doctor lowered his hands. A tiny, self-satisfied snort drifted

up from Chaugh. 'Told you,' he sniffed.

'Splendid. So perhaps now you'd like to put those things down and explain

this plan to us like civilised creatures? And help us get our friend up out of the

mud, it plays havoc with his uropods.'

'And then can we shoot you?' asked Kratt hopefully.

'We'll see.'

Free will, it has often been noted, is neither.

Past and future, schism and spinward, throughstream and counterphase; the terms

are arbitrary. Every point in phase-space, throughout every dimension, already exists. If

actions do determine what comes after (which they don't, of course, because there is no

after), it is only because they too are determined by what came before (although, of course,

there is no before).

Nobody said you were going to like this.

There is no room for freedom. Those clusters of phase-space nodes that call themselves

people have no more 'choice' in their 'actions' than characters in a story already written.

Even if time existed, which it doesn't, even if time repeated, which it can't, still, people

would not be free.

Try as they might - and they would, for that too is inevitable - no one could save the

world.

'So Phoon has saved the world?' the Doctor asked, for easily the severalth

time. It was proving a frustrating task to get a straight answer from the

armadillos, and the reason why was cleaning its mandibles with a twig.

Nope, not remotely,' it said, spitting out a pip. It was Chaugh.

'Yes he has!' said Plong, who was hanging above him, swinging angrily by

the tails.

'He hasn't, you know,' said Chaugh. 'We're all doomed.'

'Yes he has,' chorused the others. There was no denying it, this was gripping

stuff.

The day, if that's what it was, was turning cold, the faint white suggestion of

a sun sinking lower in the mist. Tegan's excitingly streaky punk top now clung

wetly to her back in the drizzle, snapping chill slaps down her back every time

she lost her grip on the Tractator's slick shell. Overhead, armadillos swung in

excited circles in the rain, offering useful advice like 'Pick it up', 'Don't drop it

again', and 'Oh, you did'. The Doctor crouched in the mud, trying to get some

sense out of the others about Phoon and his plan, whoever-and-his-whatever

they were. Tegan couldn't tell if he was genuinely interested, playing for time

until the creatures forgot about killing them, or just trying to get out of helping

pick up the bug.

Still, thought Tegan as she set about once more levering the wretched Gravis

out of the mud, it was marginally better than being shot.

'The world has been saved,' Kratt was explaining calmly to a baffled Doctor.

He was apparently one of the brighter Queeth, and as such one of the few not

doing headstands in the rhubarb. 'Phoon's plan guarantees it.'

'Does it heck,' muttered Chaugh moodily. The end is seriously nigh. Twenty-

three and a half, 24 minutes tops.'

'Splitter.'

'Now, hold on... ' said the Doctor wearily, squatting between them with his

hands clasped between his stripy knees. 'Saved from whom, exactly? What

precisely is Queth supposed to be in danger from?'

'Nothing. It's perfectly safe.'

'No, but if it wasn't... '

'It is.'

'Mysterious enemies,' Chaugh chimed in morosely. 'Dunn° who they are.

Been hunting us for as long as anyone can remember.'

'They've destroyed all our home planets,' added Loff from a tree. 'It's been

awful.'

'But no longer!' Plong assured them. 'Phoon has made sure of that.'

'No he hasn't,' added Chaugh. Someone threw a nut at him.

'Phoon has a plan,' said Kratt matter-of-factly, shushing the others into quiet

with a spare tail. 'The Echo Effect will surround us. The Time of Isolation will

begin. Queth will be protected from all dangers, and for all eternity.'

'Yeah, that's true enough,' admitted Chaugh. He held a piece of leaf up to the

light, gave it due consideration, and popped it in his mouth. He chewed it

thoughtfully before adding, 'Still gonna end, though.'

'No it isn't.'

The argument pinged interminably back and forth, tugging Tegan's attention

this way and that like some crazy alien tennis match. She resolved not to let

herself get sucked in. She'd had enough of interminable arguing in the TARDIS;

enough of the end of the world on every world they'd landed; enough of crazy

alien tennis that time on Kasteru, and enough of the armadillos about two

minutes after she'd met them. She'd frankly had enough of the Gravis too, but

her misery could do with the company, and at least dragging it out of the mire

made her feel useful.

At last, with a final grunt of effort, she managed to roll the thing over. Blobs

of carapace squelched slowly back into the mud to leave it lying forlornly on its

side, brownish water puddling around its middle. 'This planet is... not friendly,'

it informed her weakly, once she'd picked the mud out of its wibbly mouth bits.

'You're not kidding,' she muttered, the sound of gargly argument all around

them. 'Occupational hazard with time travel. No one's ever pleased to see you.'

The creature struggled gamely to right itself, a haze of pink wrapping around

nearby tree trunks for purchase. 'I do not mean the animal tree creatures,' it

wheezed, as it wiggled its antennae for all it was worth. 'This ground is... cruel. I

tried to burrow into the safety of the earth, but the earth is not safe. It is dirty and

wet, and it has bits in it.'

'Well, that's mud for you,' said Tegan.

She tried to sound spiteful, but she couldn't really work up the enthusiasm.

After all, in her experience disillusionment was what life was all about. For

Tegan it had been becoming an air hostess. She'd wanted to fly, not stand on the

sidelines looking pretty and answering idiot questions. The 19805 hadn't been

ready for that, so she'd turned to the future; travelling in an alien time machine

capable of visiting any planet in the cosmos, any moment in the whole of

recorded history... just so she could stand on the sidelines looking pretty stupid

instead, and asking the idiot questions.

The dispirited woodlouse was simply discovering a universal rule. It didn't

matter if you took the money, opened the box, or climbed inside it and took a

spin round the galaxy: all choices led to disappointment. Made you spit blood

just to think about it, Tegan thought bitterly. But then what could you do?

'There you are, Gravis!' cried the Doctor suddenly, springing to his feet and

scattering armadillos in all directions. He bounded over to clasp the Tractator by

the closest things it had to shoulders, beaming at its disgusting mouth and failing

in any way to congratulate the mud-stained Tegan for doing all the work. 'Just

the chap we were looking for. We have a new mystery to solve!'

The woodlouse looked quietly aghast. 'Oh,' it said. 'Good.'

'You see, it seems this planet — which I hardly need remind you isn't

supposed to be here in the first place — is in a situation of some peril. In fact it's

going to be destroyed by mysterious enemies in about twenty minutes.'

'No, it isn't!' shouted Plong from the rhubarb.

'Yes, it is,' said Chaugh.

'Yes it is,' countered Loff, who had got a bit lost.

'... or else it isn't,' the Doctor concluded. 'There's a certain amount of

disagreement on the issue.'

'Oh, no, there isn't!' chanted Loff.

The Gravis swivelled to look around itself, antennae jiggling in panic. Little

blips and blops of pink appeared and disappeared in the air around it, whipping

branches back and forth at random, and twanging Trehv into the rhubarb with

an excited yip. 'The... world is going to end?' it gasped, raindrops zizzling down

its shell as it quivered all over.

The Doctor looked rather startled, doing that calming little hand gesture that

Tegan found so infuriating. 'Ah, well, now, we can't be sure of that,' he said

hastily, over the sound of Loff insisting that they could. 'That's rather the point.

Chaugh is convinced Queth can't be saved, but the others are equally sure it

already has been. Fascinating, don't you think?'

'No!' shouted Loff enthusiastically. They did their best to ignore her.

The Gravis gave a pensive wobble. 'Yes, it is most... fascinating,' it wheezed,

in a voice that wouldn't fool a four-year-old. The Doctor beamed delightedly.

'Either we cannot save this planet, or we do not need to do so. So, perhaps... we

should return to the TARDIS?'

Tegan felt a reluctant surge of admiration. That was the sort of crass

cowardice she could respect. It was almost like having Turlough with them.

But the Doctor was having none of it. 'What, and lose out on all this?' he

cried, striding around in the rain and gesturing grandly at nothing in particular.

'Give up on finding out what happened to Kolkokron? Never get to the bottom

of Phoon's plan? No, no, there's always a chance, always a choice. Always

something you can do if you dig deep enough. I thought you liked mysteries.'

The Gravis blanched beige, looking helplessly at Tegan. She shrugged. If the

Doctor wasn't interested in hearing her opinion, the damned thing would have

to handle him itself. 'But how can we hope to help?' it squeaked. 'The planet's

destiny is fixed.'

Fair point, thought Tegan. 'Maybe they should just get another one? I mean,

no offence, but this place is useless.' There was a pause. It wore a variety of

quizzical expressions, all aimed in Tegan's direction.

'How would we do that?' asked Kratt eventually.

She was floored. 'I don't know... in spaceships and things.'

'What're they, then?'

Pathetic. She was an idiot dressed as a bigger idiot, on a planet full of idiots

who thought she was the biggest idiot of all. She gave up and sat down on a tree

stump that turned out, predictably, to be rotten to the point of mushiness. No

wonder the Gravis had usurped her. It was a woodlouse with the IQ of a man,

and she was a woman with the IQ of an air hostess. She should just stay quiet

like a good girl, and let the grown-ups talk.

'Come to think of it, that's rather a good point, Gravis,' said the Doctor

thoughtfully, flicking his frock coat aside to jam his hands in his trouser pockets,

and showering Tegan with mud in the process. He'd completely ignored her

comments, of course. 'If the world is either definitely saved or definitely

doomed, why bother trying to kill us?'

'To prevent you from interfering with Phoon's plan!' shouted Plong

immediately, button-eyes shining. He'd been waiting for an excuse to shout

something for ages.

'Ah, so it can be interfered with? The future isn't fixed?'

Tegan bit her lip. She absolutely, resolutely was not going to ask what he

meant. 'They didn't try to kill us,' wheezed the Gravis, out of nowhere.

Nobody said anything for a moment, except Tegan, who went, 'What do you

mean, Gravis?' before she could stop herself. There were no words for how

stupid she had become.

'I had not realised. They said Prepare to be Isolated. That is not the same as

death, is it?'

The Doctor, pulled up short mid-deduction, spun on his heels to stare at the

nearest armadillo. 'It's not?'

'No,' Loff explained, or rather failed to. 'You'd have been in a wallet

dimension.'

'Satchel dimension,' Kratt corrected, winning himself several foul looks.

'A... pocket dimension?' suggested the Gravis. Tegan scowled. She'd been

about to say that.

Was it?'

The Doctor's brow furrowed. 'That's certainly what the implosion effect

suggests. Snipped into a vacuum universe, severed from the rest of creation...

Cut off from cause and effect, so we couldn't interfere with their destiny. But

why go to all that bother? We'd still be dead.'

'No, you wouldn't. It's condom fizzles,' said Loff proudly. There was another

one of those clumsy silences. Tegan determined to sit still and let the grown-ups

deal with it.

'What?' asked the Doctor at last.

'Quondam physiques,' Kratt confirmed, more or less. 'What you do is, you

put a cat in a box... '

'Quantum physics, yes, I know what it is, I don't understand the relevance.'

'It's the Fundamental Theory of Phoon, ain't it,' volunteered Chaugh, who

had been poking with interest at the Gravis's bottom. Tegan preferred not to

wonder why. 'You can't change the future, so what you do instead is, you hide

from it. No one's around to see you, that means no one knows if you're alive or

dead, and that means you're both.'

The Doctor glared at him. 'Claptrap,' he retorted, after a moment of

grimacing contemplation. 'Utter tripe.'

'It's not! It's all part of Phoon's plan!' cried the massed armadillos, except

Chaugh, who didn't seem to care either way, and Trehv, who was squealing

somewhere in the undergrowth pretending to be a Gravis. 'That's how he's

going to save the world! It is the power of the Echosphere!'

The Doctor stared at them, aghast. It wasn't often he was rendered

speechless, but this seemed to have done the trick. Tegan would have to

remember it for use when she could do with a spot of peace and quiet. 'Of

course. The "Time of Isolation". That's your plan? Erase yourselves from the

real-space universe, so no one can tell whether you've been destroyed? No

wonder you're confused about what's going to happen, it's quantum uncertainty

on a grand scale.'

'No, it isn't.'

'It's also insane.'

'Is not!'

It was an all-too-familiar scene. Aliens hellbent on doing something

genocidally ill-advised. The Doctor railing against the nearly inevitable. Tegan

swept along in the middle of it, following nothing.

'I. do not understand,' the Gravis whispered to itself, as the argument

zipped back and forth.

'Join the club,' muttered Tegan, surprised. She could hear the Doctor yelling

about science in the background, which was one of his favourite things to do. He

seemed to be chiefly concerned with explaining the difference between a cat and

a planet, which Tegan hadn't previously considered to be very high up their list

of priorities, but she assumed he knew what he was doing.

'Hang on though, I thought you were enjoying working all this out?' she

objected. The woodlouse looked at her like she was mad. It was looking

decidedly the worse for wear, she realised; bits of dead leaves stuck to its muddy

underbelly, sodden fur clinging wetly to its carapace, and with a definite droop

to its antennae. It had never left the safety of its tunnels before, come to think of

it. Never been faced with the Doctor's enthusiasm. Never had to avert an

apocalypse. 'Never mind,' she said.

The Doctor was still going off on one about cats. Something to do with this

thing of locking them in boxes, apparently, which seemed a thoroughly

reprehensible way of carrying on, although he claimed it didn't matter if you

didn't look. Tegan couldn't see that standing up in court.

'Come on, you,' she told the Gravis, clambering wearily to her feet. It looked

at her blankly, although whether it meant to do or just happened to look like that

anyway was open to debate. 'He's shouting long words. That means he's about

to save the world.'

'Then... what are we about to do?'

She shrugged, pulling her sopping top straight around her and squaring her

shoulders into the drizzle. Idiot question. 'We watch him.'

'Honestly, what nitwit taught you about the Schrodinger's Cat Principle?' the

Doctor was crying, with such urgency his voice skidded into a higher register on

random words. 'Building a vacuum universe isn't like putting up a Wendy

house, you know.'

'Mitten universe,' said a voice from the trees. No one took any notice.

'You really think you can escape your doom by hiding in a separate

dimension? Without a focal space-time matrix? Or a vortex anchor? Or the

slightest conception of coherence physics? And you'll be okay because no one will

see you die?'

There was a sharp silence, broken only by the sound of Loff falling out of a

tree. 'Is that wrong?' asked someone in a small voice.

'Yup,' said Chaugh glumly. 'Seventeen minutes till the end of the world, by

the way.'

The Doctor closed his eyes, and took a careful breath. 'Then I think you'd

better take me to this Echosphere of yours, don't you?' he said. 'There isn't much

time.'

Change is impossible without time. Time is impossible without change. It is trivially

obvious, therefore, that time itself cannot change.

Even if history existed. Even if it repeated. Even if people had free will. The same

choices would be made, the same events would repeat, the same history would play out,

every time. No, don't look like that. It would.

There are no second chances. The loop of time does not go round and round until

things end another way. The fate of Queth does not hang in the balance, waiting for the

scales to fall.

There is a junction in phase-space called 'Queth ends'. So Queth would end. Get used

to it.

The Echosphere was a disappointment, Tegan thought. But then these things

always were. The fabled Gallifreyan Matrix had turned out to be a bit of a damp

squib too, and the Big Bang had been rubbish. So it should have come as no great

surprise that the 'Sphere was nothing but a big metal ball, about twice her height,

so streaked with rust, water stains, bubbly patches of red-brown corrosion and

the inevitable mud that she could barely make out its original colour. The whole

thing looked on the verge of collapsing at any moment, which would be, she

thought, the perfect end to the perfect day.

It was sitting at the very bottom of the crater, where the trees thinned out to

bare rock — or to what would have been bare rock if it wasn't covered in more

damned mud — surrounded by huge, ribbed metal cables, obscure bits of broken

machinery and, now, a growing host of stroppy armadillos. The pall of smoke

they'd seen from afar rose from it in uneven clouds as the drizzle sizzled away

on contact, no doubt boiled away by some sort of ghastly radiation, which was

probably eating away at her insides even as they spoke.

There was no sign of how it was supposed to save the planet, or destroy it, or

indeed do anything at all except sit there and rust. It was all rather depressing.

'Thirteen minutes till the end of the world,' announced Chaugh, who was

now perched on her left shoulder, despite her considerable efforts to the

contrary. She smacked at him, but he dodged expertly away and bit her ear

instead.

'Now what, Doctor?' she asked, before the woodlouse could get there and say

it for her.

The Doctor prodded at what might once have been an important piece of

technology, and his finger went through it in a small rain of rust. He pulled it out

again and wiped it on his jumper, patting the panel apologetically. 'I don't quite

know,' he concluded, voicing a thought Tegan could have applied to a dozen

things without trying. 'The core systems seem functional enough, but the energy

buffers have gone the way of all technology. How on earth were you expecting to

power it?'

'Not telling,' snapped Plong from a wonky control bank. He'd been in a foul

mood ever since the interminable argument over bringing the Doctor had ended,

concluding in favour of doing so by three votes to one, with one abstention and

one sort of ulubloohooey noise. 'It's a secret.'

'It's our greatest achievement,' explained Loff proudly, from atop a

crumbling metal box that might once have been a control panel and was now a

sophisticated arrangement of holes. She tail-gestured at the 'Sphere. 'The Genius

of Phoon.'

'It would have to be. There's no solar battery, no planet-sink, no gravity-

lens... Not nearly enough stored energy for what it is.'

'But what is it?' Tegan asked, before she could stop herself.

'It is a hybridised electromagnetogravitic device for detecting quantum

echoes of far-flung events,' came an exhausted, wheezy voice from the trees.

Tegan looked up in surprise. She'd almost given up on the Gravis — it had

valiantly started trudging down here, but at such a torturously slow pace she'd

more or less assumed it would have given up. Yet there it stood at the edge of the

clearing, carapace gleaming in the twilight. Its antennae were drooping down

past its chin, the once shiny skin of its belly was caked with dried mud, and the

thick, crusty white veins snaking over its chest and arms were pulsing with

exertion. For a giant genocidal woodlouse, it looked surprisingly pathetic.

'Well done, Gravis!' said the Doctor, without missing a beat. 'It detects the...

the ripples, if you like, of quantum displacement through the universe.' He

caught Tegan's blank look. 'You know, how particles, when split, remain in

contact at a quantum level? So that if one collapses the other will adopt the same

phase?' Her look became, if anything, blanker. 'The basis of Hamilton-Jacobi

teleportation?'

She shook her head. He looked a bit crestfallen. 'Well... it's like that,' he

finished lamely, tugging experimentally at what may or may not once have been

a lever, and which in any case came off in his hand. He looked at it in surprise.

'The whole thing's obviously a remnant of a previous civilisation. But these

creatures think it can save their world — cut it off permanently from the universe

at a quantum level, so that no observer can collapse and actualise the waveform

of their destruction.'

'And can't it?' asked Tegan once he'd stopped talking; clinging to the bit

about saving the world, like a life belt in the flood of gabble.

The Doctor stuck his hands in his pockets, pontificating grimly. 'Oh, no, it can

do it all right. You've seen it happen — those echoic pulse regulators they're

using as guns. But if you cut something off from existence, it ceases to exist.

That's what it means. And I'm just guessing, but I don't think total annihilation is

what dear old Phoon was looking for.'

Tegan wasn't honestly surprised. She'd seen a few of the other Queeth

lurking in the shade of the trees, giggling, chasing their tails and having

complicated arguments about mud. The odds of any one of them doing

something scientific without messing it up wholesale were about on a par with

her chances of going five minutes without asking a stupid question.

Talking of which, the Gravis had opened its mouth. She could almost hear the

quantum echoes of the words 'I'll explain later' rippling back from a few seconds

in the future, and decided to save them both the effort. 'I understand all that,' she

lied smoothly, eliciting a snort of disbelief from Chaugh. 'But what else can we

do? I mean, if the alternative is having their enemies blow the place up... '

'But that's just the point!' cried the Doctor, slapping his palm down hard on a

control panel, which sank mournfully into the mud behind him as he strode

around with sudden, angry energy. 'The effect doesn't have to be localised,

otherwise the 'Sphere could only detect itself! If I can persuade it to suppress the

quantum reality of something other than Queth, I can drop a different target into

a vacuum dimension.'

'The mysterious enemies!' cried the Gravis, much to Tegan's embarrassment.

What did it say when a woodlouse made a better job of following things than

you? 'You can use the Echosphere against them!'

'Yes, that's what I just said,' said the Doctor testily. 'However, it does rather

depend on them letting me in on their little secret. "The Genius of Phoon",

whatever that is. I'll have to shift the Schrodinger nexus, and that means having

access to the core systems. I can't get that without power. I can't save them

without power.' He turned to Plong, folding his arms. 'You understand? If you

want your planet to be saved, if any of you want to live beyond the next 13

minutes —'

'Eleven minutes.'

'How time flies — then you must show me the Genius of Phoon. It's the only

way.'

The Queeth looked at one another. And then, as one, all eyes turned to Plong,

except Trehv's, which went round in little circles. On his throne of broken

machinery, Plong drew himself up to his full height — although given that this

was only a foot and a half the effect was slight to middling — and set his face in

what, had he any recognisable features, might have been a determined

expression. He managed to hold it for three whole seconds before deflating

utterly.

'All right,' he said. 'It's round the other side. You better come and have a

look.'

And before Tegan had even had time to take it in, the Doctor was breezing off

round the 'Sphere with a handful of distressed armadillos in his muddy wake,

leaving her standing there like a lemon. She started to trudge resignedly after

him like a slightly more proactive lemon, but then found herself, inexplicably,

hanging back for the Gravis to catch up. It was plodding along determinedly,

head down, rain soaking disregarded into the thick black fur between the

mucusy, overlapping pustules of its shell. And yet... Tegan was sure she could

see fear in its eyes. Unless that was more mucus. She gave it a weak smile, feeling

a bit stupid just walking along in silence. 'All right there, Gravis?' she asked

feebly.

It swivelled to look at her, having to halt its progress to do so. 'Things are

certainly... exciting, Tegan,' it rasped, trying none too successfully to keep the

fear from its voice. 'We have been captured! By alien creatures! And... the world

is going to end!'

'Welcome to the TARDIS,' Tegan muttered.

'It is all most exhilarating,' said the Gravis unconvincingly, moving on again,

and looking ahead to where the Doctor was crouched beside the Echosphere,

poking at something with a stick. 'And now... we must wait on the sidelines, yes?

Hoping for the wise Doctor to find a solution?'

Tegan felt a bit put out. 'Not just that,' she said defensively. 'I'm usually right

in the thick of things. Or, well... I get locked up, at least. Or possessed. Or locked

up and possessed. Um. But sometimes I escape. And then get locked up again.'

She tailed off, her mind a blank. 'You know,' she said. 'Heroics.'

The Gravis looked at her with large, sad eyes.

'You all die in ten minutes, by the way,' said Chaugh gloomily, his sharp

claws scratching at her shoulder through her top. 'Sorry, it was all so exciting I

forgot to say.

Everyone is going to die. This is what is known as a fact of life. Indeed, it is the only

fact of life; everything else is just coincidence.

Specifically, Chaugh is going to die in two and a half minutes. The Doctor is going to

realise he has overlooked something vital in six minutes. The Gravis is going to do

something monumentally stupid in seven and a half minutes. Everything on the planet

will die in ten minutes, when, as has been more than amply foreshadowed, the world is

going to end. And the Doctor and Tegan will make a miraculous escape, at least for the

time being. But then you knew that already. It's very nearly a fact of life.

However, while not one of them will live beyond the next ten minutes, the Queeth as

a species nevertheless survives. Forever. In a manner of speaking.

This is what is known as an exception.

There was quite a crowd of armadillos now, as their numbers were swelled

by curious newcomers drifting in from nearby trees. They were grouped around

one of the boxy lumps at the base of the Echosphere, where the bottom fifth or so

arced gracelessly beneath the mud, barely supported by the plinths of perforated

metal around its circumference. These were clearly more than mere pedestals,

however, graced as they were by the sort of ribbed metal dome and corrugated

fin that said 'higher technology' in a voice even Tegan could hear. Every now

and then one of them fell off.

'The Genius of Phoon!' Plong proclaimed from a neighbouring plinth, just as

Tegan was plodding up with the unhappy Gravis in tow.

Phoon's Glory, isn't it?' said Kratt, who was curled up around some nearby

rusty cabling. 'Wasn't there a memo?'

'Yeah, Trehv ate it,' added Loff.

'Well, whatever,' said Plong. 'Good, isn't it?'

Tegan looked. One side of the nearest pedestal had been ripped off, exposing

a mass of metal intestines. Metal tubes wound around blocky pistons and shunt-

housings; hoses of ugly, mottled brown plastics linked broken pipes to blackened

valves, to inexplicable little round things with bits sticking out. Something fizzed

fitfully in the puddle of dirty rainwater that had collected at the bottom, bright

green fluid gulping to the surface from some submerged outlet.

She poked at it with a toe —

'Don't let it touch you! Mentasyntasyntheic acid, or something very like it.'

— and stopped moments before touching the surface, slowly rewinding her

movements to squelch her foot squarely back into the mud. You knew where you

were with mud.

The Gravis blinked; an impressive sight with its huge eyes, and the first time

Tegan had seen it use them for anything more than an impassive stare.

'Mentasynthesis?' it boggled. 'You mean that this is... a mental absorption

process? The creatures power their machines with their minds?' As idiot

questions went, Tegan had to admit, it beat the pants off her plan of going

'what?'.

The Doctor wore an expression of muted fury. 'Oh, yes, Gravis. Primitive,

stupid and ineffective, but yes. This is the source of it all. All their power... those

guns... that stupid plan... the Genius of Phoon. A broken fuse-box. It seems

Phoon had no more idea about technology than the rest of them. And now

they're all dead.'

'What?' asked Tegan, caught off her guard. Dammit.

'Yeah,' said Loff. 'Practically everyone I know. Bike, Namf... Phoon, of

course... All the clever ones. Into the bath.'

'Wait a minute... ' said Tegan. Something was starting to fall into place in her

head. Kratt. Plong. Trehv. All of them. 'The intelligent Queeth killed themselves?

So that you lot could survive? The ones who — aren't intelligent?'

Kratt beamed, lopsided head wobbling with pride. Plong nodded so

enthusiastically he dropped his gun. Loff dribbled in a faintly affirmative

fashion.

Trehv... was just Trehv. The elite of Queth. And they'd done it on purpose.

She'd been wrong about this planet, Tegan thought. The Gravis could keep it.

'Except that's not quite true, is it?' said the Doctor sharply, interrupting her train

of angst. 'There isn't enough power. Not everyone who was supposed to soak

themselves in that toxic concoction could bring themselves to do it.' He smiled,

just past her shoulder. 'Could you, Chaugh?'

The creature by her ear sniffed dismissively. She craned her head back to get

a look at him, scaly and unrepentant on her shoulder, his coiled tails shifting

round her upper arm. 'Not much point, was there?' he said morosely, nodding

his head at the Doctor with a little click of his mandibles that somehow contrived

to come across as a grimace. 'Can't change what's going to happen. That's why

it's called "What's going to happen", see. Plus, I'd seen in the Echosphere that I

wasn't going to do it, you can see the spot I was in.'

Tegan frowned. 'You seethe future? In the Echosphere?'

The Doctor waved her down with a hand. 'Yes, yes, a phase-space projection,

that's what it's for. The Gravis will explain later.'

'Pretty depressing idea, I can tell you that,' said Chaugh, shifting on her

shoulder. 'You don't want to see your own death, it takes all the fun out of life.

Eight minutes, by the way.'

'Have we saved the world yet?' asked Kratt, tails flicking merrily across what

were probably quite important bits of Echosphere innards. 'Only Trehv needs to

go to the toilet.'

'Won't be a problem for long,' Chaugh promised. 'The Doctor wants to have a

look in the 'Sphere first, identify the threat. Won't work, of course, but there you

are. You can't stop the world ending, or him trying. But this is where I die.'

'What?' asked the Doctor. Hah.

'I've seen it,' said Chaugh. 'I jump into the acid bath, in 38 seconds. None of

this lot have got the brains to power it up, so it's gotta be me.' Tegan realised,

belatedly, that he was no longer perched six-footed on her shoulder, where he'd

been gloomily counting down to their destruction. He'd reared up on his hind

legs, tails unwrapping themselves from her arm, and was looking down at the

bath of whatever-it-was with an expression of resigned irritation, flexing his

multiple knees. 'Thirty-one... '

'What is it doing?' the Gravis asked, alarmed. It jerked its limp antennae, the

only result some pinkly redirected drizzle. 'Do not let it jump!'

'Wait a sec, I've got my foot stuck,' grumbled Chaugh. 'I knew this would

happen.'

Wait!' Tegan yelped, although she wasn't sure why. He'd been frankly

getting on her nerves. 'You don't have to do this. You're a free... thing... '

Scuse me, can you just lift your — Oh, that's got it.'

Tegan forced herself not to grab him by the tails and shake him. 'You can't

kill yourself just because you know you're going to! That's not a reason!'

'Tell that to the future. Twelve seconds.'

The Doctor looked aghast. 'Chaugh, please... There has to be another way.'

'Eight, seven... Pity really, there's a good bit coming up in a minute.' Chaugh

shrugged. 'I dunno, predestination, eh? Can't live with it... '

They grabbed for him. It was already too late. The scaly body zipped through

the air, tails slipping through Tegan's grasping hands by millimetres, and

splashed into the rancid liquid at her feet. She could hear the scales cracking as

the acid ate into them, even as his body stiffened into immobility, pitching under

the surface like a dropped pencil. The liquid clouded with sudden foam.

Something frothed crimson in the liquid. There were... lumps. And then there

weren't.

The pool lay still, only dimpled by the rain.

'Horrible... ' Tegan whispered. No wonder the poor creature had been so

depressed, knowing that was in store for him. She hated herself for letting it

happen. Or rather, she decided, she hated everyone else — and especially him.

He didn't have to have done it. He could just have walked away. Like her Aunty

Vanessa always told her, you always have a choice. You could always —

'Poke it with a stick!' shouted Kratt, scampering eagerly around the

machinery to get a closer look. The other armadillos were already clustered in a

group around the box, claws flaking rust from every surface as they jostled for a

better view.

'Cor,' said Loff, peering down with interest. 'Don't they go a funny colour?'

'Leave it, please... ' Tegan choked, staggering away from them, and the

Gravis, and its uncomprehending eyes. 'Just leave it.'

The Doctor strode forward. 'That was unnecessary,' he snapped, shooing

away the crowd of them to crouch in the mud, studying the mechanical entrails

that spilled from the puddle. His hands, tracing the connections, shook. 'A

stupid, pointless waste of life. There are a hundred ways to power this machine.

A thousand. No one need have died.'

'So?' said Plong, clambering up the ribbed side of one of the 'Sphere's many

supports as if to reassert his authority. 'That's what people do, isn't it? Die?'

The Doctor didn't answer. He just set his face in a neutral frown and fiddled

with the taps on the acid-filled tubes. Tegan cast about herself, feeling suddenly

alone on this dark, muddy planet. Plong was wrong, she knew that. It was like a

little mantra. But everywhere she went, people died. Some of them were robots

and some of them were armadillos, and quite a lot of them were actually quite

annoying up until the point where they got pointlessly killed, but they were all

equally dead. These days she couldn't even remember their names.

'Crikey,' came Kratt's voice from somewhere. 'Is it supposed to do that?'

Tegan looked up, blinking useless tears out of the way. Where moments ago

there had been a grotty metal ball, there was... well, there was still a grotty metal

ball, but now there was something behind it. No, not behind... To one side. Only

not any of the sides she was familiar with. All around her, stunned armadillos

gaped at the sight. It was as if the globe had become a strange, swollen hole into

some other place; a black void filled with a delicate silvery web of infinitely thin

strands, glittering with the light of sideways stars.

'What the hell is that?' she asked. If idiot questions were the order of the day,

she could at least be an angry idiot.

The Doctor had leapt up on Kratt's words, pressing his hands against the

surface of the metal ball — only now they somehow seemed to have moved

through the metal, into the void beyond. 'Salvation, if we're lucky,' he muttered,

hands deep in a place that shouldn't have existed, pushing and pulling the image

into new and confusing configurations. 'It's a five-dimensional image-map of

localised phase-space, courtesy of Chaugh's mental energy.'

Gosh, thought Tegan. You live and don't-quite-learn.

'His mind must have provided the last of what was needed to power up the

'Sphere. And just in time, look.' The Doctor pointed to a web of lines that looked,

to Tegan's eyes, like any other web of lines, albeit with some pretty unlikely

perspective. 'See, there's Queth at the present moment... ' He moved his finger in

a direction she wasn't entirely familiar with, following the complex routes

through implausible angles as they came to a confused tangle, and then

disappeared in an impossible fog of nothing. 'And there it isn't, in five minutes

time. Chaugh was really very good, you know. There's a knack to understanding

five-space. I'm amazed he could make anything of it at all.' He gave a bitter half-

smile. 'Hope for them yet. Always assuming, of course, I can find their

mysterious enemies, relocate the Schrodinger nexus, adapt Phoon's technique to

work on a non-local target and drop every weapon of matter destruction out of

space-time, all without access to the echoic pulse regulators, before they blow up

the planet.' He looked at her. 'So you might like to stop asking questions for a bit

and let me get on with it, hmm?'

He gave her a grim smile and plunged back into the 'Sphere, leaving her

feeling oddly at a loose end for someone with five minutes to live. She slouched

off into the mud a little way to escape the excited chatter of the armadillos, who

were bickering over what sort of nut a five-dimensional phase-space map was,

and stood in the rain feeling pointless.

Away by the 'Sphere, the water in the broken pedestal stared at her, willing

her to admit her failure. Cries of 'Ulululul' and 'Somebody find a bucket!' drifted

past her ears. She tried humming a tune. Four minutes? It was like waiting for an

apocalyptic bus.

'Did the creature... die?'

She turned around, surprised. The woodlouse loomed at her out of the rain,

with an expression of unfathomable woe on its stupid face. How long had it been

lurking out here, awkward and forgotten? It had been silent since Chaugh had

jumped into the acid, she realised; as surplus to requirements as her.

'You saw it happen, didn't you?' she retorted. 'What's it to you?'

'I am sorry, Tegan, I... I find it hard to comprehend. These creatures — they

are sentient beings, like you?'

'Stretches credulity, doesn't it?' she muttered, eyes on the distant Trehv, who

was trying to untie his tails with his teeth.

'Then I do not understand. This is what you meant by heroics? To dissolve in

acid?'

Tegan shrugged, sidestepping away from the memory.

The Gravis swayed gently in the dark. 'I do not think I like your exciting

adventures with the Doctor, Tegan. There is so much death. Even for heroes. The

universe is not as... nice, as I had hoped.' It stopped, ugly almond eyes shining in

the gloom. Tegan held its gaze, uncertain. Surely that was just rain dripping

down its cheek? Surely.

'What?' came a familiar voice from the Echosphere. 'But you must know!'

It was the Doctor, his cry coloured with anger and just a tinge of panic. She

wrenched her gaze away from the woodlouse, half with relief, to see that the

crowd around him had grown to a throng, cheering him on as he wrestled with a

non-specific armadillo. Honestly, you leave him alone for one minute...

'You must have realised. You can't be under attack for that long without

asking who was doing it!'

She jerked her head at the Gravis, but it was already dragging itself back

across the mud towards the 'Sphere like a faithful, hunchbacked puppy. She'd

have laughed at its dogged loyalty if she wasn't too busy doing exactly the same

thing herself, jogging dumbly across some stupid planet to ask questions only an

idiot would ask.

'What's happening, Doctor?' she panted, hoping it came across as ironic.

They had, she was uncomfortably aware, barely three and a half minutes to

Armageddon, and this somehow didn't look one of those 'hurray, we have saved

the day' moments.

She arrived well ahead of the lumbering Gravis, to find a calf-high circle of

scales and confusion, with the Doctor in the middle, grasping a captive armadillo

and practically shaking it in fury.

'Tell her,' barked the Doctor, thrusting it at her face as if in demonstration of

some incontrovertible proof. It was Plong, she realised, hanging upside down by

both tails, to the mixed delight and bewilderment of the new arrivals. 'Go on!

Tell her what you've done. All that planning, all that sacrifice — and you don't

even know.'

'Don't know what?' asked a voice from the crowd.

'That's what he's saying! We don't know,' said another, with a distinct lisp.

'Cor, he knows his stuff, doesn't he?'

'Well... I dunno.'

'You've been under attack for your entire history,' said the Doctor, his face

clearly one that had had enough of that sort of thing. 'You've been fleeing as long

as your species can remember. Every planet you've ever settled on has been

destroyed within generations. And you never asked who by.'

Tegan recognised Kratt bouncing up and down on a broken metal crag,

several hands in the air. 'Ooh, ooh, I know! The mysterious enemies!'

'Don't give me that, a mystery isn't an answer!' snapped the Doctor, seeming

to reach a pinnacle of breathless fury. He waved at the glowing Echosphere with

an irate gesture. 'There's nothing in there. I've looked. No mysterious enemies,

no sudden asteroids, nothing. Queth isn't destroyed, it just ceases to exist. It just

drops out of all contact with the rest of the universe.'

Tegan blinked. Tut what could do that to a whole... '

Vrrum, went the Echosphere. In the gathering dusk the tangled ball of silver

thread was the only thing lighting the crater, and it had started to pulse.

Oh. Idiot question.

'Doctor —'

'I heard.'

All around, the armadillos were perking up at this turn of events, chattering

to one another and saying important things like, 'It went vrum!' Plong wriggled

in the Doctor's grip, bending up to see the 'Sphere, eyes boggling in the silver

light.

'It's beginning,' said the Doctor. Thoon got it back to front. His plan won't

save Queth from its fate, it is its fate. The more he tried to change the future, the

more fixed it became. Three minutes.'

Vrrum.

But... but... Chaugh couldn't be right. The future wasn't fixed. There was

always a choice.

'Stuff predestination,' Tegan yelled at him. 'Just reset the controls!'

Vrrum.

The Doctor looked at the 'Sphere, his expression hopeless. 'But there isn't an

enemy to target, I can't anchor the Schrodinger nexus... '

'Forget the enemies, just shift it somewhere else! Wipe out a moon or

something.'

Vrrum.

The Doctor wrinkled his forehead, juggling ideas as if they were the threads

in the 'Sphere. He handed Plong to Tegan without looking, cracking his

knuckles. 'Well,' he said, 'I suppose there might be just one chance... '

Zzchming.

Not vrrum. Zzchming.

And then, where the phase-space map had been a moment ago, where the

'Sphere had been before, right in front of where the Doctor was standing, a

sphincter of space-time puckered inwards, shrank to a vanishing point of

nothing and popped out of existence. The Echosphere was gone. The world

shook.

'Hurrah!' cried the Gravis, antennae wiggling wonkily in enthusiasm. 'I have

saved the day!' It was standing in the mud behind where the 'Sphere had been,

stained and bedraggled and vibrating with triumph. One flipper-shaped paw

was wrapped around a tiny, bulb-shaped lump of metal. Plong's gun. Tegan had

wondered where it had got to.

'I. have saved the day, haven't I?' asked the woodlouse, a tremor in its

voice.

As if in answer, the ground lurched suddenly under Tegan's feet, throwing

her against a jutting cable support with enough force to ping-pong Plong into the

mud. There was a grinding howl from deep beneath the earth, rocks rumbling

against one another with the distant echoes of a sound like zzchming. The trailing

cables around the now vacant centre of the crater snapped and groaned as they

rode the shifting ground. A torrent of armadillos swept past, surfing a current of

mud and going 'whee!'

'It's an earthquake!' shouted Tegan, wishing she hadn't felt the need to.

'Tectonic disruption, certainly!' the Doctor shouted back, fighting to keep his

balance on the ever-shifting mud. 'Lumps of the planet disappearing, disturbing

the balance of the geological plane!'

'What, and that's different enough to be worth pointing out right now, is it?'

she yelled back.

'It is if it means the TARDIS is closer than it was. Right, change of plan!' he

shouted, his voice rising as the ground bucked beneath him. 'Evacuation time!

The process is irreversible without the Echosphere, but there's still one place

we'll be safe. Plong! Kratt! Loff! Organise everyone you can and get them up to

the cave near where you found us. You'll know the one, it's full of liverwort and

a big blue box.'

'What, put them all in the TARDIS?' yelled Tegan. 'Won't that get you in

trouble with the Time Lords?'

'Desperate times, Tegan,' said the Doctor shortly. 'Come on! All of you!'

And with that, he grabbed an armadillo in each hand and set off, fighting to

stay vertical against the shuddering of the land as he pounded through the mud

in the direction they had first come. Like some mad cricketing pied piper, he was

followed by a trickle, then a flood of armadillos, swinging through the trees,

scampering across the mud on all six legs, and asking impatiently if they were

nearly there.

'Where are we going again?' they gargled to one another.

'Evacuation, he said.'

'Where's that?'

The ground bucked and shook, squeezing and shrinking to accommodate the

bubbles of space imploding out of existence all around, occasionally wiping out

some unlucky armadillos as the crater grew smaller by fifty-yard bites. Tegan

started after them, the grey-brown flood flowing uphill towards the ever-closer

site of the TARDIS, and safety. But, inevitably, she found her head turning back

towards the 'Sphere, or where it had been until recently. There was a large,

round hollow there now, subsidence or warped space from a particularly mighty

zzchming not far beneath. And slumped in it, half rolled into a ball and making a

horrible blarting noise, was the Gravis.

It might have been crying. It might have been going to the toilet. But Tegan

was, to her constant irritation, a nice person at heart.

'Gravis?' she asked gingerly, wondering vaguely if the fact that the planet

was being wiped out of time as well as space meant they'd have longer or shorter

to get away. 'Are you okay?'

The Gravis looked at her with huge, wet eyes as she approached. Of course

that might just have been because Tractators have huge, wet eyes, but she had a

feeling that this time it meant something. 'You must leave me,' it croaked as she

drew near. 'I think I've sprained my metatarsus. And... I have doomed a planet

to oblivion. I deserve to die.'

Tegan looked at it, down in its hole. Oh, the temptation. 'You've changed

your tune, haven't you? Look what you were going to do to Frontios.'

It gazed at nothing, anguished eyes shining in the darkness. 'I only planned

to give it a gravity engine,' it pleaded. 'Make it mobile. I thought... I thought

space travel would be fun.'

'Yeah. So did I, once,' said Tegan, surprised by the bitterness in her voice. Out

of the corner of her mind's eye, she could see Aunty Vanessa glowering at her,

unimpressed.

So this thing had doomed a few planets. Who hadn't, these days? It had made

a few wrong choices... but at least it had made them.

Tegan made one too.

She tottered down into the hollow, grabbed the woodlouse under its stubby

paws, and yanked it to whatever it used for feet. The crater was barely more than

a dip in the ground now, the ground lurching every other second as the planet

ate itself into nothing. The cave with the TARDIS, if it was still there, could only

be a hundred yards or so away.

'Brave heart, Gravis,' Tegan muttered. She took the Tractator's weight on her

shoulders, and together, wheezing and groaning, they trudged up the hill behind

the last of the struggling armadillos.

They might even make it.

Two minutes later, Queth ended.

Told you.

It was a wasteland. A cold, cracked plane strewn with rocks and boulders,

zigzag fractures exposing the darkness beneath. Scant stars shone bravely in the

utter blackness above, pinpoint steady in the thin air.

'What's this?' said Kratt. 'This is rubbish.'

'What are we going to eat?'

Tegan ignored them, picking her way across the fractured landscape to find

some stable ground. The laundry vortex in the TARDIS had done a good job of

returning her clothes and hair to their former glory, but she didn't fancy her

chances with these heels.

Behind her, the Doctor shaded his eyes from the non-existent sun to look out

over the vast expanse of nothing very much. 'Well, here we are!' he said

infuriatingly. She exchanged glances with the Gravis, who rolled its eyes. It

wasn't buying it.

She gave in. 'Here we are where?'

The Doctor grinned, unrolling his stupid yellow hat. 'Exactly where we were,

I hope. A few light years from the Yyb Fissure, second star on the right and

straight on till... ' He caught Tegan's look just in time. 'Kolkokron,' he finished.

'Straightforward materialisation reboot, except that now space-time has shifted

to repair the hole where Queth used to be. Hence the original mix-up with the

coordinates, you see.'

Tegan didn't, but she saw no reason to point this out. 'And this is where

we're leaving the arma— the Queeth, is it? They don't seem too pleased.'

The Doctor gave a distracted glance at the dozen or so creatures around them

— a tiny sample of the hundreds currently stowed away in the TARDIS, clinging

on to roundels, hanging from the hat stand and turning up unexpectedly in

Tegan's wardrobe. 'Ah, well, no,' he said, with a preoccupied air. 'Can't disrupt

the timelines, you see. They have their own destiny.'

They watched as a Queeth rolled past their feet, probably the victim of yet

another argument about who exactly the mysterious enemies were who had

blown up the planet. Away in the distance she could hear Plong shouting about

condom physics. It could only be a matter of time before Trehv trod in something

important.

'Talking of which... ' The Doctor turned to the Gravis with a cough. He was

looking suddenly awkward, Tegan realised, hat bashed on to his head and both

hands stuck in his pockets. Abruptly, she remembered why they'd left Frontios

in the first place. To abandon the woodlouse here. Not that that wasn't exactly

what it deserved, she'd do it herself in an instant if she had the opportunity,

only...

Only...

The Gravis oscillated gently on the spot, looking as expectant as could

reasonably be asked of something with no facial muscles.

'I'm afraid this isn't going to be easy for either of us, Gravis, said the Doctor.

'I'm not very good at goodbyes, and you have proved yourself a very able

companion, but the fact is —'

The woodlouse wobbled. 'No,' it said.

The Doctor was taken aback. 'I'm sorry?'

'No, Doctor,' said the Gravis. It reared itself up backwards, antennae raised in

what seemed like determination. 'I know what you would ask, but I must

decline. I cannot become your companion.'

The Doctor drew a puzzled breath. Tegan kicked him before he could say

anything. He could be really very stupid sometimes.

'The truth is... I do not like space travel, Doctor,' rasped the Gravis, a hint of

shame in its croaky voice. 'I like... rocks. Rocks do not kill people, or have to

make terrible decisions. Or do brave things and then die. They are just rocks.' It

paused, the far-off whoops of colliding armadillos punctuating the silence.

'Forgive me, Tegan. I am not brave or heroic like you. I shall remain on

Kolkokron.'

The Doctor looked... Well, it would be hard to say how he looked. Whatever

it was, he covered it up quickly, forcing a cheery grin. 'Well, there we are, then!'

he beamed, or tried to. 'Kolkokron. Yes, why not. Plenty of rare n-waves to feed

on, solar flare activity minimal... ' He bounced gently on the balls of his plimsolls,

taking off his hat to glance up at the sky. 'Gravity playful but not too cheeky. A

splendid choice.'

An odd look passed across his face: part relief, part dejection. He held out a

hand to the Gravis, who looked at it in alarm. 'Well, no hard feelings,' the Doctor

said manfully. 'Probably for the best in the long run, the old girl's getting a bit

full up, what with air hostesses and androids and things. And let's face it, you

would never have fitted in an air duct.'

He grabbed the woodlouse's unsuspecting flipper and gave it an affirming

shake that made the whole creature wobble. With a last, irresolute nod, he

turned on his heel, raising his voices to the armadillos, still rushing around

contradicting one another and falling off things. 'Come along, Plong! All of you!

Change of scenery.'

'What's a scenery?' asked gargly chicken voices as they rounded themselves

up and fell off things.

'It doesn't matter, he's changed it.'

'Yes, but what into?'

' Ulululu!

Perched on their spur of rock, the Gravis sucked the dangly worm-things

back into its mouth with a shuddery breath. It might, Tegan realised, be the

Tractator equivalent of a stiff upper lip. 'Farewell, Tegan,' it croaked. 'I hope...

you make a braver choice than I.'

She looked at it. Horrible thing. She was glad to be rid of it.

'Oh, Gravis,' she said. 'I will miss you.'

If there was a message in the look it gave her, Tegan couldn't read it. But she

could still feel it standing resolutely behind her as she tottered back to the

TARDIS, heels catching in every fissure. Back to comfort, back to the routine,

back to the big blue box, where the Doctor was urging the remainder of the

Queeth across the threshold. Back to being an idiot. And she'd broken her heel.

She refused to look back.

'One unwanted passenger down, 400 annoyed armadillos to go,' she

snapped, her usual filthy mood restored. 'What are we going to do with them?'

The Doctor picked up a particularly dense armadillo who was trying to walk

through the wall and threw it inside. 'I told you, they have a destiny. We'll take

them back to Queth.'

She gave him a look. 'But... Queth's been destroyed... '

'It is a time machine, Tegan. We'll drop them off 300 years or so ago, that

should give them time to evolve the sort of intelligence they've just wiped out.'

The Doctor located the last of the wandering armadillos, pushing them none

too gently through the oblong of darkness into an unseen space filled with

ululating confusion and cries of, 'You're standing on my toe.'

'So... wait a minute, they'll be their own ancestors?'

'Explains a lot. Nothing like inbreeding to grow yourself a Phoon or two.'

'And... what they were saying about every planet they'd settled on being

destroyed... '

'All Queth. All the same event, infinitely looped.'

'And when you asked what senseless idiot had taught them about the

Schrodinger's Cat Principle? That was actually — '

'Yes, thank you very much for pointing that out, Tegan.'

She stared at him. Her head whirled. 'But isn't that creating a, you know, a

paradox? What about the laws of time?'

'It's been a long day, Tegan,' said the Doctor wearily, rolling up his hat. 'Let's

just let time work things out for itself for once, shall we?'

Tegan fought to understand. So the Queeth would flee from Queth to Queth;

evolve, and flee from Queth to Queth... Always remembering that their last

planet had been destroyed... Always exploiting the Echosphere they'd find to

keep this planet safe... Always killing Chaugh, and destroying the planet, and

fleeing from Queth to Queth. Trapped doing the same idiotic, obvious things,

forever.

Round and round the circle went...

'Tegan? Are you ready?'

The Doctor stood at the doors of his silly little spaceship, one arm flung into

the blackness within, towards the sound of argumentative squeaking.

So, drop this lot off, and back to Frontios. And then — who knew. Heroism.

Deaths unaccountable. Capture, escape, corridors; corridors, capture, escape.

Round and round the circle went.

She gave in and looked back at the Gravis, already merrily levitating rocks

into the beginnings of a makeshift tunnel, back where it belonged. Maybe she

really was an idiot. Or maybe it was time to be brave at last. Maybe it was time to

choose. That was the thing about destiny. You couldn't live with it —

* * *

Queth ended.

And then, 300 years earlier, a box appeared. Four hundred squashed and weary

passengers disembarked, looked around them in confusion, and vowed— those with the

wit to do so — that this would be the last time. That they would not lose this New Queth.

Whatever sacrifice it took, whatever tools they could find, this time things would be

different.

And Queth lurched towards its fate, threading an n-dimensional line through

existence towards its inevitable termination.

This is why phase-space is so dull. Things cannot change. The five-dimensional line of

existence cannot twist at will through space and time: discontinuous, inconsistent,

lurching from catastrophe in the far future to disaster in the distant past, to a life in the

present, suddenly resumed. Destiny is just that. You don't get to pick the one you want.

You cannot choose your own adventure.

That's what makes real life so exciting.

Short Trips: The Centenarian

: Short Trips: The Centenarian really is my favourite book in the whole world.

The preceding anthology, Farewells, had been planned as the final ever

collection - but then BBC Worldwide went and extended our licence! So, in my

head at least, The Centenarian marked the start of new sequence in the range.

And because of that, we wanted to do something a bit different...

It all started simply enough. The idea was to do a short-story collection that

was, let's be honest, actually a novel. Each chapter would be a self-contained

piece but, when read as a whole, characters and plots and themes would

crossover from story to story.

One of the first writers I commissioned, Steven Savile, mentioned to me that

he knew someone who'd be keen on contributing - Stel Pavlou, a novelist and

the writer of the movie The 51st State. How could I resist someone who's written

for Samuel L. Jackson? I just hoped his ideas would be fit in with our plans.

Stel emailed me on 28 June 2005 with two brief story pitches, one of which

leapt out immediately: a spy story set at Checkpoint Charlie in 1962.

'It's the height of the cold war,' the email read, 'and the Centenarian [our

lead character didn't have a name at this point] is a Government official sent to

collect a spy due to cross over from East Berlin and get him back to London.'

When I read Stel's full outline on 5 August, I was intrigued even further. Just

look at its opening paragraph: The Centenarian is waiting on the western side

of Checkpoint Charlie. It's a cold winter's night, and the coffee from the guard

hut is welcome. Tonight, the cold war truly is cold.'

How brilliant is that? It's so evocative. It instantly grabs you, makes you

want to read on. And that sums up both this story and Stel's writing in general.

The prose in Checkpoint is simply sublime. It's not just a West Berlin setting

that recalls Ian Fleming's The living Daylights, one of the finest short stories

ever written. It's the sharp, clear storytelling, the richly textured setting and

the engrossing characters.

Another thing, of course, that Stel had to do was make sure his story fitted in

with the rest of the collection. The Centenarian's arc was the life story of Edward

Grainger, from his birth in 1906 until his death a hundred years later. He

repeatedly meets various Doctors, but at the point of Checkpoint he was only just

beginning to see that all these strange men were connected. Stel also took the

opportunity to reference other stories in the book. The gag about the Doctor

looking like someone called George Tremayne is following up Brian Willis's

superb Ancient Whispers, the same story that introduced Sergeant Major Munro.

Edward's wife, Eleanor, had appeared in four previous stories.

Getting Stel into the Short Trips range was a bit of a coup, one which still

fills me with pride, and I'm chuffed that he went on to write for two further

collections. Go and check out his stories in Snapshots and Destination Prague

- they're just as brilliant.

Checkpoint

Stel Pavlou

An Adventure ofthe Fourth Doctor.

with Romanadvoratrelundar

Wednesday 10 October 1962. West Berlin.

Stempfer was late.

Edward Grainger stood on the western edge of Checkpoint Charlie, a

steaming cup of strong coffee from the guard but clutched in one hand.

It was a welcome relief from the bite of the cold night air. He could

feel it in his knee the most. A chilling damp that penetrated right to the

bone. He was 56 years old. There had to be more to life than this.

He had grown to despise Berlin. Had he any good memories of this

place? And now that the Wall had come down like a surgeon's knife

through gangrened flesh he wondered if the patient would ever recover.

Grainger paced agitatedly. He checked his watch again.

Eleanor would be playing canasta right now.

All he had for company was the glare of East German searchlights

sweeping down the lengths of miserable cement.

How did anybody have the courage to make a break for it through

that lot? For goodness's sake, just getting close to the wall was a

miracle in itself. All Stempfer had to do was slip up once and the Stasi

would know everything. In East Germany, one civilian in fifty was a

Stasi informant. One casual remark to the wrong person.

That's all it took.

Perhaps he'd aborted? Perhaps. It was better than reporting back to

London that they'd lost another spy. The paperwork was a wretched

inconvenience.

Grainger pulled his collar up tight around his neck when a policeman

came striding purposefully from the hut. His German was clipped but

hopeful. They'd spotted movement on the other side.

He strained to see. It was so dark. Two Volks Polizei appeared to

have cornered a man and were directing him to a document check. The

man fumbled for his papers in the deep pockets of a long overcoat.

Grainger couldn't see his face. He had a hat pulled right down over it.

'Is that him?' the policeman asked with apprehension.

Grainger replied honestly. 'I don't know.'

He'd never met Stempfer. He was just a name pencilled into a

notebook given to him by Control.

They'd insisted Stempfer be handed off to a new, far more

experienced handler. The information he'd been relaying was too

explosive to be worked by a junior - so they sent Grainger, 11 years

past mandatory retirement age for fieldwork. Currently just a glorified

office boy who'd been promised that, at his age, he could twiddle his

thumbs to his pension.

Eleanor was right. Her Majesty's Secret Service. Liars, the lot of

them. All this cloak-and-dagger nonsense was young man's sport.

The lone figure stepped out of the but on the other side. Tucking his

papers away, he tipped his hat to the East German crossing guards and

strolled across the divide in a frigid cloud of his own breath, as though

he'd just enjoyed a rather fine meal and needed to stretch his legs for a

bit.

Grainger plonked his cup back down inside the hut, just in case, and

readied himself for the long debrief ahead. Was this really him? He

stepped up to the simple white line painted on the road.

The approaching figure threw the dangling end of a long scarf over

his shoulder. As the light hit his face, Grainger was struck instantly by

the familiarity of it. Wide, lively eyes and teeth like tombstones,

crammed inside a grinning mouth.

'Good grief... '

He looked just like George Tremayne, back during the Berlin airlift.

All that business with the peculiar bricked-up house. It was all so fresh

in his mind. But that had to be ten, 15 years ago. It couldn't be

Tremayne. Tremayne was dead.

'Well... ' the approaching man announced mischievously. 'How did I

know it was going to be you?'

Grainger took a moment to formulate his response, but events started

to run quicker than his wits.

Across the divide a telephone began to ring in the distance. The

Volks Polizei hurriedly took the call, then immediately began arguing

over its implications.

Suddenly, a glaring searchlight bore down on the man in the scarf

and hat. An order, in barked German, came for him to stop and return

to the checkpoint.

The man cocked his head, as though thinking it over. At precisely

what moment he decided that the line painted at Grainger's feet was

simply too tempting: Grainger couldn't be sure. But his action was set.

He broke into a run.

And that was when the shot rang out.

It wasn't that there was so much blood that Grainger noticed first. It

was that on such a cold night, as it struck his face, it was so very warm.

The man in the hat, Tremayne's doppelganger or whoever he was,

let out such a cry, clutching his shoulder he began to fall awkwardly.

Grainger, without even thinking, dashed across the line to cradle

him.

The West German police complained bitterly. He wasn't permitted

across the line. But Grainger's fury came as something of a shock to

them.

'Take aim!' he roared. 'I'm not having another Fechter on ours

hands! If they so much as twitch, you open fire! Do you understand

me?'

The men dithered. The whole world had seen poor Peter Fechter

splashed across the front pages only two months ago. Eighteen years

old. Shot in the hip trying to flee East Berlin. Left to die hanging on the

barbed wire. No one in the West able to do a thing because he was just

a few yards inside the Russian sector.

Not again.

The West Germans brandished their weapons at the East Germans,

though it wasn't altogether clear if they would follow Grainger's order.

What did become clear was Grainger's gritted determination. On his

own, and in the face of approaching East German sentries, he grabbed

the man, who was twice his size, and dragged him by his coat tails until

he lay bleeding, firmly in the West.

The man, who was now so weak from his injury that his breathing

had become shallow, buckled under the assault of Grainger's sudden

questioning.

The man struggled to answer.

Frustrated, Grainger reduced it down to just the important one. 'Are

you Stempfer?' he asked.

The man smiled wanly. 'No, I'm the Doctor,'

'I'm going to get you a doctor. I just need to know about Stempfer.'

'Stempfer...?'

'Yes.'

'Stempfer... No, I'm not Stempfer,' the man confessed, steadily

losing consciousness. 'Stempfer' s dead.'

Grainger took the blow with resolve. 'How?' he persisted.

'I think I killed him.'

Keeping the Americans out of it had been something of feat. This was

their sector, their jurisdiction. But they kept their word, and when

Grainger had a British army ambulance, a converted Land Rover from

RAF Gatow, in attendance within ten minutes, they raced down the

narrow length of Friedrichstasse and off into the dark side streets of

West Berlin. Nobody stopped them.

Grainger rifled through the deep pockets of the stranger's overcoat,

stopping only occasionally to watch the young army medic, a boy

really, work feverishly in the dim, cramped conditions across the other

side of the stretcher.

What was this?

He pulled out what appeared to be some kind of pen, maybe a

screwdriver, from one of the side pockets. It had a light on the end.

How very curious. It seemed to hum.

Good grief, there were all sorts of odds and ends in here. A yo-yo,

some elastic bands. Heaven knows what that thing was and... hang on.

He pulled a paper bag out and peeked at its contents. Yes, it really was

a bag of jelly babies.

'I think you're in luck,' the medic announced as he probed and

cleaned the wound of Tremayne's unconscious doppelganger. 'The

bullet doesn't seem to have punctured the axillary artery.'

'You're sure? I need to question him.'

'I can't be completely sure,' the medic confessed. The bleeding

certainly did appear to have slowed. 'He could be bleeding internally.'

He applied a new dressing but it was obvious something else was

bothering him. He smirked sheepishly. 'Though I can't actually seem

to find his axillary artery... '

Grainger didn't care about that. The strong smell of disinfectant that

permeated throughout the ambulance was starting to make him feel

decidedly uneasy. He could feel his hands turning clammy to the drum

of distant, uncomfortable memories.

As he watched the medic press firmly against the bloody dressing, he

didn't mean to make eye contact.

'I say, are you all right?'

It took all of Grainger's effort to ignore him and look away. He

thought about stealing a jelly baby to take his mind off things, but

opted to stuff them back inside the coat pocket instead.

'It's all right, sir,' the medic reassured him, apparently assuming that

Grainger had somehow made it this far through life without having

seen any bloodshed before now. 'We'll be back at Gatow in a minute

and we'll have you and your, er, guest on your way back to London

before you know it.'

Grainger dismissed his youthful enthusiasm. That wasn't about to

happen. Not now. The interrogation had to begin immediately.

Tonight. He said, 'We're not going to Gatow. We're going to

Wilmersdorf.'

The younger man seemed confused. He didn't think there was

anything in Wilmersdorf.

'Nothing you need to worry about, at any rate,' Grainger replied

testily. He wouldn't say any more than that, though they both knew the

real reason why.

It had been all change in West Berlin, ever since last year.

Grainger's first port of call would have been Charlottenburg but that

was all over now. Safe houses had been moved. Networks smashed and

rebuilt. All because of that filthy swine George Blake, a Soviet triple

agent unmasked right in the heart of British intelligence. Hundreds of

agents betrayed and executed at his behest.

Rumour had it there was still another rat in the pack somewhere.

Grainger had his money on Philby but he couldn't be sure. There was

just something about that smug face that he didn't like. So long as he

stayed in the Middle East, well out of his patch, that's all he cared

about.

Grainger fished around in the coat pockets again and this time dug a

little deeper.

Ah-ha, what's this... ?

Small, nondescript and tatty. At last. A codebook.

He slipped it quickly into his own coat pocket, but the medic's

confusion had not lifted any. He was feeling for a pulse and becoming

increasingly suspicious of his own abilities. He reeled from his patient

as though the unconscious man on the stretcher had given him a fright.

'There' s something very strange about this man's heartbeat.'

'What's the matter?'

The medic seemed almost embarrassed to answer. 'I could swear

he's got two of them.'

Grainger changed his mind and decided to pilfer a jelly baby after

all. 'You need to lay off the rubbing alcohol, old chap.'

From the outside, it looked like an ordinary, narrow apartment building

somewhere near Olivaer Platz. Five floors. Dark and not particularly

well kept.

The Land Rover pulled into a side street and parked in seclusion at

the rear, well away from street lights and prying eyes. Grainger got out,

lit a rough-tasting cigarette, and waited in the darkness until he heard

the approach of heavy footsteps echoing down the stairwell behind the

heavy back door.

Two burly men emerged. They said nothing. They waited for

Grainger to open up the Land Rover, then hefted the stretcher out

quickly.

The medic motioned to follow but Grainger gently pushed him back

inside. He thanked him for his services and followed the men up the

bleak stairs.

Somewhere around the third floor they entered one of the grotty

apartments and hefted the stretcher into a back room at the end of the

hall.

It was worse in here. Like an abattoir. White tiles from floor to

ceiling, held in place by ageing grout. A trolley lay next to the gurney

bearing gleaming surgical instruments, which glinted under the glare of

a single incandescent bulb that swung gently back and forth overhead.

When the surgeon came in to inspect his patient, Grainger could feel

the blood draining from his face. He loitered in the doorway and

watched him work distrustfully for a minute or two before quietly

slipping back out.

The two burly men were listening to a wireless and eating a meal of

cold meat and potatoes at a table in the tiny kitchen. Grainger stepped

inside briefly, pulled a bottle of brandy out from the sink cupboard and

poured himself a shot in a dusty glass.

It was as he turned to leave that he realised he recognised one of the

men. A little greyer, perhaps a little craggier.

'Sergeant Munro, isn't it?'

'Sergeant Major Munro, thank you very much,' the man corrected

brusquely, before looking up. 'Good grief. Mr Grainger, sir.' He got to

his feet quickly, wiped his hand and shook Grainger's hand. 'It's been

a long time.'

'So you made it to Warrant Officer.' Grainger smiled. 'Hard to tell

who we all were out in there in the dark, eh?'

Munro stepped a little closer, the concern weighing heavily on him.

'Not so dark that I didn't notice, sir.'

'Notice what?'

'That it looks like our Mr Tremayne is back from the dead, if you get

my meaning.'

'Quite.'

'I'm wondering what the Soviets are up to. You don't think he's

some kind of ruse do you, sir?'

'What? Shoot one of their own men, just so we'll believe him?'

'I wouldn't put it past 'em.'

Grainger swigged his brandy down quickly and set the glass on the

side. 'Seems a bit extreme, even for them,' he said. But the doubt

lingered.

At any rate, it came as something of a relief to know that he wasn't

the only one seeing things. And to know that he had an ally here should

things take a turn, and he didn't have to say another word about it.

He made his way to what would have been a lounge had this been an

ordinary apartment. Instead, two large wooden desks and a threadbare

couch were all that filled an otherwise drab and spartan room.

At one end sat wireless equipment rigged up to a Too-kilowatt,

amplitude-modulated Class B shortwave radio transmitter up on the

roof.

The radio operator, a thin, middle-aged intelligence officer by the

name of Carstairs, made it clear that Control were anxious that

Grainger check in.

'They're always anxious,' he said, and handed the small codebook

over for analysis.

'This is Stempfer's handwriting, all right,' Carstairs confirmed. 'I'd

recognise it anywhere.'

That, however, was the extent to which Carstairs could tell him

anything. The message was encrypted with an unbreakable One Time

Pad. The key was with Control. He'd have to send them the message,

wait for them to decrypt it, and only if they deemed Grainger important

enough to the overall scheme would they contact him and issue further

instructions.

Grainger ordered Carstairs to get cracking. Other agents out in the

field would be tuning in on wirelesses all over Europe waiting for their

own sets of coded instructions to be broadcast by the Wilmersdorf

Number Station. They couldn't afford to tie up the system for long. But

Control had to get the message; they needed to know Stempfer was

dead, and that a stranger had taken his place.

'A stranger who doesn't appear to have much of a wound at all,' the

surgeon announced a little while later, standing in the doorway, taking

off his gloves.

'He was shot right in front of me.'

'Clipped, more like.'

'I'm covered in his blood.'

'Dear me, I didn't take you for the melodramatic type.' The surgeon

slumped on the couch and tiredly asked if anybody had a spare

cigarette. Grainger dug his packet out and joined him, but just like the

other one it tasted bitter and unpleasant.

He got to his feet, suspicion still ringing in his ears. 'You didn't find

anything peculiar about his heartbeat by any chance, did you?'

'I wouldn't know, I didn't check. There didn't seem to be much

point. I sutured what was there, but there really wasn't much else I

could do.'

'Well, stick around just in case there are complications.'

'Fine,' the surgeon acquiesced, breathing in a lungful of thick blue

smoke. 'But there won't be any.' The surgeon sighed. 'Personally, I

thought he seemed perfectly lucid. But... not exactly compos mentis, if

you get my drift.'

'He's awake?'

'I put him in the back room. When I left him he was sitting there,

having a conversation with a cockroach and demanding to be addressed

as Doctor.'

The back room was fairly large, but equally spartan. Its only window

had been boarded up and a scruffy table and two chairs had been

placed at its centre.

The stranger was sitting on the far side of the table, his shirt ripped

open exposing his pale torso.

Grainger found Munro standing guard outside. Sure enough the

stranger had what appeared to be a small brown cockroach sitting in

the palm of his hand - and he was arguing with it.

Though Grainger couldn't hear what was being said through the

thick glass of the door, he could see him well enough to know that

there were no signs ofthe Logos symbols burned into his flesh.

In fact, in this light he could see clearly that this certainly wasn't

Tremayne. But, still, the likeness was disturbingly uncanny. And he

was equally as peculiar as the last and final time Grainger had laid eyes

on his old friend.

Munro made it clear that he was having none of it. This was a game.

The question was what sort of game were the Soviets up to this time?

Suddenly the man in the room flinched as though he'd been bitten

and threw the insect across the room.

He sucked his finger to ease the pain and shouted. 'How rude!'

Grainger took the opportunity of the distraction to step inside and

approached with caution. 'Is there a problem?' he asked flatly.

'Ambassador Skgar is being very unreasonable.'

Grainger glanced at the scuttling creature in the corner, its twitching

antennae aimed at nothing in particular, but said nothing.

The stranger, however, scoffed at it. 'Yes, well...' he said, addressing

the insect directly. 'The feeling's mutual.'

Grainger took a seat across the table and took a quick puff on his

unpleasant cigarette. 'Something you want to tell me?'

The man grinned playfully, his wide eyes filled with mischief.

'Yes... It's good to see you, Eddie.'

Grainger remained impassive. 'You grin a lot,' he said.

'Maybe I have a lot to grin about.'

'Who are you?'

Right to the point. That seemed to give the man a moment's pause.

Eventually he said, 'It's me. The Doctor.'

'Which Doctor?'

'Oh, no, I'm not a witch doctor.' The stranger got to his feet. 'Oh,

come on, Eddie. I can call you Eddie, can't I?'

'No, you can't.'

'Of course I can. Eddie. See? There, I said it again.' He bounded

over to the corner of the room. 'We have a lot of catching up to do.'

'Because of Tremayne.'

'What?' The stranger seemed genuinely befuddled, until it suddenly

hit him. He rubbed his own face, testing its contours, as the realisation

dawned. 'Oh, yes, I do a bit, don't I? Funny what can happen when the

universe gets rewritten, eh?'

The man calling himself the Doctor grinned once again, but this time

there was far more behind the toothy smile than mere playful banter. It

was quite chilling. Grainger watched him quickly scoop the cockroach

back up again and, carrying it back towards the table, say, 'Now, are

you going to behave yourself or am I going to have to put you back in

the box?'

The answer seemed to satisfy and he set it down.

The Doctor...

Not a doctor. The Doctor. The definite article.

This wasn't the first time he had met someone who called himself

the Doctor. There had been a few. They clearly weren't all the same

man, so how could they all be the Doctor?

What was he missing?

Was it some kind of secret code? Or a secret society? Like the

Masons. No. The Masons never came up to you and said, Hello, I'm

the Mason. They said they were a Mason, if they admitted it at all.

'Why is that man staring at me?' the Doctor asked with an air of

alarm. Grainger glanced over his shoulder to see Munro looming

through the glass in the door.

'He'd prefer it if you sat down.'

'Why?'

'Because otherwise he might take a disliking to you.'

'Oh.' The man calling himself the Doctor seemed to take a moment

to consider his limited options. 'That would be very unpleasant.'

He sat down.

After a moment, his focus clearly on other matters, he waved his

hand at the cockroach. 'What? No, no, you stay where you are.'

Grainger tapped his ash out. 'Tell me what happened to Stempfer.'

'I told you, he's dead.'

'You admitted you killed him. How?'

The Doctor sat back, the memory clearly troubling. 'I really don't

want to talk about it.'

'I want to talk about it.'

'Well, why do we have to talk about what you want to talk about all

the time?'

Enough of these silly games. Grainger felt the sudden surge of

uncharacteristic anger and embraced it. 'That's how it works!'

The two men sat in aggravated silence for a moment, until eventually

the Doctor decided to fill the void.

'If you really must know, he found out what was going on. He told

me... And I asked him to go back and get me more information. At

which point, they hunted him down like vermin, and starved him to

death.'

Grainger had never heard anything like it. Executed, yes, but

starved? 'The Stasi did this?'

'No,' the Doctor explained, 'something much worse, something that

is using the Stasi, and the KGB and everybody else in between for its

own purposes.' He held Grainger's gaze with a steely one of his own

that made the hairs on the back of Grainger's neck stand on end. 'There

are creatures that feed on human misery.'

'Yes,' Grainger agreed. 'They're called communists '

'These communists call themselves the Jalaphron.'

'The Jalaphron? A political group, like Bolsheviks?'

The Doctor appeared perturbed that Grainger didn't understand. 'Oh,

dear. No, not like Bolsheviks.'

'Then what?'

The Doctor seemed to seriously think it over before turning

Grainger's attention back to the small, beady-eyed cockroach. 'Perhaps

Ambassador Skgar here would be -'

'I see... ' More games.

Grainger took the initiative and decided to plough ahead with what

he was really interested in. He took the codebook out and set it on the

table. 'Do you recognise this?'

'Hmm, isn't that Stempfer's?'

'You tell me.'

'Yes, I think that's Stempfer's. I could probably tell you for certain

if I knew where my coat was. You don't happen to know where my

coat is, do you?'

'I got this from your coat.'

The Doctor was mortified. 'Well, who said you could do that?'

'What does it say?'

'You want me to read it? It's in code.'

'Tell me anyway,' Grainger demanded irritably.

'All right, it says Cuba.'

Cuba? Another game? Grainger had no idea what it said; Control

hadn't responded yet. But for now, he would pursue this line.

He took a pen out and on a small scrap of paper wrote the word

Cuba. The stranger seemed rueful. 'Well, it's not a very good code.'

'It's a One Time Pad. It's supposed to be unbreakable.'

'Unbreakable, I suppose, if you're not familiar with the poem used

in the key to decode it.'

'Tell me, what's in Cuba?'

'It's full of Cubans. Lovely people. Good dancers. Have you been?'

'Stop being so flippant!'

'You first.'

Grainger took a final, irritated drag on his awful cigarette before

stubbing it out on the table with a twist of complete finality.

'You already knew about Cuba.'

Suddenly the Doctor didn't seem quite so amused. 'You're a very

important man, Eddie. You're going to stop a war.'

'And why would I want to do that?'

The Doctor seemed genuinely hurt. 'Well, it's better than starting

one. Isn't it? Wars are bad. I'm sure you'll agree.'

'What's so bad about them?'

'Well, haven't you heard? People die.'

'I have lived through one or two of them, you know.'

'Then I would have thought you'd know that by now.' He tapped the

desk under Grainger's nose. 'When your people have finished

decoding that message, this is what they're going to find. They're

going to find that a man named Oleg Penkovsky gave Stempfer the

map coordinates to the sites on Cuba from where Soviet missiles are

being placed to launch an attack on the United States of America.

Which, in turn, will cause a NATO counter-attack and bring death to

millions.

'But we can stop it, Eddie. You and me, in Berlin, tonight.'

Grainger watched carefully as Carstairs transcribed the reply from

London, but it was so difficult to concentrate with the sound of all that

blood rushing through his ears.

Why did Carstairs have to breathe through his mouth instead of his

nose and make that rasping sound, like a demented pig? It was

disgusting.

Come to think of it, why did he have to breathe at all?

Grainger wanted to throttle him. Throttle him. Then hit him. Hit him

hard and keep hitting him -

'Got it,' Carstairs announced proudly.

He turned to where Grainger was pacing agitatedly and held out the

decoded message from Control.

'You read it,' Grainger snapped.

'Cuba is hot. Reconnaissance scrambled. Hold for further

instructions.'

So it was true, what this Doctor fellow had been telling him. It was

all true. The Soviets really were placing missiles in Cuba, just ninety

miles off the coast of Florida.

This was the fallout from President Kennedy's Bay of Pigs fiasco

last year that everyone had been waiting for.

Send fifteen hundred armed Cuban exiles back into Cuba to spark a

popular uprising. Fail miserably. Watch nearly twelve hundred of them

get caught, sentenced to thirty years' imprisonment. And Castro's

response is to arrange for Soviet missiles to be stationed in his back

garden.

This could escalate wildly out of control.

The world was sitting on a knife's edge.

So what was this Doctor here for? Stempfer was dead. The Soviets

had the element of surprise. So why send' this Doctor fellow across

with word of the missiles at all?

Was he here to negotiate terms? Even they wouldn't be that brazen,

surely?

Grainger could feel his jaw going ten to the dozen. If he ground his

teeth any more he'd start chipping bits off.

He booted the surgeon, who until that point had been snoring

obliviously away to himself on the decrepit old couch. He awoke

sharply. 'Good grief, man. What in blazes is the matter with you?'

'Get up.'

The rush of blood was stronger now. All he could hear was its roar.

'Get your kit. We have information to extract.'

The surgeon stumbled groggily to his feet. 'What's the matter with

him?'

Grainger didn't care what either of them thought, as Carstairs looked

on in fear, and said, 'I have no idea... '

Munro hog-tied him with thick electrical cable, his arms stretched

tightly behind the back of the chair.

The Doctor didn't struggle. It was almost as though he had been

expecting it.

'Have you heard of Torquemada?' Grainger asked, trying to sound

casual, but everyone in the room knew it was a lie.

The Doctor said nothing at first. He listened instead to the faint

sounds of something being prepared in the next room. It sounded very

much like a dentist's drill. 'Well...' he replied eventually. 'Nobody

expects the Spanish Inquisition.'

Grainger didn't bother to hide his glee at the proposition. 'As

Inquisitor General, Torquemada was a master at getting people to talk,

who otherwise would have preferred not to. When he inflicted pain he

elevated it to an art form.'

The Doctor knew better. 'Torture doesn't work, Eddie,' he said.

'Instead of getting people to tell you what you want to know, they tell

you what you want to hear.'

But even as he said it, the surgeon entered the room with a steady air

of the inevitable. He set a tray down on the table and picked up the

syringe by the barrel. Tapped it once. Then let a thin jet of clear liquid

shoot out to remove the tiny air-bubbles.

'Sodium pentathol,' Grainger explained. 'Truth serum.'

'I had no idea we were going for drinks,' the Doctor quipped. 'Care

to join me?'

'If I were you I'd treat this with a little more gravity.'

'Oh, in the words of a future Earth leader, don't mis-underestimate

me, Eddie. I never make jokes unless I'm deadly serious.'

'Then maybe you'll find this funny,' Munro interjected, cracking his

knuckles, eager to punch the Doctor hard across the face.

The surgeon tossed the syringe down in disgust. He turned his back

to leave. 'I want no part in this.'

'Oh, I'm with you,' the Doctor readily agreed.

'Shut up! ' Munro spat, ready to carry out his threat, but Grainger

stayed his arm.

'Check his heartbeat,' Grainger snapped. 'He's not who he says he

is. He has two of them.'

'What are you talking about?'

The Doctor looked on kindly. 'You'd better do as he says.'

The surgeon stepped to the side of his patient and did as he was

ordered, but he remained sceptical. 'The man was shot, for heaven's

sake. He's in shock. That could just be arrhythmia.'

'It's two hearts!'

'Get a grip, man, the pair of you.'

With that, the surgeon stormed past Grainger and Munro, and

marched off down the hallway.

'Shatters the illusion,' said the Doctor, 'when one of your inquisitors

suffers a crisis of conscience, eh?'

Grainger set his chair down in front of the Doctor and slumped in it.

'You still look like you've got something on your mind, though.

How are you coping?' the Doctor inquired. 'Still feel all that adrenalin

thundering through your ears? Everything still mired in a red mist?'

Grainger tried hard to concentrate, but the rage simply wouldn't lift.

'Yes... hard to think, isn't it? Hard to do anything except obey...

Maybe you should have the sodium pentathol?' the Doctor remarked

with some irony. 'Clear your head a bit.'

Grainger took a breath. It was like trying to inhale treacle. 'What are

the aims of the Jalaphron?' he demanded.

'To wreak havoc. To feed,' the Doctor said grimly.

Grainger glowered at Munro to finally hit him. But, as the old

soldier gleefully stepped forward to comply, a searing pain shot

through him, bending him double.

Grainger rounded on the Doctor in panic. Everything was spiralling

away so fast. 'No more games, Doctor. Tell me about the Jalaphron.'

'What good would it do? You're not listening.'

'Tell me!'

'They'd love it in here,' the Doctor replied casually. 'They feed on

misery, Eddie. The Jalaphron leave their young on socially unstable

worlds. The more turmoil, war and destruction, the greater the feast.

But the Cold War has caused a perverse kind of famine, bringing three

millennia of non-stop war, three millennia of good harvest to an end.

This stalemate has bred fear, but it's reduced misery.

'The Jalaphron are starving, Eddie. So they've taken matters into

their own hands. They're going to start a war.'

Grainger clawed his forehead, trying desperately to ease his

confusion. But it felt as though somebody else's fingers were already

there, digging into his scalp, crushing his skull.

'What, er... what are you talking about?'

The Doctor pressed his advantage. 'There are things going on in this

world that not everybody is aware of. Creatures from other worlds.

Other universes. Other dimensions in time and space. Of course,

Ambassador Skgar over there could tell you more. Though between

you and me, he's not really an ambassador. Too young. Never took the

test. He's more of a spokesman, really, aren't you, Skgar. What's that?

Oh, yes... well, the same to you.'

Grainger tried to focus on the scuttling insect. It seemed fatter

somehow. Like an engorged tic that had been feeding on blood.

'Get rid of that thing.'

Munro did as he was asked, swiping the bug off the table and hurling

it to the floor.

'Careful you don't step on the ambassador,' the Doctor advised.

'He's feeling a little fragile.'

'Enough!' Enraged, Grainger got to his feet and crushed it under his

heel.

A sickly yellow ooze spilled out from under his shoe. And

immediately it felt like a pressing weight had been lifted.

Grainger staggered, his vision clearing, his focus returning. So light-

headed was the feeling of sudden clarity that he slumped back into his

chair, holding his head in his hands, feeling the gradual onslaught of a

really bad hangover.

He glanced across at Munro, whose own dizzy spell had him

hugging the wall.

He felt his breath returning. Felt his anxiety subsiding.

When Grainger finally had the courage to look the Doctor in the eye,

still tied firmly to the chair, he felt nothing but embarrassment and

shame

'Oh, my God,' he said. 'What are we doing?'

The Doctor peered disdainfully down at his shoulder, tugged the piece

of suture out of his shoulder and threw it away.

Munro helped him on with his coat. When he handed him his hat he

couldn't help but keep his head bowed and look away. 'I'm... I'm very

sorry, sir.'

'As you should be,' the Doctor replied cheerfully, settling it down on

his mop of curly brown hair. 'Succumbing to alien mind control.

Who's ever heard of such a thing?'

The Doctor couldn't help but watch after him with a rueful smile as

the sergeant major skulked off.

'Eddie,' Carstairs announced, looking up from his wireless set.

'Control says three more large ships have been spotted heading for

Cuba.'

'And their cargo?'

Carstairs expression was grave. 'More warheads.'

'Why is he allowed to call you Eddie and I'm not?' the Doctor

interjected.

Grainger let the comment go, subserviently approaching the Doctor.

'Tell me what we have to do to get this thing to end.'

'I've traced the Jalaphron hive mother and her brood to the sewers

beneath Berlin. You need to stay back and mop up what's left behind

when I'm done. Do you understand?'

'Perfectly. I've seen what just one of these things can do.'

'Yes, well, once I've dealt with their hive mother, their abilities will

drop considerably. What you felt the moment the fog lifted from your

mind is going to happen almost instantaneously in the Kremlin, in the

White House, and at Number 10. They're going to find themselves on

the brink of a war they don't remember starting, and they're going to

need time to talk themselves into backing down from it. That's your

job, Eddie. I'll have done all I can do.'

Grainger was stunned. 'But how long will that take?'

'Oh, ten or 12 days or so.'

But Grainger remained troubled. 'May I ask... ? Why are you doing

this?'

'Because I made a promise to Stempfer.' The Doctor felt around in

his coat pocket and pulled out the metallic-looking pen with the light.

'Oh, which reminds me. Have you got a telephone?'

Grainger didn't understand. 'Over in the corner.'

The Doctor strode over, aimed his peculiar little instrument at it, and

then picked up the black Bakelite receiver.

'Romana,' he said.

Grainger could just hear the reply on the other end of the line. A

woman exclaiming, 'Doctor, you're alive! I've been scouring Moscow

but they just keep popping up everywhere.'

'Yes. Not to worry. I've located the hive mother.'

'Where are you?'

'West Berlin. I want you to listen very carefully. When I give the

signal I want you to bring the TARDIS and initiate a matter-time

divergence.'

He waited for her reply but she said nothing

'No arguing.'

'I wasn't arguing.'

He didn't seem convinced and reached into his pocket. But when he

exchanged his glowing pen for the small paper bag, he weighed it in

his hand and his expression changed to ashen.

It appeared to Grainger that this Romana was very perceptive indeed

because even on the end of the line she knew to be concerned. 'Doctor,

what's wrong?'

'Someone's stolen a jelly baby.'

The dank sewers of West Berlin stretched for mile upon foul-smelling

mile. Grainger followed closely behind the Doctor, careful not to find

himself knee-deep in effluent. For a larger man, the Doctor was agile

and surprisingly fast. Not at all what Grainger had expected.

'How do you know where we're going?' he asked.

'It's not only a human urge to visit your mother,' the Doctor replied.

At first Grainger didn't know what on earth he was talking about.

But, slowly, as his eyes adjusted to darkness, he realised that the damp

brickwork was alive with snakes of scuttling cockroaches all running in

the same direction.

Grainger's heart hit his ribcage with a thump. It made his skin crawl

just looking at them. 'There must be... thousands of them.'

'Yes, but only one that we need to worry about.'

As they rounded the corner up ahead, the mass of glistening insects

converged, crawling over each other to nuzzle at the dripping teats of a

vast incandescent yellow lump poking up from under the effluent

flowing down the tunnel.

Grainger stared in disbelief. Was that an actual alien life form? 'Oh,

my God,' he said. 'Is that really...?'

'Yes, I think you're right,' the Doctor replied, reaching for a

handkerchief. 'I do believe she's ill.'

The Jalaphron hive mother undulated to the tender affections of her

gathering brood. Yet, as her translucent skin oozed with discoloured

sweat, Grainger felt a heightened sense of trepidation. A animal was

usually at its most dangerous when wounded.

'You're sure just this shot of sodium pentathol is going to protect

us?'

'For you, for a little while at least. It interrupts the brain chemistry

and makes it a job for them to latch on.'

'But what about you?'

'Me?' There was that grin again. Mischievous, yet chilling. 'No

effect whatsoever. Now you know what you have to do?'

'Wait for you to go, light this fuse, then toss in the fire bomb. Munro

and his men have flamethrower teams standing by at the manholes

nearby just in case there's more of them.'

'Good man.' The Doctor reached for his glowing pen again. 'Well,

it's been good to see you again, Eddie -'

'Doctor, if I may... I don't understand. What is it you're going to

do?'

The Doctor seemed more than a little impatient. 'Do I really have

to?'

'Please... '

Reluctantly the Doctor explained. 'The TARDIS will arrive over

there, when I give the signal. At which point, Romana will render the

time vortex temporarily unstable. We'll travel to another destination,

dragging the hive mother and most of her brood with us, caught in our

wake as we go. Understand?'

'Not a word of it.'

'Good.'

With that. the Doctor shot off down the tunnel, pointing his odd little

apparatus at the glowing lump in the water.

'Time you should be leaving, don't you think, old girl?'

The incandescent mass seemed to moan at his arrival.

The Doctor seemed shocked. 'Well, there's no need to be like that,'

he said and, without further hesitation, he pressed the small button on

the side of his device.

And there it was! That sound Grainger had heard before. That

peculiar scream, like a braying metallic walrus.

And then, from thin air, the appearance of that ordinary blue police

box! A second later and the door to the box was flung open and a

woman stood in its entrance. 'Come on, Doctor!' she yelled.

The Doctor shot a look back. 'Are you ready for your close-up, Mr

DeMille?'

Grainger looked down at the petrol bomb in his hand and got his

match ready. 'You know,' he called out. 'You really are a very strange

man.'

The Doctor hesitated in the doorway, genuinely touched, and smiled.

'Thank you, Eddie. That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me.'

Grainger's telephone box stood under a tree on a quiet suburban road

in Charlottenburg, the smell of burning petrol still thick in his nostrils.

The line was crackly and faint, but Grainger didn't care.

'Hello, dear. How was the canasta?' he asked warmly.

Any other woman would have taken him to task for calling so late,

but not Eleanor. More than anyone, she understood. They chatted idly

about friends and card games until eventually she asked him, 'Darling,

did we both win tonight?'

'Yes,' Grainger replied. 'Yes, I think we did.'

'When are you coming home?'

'In a couple of weeks. First I have to go to Washington.'

Eleanor put her foot down. 'But then a holiday.'

'Yes, let's. Somewhere warm.' Grainger said. 'I want to come out of

the cold.'

Short Trips: Time Signature

Perhaps it's because the character is all in Patrick Troughton's brilliant

performance - not what he says so much as how - but I've always found the

Second Doctor really difficult to write. I'm very envious of Eddie getting him

so perfectly here.

All the individual, standalone stories in Time Signature help tell a bigger story.

To make that work, I wrote a rough outline of the bigger story, with a sentence

or two of plot stuff for each author to include in their story.

Eddie's brief was: The Second Doctor visits a friend who is, like him, a

time traveller and musician. The man is working on a project to mix time and

music. But there are people who want to make it into a weapon.'

Eddie sent me his synopsis on 9 March 2006. But I'd heard rumours that

an episode of the forthcoming new series of Doctor Who might be doing

something similar with televisions. Eddie responded that, from what we could

garner from online rumours, 'Gatiss' episode looks like it's nostalgic from a

viewer's point of view, so I'll steer towards behind the scenes, the can-do spirit

of 1960s TV.'

I love this emphasis in the story. I loved it so much I stole Eddie's time

traveller / musician for my own story in the book - which tied up the bigger

story. 'Did you have any idea who Flora might be, other than in this story?' I

asked Eddie on 6 June.

'I didn't, really,' said Eddie, i was thinking in terms of sixties Who, where

these things tended to be left ambiguous, so I didn't even decide whether she

was human or not. I think she's not Gallifreyan - she's either from a future

era on Earth where they have time travel, or from an advanced civilisation like

the People [from some Doctor Who books in the 1990s], and she splits her time

between making music and researching temporal anomalies.

'I didn't get a chance to mention this in the story,' he concluded, 'but her

car contains her time-travel equipment, so it can travel in time if the correct

8-track cartridge is inserted into the tape player.'

Simon Guerrier

The Avant Guardian

Eddie Robson

An Adventure ofthe Second Doctor,

with Jamie McCrimmon and Zoe Heriot

Burgess climbed into his car, placed his briefcase on the passenger seat

and tossed his coat onto the back seat without looking. As he did so,

his hand brushed against something unfamiliar and metal, and he did a

double take.

Lying on the back seat of his car was a tall young man holding a

handgun, wearing a thick coat and a balaclava. Burgess could see very

little else of him in the unlit car park. It clearly wasn't easy for him to

be in that position and he seemed relieved to be able to straighten up.

As he did so, the gun remained trained on Burgess, as did the

gunman's eyes.

'Howard Burgess?' he asked.

Burgess nodded. 'There's, er, no need to hurt me. I'll give you

anything you want.'

The tall man said nothing.

'Er, what do you want?' asked Burgess. 'Money, is it? Or something

else?'

'You're head of Programme Planning, right?' said the tall man. He

spoke quickly, with little trace of an accent.

Burgess nodded again.

'Good. A little bird tells me you've just scheduled Waterfront Beat

for Wednesdays at 8.30.'

'What?' Burgess was starting to wonder if this was a practical joke,

but didn't dare say so in case it wasn't.

'WaterfrontBeat,' the tall man repeated aggressively. 'Wednesdays.

Eight-thirty.'

'That's the new police drama serial?'

'Yes,' the tall man said impatiently.

'Er, yes,' said Burgess. He swallowed hard. 'I have, yes.'

'Right. Well, I was not very happy to hear about that. Not happy at

all.'

'Oh?'

'Oh, no. You see, I'd really rather that it went out at 7.30 on

Fridays.' He brandished the gun a little towards Burgess. 'I'm very

keen that that should be the case.'

'But, er, there are several factors... er, we thought about when

placing it in the slot we've chosen, mainly that the slightly more adult

content suggested a later slot and... er, we've heard that the other lot

are going to run the new series of The Identikit Man on Fridays.'

'Yes, we know. That's where I want it - exactly opposite The

Identikit Man.'

'Why?'

'Don't ask questions. Bring the first episode forward five days.'

'We can't.'

'Can't or won't?'

'Can't. We've already sold the advertising space. The listings have

gone to press - it'll be a ratings disaster.'

'Hmm,' said the tall man. 'I don't want that. No... put it back two

days.'

'How can I explain a decision like that?'

'Any way you like, as long as it doesn't mention me or what's

happened here tonight. Understood?'

Burgess nodded.

'If it doesn't happen, Burgess, I know where you live.' The tall man

released the door catch and Burgess heard his footfalls as he ran from

the car park.

Burgess laid his hands on the steering wheel. As he tried to bring his

nerves under control, he wondered just when the world of television

had become quite so competitive and why he hadn't noticed.

A grinding, abrasive whine rose from Flora's dinner plate; a noise

which she created by using her fork to describe a figure of eight around

the plate, sweeping aside the remains of her bolognaise as she went.

Dominic, sitting to her left, broke off his conversation with Bill and

politely asked Flora if she would please stop making the noise. He was

polite because she was his friend and, technically, his boss.

Flora continued as before.

'Flora?' Dominic said, aware that other diners were turning around

to look at them.

'Yes... I heard,' said Flora. 'It's interesting. Why is that an irritating

noise, do you think?'

'I don't know, Flo,' said Bill. 'But if you want us to talk about it,

you'll have to stop making it 'cause I can't think and hear that at the

same time.'

Flora laid her fork on the edge of the plate. 'You see what I mean,

though?' she asked. 'It provokes a reaction, a strong one... and

basically the same in everybody.'

'You're not thinking of using it on Identikit?' asked Dominic.

'You'll never get it past Bryan. Or any producer, for that matter. I'll

bet you five pounds you can't.'

'Hmm,' said Flora. 'What if you could impose a musical pitch on it

'What, with the frequency changer?'

'I don't trust that gizmo,' said Bill. 'It rattles like hell and the longer

it's left on, the louder it gets. Mark my words, one of these days it's

going to blow up and kill somebody. And it's not going to be me.'

'But if you could make a scale out of it,' said Flora, ignoring Bill

entirely, 'and put together a melody out of it... that perhaps worked

against the "natural" tone?'

Dominic chuckled. 'I dare you to wipe all the flute sounds off the

mellotron and put your fork-squeal scale on it instead.'

Flora smiled and dipped her head. 'No. Don't be childish, Dominic.'

'That's better,' said Bill.

'What do you mean?'

'I think,' said Dominic, 'Bill's referring to the fact that you haven't

smiled once during dinner. Am I correct, Bill?'

Bill nodded. It had become a weekly tradition among the staff of the

Sound Unit to end the week with a meal at Alessandro's and, although

Flora had a tendency to be vague in social situations, tonight she

seemed more than that: distant and tense.

'Oh?' said Flora. 'Sorry. It's just... I had a run-in with Samantha

earlier.'

'From Programme Planning,' said Dominic 'What about?'

'They repeated The Order of Seasons last night, and... well, I asked

her to tell me if any of my things would be on.'

'You mean the Present-Day Play from last year?' said Bill. 'I didn't

think you did anything for that one?'

'No, I did. I scored the two film sequences,' said Flora. 'It won't be

on again. They didn't list it. Change to the advertised programme.'

'Can't you get the archive to sort you out a screening copy?'

Flora paused. 'That's what Samantha told me to do. But... it's not the

same.'

'I know what you mean,' said Dominic. 'I always like to see them go

out live. It gives you rather a kick to know that everybody out there's

hearing your stuff, doesn't it?'

Flora cleared her throat. 'Yes, that's it.'

'Don't you have something on tonight?'

'Yes. The start of the new series of Identikit Man.'

'I thought that started already?' said Bill.

'No, they put it back a month.'

'Gawd, they do faff about, don't they? Why launch a new series

three weeks before Christmas?'

Flora sighed. 'I don't know. I just hope it rates well.'

'I bet you do. When it comes to residuals, you can't beat a theme.

You didn't write that as a standard contract thing, right?'

'No, I score the episodes as staff but the theme's published

separately.'

'Quids in,' said Bill.

Flora checked her watch. 'I should go, it's on at 7.30.' She stood to

leave.

'Flo?' said Dominic. 'Could I get my key back off you?'

'Key?'

'Yes. You were swinging it around that Theremin earlier?'

'Oh... was that yours?' Flora reached into her pocket, found the key

and returned it to him. 'I thought it was mine.'

It had been a while since the Doctor had howled to be let out, so he did

it again. He was aware that there was only a point to this if some

conscious force was responsible for his presence here, which was not

necessarily the case, but he was unsure what else he could do. He tried

to punch against the sides of his prison, only to discover that it didn't

have any.

For a few moments, the Doctor sank into quiet contemplation of his

situation. There would be a solution; he would find it and he would

release himself.

He quickly became bored of this and threw a tantrum instead,

shouting and kicking and flailing his arms around. He succeeded only

in punching himself in the face - which should have been physically

impossible in this position, so at least this told him something of the

nature of the place in which he was trapped. But it offered no clues

how to escape.

At 7.31 pm, the title sequence of The Identikit Man played across TV

screens all over the country, including one belonging to Flora Millrace.

The titles concisely retold the story of the Identikit Man, Douglas

Hunter, across a series of clips from the first episode: how he had come

home one day following a business trip to discover that his wife was

married to someone else and did not remember him. His entire identity

had vanished, there was no record of him anywhere, and he no longer

needed to eat or sleep. He now moved through the world like a ghost,

trying to fathom what had happened to him and helping people along

the way. This montage was accompanied by a sinister, rather chilly

drone-based composition of Flora's, performed largely on an Ondes

Martenot but with an otherworldly buzz behind it (Flora had achieved

this by taking white noise and playing it backwards, and then

overlaying it on the same white noise playing forwards).

For forty seconds, this familiar piece tumbled from the tiny speakers

of 7,603,974 television sets. The sound waves rebounded inside living

rooms and spilled out into the streets: no longer audible to human ears,

they nevertheless clashed against each other.

From her own home in Acton, Flora stared at the display of a

computer that she never showed to anybody because they would never

recognise it for what it was. It monitored the patterns of clashing sound

waves over London and much of the surrounding area. As her music

flowed through the matter of the city, it prised open very tiny temporal

rifts, punching minuscule holes between the material world and the

space-time vortex. These did no real damage whatsoever, but merely

tested the integrity of the bond between the chronological universe and

its 'back door'. The tune which millions of viewers associated with a

handsome stranger's attempts to resolve his existential crisis - and to

solve odd mysteries along the way - had, in fact, been painstakingly

designed by Flora many years previously in another time and place, its

rhythms and collisions calculated with great precision to produce

precisely this effect. This was the reason for its curious changes of

pace - which could thankfully be artistically justified as a reflection of

the uncertainty which underpinned the tone of the series (or did when it

was written by people who actually understood it, rather than the

occasional hacks who just treated it like a straightforward detective

drama).

When the forty seconds were over, Flora's computer showed her its

results. Her systems had followed the music as it went about its work.

Most of the map was coloured blue, which indicated areas that were

normal and stable. However, the map was flecked with a few dozen

spots of red, each of which was an indication of an area where time

appeared to be out of phase with everything around it, stuck in an

intermediate state between the universe and the vortex. On the

television set in the corner of her room, an action sequence began as

Hunter was attacked by a mysterious assailant - for which Flora had

also composed the music. This piece was less effective than the title

theme, partly because it was brand new and Flora had not been able to

test and refine it - it irked her deeply when she was criticised for re-

using motifs from her previous work, as she couldn't explain to

anybody why this was not just laziness on her part - and partly because

she had been required to tailor it to the on-screen events, which limited

her use of rhythm. However, for the purposes of fine-tuning her search,

it would serve perfectly well.

Every time The IdentikitMan was broadcast, Flora did this. Then she

would pinpoint two or three 'trouble' spots, load her equipment into

the back of her Volkswagen Beetle, and try to track them down. When

she found them, she would use her equipment to bring these

aberrations back into phase: for a few hours after her music had been

broadcast, they would be malleable and could be 're-tuned' to the

material world around them. This activity would often keep her out

past midnight, depending on how far afield she had to travel, so she

was rather glad that this series of The Identikit Man was going out on

Fridays, rather than the previous Tuesday slot. With the show only

being broadcast 13 weeks at a time, however, opportunities during the

rest of the year were sporadic - and, try as she might, she couldn't

come up with anything as effective as what had become the Identikit

Man theme. There would have been a build-up in activity in the

meantime - hence her irritation at not being able to take advantage of

last night's broadcast of The Order of Seasons, which would probably

have allowed her to attend to a couple of spots ahead of this evening.

Fifty minutes later, Douglas Hunter had located the amnesiac boy

and returned him to his mother, an attractive widow named Diana - she

was set to be a new regular character this series, since the previous love

interest had been killed in the last episode of series two (accompanied

by some funereal musique concrete which had apparently attracted a

few complaints, mainly from people with dogs). Flora had been asked

to write a little motif for Diana, and had wanted it to be an effective

piece since it would be repeated in most of the episodes, but it didn't

seem to work as well as she'd hoped. She thought she might try a

subtle rewrite; probably no one would notice.

The end credits rolled, along with the theme music. This allowed

Flora to finalise which spots she was heading for. She marked them in

pencil on her A-Z, packed her bag and switched off her television set.

Flora knocked on the door of 27 Brentwood Road, Chalk Farm, at

9.37pm. The door was answered by a stocky man who had no idea why

she was there, and said so when she introduced herself and asked if she

might see inside.

'Have you...' Flora leaned back and peered through their bay

window. 'Do you ever get headaches when you stand up in your front

room? And when you walk out of the room, they go away again?'

The stocky man blinked.

'Would you like me to try and... er, eliminate that for you?' said

Flora. 'It must be terribly annoying.'

The stocky man turned and looked inside his house, then turned back

to Flora and invited her in. He was clearly suspicious, but she was

willowy, soft-voiced and gentle of movement, so he must have been

confident of warding off any potential threat she might pose.

The stocky man's stocky wife and one of his two stocky children sat

on the living room sofa, whilst the other child lay on his front on the

floor: the armchair was evidently earmarked for father. Flora greeted

them and placed her bag - a doctor's bag - on the floor. The family

was watching The Correctors on the other side, or rather they had

been: now, they were discussing the sudden presence in their home of a

well-spoken, dark-haired youngish woman, wearing a pea-green coat

over a cashmere sweater and grey wool skirt. Mother was alarmed at

having her viewing interrupted, and suspected her husband of some

form of stupidity and/or deceit.

Flora politely asked the youngest child to move from the centre of

the floor. She produced three conical devices from her bag and

positioned them around the floor, then plugged them into a very

stripped-down version of her home computer - quite apart from being

lighter, it had a more rudimentary appearance that tended not to scare

people. She looked at the read-out and was pleased.

'This doesn't look overly complicated,' she said. She didn't like

lying; she felt that it was obvious when she did, that her voice became

hesitant and quivery. (Her friends never noticed the difference.)

However, she had to tell them something. 'It's electromagnetic

disturbance causing your headaches,' she said. 'I detected it from

outside... a faulty valve in your television, causing it to leak out.' She

made a mental note to pretend to repair the television later.

Flora operated the device and the three cones sprang to life. Three

beams of light projected into the centre of the room and illuminated a

sphere in the air, more than a metre in diameter.

'Wow,' said the child on the sofa.

The parents said nothing.

For a few minutes, Flora sat fine-tuning her equipment: she adjusted,

she listened, she adjusted again. Eventually, the sphere disappeared

with a satisfying zing, signifying that it had come back into phase with

everything around it, and the cones automatically deactivated

themselves. This was what always happened.

At the same moment, a small man with short dark hair, a heavily

jowled face and a scruffy, baggy suit appeared in the air where the

sphere had been and fell to the floor with a heavy impact. He howled in

surprise, then again in pain. This was more unusual.

Flora shuffled along the floor on her knees, placed a hand on the

man's shoulder and gently turned him towards her.

Flora smiled. For some reason, she had thought it might be him.

'Doctor?' she asked.

The Doctor opened his eyes. 'Oh.' He looked around him at the

pallid decor of the suburban living room in which he found himself, the

resolutely average family and the black-and-white television. Then he

looked at his rescuer, and recognition flickered through his eyes. 'Oh, I

say.' He clasped his hands together and smiled broadly. 'Well done.

Very well done.'

Ten minutes later Flora and her friend were gone, and the family never

spoke of them again.

'Flora?' said the Doctor, as they drove towards Regent's Park. He was

rummaging, uninvited, through the glove compartment. It had started

to rain quite heavily, and they had to speak up over the noise.

'What's the matter?' Flora asked. 'Don't you like it?'

'No, no, it's nice. It'll just take some getting used to, that's all.'

'I could go by my old name, but I didn't want to be conspicuous.

Then again, the way things have been going in the past couple of years,

I'm starting to think I could get away with it. If anybody asked where it

came from, I could tell them it was given to me by aliens - nobody

would bat an eyelid.'

'It's lovely to see you,' said the Doctor, unfolding a map of the

Pyrenees he'd found in the glove compartment, 'but I must say, I

hadn't expected to find you in 1968.'

'I hadn't expected to find you here either.'

'Me?' said the Doctor from behind the map. 'I'm here all the time.

Ask anybody.'

'Literally all the time?'

'Well, very frequently.'

'It's literally true for me. I've been here continuously and

chronologically for four years now.'

The Doctor folded the top of the map over and stared at her in

surprise. 'Really?'

Flora nodded.

'Oh, my word,' said the Doctor. 'I don't know how you can bear it. I

like it on Earth, but it'd drive me up the wall to stay here for so long.

Or anywhere. So what brings you here? Are you still making music?'

'Yes. Initially, that was why I came... there were some things I

wanted to see here and now. But I've stayed longer than planned.

There's important work to do.'

'Oh?' The Doctor let the map fall against the dashboard.

'Yes. This area has a large amount of... temporal disturbance.

Dangerously large. Like that bubble you were in - lots of little bits, out

of phase with everything else. Did you say you were here a lot?'

The Doctor bit his thumbnail and looked out of the car window.

'Quite a lot, yes.'

'In this specific area? London and around?'

'Generally,' the Doctor muttered.

'You haven't done anything that might account for the disturbance,

have you?'

'No,' said the Doctor. 'No, no... well, possibly. But all for a greater

good, you understand.'

Flora giggled. 'Oh, I'm sure. You're still crusading around the place,

then?'

'Certainly am,' said the Doctor proudly.

'And still leaving others to clear up after you.'

'Well,' the Doctor said, trying vainly to fold the map the way that it

was folded originally, 'I'm not very good at that part of it, you see. If I

leave it to other people, they do a better job.'

'Hmm. Anyway, when I first arrived I spotted the disturbance

straight away. I traced it back and it all seemed to start about... about

five years ago. I think.'

'Yes,' murmured the Doctor, 'that would make sense.'

'At first I thought it'd be a simple case of finding each one and

clearing it, but it hasn't been that easy. It fluctuates. They come and go,

and when you've eliminated one, you find another you didn't see. I

think I'm winning, though... on balance.'

'Must be a slow process, though,' said the Doctor. 'Those kinds of

disturbance are notoriously tricky to find.'

Flora suppressed a self-satisfied smile as she explained her

technique: the music she had composed, and how she had discovered

that television could do much of the work for her. Millions of tiny

speakers sending out her tunes in unison, probing the fabric of the

world around them, every week.

'But that's brilliant!' said the Doctor.

Flora smiled.

'Yes,' said the Doctor. 'I know you know it's brilliant.'

Half an hour or so later, the rain had stopped and Flora and the Doctor

strode out across Regent's Park. Flora carried her bag. The Doctor had

happened upon an abandoned football and kicked it ahead of him as he

walked, flicking up water from the grass. Each contact with his foot

echoed back at them from the trees. Flora was very aware of feeling

more conspicuous than usual, but the Doctor was good at making you

feel safe.

'How did you end up inside that bubble, anyway?' she asked. She

had assumed that he would volunteer this information, but he hadn't so

far.

'Ahem,' said the Doctor. 'I was, er, working on some modifications

to the TARDIS, and I disabled something I shouldn't have, I think.'

'Oh, I see. You were meddling.'

'Essential meddling,' he said, clearly embarrassed. 'The TARDIS

tried to make an emergency landing and safely eject us -'

'Us?'

'My friends, Jamie and Zoe.'

'Oh, I've met Jamie. Don't know Zoe.'

'Hopefully you'll get to meet her. I assume that the same thing's

happened to them as happened to me, trapped in those little bubbles.

The TARDIS too. How easy d'you think - whoops!' He had just mis-

kicked his football and it was bobbling away from him. He dashed

over, collected it again and returned to Flora's side. 'How easy do you

think it'd be to find them?'

'Hmm... During a broadcast we might be able to look at fluctuations

which might... er, indicate that there'd be something inside. If we knew

what we were looking for.'

'Oh, good.'

'But we'd have to wait for the next broadcast.'

'Which would be when?'

'I'll check the listings, but I don't have anything until this time next

week, I think.'

'Right. I think they'll be all right until then. Time seems to move

much more slowly inside the bubbles. Hard to tell but I think I was in

that one for... Where have you gone?'

The Doctor turned around. Flora had stopped walking and put her

bag down on the grass.

'Oh,' said the Doctor. 'Are we here already?'

'Yes,' said Flora, without looking up. She was busy placing her

cones.

The Doctor nudged his football back along the ground in the other

direction. 'So,' he said, 'you just set those up, turn it on, and it all

snaps back into phase?' He flipped the ball up and started to play

keepy-up.

'It's a little more complicated than -'

The Doctor lost control of the ball and it bounced away from him,

knocking over two of the cones as it went. 'Sorry,' he said.

Flora repositioned the cones, picked up the ball and refused to give it

back to him, in spite of his protests. Eventually he settled for watching

what she was doing: it was, after all, rather interesting.

'Do you think the TARDIS or Jamie or Zoe might be in this one?' he

asked.

'Possibly,' she said. 'It's quite a large one.'

Flora switched on her equipment and a sphere appeared in the air

between them. The Doctor crossed all his fingers, and put his thumbs

together and crossed those too. Flora made her adjustments. The

Doctor fidgeted. A couple of minutes later, the sphere zinged out of

existence.

There was nothing inside.

'Oh,' said the Doctor.

'Well,' said Flora, it was rather a long shot, you realise.'

'Yes, I know. But I've always been lucky.'

With two more bubbles brought back into phase, and nothing else

found, the Doctor and Flora returned to her flat a little before two

o'clock. Flora realised that she had left her copies of the week's

listings at work, and the next morning left the Doctor to occupy

himself with her instruments whilst she returned to the Sound Unit to

collect them.

She heard Bill's voice as she entered their bunker-like building. It

wasn't altogether unusual to find him or Dominic here at the weekend. It

was a good chance to work without being disturbed. For this reason,

Flora was surprised to hear another voice, one she recognised but not

Dominic's. It was Arthur, a young editor who was working on The

Identikit Man this year. He was tall, curly haired and habitually wore

quite horrible shirts: a little awkward, but very talented from what she'd

seen. He was leaning against a console: when he saw her come in, he

broke off his conversation with Bill and stood up.

'Hello,' he said quickly. 'Bill said they weren't expecting you in

today.'

'We weren't,' said Bill. 'Flo's usually living it up at the weekend, eh?'

'I left something here,' said Flora. 'What brings you in on a Saturday?'

'I was hoping to get some work done ahead of time,' said Arthur. 'I

dropped over to pick up any finished tracks you've got for the next few

eps.'

'Oh,' said Flora. 'I'm afraid I'm not the best at labelling things...

you've no hope of working out which is the final version of anything.'

'Yeah, that's what I told him,' said Bill. 'Lucky you called in.'

'What do you need?' asked Flora.

'Whatever you've got,' said Arthur.

* * *

The listings revealed that the Doctor's luck was in: a miniseries for

which Flora had composed the music, Cold Starlight, was being

repeated on the second channel this coming Thursday. Upon returning

home, Flora warned the Doctor that this would mean fewer viewers

than The IdentikitMan, but because it had all been done on film she'd

been able to take more time over the soundtrack and snuck in bits of

ambient score through much of the action without intruding on it, so it

was a particularly effective piece.

'What's it about?' asked the Doctor as he flicked through the

listings.

'Um...' said Flora. 'These people on a spaceship...'

'And what happens to them?'

Flora paused. 'I can't remember. It was very good, though.' She

picked up her copy of the listings for the other side, to see what would

be on against her programmes It was a current affairs show opposite

Cold Starlight, which would be fine - but The Identikit Man was on

opposite a new cop show called Waterfront Beat, which seemed to be

getting a lot of publicity: it was on the cover of the magazine. This

worried her slightly, but she didn't share her concerns with the Doctor.

On Monday afternoon, a tall man entered an editing suite near

Waterloo and closed the door quietly behind himself. There was only

one person in the room, an almost equally tall young woman with

bobbed blonde hair, a rather large nose and very dark eyes, wearing a

sweater and long skirt. She went by the name of Turis: she claimed it

was Eastern European, and nobody questioned it.

'You took your time,' Turis said to the tall man, whose name was

Arto - although whilst in this time and place he was using the name

Arthur, which was nicely inconspicuous.

'It takes a while for them to process that kind of thing,' said Arto. He

put a briefcase down on Turis's desk, opened it and produced a film

canister.

'What's this?' asked Turis.

'IdentikitMan episode two.'

'A telerecording?' she said, appalled. 'How am I supposed to work

with that?'

'They don't copy to videotape.'

'Why didn't you copy it yourself?'

'I couldn't get near it. I did try, but it's a TX master. They're not

going to let it go walkies.'

'You talked Burgess into moving our show opposite theirs.'

'With a gun, yeah.'

'Why didn't you try the same with them?'

'That was here. They know me there. I can't go waving guns in their

faces.'

Turis considered the manner in which her colleague had said this.

'You like it there, don't you?'

'Maybe,' said Arto.

'This isn't the time to turn soft.'

'I know. Don't stress out about it.'

'Don't you find it stressful, working with all this ancient

technology?'

'No, not really,' said Arto. 'I kind of like it. Oh, I got masters of a

load more of her music too.'

'Really? Anything we can use?'

'I think there is, yeah.'

The Doctor filled the time until Thursday by going to the Warhol show

in town and visiting James Watson, an old friend of his, and getting

him to sign a copy of his latest book for Zoe. In the evenings, he

listened to some of Flora's work and they would discuss it until late at

night. They also made some recordings together, most of which were

unfinished, but Flora intended to arrange the material into something

usable at some stage - maybe not as something for television, but an

album of her own. She was particularly pleased with some tape loops

that she had made from the sound of the Doctor playing his recorder,

and the Doctor let her keep the instrument so that she could replicate

the sound if she needed to.

'Are you sure?' she asked him. At some point he'd decorated it with

stick-on moons and stars, some of which had bent where he'd carried

the recorder in his pocket.

'Oh, quite sure,' the Doctor said. 'It isn't my only one. I've got

others. Do you really only use contemporary instruments and

contemporary technology?'

'Oh, yes,' Flora said. 'I think it would be cheating otherwise. It

would be very, very easy to make something nobody had ever heard

before... but then I'd feel bad for whoever should have come along and

come up with that sound themselves.'

On Tuesday and Wednesday, whilst Flora was at work, the Doctor

attended the Rolling Stones' Rock and Roll Circus and returned full of

enthusiasm for Taj Mahal. Flora played him some Cajun-influenced

music she'd used on a children's drama called The Devil in the Mouse-

Hole, which was partly inspired by Mahal, and the Doctor was

fascinated. He commented that the discordant elements might be rather

scary for children, and when Flora looked a little put out, the Doctor

explained that he hadn't meant it as a criticism.

On Thursday, the Doctor settled down in Flora's armchair to watch

Cold Starlight. Flora sat at the back of the living room, monitoring her

equipment as the theme music - a building, ambitious piece

encompassing all the major chords - was heard around the country.

The music rose in tandem with the image of the Starship Promise - a

model shot which had had special effort put into it as it would be seen

every week in the title sequence, and was unusually sophisticated. The

Doctor commented on this, but Flora was too busy concentrating..

Flora's soundtrack was, as she had said, almost ever-present. The

story was about members of the Promise crew being possessed by an

alien intelligence, and she had taken advantage of this to make her

music akin to another, unseen character, menacing the crew in the

background. Although the viewership was probably only something

like three million nationally, the constant bombardment of sound

waves meant that Flora was able to map the pattern of disturbances

quite consistently. After an hour, she had a very good idea of which

bubbles might contain the Doctor's ship and his friends.

On the screen, astronaut Jane Hunter was on a space walk, reporting

back to her colleagues on what she could see. She tailed off, then

screamed... then the radio went dead.

The credits rolled and the theme music played.

'No!' cried the Doctor. He turned to Flora. 'They can't end it there.

What happens next?'

'Shh,' said Flora, who was using the theme music to make some

final adjustments.

'Aww,' said the Doctor sulkily. He massaged his left index finger:

he had been toying with a piece of string during the programme and as

it had become increasingly tense, the Doctor had absently wound the

string tightly around his finger, creating a series of painful ridges and

dents.

Flora stood up. 'So, are we going?'

'Where?'

'To find your friends and your TARDIS.'

'Oh, yes,' said the Doctor, apparently having quite forgotten.

Their first target was near Hammersmith Pier - a few feet away from

the end, hovering about twenty feet above the river. The Doctor and

Flora had to hold the cones and point them downwards, towards the

bubble. Flora made her adjustments. The Doctor was unsure whether or

not to hope that there was something in there: whatever or whoever it

was, they were in for a dunking.

The bubble zinged. The TARDIS appeared. There was a loud splash.

The Doctor tutted. 'How am I supposed to get that out?'

Quite unexpectedly, the TARDIS made its dematerialisation noise

and vanished. Before the Doctor could complain about this, it

reappeared on the shore, upright and bone dry.

'Oh,' said the Doctor.

'What was that?' asked Flora.

'Hostile Action Displacement System. Makes the TARDIS do a

short hop if it lands in trouble. That's what I was trying to fix earlier.'

He straightened his bow tie. 'I knew I knew what I was doing.'

Once the Doctor had checked that his ship was undamaged, they left

the TARDIS on the shore where it was relatively inconspicuous, and

went in search of more bubbles. The second of the night was

disappointingly empty, but the third, in a back alley in Bloomsbury,

contained Zoe. The Doctor stood beneath the bubble and managed to

catch her when she fell: it looked to Flora like a well-rehearsed circus

act.

Zoe introduced herself to Flora. She was young, small, pretty, round-

faced, dark-haired and dressed in a silver catsuit. Flora was surprised:

the way that the Doctor had described her, she had been expecting

somebody older. The Doctor found a chip shop that was still open and

bought Zoe a fish supper, which she was slightly suspicious of but

hungry enough to eat whilst sitting on the back seat of Flora's car.

According to Flora, the bubbles would no longer be malleable enough

to bring back into phase, and they should try to find Jamie tomorrow.

'How long were you in there?' the Doctor asked as they drove back

to Flora's flat. 'A-ha!' he added as he leaned over the back of the seat

and stole a chip from Zoe. She slapped his hand away, but failed to

prevent the theft.

'Ages,' she complained. 'Twelve hours, at least.'

'I told you,' the Doctor said to Flora. 'Time moves more slowly

inside. I was probably in that one for months.' He turned back to Zoe.

'Flora let me out six days ago.'

'You were trapped in one too?' asked Zoe. 'So where's the

TARDIS?'

'Hammersmith,' said the Doctor.

The following evening, The Identikit Man was going to start late as a

consequence of an overrunning live report about Apollo 8 in the

previous programme, Eye on the Future. Once this became apparent,

Arto slipped inside the control room at another channel and demanded

that they delay the start of Waterfront Beat.

'Why?' asked one of the bemused operators, before noticing that

Arto had a gun. At this point the question became, 'How?'

'There's a temporary fault,' said Arto. 'Yeah?'

His instructions were carried out: the 'temporary fault' caption

appeared on the monitors in front of them, and on the screens of

5,332,875 viewers across the country.

Not, however, at the home of Flora Millrace, where the Doctor and Zoe

were seated on the sofa, animatedly discussing the Apollo 8 item on

Eye on the Future over cups of tea. Flora sat at the table with her

computer, making unnecessary adjustments to pass the time. Late

running irritated her.

'Good,' said Arto. 'Be ready to go straight into the programme when I

give you the word. No station ident, no continuity announcement - go

straight in. Understand? Is there a set in here that'll pick up the other

channels?'

An operator directed the tall man towards one of the screens. He re-

tuned it to a different station, turned the volume up and watched

intently. A few minutes passed: Eye on the Future ended, there was a

trail for the current affairs programme State of the Age, and then the

station ident appeared.

'It's just after 25 to eight,' said a voice from the set.

'Be ready,' Arto said.

'And now, a little later than billed, it's another adventure for The

Identikit Man.'

'Run it,' said the tall man. 'Now.'

'Oh,' said the Doctor as the opening titles ran and he heard the theme

music. He turned to Flora and jabbed his finger in the direction of the

television. 'I know this one. This is one of your best ones, I think.'

'I don't know about that,' said Flora. 'But it's certainly my most

effective. I've used -' Flora suddenly went quiet.

The Doctor turned. 'What?'

'I don't understand...' Flora said, staring hard at her monitor.

The Doctor jumped up from the sofa and scurried to her side. Zoe

followed. 'What is it?' the Doctor asked.

Flora pointed at the screen. look - these are the problem areas, the

bubbles. Normally they show up as red. But they're coming up black.'

'What does that mean?' asked Zoe.

'I think the bond with the vortex has completely broken down,' said

Flora. 'It's like my process has been completely exaggerated. It

normally punches little holes between our universe and the vortex -

that's how I find the out-of-phase spots. But it's as if something has

targeted the problem areas and opened them up to the vortex for a few

seconds.'

The Doctor's face fell. 'You mean that energy has seeped out from

the vortex and into each of those bubbles?'

'Yes, I think so,' said Flora.

'But if it gets out... that could be disastrous!' said the Doctor. 'It

could cause untold damage!'

'I don't understand what's causing it. The technique... it seems like

mine, but nothing I've done could do this... '

The Doctor straightened up and looked at the television, drumming

his fingers on his mouth. The standard early action sequence of The

Identikit Man had just begun, accompanied by a version of Flora's

standard action music. The Doctor ran over to the TV and returned it to

the other side, where Waterfront Beat was airing. It was a

straightforward dialogue scene, a policeman interviewing a suspect, but

had been scored with jarring, staccato music. It didn't match the action

at all, and obscured the dialogue at times. The Doctor's eyes narrowed.

He switched back to The Identikit Man, then went from one to the

other, over and over. He didn't have to explain to Flora what he was

getting at: the two pieces shared a rhythm. The Waterfront Beat music

was a counterpoint to hers. They weren't precisely synchronised, but

that didn't matter: they'd still be out there, colliding against each other,

the new piece changing the effect of her own.

'Who's doing this?' Flora asked.

'Hopefully,' said the Doctor, pulling his shoes on, 'we'll find that

out during the process of stopping them.'

The door of the control room opened and Turis entered, carrying a bag

and directing a round of applause at Arto. 'Bravo,' she said.

'It's working then, is it?' asked Arto.

'Yep.' She opened her bag, pulled out a reel of videotape and handed

it to one of the vision controllers. 'I think it's time for this one,' she

said. 'Cue it up.'

The controller did as he was told.

'Where are we going?' asked Flora as they all climbed into the car.

'Hammersmith,' the Doctor said.

'The TARDIS?' asked Zoe.

'Yes. I've got an idea that might work - hopefully there's enough

time for it. I wish we could keep monitoring the television from in

here.'

'Pull down the glove compartment,' said Flora.

The Doctor did so and a small monitor sprang forward from it.

'I'm fairly sure this contravenes the Highway Code, you know,' the

Doctor said, reaching around the back and turning it on.

After a couple of minutes of Waterfront Beat, still with inappropriate

music, the picture was abruptly interrupted by an image of a man and a

woman. Flora glanced at it, then glanced again. 'That's Arthur,' she

said.

'Who?' asked the Doctor.

'He's an editor. He works on The Identikit Man. I saw him the other

day.'

'Shh,' said Zoe to them both. 'They're talking.'

'... mainly a message for your leaders,' the woman was saying,

'although in the interests of transparency, we thought you should all

hear it. We've planted bombs in dozens of locations around London.

Very powerful ones.'

'Don't bother trying to look for them,' said Arthur. 'You won't find

them.'

'We'd like to make a deal with you to make free use of your energy

sources,' the woman continued, 'but we're afraid we can't offer

anything in return, hence the bombs. We'll be expecting to hear from

your leaders within two hours. Otherwise, there'll be a lot more of

this.'

A piece of music began to play, a jaunty little melody played on an

acoustic guitar: it sounded like something from a children's

programme However, the signal then died very rapidly. Thirty seconds

or so later, Waterfront Beat returned - then, outside the car, they heard

a distant explosion. It reminded Zoe slightly of the TARDIS, but it was

a much harsher sound, an abrupt and painful wrench.

The Doctor turned to Flora, grim-faced. Flora kept her eyes on the

road.

'Jamie's in one of those,' said Zoe.

'I know,' said the Doctor. 'I'm sure he'll be all right while the

energy's still contained, but...' He turned to Flora. 'What was that

piece of music at the end? Do you know it?'

'I practically wrote it,' said Flora. 'It was a lot like a piece that was

on the masters I gave to Arthur the other day. I've been...

experimenting for a while with a piece to bring the bubbles into phase

automatically, but I've never managed to... Wait a minute, they've

managed to make it work, haven't they?' She sounded quite affronted.

'Offended your professional pride, has it?' asked the Doctor.

'A little bit, yes. But only one of the bubbles exploded.'

'They probably reduced the transmitter range to the absolute

minimum,' said Zoe, 'so the music only went out in a small radius. It

was probably a bubble near the transmitter that went up.'

The Doctor pulled a notebook and pencil from his pocket, and

started drawing what looked like a rough circuit diagram. 'Flora,' he

said without looking up, 'do you think you could copy what they did to

your music?'

Flora hesitated. 'I'm not sure. Hard to tell from the first few seconds,

but I think... I could try to work out how it should go. Why?'

'I think the best way to stop them playing that music is to play it

before they do.'

'Have you got a guitar?'

'Oh? Acoustic or electric?'

'How much damage did the first explosion do?' asked Turis.

'A lot, but within a very small radius,' said Arto, consulting the

read-out from a small computer. 'At a rough estimate, fifty dead,

perhaps sixty, and substantial collateral damage.' He looked up. 'I

hope they don't make us destroy any more.'

'I told you. Don't turn soft.'

'I'm just saying I'd rather we got what we want. Then everybody's

happy, aren't they?'

Zoe wrapped the cable around one of the pier's supports six times, then

she looked back to see if there was enough slack in it for another

couple of coils. This was the kind of job Jamie usually got stuck with.

She wondered if he understood what was happening, trapped in his

bubble, surrounded by dormant vortex energy. Probably not. He was

probably thinking about how hungry he was.

Unless he'd been in the one that had already exploded, of course.

Zoe tugged on the cable - which ran from the bridge, across the

shore and inside the TARDIS - and a little more slack emerged. She

unwrapped and then rewrapped the cable, then she used the Doctor's

sonic screwdriver to weld the end tight and walked back to the

TARDIS.

Upon stepping inside the ship, Zoe saw that the Doctor had

connected the cable to the console. He had prised open a couple of

panels and patched in other pieces of equipment, including a

microphone. Two more cables sprang from opposite sides of the

console and went in the direction of the power room. He continued to

work at his improvised arrangement, testing connections and tapping

his screwdriver on things. Zoe asked what he was doing, partly because

she wanted to know, partly because she wanted to check his work for

mistakes.

'Well, the TARDIS has its own transmitter and receiver,' the Doctor

said. 'Right now we want to use them for completely different

purposes, so I've separated them out. We're going to boost the power

to the transmitter - I've linked it direct to the power room - and swamp

the television frequency, and broadcast the "phasing" tune ourselves.'

'But how are you going to stop the energy destroying everything?'

'Well, just like electricity always tries to find the quickest route to

the ground, vortex energy tries to find the quickest route back to the

vortex. It's leaked into the universe but our friends there have closed

that route off, so it'll try to punch its way back through. On the way, it

destroys any matter in its way.'

'So we offer it a quicker way?'

The Doctor clapped his hands together. 'Exactly! The TARDIS

draws its energy from the vortex - it's not hard to let it go back the

other way. The receiver's tuned to pick it up, the pier acts as a giant

aerial, and it all goes down our other cable to the power room.' He

pointed towards the interior door.

Just then, Flora stepped through the interior door into the console

room, with an acoustic guitar hanging from her shoulder.

'How did you get on?' asked the Doctor.

'I can do the part I heard and I can remember the version they stole,

and assuming they've been consistent about how they've changed it...

well, there are a few possible versions.'

'How different is it?' asked Zoe.

'Not so different that I couldn't sue them for breach of copyright.'

'Ready then?' asked the Doctor, picking up the microphone and

pointing it towards her.

Flora nodded, and the Doctor switched on.

Across the London area, thousands of screens went black. A couple of

seconds later, a few hesitant chords could be heard being played on an

acoustic guitar: then a bright tune emerged, one that was fairly familiar

to anybody who had been listening earlier. It was very familiar indeed

to Turis and Arto, still standing in the control room and now looking

desperately at each other, each hoping for the other to explain what

was happening.

The tune came to an end.

Nothing happened.

'I can't have got it right,' said a female voice from the television.

'That's all right, try it another way,' said a male voice.

'That's her,' said Arto.

'From the Sound Unit?' asked Turis. 'The woman who makes the

music?'

'Yeah.'

'What's she doing?'

'I don't understand. Doesn't she know what'll happen?'

'Maybe not.'

'What do we do?' Arto stepped closer to Turis. 'What do we do?'

The tune began again.

At the end of Flora's second attempt, there was a vast, unified zing

over London. For a millisecond, malevolent globes of vortex energy

hung over the city, waiting to be drawn home via the quickest possible

route. Then, as one, they zoomed towards Hammersmith.

Anybody watching the pier would have seen it glow deep purple as

the energy coursed through it and down the cable. Inside the TARDIS,

the Doctor instructed Zoe and Flora to stand well back. He hadn't

divulged his concern that the energy might do considerable damage to

the console: it was designed to handle surges, but nothing as big as

this. The energy fed through in a matter of moments, but to the Doctor

it felt a great deal longer: when it was gone, he immediately hurried to

the console and tested its vital functions. When they were sure that

everything was okay, Zoe and Flora wasted no time in gently mocking

him for his tender concern over his ship.

And, in a Kensington garden belonging to two young socialites

named Astrid and Iris Vaughn-Jones, a young Scotsman fell from the

air and into the laurel bushes.

Arto and Turis, both braced for the sound of mass destruction, realised

at about the same time that it wasn't going to come. They opened their

eyes, looked at each other, and both scrambled for the computer. Turis

got there first, examined the screen and wearily handed it to Arto. 'Our

bargaining chip has gone.'

'What do we do now?' asked Arto.

Turis sighed. 'Leave.'

'I don't think so,' said a voice behind them they both recognised.

They turned. 'I didn't think you'd find us so -' began Arto. But he

stopped when he saw the grey man in the grey morning dress, a

gleaming white flower in his buttonhole.

'Who are you?' said Turis as the grey man came forward. Faster

than should have been possible, he stabbed her just above the heart

with one fingertip.

She flopped forward dead, into his arms.

It took the Doctor and Zoe four days to find Jamie, and he was

surprised to discover that they had believed he might be dead. Oh, no,

he told them, he'd had a marvellous time. Once Jamie had convinced

Astrid and Iris that he wasn't dangerous, they had looked after him

very well indeed. Reluctantly he bade them farewell and accompanied

them to the car, where he was delighted to see Flora, whom he had

always got on well with. As she drove them back to Hammersmith, the

Doctor and Zoe explained to him what had been happening whilst he'd

been trapped.

'So, what happened to the people you saw on the tellything" Jamie

asked.

'The people behind it all?' said the Doctor. He was writing in his

500-year diary. 'Don't know.'

'We worked out where they must have been broadcasting from,' said

Zoe, 'but they were long gone by the time we got there.'

'They must have got away,' said Flora. 'Which is a nuisance.'

'So, we've no idea where they came from. They can't have been

from this time and place; they understood the principles behind Flora's

music. It's going to annoy me until I find out, you know.'

'What did they want?' asked Jamie.

'Energy,' said Zoe.

'Presumably to fuel more time experiments,' said the Doctor,

chewing on his pencil. 'You need rather more than a nine-volt battery

to manipulate the time stream. I should keep an eye out for them in the

future. And the past.' He turned to Flora. 'So, what will you do now

we've fixed all those holes?'

'I don't know,' she said. 'I suppose I could move on. But I like what

I'm doing here. Maybe I'll take some time off first. I think... yes, I

think I've earned it.'

As the Doctor, Jamie and Zoe trooped into the TARDIS, Flora opened

her bag. This time it did not contain her phase-control equipment, but a

reel-to-reel tape recorder. She untangled a microphone, started the

recorder running and stepped over to the Doctor's craft.

As it disappeared from view it made that noise, the noise she'd heard

so many times and always meant to record, and Flora smiled to herself.

It hung in the air for several seconds when no blue was visible any

more, and she kept the recorder running until long after she could no

longer hear it - because even if she couldn't hear it, that didn't mean it

wasn't still there.

Eventually she turned the tape recorder off. Yes, she could definitely

use that on something.

Short Trips: Dalek Empire

The Dalek Empire Short Trips collection was one of the many things in Big Finish

history that demonstrate how much I wasn't thinking I'd ever end up in charge

of the Doctor Who audio range. Keen to expand the Dalek Empire strand, I'd

already managed to get everyone to agree to the subscriber special Doctor Who

cross-over audio Return of the Daleks. And with the success of the Dalek Empire

script book, I thought it was high time that the Dalek Empire universe crossed

over into the Short Trips world. I boldly suggested myself as the editor and,

very possibly, the sole author of the collection. But when the BBC7 Eighth

Doctor and Lucie adventures entered my life, shortly followed by the executive

producer job for all the Doctor Who audios, my plans for a Dalek Empire Short Trips

collection fell by the wayside.

Cue the arrival of Good Samaritan (and writer) Simon Guerrier. Simon

had always joked that he had a special connection with Dalek Empire, since he

thought I'd named a planet in it after him - Guria. It was entirely coincidental,

which he somehow has never believed. Anyway, Simon offered to do all the

hard work of editing the collection, but insisted my name should remain on

it. Very kind of him. And you'd think, out of gratitude for this, I'd select one

of his excellent Dalek Empire stories for this collection. Wouldn't you? But, alas,

I'm clearly as cold-hearted as a Dalek, because I've selected Jim Swallow's

Museum Peace instead. Why? Because, unlike Simon, Jim cleverly chose to write

about one of my characters, Kalendorf. And he did it so well, with such energy

that ever since I first read it, I've wanted to make it into an audio production.

I love it.

So... apologies to Simon. And congratulations to Jim!

Nicholas Briggs

Museum Peace

James Swallow

The rain drumming on the roof of the ground car became a rattle as

the vehicle drew to a cautious halt at the kerbside. The driver

glanced over her shoulder and gave him a curious look.

'Sir, are you sure you want me to stop here? The weather today is -'

'Good for my circulation,' he rumbled. 'Open the door.'

She nodded at the heavy marble columns of the entrance a short

distance up the road. 'I could park outside, Lord Chancellor. You'll

be soaked through if you walk.'

The use of the title made him smile a little. He hadn't been that

for years, not since this girl had been a child, at least; but he

appreciated that she said it. It showed respect on her part, something

he was seeing less and less. He pulled his greatcoat tighter. 'You're

new, aren't you?'

The driver nodded. 'Yes, sir. Assigned to your detail this cycle.'

'What's your name?'

'Mirin, sir. Agent Jasta Mirin. It's an honour to be serving you.'

Ah. She was one of those. If he concentrated he could sense it, the

ghost of thoughts at the edge of her mind. She'd read the books

about the war, seen the holoplays, even that terribly melodramatic

biography from a few summers back... The poor lass thought she

was doing something important here, watching over a faded old

warrior. He wanted to tell her that she ought to request a different

posting, something that would stand her a better chance of

advancement in the security service; but he had met her kind before

and he did not have the cruelty in him to shatter her illusions. The

truth was, the protection detail was only there as a hold-over from

his former high office, a part of his pension from a grateful

government. It wasn't that he doubted he had enemies - he had

once said that the calibre of his foes was the very measure of his

character - but there was a discreet laser pistol holstered at his

waist, in the same place it had been for decades, and he was still

confident enough in his own abilities to defend himself. The girl

relented, seeing the firmness in his eyes, and released the maglock.

The car's gull wing door hissed open, letting the damp and cold

reach inside. 'I'll be across the street if you need me, your lordship.'

He stepped out into the downpour and threw a weary smile back

at her. 'You don't need to call me that. My name is Kalendorf.

These days, only Kalendorf.'

Most people walked with their heads down, hunched forward

against the driving rain, eyes to the slick pavements. Kalendorf

turned up the coat's thick collar and met it in the face, taking some

strange delight in the chill reality of it. He walked briskly across the

Court of Cenotaphs, the heavy grey marble of the Great Museum

rising up beyond the orchard of obelisks. The rain gave everything a

sheen, a polished freshness that was at odds with the weight of

history that pressed down upon all the monuments. He caught a

glimpse of the War Memorial, the flanks of pale blue stone reaching

toward the low, dull clouds. The names picked out along its sides

glittered in black and gold, spiralling around, up and up. Clustered

at the base, the tiny robot guides waited like patient birds. No one

was calling on their services now, but on less inclement days

visitors could ask them questions, or have them drift along the

length of the memorial and highlight any name you would care to

have them find.

He didn't need their help. He knew where to look to find Susan

Mendes, Alby Brook, and all the others. His own name was on there

too, somewhere. One day it would be inked in with black over the

gold lettering, marking those who were gone; and there were

countless names like that, dark among the glimmer of the living.

He left the plaza behind, mounting the steps, feeling the pressure

in his knees already. His body was a good machine, finely tuned

and still running well... but it was old, and Kalendorf seemed to feel

it more each day. He hadn't been a young man when the war began

and, even though his kind were long-lived, it seemed like time was

bearing down upon him. He wasn't as spry as he once was and his

other, more ephemeral talents were gradually fading with disuse;

just touching the girl's thoughts in the car had been taxing.

Crossing around the columns, he passed through the entrance,

swiping an anonymous credit disc over the donation sensor. While

other people peeled back their coats and shook off the rainwater,

Kalendorf did the opposite, shrinking into his cover. He tapped

lightly on the frame of his visor and let the glasses go opaque. The

old soldier chided himself for leaving his hat in the ground car, but

he had ordered Mirin not to drop him at the entrance for a reason. A

government-issue limousine would draw the attention of the

curators and he most certainly did not wish to be recognised. Not

here and now. Today, Kalendorf wanted some time to think. Some

peace. The galleries displaying the history of Vega's colonisation

and the heritage of Old Earth were popular, as always, although the

dreary weather had made attendance numbers sink. He knew the

museum's layout by heart from countless visits before this one, and

he took short cuts through the side halls, staying off the main

corridors. Presently, Kalendorf crossed the edge of the central

atrium, where the vast hologram of Vega VI and her moons drifted

overhead in stately silence, and into the Hall of Daleks.

He shied away from the sensor points where the virtual guide

avatars lurked, ready to materialise in a cloud of pixels and spout

pre-programmed nuggets of information. The hall was dominated

by the sweep of an alien troop carrier's wingspan, the curved ship

hovering silently up there on suspensors. Burn marks from particle-

cannon fire remained visible along the ventral surface, a mute

testament to the skill of the gunnery crews who had brought the

thing down over the mountains outside the capital. Beneath, an

intact Dalek transolar disc platform was canted at an angle so that

visitors could study it close up. He passed under the grim shadow of

the troopship without looking. Glass cabinets radiated out from the

centre of the chamber, and inside each one there were various twists

of wreckage or items of wartime hardware. Kalendorf saw broken-

off eyestalks, luminosity dischargers and cracked sensor globes

alongside spacefleet-issue maser rifles, tattered slave tunics and

replica combat uniforms.

And at the far end of the hall, placed at greatest distance so that

anyone who entered would not be frightened by coming upon them

suddenly, there were the Daleks. These did not move or become

animated through holography. These were corpses, dead shells

interred in glass, presented for the people so they might know the

face of the great enemy. They were left alone here; very few visitors

were comfortable enough to come even within a few metres of

them. The Hall of Daleks echoed with Kalendorfs footfalls and

nothing else. There was a bench set a way back from the front of the

cabinet, where he sat each time he visited. The old warrior did so

once again, letting his greatcoat come open and unfold around him

in a pool of dark, heavy material. Pulling off the visor, he ran a

hand over the thin stubble on his chin and saw his own reflection in

the glass. A craggy old fool with the face of a street fighter and eyes

that had seen a lifetime of warfare. The lines of the man he once

was, the iron will of a Knight of Velyshaa, that was still in there,

buried somewhere deep; but he was tired all the time now and rest...

Rest still seemed beyond his reach.

He sat and stared at the killing machines, letting time become

permeable and thin. He drifted away from the moment. Kalendorf

let Suz come back to him, that intent look of strength in her gaze

suddenly there again. He remembered Alby and his dour humour,

the recollection tugging at the corner of his lips. Yes, they were all

still there, old friends faded and careworn by time; and he was still

here, unable to let go of the war -

A noise made him snap back from his reverie. A party of

schoolchildren, grumbling and sullen with the rain, came through

the hall with a waspish tutor at their head. The arch woman had a

beam pointer and she shone it this way and that, reading bits of text

aloud from a data-slate wherever she settled. Kalendorf listened

with half an ear as she held forth; not to the actual words, but to the

intention and meaning she put behind them.

It tested him, but still he pressed ever so gently into her

consciousness. She was cutting through the history of the Dalek

War as quickly as she could, glossing over great swathes of

information. The teacher's snapping discourse was keeping her

pupils in line, but Kalendorf could feel the discomfort in her. She

didn't want to be here at all. And not once did her eyeline cross the

cabinets at the far end of the hall.

He knew her sort. He had met them before, on too many

occasions. The tutor thought the war was a terrible, horrific chapter

in their history, the destructive era like a taint in the human psyche.

She was trying to expunge it, to hide it away from these youngsters

so they would grow up untroubled by dark memories of that time,

when their great-grandparents were slaves to these alien dictators.

In her own blinkered way, she meant well, but... His jaw hardened.

Had he fought for this? Had Kalendorf strode through fire and sent

friends to their deaths for this, so that generations later their

sacrifices could be ignored by men and women too afraid to learn

the lessons of history? He withdrew, annoyance clouding his face.

He became aware that one of the children had detached from the

group and orbited closer to the case of Daleks. There was a line of

light-coloured tiles set in the flooring a couple of metres beyond the

cabinet and, in the old man's experience, visitors seldom ventured

across it. A sandy-haired boy no more than a dozen cycles old

hovered at the line, peering through the glass at him with slow,

insolent curiosity. Kalendorf saw a steady trickle of recognition

forming on the lad's face; it did not surprise him. After all, the

Knight's portrait was just outside, over in the Hall of Chancellors.

He gave the boy a hard and uncompromising stare.

'Get lost,' he growled in a low voice, and received a wide-eyed

look in return.

The teacher called out and the child sloped back to her side,

following the party over to an enclosed holobooth near the entrance.

She ushered them inside and the tinny recording of a war

documentary began to unfold. Kalendorf snorted. The tutor and her

children had been in the hall proper for less than five minutes. The

boy shot him a last look from the booth and vanished within.

'Not the most popular of attractions, is it?'

The old soldier's head jerked around at the new voice and he

winced at a dart of pain from his muscles. A younger man with

curly, shoulder-length hair and an easy smile stood near the

transolar disc. Kalendorfs combat training was always with him,

even now. He registered straight away that the frock coat the man

wore was completely dry, which meant he had either been in the

museum for hours, or he was a member of staff. He couldn't have

been the latter - they had a strict and rather bland dress code - and

the former was unlikely, as the doors had opened only a few

moments before Kalendorfs car had arrived. He frowned. What

was disconcerting to him was the fact that he hadn't been aware of

the man entering the hall. 'I suppose not,' he allowed.

The new arrival sank his hands in his pockets and crossed the line

of tiles without pause, walking languidly up to the Dalek cabinet.

Right up to it; not an arm's length away, not even a hand's. He

stood almost with his nose against the barrier, just scant inches from

the unblinking eyestalk of a Type Two Dalek Drone. Kalendorf had

never seen anyone do that before, not in all the years he had visited

the museum. The fearlessness on the man's face was something he

hadn't seen for a long time. Not since the war.

'They don't look like much, do they?' he said quietly. 'Silly big

pepperpots. Clumsy and awkward things. It would be hard to be

afraid of them if you didn't know what they could do.'

Kalendorf found himself nodding, his confusion deepening. The

way he talked, the tone of his voice... it was clear to the old Knight

that this slight, unassuming fellow knew the Daleks as well as he

did. But how could that be? He wasn't old enough to have faced

them in battle. His bearing was as far from that of a military man as

it could be. At best, he would have been a child in the closing days

of the conflict.

He got a smile. 'Can I join you?' The man indicated the bench.

Kalendorf pressed down on his wandering thoughts and reasserted

his usual grim bearing. 'I'm not looking for any companions at the

moment.'

'No, neither am I.' The reply seemed a little weary. He sat

anyway, ignoring Kalendorfs sour expression. 'I remember when I

first saw them, you know. A gang of tin-pot dictators living in the

ashes of a dead empire, shouting and posturing. I thought that

would be the last of them.'

'The Daleks are gone.' He said the words automatically, without

conscious thought. It was a knee-jerk reaction, the sort of thing that

one might say to a troubled child after a nightmare.

Soft grey eyes turned to him. 'Do you really believe that?'

'I want to.' Kalendorf tensed, suddenly feeling uncomfortable.

He hadn't expected to reply so... so honestly to the stranger. It

wasn't like him. He was a Knight of Velyshaa, trained to be

circumspect and careful in all things. There was an odd compulsion

in him, a drawing-out inherent in the younger man's manner. He

didn't like it. 'We fought them and we beat them,' he said, more

firmly. 'That's all they are now, all they deserve to be.' He stabbed

a finger at the cabinets. 'Relics. Monsters from the past.'

'But people have a way of forgetting about the past.' The other

man nodded in the direction ofthe holobooth. 'Don't you think?'

And all at once it was there; the cold touch of awareness, the

battle-sense that had taken Kalendorf through a thousand fights and

skirmishes. The dark, animal instinct that made him the superlative

soldier he was. He knows who I am. He's a potential threat.

Gently, Kalendorfs hand slipped towards the laser pistol. All

those thoughts of old foes back in the car, and now here they were.

An assassin, he imagined, sent by any one of a dozen rivals. In his

time, it hadn't just been the Daleks that the Knight had brought to

their knees. The Terrials, the Simbasa, the Celebi Compact; all of

them still had the old man on their capture/kill lists. It wouldn't be

the first time they had tried to take him.

'Kalendorf, please,' said the man, carefully spreading his hands

to show he wasn't carrying any conventional weapons. 'I'm a

friend.'

'I've buried all my friends.' He had his fingers resting on the

pistol grip. 'I'll bury all my enemies as well.' The Knight studied

the man and pushed. His telepathic perception flowed out and

brushed across the surface of... something. The new arrival smiled,

letting him run the preternatural sense over his aura, like fingers

sifting through sand. Kalendorfs breath caught in his throat. He had

expected to touch a pebble and instead found a mountain. The man

was impossibly ancient, by a magnitude the soldier found difficult

to comprehend; and familiar too, but different with it. Confused, he

blinked and let his psyche retreat, certain of only one thing. 'I know

you.'

'I'm a friend, like I said. But I'm not surprised you don't

recognise me. It has been a long time since we met on Zaleria.'

'You mean Spiridon,' Kalendorf corrected automatically, the

memory of the incident flooding back. 'But you're not him.' He

studied the man. On the surface, there wasn't even the first iota of

similarity between the small, acerbic stranger he had encountered

during the Zalerian Occupation and this taller young fellow - except

the eyes. The eyes were identical. They were full of that same alien

distance, the same strange melancholy. He considered it for a

moment. Perhaps it wasn't so hard to accept after all; Kalendorf had

seen entire worlds ripped from existence in a heartbeat, and

creatures that had emerged from parallel realities. The idea of a

being who could alter his physical form so radically was not so

shocking in comparison.

'I changed,' came the reply, as if he saw the train of thought on

the warrior's face. 'And I will again. But there are some things I

have to do first.' He glanced up at the silent machines.

'Doctor.' A curious smile formed on the soldier's lips as he

accepted it. 'Hello again.'

'Hello, Kalendorf. How have you been?'

'Better,' he admitted.

The condition of the mind was one of rage.

If there had ever been a time when the state had differed, there

was no memory of it available for review. This seemed to be

correct. Any other condition would have a lesser value, it would be

ineffectual. There were some species - insignificant and weaker

species - that would have considered it impossible for a mind to

sustain such a state for so long. This was ample proof of their

frailty, and perfect justification for their eradication. It also served

to prove the superiority of the mind. It was this rich hate that

allowed it to live, even when darkness and silence surrounded it.

The purity of it, the utter clarity it provided, had remained

unshakeable when all other things had been lost.

It had taken some time to reach this perfection of intent, however.

That much was true. At the start, in the crippling, burning aftermath

of the catastrophic silence, it had been difficult to think in an

orderly fashion. Understanding had come very slowly as the new

conditions of the mind's circumstances gradually revealed

themselves. In those moments, as broken pieces of consciousness

blinked in and out of awareness while the mind tried to repair itself,

some species might have experienced emotional states such as fear.

This was not what transpired. Such conditions were anathema to the

mind and its like. They were the domain of lesser beings. Fear was

something that it created, not experienced.

Mechanisms for chronological determination were inactive, and

so the exact measure of how much time had passed between the

burning, thunderous agony of the attack and the first proper

understanding of the changes was lost. Feeling out the borders of

what had gone on took many rels. Energy was spent, bled out

through flash-purged batteries. Nutrient stores were compromised.

Motive systems were completely destroyed. It was only possible for

the broken, barely functional self-repair tools to operate, and only

then at speeds a fraction of their normal capacity. Power trickled in

drips from the external receptor plates, and the mind turned itself

first to wringing every last erg from them. In time, what little

remained of the casing's active sensors were reconnected. Damage

was severe; vision quadrants were impaired, magnetic, thermal,

quantum and microwave detection pallets operated far below

optimal levels. Still, the mind tried to see beyond itself.

At first, comprehension was elusive. It gradually concluded that it

was confined, although the method of incarceration was quite poor.

It was only a thin barrier of translucent fused silica, one that a single

blow could shatter. However, with its manipulator refusing to

answer commands and an inability to move, the point was moot.

Sometimes the mind was aware that it was being observed from

outside its prison, but there seemed to be no method or rationale

behind the surveillance. The humanoids that watched it stayed only

for short periods, and never with anything that approximated guided

intent. The root of the great anger began here, seeded in a moment

of insight when an immature humanoid attacked the cell with a

thrown piece of vegetable matter. Several others of similar age and

appearance stood in front of the confinement. They emitted atonal

sounds that the mind understood were directed at it. They were

mocking it. They were no longer afraid.

But after hundreds of thousands of rels, the observers diminished

almost to nothing. The mind was also aware of those trapped

alongside it. Although the acuity of the optical sensor was

intermittent, it perceived others of its kind through reflections on

the inside of the barrier. On no occasion did the mind detect

anything resembling awareness from its kindred. Attempts to

generate a faint, localised electromagnetic pulse in order to

communicate with them were fruitless. The inevitable conclusion

was that the mind was quite alone. It concluded that the casing's

long-range communications system was repairable, given much

time and the dedication of almost all the available energy to the

task. The mind decided; it would reconstruct this component and

contact the rest of its kind, who had clearly been unaware of its

conscious state when they abandoned it here. And then others

would come, and the humanoids would be made to remember fear

again.

However, with the next solar day, that decision changed.

The holobooth had reached the end of its display cycle and the tutor

strode out with her charges in tow. The woman dispensed data-

slates to each of the children and waved them off to begin their

schoolwork assignments. Kalendorf saw the sandy-haired boy

again, lurking at the edge of the chamber. He looked back at the

Doctor and considered him. Zaleria, decades ago now; he and Susan

Mendes had been there. Years later Kalendorf came across

fragmentary references to the renegade traveller, and they had

stirred his interest for a time. It had even become a hobby of sorts

before he tired of it, sifting through the data nets for references to a

'Time Lord' in a rectangular travelling machine; but there was

nothing a regimented, well-ordered mind like his could grasp hold

of. Kalendorfs life ran on information, on facts and not hearsay.

The Doctor was a transient phenomenon, and there were more

pressing demands on his time. There were other wars to be fought.

Other enemies to be defeated.

But here he was again, decades later, changed and yet changeless.

'You knew we would win, didn't you? On Spiridon, even then you

knew we would find victory.'

'I'm sorry I couldn't warn you about how things would turn out.'

He frowned. 'That device of yours, the blue box. So it is true that

it can travel through time?'

'Yes.'

'Is it here, now?'

The Doctor looked away. 'Kalendorf, I -'

'Let me use it Let me go back to whenever they were spawned

and destroy them. Let me be sure, Doctor.' He felt his pulse race at

the thought of it.

The Time Lord got up and walked away a few steps. 'I had that

chance once,' he said, spreading his palms. 'In my hands.'

The Knight's lip twisted. 'And you hesitated, didn't you? I can

see the echo of that instant in your thoughts. You weren't willing to

become them in order to destroy them, yes?' He stood and faced the

Doctor. 'But that was a long time ago. And as you say, you have

changed.'

'Not that much.'

'Are you sure?' He gestured around. 'Why are you here, Doctor?

Is there something you want from me? This is a strange place to

look for a confessional.'

He was silent for a long moment, as if he were trying to find a

way to frame his thoughts. 'There's a place called Tsan, do you

know it?' When the old man shook his head, the Doctor turned and

forced a smile. 'It doesn't matter.' He paused. 'What do I want? I

want the same thing you do, Kalendorf. I want peace.'

'But are you willing to destroy for it?'

The Doctor shook his head suddenly. 'This is a mistake. I

shouldn't have come here. 1 should go.'

Kalendorf moved, blocking his path as the Time Lord tried to

move around the cabinet. 'No. Not yet. You came here for a

reason.' He met the Doctor's gaze and saw the shadow of a terrible

choice lurking behind his eyes; it was a feeling he knew too well.

'Let me tell you the truth, Doctor. I don't want peace. I've been a

soldier all my days, and I know peace is a fantasy. Conflict is part

of our nature, and we'll never truly be free of it. No, what I want is

to know that at least this war,' he nodded at the Daleks, 'my war, is

over.' Kalendorf saw the boy in front of the glass display case,

trying to pretend he wasn't watching them intently. He lowered his

voice. 'These people don't know the horror of it, not in the way that

you or I do, and they won't be ready if it returns. I can't go to my

grave knowing that they'll be unprepared if the Daleks come back.'

The Doctor's reply chilled him to the core. 'I'm not certain that it

can ever be over.'

Through the mind's sporadic visual inputs, it detected the arrival of

a humanoid male, typically appearing on a regular interval of

approximately six hundred and ninety one thousand, two hundred

rels. At first, with its attentions solely focused on the matter of the

communications repairs, it gave the male only cursory

consideration; that was until a random scan program switched to the

front of the mind's consciousness and dragged a classification from

the fractured depths ofthe casing's memory banks.

Kalendorf. Humanoid Male. Tribal identifier: Knight of

Velyshaa. Category: Enemy of the Daleks. Action: Exterminate on

sight.

The mind drew more from the data files, learning the scope of the

humanoid's crimes. This creature, this primitive had dared to incite

rebellion against its masters. The Kalendorf male's value was

considerable, and the orders were clear.

For a time, the mind weighed its options. Directing repairs away

from the communications system to the casing's inert primary

weapon would negate any possibility of recovery. It would take

longer to bring the gun to combat readiness, and then longer still to

gather enough power to fire it; but then there were no guarantees the

communicator's signal would reach a command nexus. By human

reckoning, the slow process of repair would take years, and the

mind would have to work carefully and quietly, keeping the

functioning of its systems to a level that the prison's monitoring

devices would not be able to detect. The procedure would be long

and laborious, and it would require a singular, pathological

application of intent.

In the end, there really was no question of priorities. It was in the

mind's power to exterminate Kalendorf, and so it would.

'In my thoughts, I played out this meeting with you a hundred

times,' Kalendorf felt the tension of the moment settling in his

bones, and he returned to the bench. 'I imagined all sorts of

dazzling, airtight logic that I could put to you that would convince

you to let me erase them from history. But then I never saw you

again and I became convinced your time machine was just a fairy

tale.' He gave a rueful smile. 'But still... Do you know, back when I

was in my second term as Lord Chancellor, I even had a black

projects group created to investigate the potential of temporal

weapons? We were going to build a bomb to send into the past. I

wanted to find Skaro and obliterate it before life had even formed

on its surface.'

'I know,' admitted the Doctor. 'Your people were doing quite

well for a while. But it would have upset the balance of things.'

The Knight's face creased. The project's failure had ultimately

cost him his re-election. 'And you can't have that, can you? It's fine

for you to intervene here and there, shift the flow of a small stream

now and then. But to dam the whole river? Somehow that's wrong.'

'I've had this conversation more times than I've saved the

universe,' retorted the Time Lord, 'and no one ever really

understands it. History is not binary, Kalendorf. One-zero, on-off,

life-death. It doesn't work that way. What the Daleks have done,

who they are and what they will do, those things have already been

written on the face of the universe. In the cracks in between we can

change things, little things...' His voice drifted off. 'At least, I used

to think that was true.'

Kalendorf shook his head. 'You have the ability to exterminate

the Daleks, Doctor. If what they say about you is true, you always

have.'

'There has to be another way!' The burst of anger from the other

man came out of nowhere, and the Knight was shocked by its

ferocity. 'Why does it all have to end in destruction, old soldier?

Can you tell me that? Why does it have to be death?'

Once again, he sensed the icy pressure there in the Doctor's

mind, the ghost of a decision that dwarfed the worst judgements

Kalendorf had ever had to make; and all at once he understood why

the Time Lord was here. 'You have a choice, Doctor. I can only

discern the vaguest edges of it, the size and complexity of the

moment.' His hand went to his lips. 'Oh, I pity you. It's hollowed

you out, hasn't it? Such a great, awful choice to make. That's why

you came to speak to me. Because you know I am a warrior,

because my gift allows me an insight into what you are facing.'

The Doctor's face was pale, a faint sketch of the warm, smiling

aspect he had shown on his arrival. 'The chance to free the universe

ofthe Daleks. But the price... The price is everything I know.'

The weapon had been ready for quite some time. The mind gathered

in the energy to fire and kept it hidden, deep in the casing, shunting

the power to the core of the battery packs where it lay out of range

of the cell's detectors. There had already been a number of

occasions when the target Kalendorf had presented himself before

the cabinet, but the mind understood from the humanoid's records

that he was a unique quarry. He would see any motion from the gun

and avoid it, so the shot had to come while the emitter barrel was

static. This narrowed the attack options significantly. In addition,

the performance of the casing's optical sensor array was

deteriorating. Incidents of blackouts and imaging disruption were

now occurring with increased regularity, and the mind estimated

that total failure of the vision system was likely to occur very soon.

Even now, focal depth monitoring was discontinuous. The target

Kalendorf was visible at the edge of the optical sensor envelope, but

the engagement zone was cluttered by the appearance of another

humanoid male. Automatically, the mind swept the second biped

with its recognition scan.

The Doctor. Gallifreyan Male. Tribal identifier: Time Lord.

Category: Enemy ofthe Daleks. Fiction: Exterminate on sight.

For the briefest of moments, rage gave way to surprise; then the

fury returned tenfold. The mind had been presented with two of the

most valued targets in the memory bank's inventory, both equally

hated, both equally deserving. The killing urge rose, and the power

flowed up and into the weapon's pre-fire chamber. The gun

announced its readiness, the coiled energy for one single, lethal

burst of radiation ready to be unleashed. There would be only one

shot, and after it was released, the mind understood that what

fragmentary existence it still had would be forfeit; but it would be

worth it, to show that the reach of its race was unbound, that their

revenge was limitless.

And carefully, the Dalek made the choice of which of them to

murder.

It happened with horrific speed.

In the periphery of his vision, Kalendorf saw the beam weapon shift

the most infinitesimal of fractions, dipping so that the grey Dalek

could have a clear line of fire. In his mind, he was still the young

man, still the vital and indomitable Knight capable of winning wars

single-handed; but time had robbed him of that reality. As fast as

his nerves sent the impulses, his age-worn muscles could not match

them. As swift as he was, Kalendorf was still too slow, fingers

tightening on the laser, tearing the compact pistol from the folds of

his greatcoat, crying out. He saw the Doctor turning, throwing out

his hands in a gesture of protection, shouting. Too late. Too late.

The blue-white beam of coherent energy shattered the glass

cabinet. The shriek of superheated air molecules crashed about the

chamber, the horribly familiar sound cutting into Kalendorfs soul.

He had prayed that he would never hear that noise again.

The boy took the shot point-blank in the chest, for one monstrous

second his flesh flashing translucent with the killing discharge, the

tiny frame of his skeleton visible. The child died without a scream,

falling to the marble floor.

Kalendorfs pistol sprayed laser bolts up the length of the Dalek,

tearing through its casing and ripping it apart. Decrepit, decayed

organic components boiled away.

The Dalek attempted to speak, but all that came out was a

strangled, grating death rattle.

Adrenalin shock flooded through the old man, and he began to

tremble. It was difficult to hold the gun, but he kept his fingers tight

around it. It was comforting, in its own sad way.

Crouching over the child, the Doctor closed the sandy-haired

boy's eyes and did not look up. 'It was still alive. After all that

time.'

Alarms were sounding all through the building, the internal

security sensors alight with the discharge from the weapons. 'Yes.'

Kalendorf cast a practised gaze over the alien killer. 'It would have

been inert when they found it, must have escaped the detectors of

the recovery crews. No one could have known.' He nudged a

shattered hemisphere with his boot. 'It must have been gathering

energy for years through its solar collectors...' The Knight looked

up at the tiny skylight in the roof 'Hoarding every scrap of power.

Waiting for the right moment.'

'But to kill a child...' The Doctor's indignant anger was towering.

'What possible threat could he have been to it?'

Kalendorf studied the Dalek's eyestalk. Part of the lens was

milky-white. 'The optic sensor was badly damaged. It couldn't see

him. He was... He was just in the line of fire.' He looked away. 'A

new victim in an old war.'

With great delicacy, the Doctor gathered up the boy's body. The

Knight holstered his pistol and took the boy from him. 'This is the

price, Doctor,' he husked, his voice thick with emotion. 'Every

child, every being that lives is under threat so long as the Daleks

exist. You must make the choice, Doctor, whatever it is, whatever it

costs you.' Kalendorf walked from the hall and did not look back.

The tutor came running, the indelible horror shattering her thoughts,

The Knight felt the rough edges of them as he passed her by, as she

fell to her knees and began to weep. The tidal drag of long-buried

nightmares pulled at her, as her children stood around in a loose

halo, not understanding what had happened.

The boy was light. He carried him out through the halls, out

between the towering pillars of the entrance and past the milling,

panicking people. Some of them were as old as he was, some of

them had the old fear in their eyes. Yes, he wanted to tell them, the

war still goes on.

The soldier crossed to the base of the memorial and the guide

robots shuffled out of his way. Kalendorf knelt and lay the dead

child on the broad stone plinth. He felt empty. What was the boy's

name? He had nothing to hand that he could use to carve it into the

stone. After a moment he stepped back and let his gaze range up

along the height of the memorial.

Splashing, frantic footsteps signalled Mirin's approach behind

him. 'Lord Chancellor!' she shouted. The woman had a stub-gun in

her hand, panning it about in search of any aggressors. 'Are you all

right, sir?'

'I'm not wounded,' Kalendorf replied.

'The museum!' Mirin said breathlessly. 'I heard the alarms! The

security scanners said a Dalek attacked you in there!' He could tell

she could hardly believe it. 'There was weapons fire and -'

'The Dalek is dead,' he spoke over her. 'There was only one

casualty.'

The agent's panting slowed as she saw the boy. 'Oh.' Her

composure slipped for a moment, then returned. Duty first, just as

he expected from her. 'But the other man. The scanners recorded a

third person in the hall. He seems to have vanished. Do you know

who he was, sir?'

Kalendorf turned his face to the rain. 'Someone looking for

peace.'

Short Trips: Destination Prague

My own introduction to the Short Trips line came rather fortuitously. I heard

from a friend of a friend that Big Finish were doing audio adventures featuring

the old Doctors and figured what the heck, worth a shot. I mean, come on, it's

Doctor Who, and what other chance would an oik like me have of being a part

of the Time Lord's heritage? So I mailed the office, introducing myself. At the

time Elemental had just come out via TOR in the US. It was fairly well received

anthology with the likes of Sir Arthur C Clarke, Kevin J Anderson and Brian

Herbert, Sean Williams and others in it. As it was the line was booked up, but

Ian Farrington was neck deep in editing The Centenarian and asked if I'd like to

write a story for it. How could I say no?

Six months after Falling From X'ian I got a call asking if I'd be interested in

editing one of the forthcoming Short Trips line. I thought about it for, hmmm,

all of 20 seconds and said 'Hell yes!' The idea behind Destination Prague was

to do for a city what The Centenarian had done for a man, follow its life from

start to finish. I looked at the list of people I'd worked with on Elemental, and

remembered a distant conversation with Sean about the announced rebirth of

the Doctor in the guise of Christopher Eccleston, and Sean's enthusiasm for

all things Doctorish. He seemed like an obvious invite. As a New York Times #i

Bestselling Novelist he was also one hell of a catch for the line. Not only that,

Sean is pretty much Mr Award in Australian Science Fiction. He's won the lot,

and more than once. So the idea of him writing the Doctor was EXCITING.

And when Midnight in the Cafe of the Black Madonna arrived I wasn't

disappointed. Sean's an old-school science fiction writer, in that the science

is important, not 'handwavium' meant to sound good. That was another

idea behind Destination Prague, I wanted to bring in some well-known science

fiction writers to see what they'd do with the Doctor. It's funny, I remember the

original response from Ian Farrington when he read Sean's story: "Wow, that

Sean Williams really can write." I think that sums it up.

It was a privilege to be a part of the Short Trips line, as both writer and editor,

and I really can't thank Ian and the guys enough. So, without further ado,

welcome to the Cafe of the Black Madonna....

Steven Savile

Midnight in the

Cafe of the Black Madonna

Sean Williams

An Adventure of the Third Doctor

The time had come to run, so that's exactly what Kan did. He ran

down broad thoroughfares lined with inert vehicles, all four of his legs at

full stretch. He galloped along lanes so narrow that his armour knocked

holes in cornices and snapped metal lamp posts like saplings. He

thundered across bridges, shaking loose centuries of accumulated bird

droppings. He ran until the mighty bellows of his lungs burned and the

very muscles that might deliver him to salvation threatened to melt.

The alarms grew louder behind him, audible through the sensitive

tissues of his feet. His relatively fragile ears were folded flat against his

head and neck. He held his nose upright in challenge, but saw no one on

the shadowy streets. That was why he had chosen them. But still the

subsonic clamour pursued him. No matter where he ran it came after

him, as relentless as time — or guilt.

Doubt sapped the strength in his limbs. He could hear the gasping of

his breath growing steadily more desperate. What if he had done the

wrong thing? What if, for all his convictions, he had chosen the wrong

moment to act?

He took a corner clumsily and righted himself without falling, though it

cost him a jarred knee and strained spine. His combat armour asked him

again whether he wanted it to activate, to take some of the load his body

was enduring. He told it no. If he switched it on the others would know

where he was. They could freeze him solid in his artificial skeleton, like a

body in a coffin, ready for -

He skidded in alarm. Someone was standing in the street ahead. Not

one of his kind — two-legged like the Enemy but with only one set of

arms and eyes. It was turning to flee but Kan was moving too quickly,

with all his body's considerable momentum. It was too late to avoid a

collision.

With all the grace of an eight-ton ballet dancer, Kan leapt, scooped up

the creature between his right tusk and nose, and rolled. Tucking his

head down protectively, he ignored the pounding his body took as it

tumbled end over end. This punishment he could endure. He was not a

murderer, even an accidental one. He would not allow it.

They crashed to a halt against the side of a building, cracking

masonry and splintering beams. Windows shattered; thousands of silver

shards rained down on them both. Kan blinked and, groaning, strained to

right himself. The creature was still clutched to his chest, but it was no

longer moving. Its white hair puzzled him, and the strange clothes it

wore. So soft against the delicate nerves of his nose, so beautiful...

The throbbing of alarms, temporarily forgotten, rose up around him.

He could hear engines now as well as alarms, and the pounding of feet

growing nearer. Lights in the sky swooped over him, heavy aircraft riding

columns of swirling air. Kan hunched his shoulders and activated his

armour, prepared to fight now that all hope was lost.

'Specialist Kandula!' boomed a voice, and Kan felt his courage fail.

'He's over here, lads! Get a move on! We've not got all day, you know!'

Among the dozens of ground troops converging on the scene, one

Crei stood tallest and proudest. His epaulettes were wider, his tusks

longer and sharper. His ceremonial armour shone from extensive

polishing. The tip of his nose bobbed higher than any other.

Kan fought the inbred urge to submit to a superior and raised himself

up to full height. 'Commander Ezrehard,' he started to say, 'there's

something I must tell you.'

'I can see it with my own eyes,' trumpeted the commander as he

approached. 'While we wasted time capturing the vehicle, you ran down

the one who arrived in it. Nicely done, my good fellow. Nicely done!

You've earned yourself another commendation.'

'Vehic- uh, I have, sir?'

'Yes, indeed. Aren't you the one who pinpointed the collision in the

first place? I believe I can find a new duty where your quick thinking can

be put to even better use.'

'A new duty, sir?'

'If' wanted an echo, Kandula, I'd talk into a well.'

The creature hanging limply from under Kan's nose was taken from

him by three specialists and carried away. Behind the commander, a

rectangular blue box that he had never seen before stood on the back of

a troop flatbed. The white-haired alien was carefully secured next to it.

'Where did they come from, sir?'

'That's up to you to find out, Sergeant Kandula. Discover their secrets

and further promotion awaits. I'm putting Squadron J at your full

disposal.' That was nearly enough to make Kan faint. He wasn't to be

blamed, court-martialled or shot. In fact, he had been promoted. What a

strange shore fate had guided him to!

Somehow Kan managed to salute without keeling over. He sagged

gratefully into his armour as the commander turned and marched away.

A dozen soldiers watched Kan with blank impassivity. Eventually he

realised that they were waiting for him to give them an order.

'To Science Section HQ' he barked, waving his nose in a feeble

imitation of Commander Ezrehard's imperiousness. The flatbed carrying

the alien and its strange artefact reversed and trundled off. Kan followed,

almost daring to think that his mission might not fail after all...

The Doctor's eyes flickered open. He had been dreaming about a

jungle, the Amazon perhaps, and woke with a nagging feeling that he

had lost something important. Something or someone...

His head was pounding, a feeling made only worse when he tried to

sit up. A thick strap across his chest kept him thoroughly immobile. He

could barely turn his head to look around.

He was lying in a very large tent, one filled with lights and equipment.

It didn't look like a prison. It more resembled a UNIT field tent, except the

scale was completely wrong. The ceiling hung at least four metres above

him, and the tools were much too heavy for a human to lift. He briefly

considered the possibility that he had shrunk while unconscious, but

dismissed it as unlikely.

The explanation lay to his right, where four elephants clad in high-

tech exoskeletons were probing the TARDIS with advanced sensors. A

series of irritated bleeps and buzzes indicated their lack of progress so

far.

From somewhere in the distance came the sound of crunching

masonry. That, finally, revived the memory of how he had come to be

there. Part of it, anyway. A young human girl called Jo and his need to

go far away, very quickly...

'Excuse me,' he called. 'Might I have a word with someone in

authority?'

The four elephants turned instantly to face him. Their movements

were less ponderous than those of a terrestrial pachyderm, and a second

glance revealed that, for all their superficial similarities, these were

entirely different creatures, with four sensitive nodules on the end of

each trunk, tusks carved to signal rank, and armour clearly assisting their

movements. Tool-users, not zoo exhibits.

'I have authority here,' said one, shouldering forward. His trunk rose

in a clear gesture of dominance. 'Identify yourself and explain your

presence.'

'Well, I'm the Doctor,' he said. That was the easy part. 'I'm here by

accident, wherever I am. My ship was caught in a temporal trap. I was

looking for the source of the trap when you found me. It was you, wasn't

it? Yes.' He recognised the tufts of bristly white hair around the

creature's ears — and a desperation in its eyes that it probably hoped

was invisible. 'I'm grateful to you for not trampling me to death.'

The creature ignored his thanks. 'I am Sergeant Kandula of the Crei

Imperative. You will explain to me the purpose of this device.' The trunk

indicated the TARDIS.

'That is my ship.'

'It is too small to be capable of hypertemporal travel.'

'Looks are often deceiving. Much like this place, I'd say.' More details

came to him of the moments between his arrival and the collision with his

captor. 'I could almost swear it was Prague.'

The creature's eyebrows went up. 'You are familiar with this

domicile?'

'This city? Why, yes, I've been here on the odd occasion. There's

something terribly wrong with it now, though.' He remembered streets full

of empty cars, and piles of clothing where people had once been

standing. The air was as dead as a tomb's under a sky empty of stars.

And far away, the sound of buildings being demolished. 'If you'd be so

kind as to let me go —'

The straps were already retreating. 'You are an innocent traveller,'

declared Sergeant Kandula of the Crei Imperative. 'Your presence here

is accidental and does not constitute a threat. You may even be of use to

us.'

'That's very reasonable of you, my good man. People aren't always

so understanding.' The Doctor brought himself upright and took the coat

offered to him on the end of Sergeant Kandula's trunk. He nodded his

thanks and shrugged it on.

'Come with me,' said the sergeant, nudging him with a tusk towards

the tent's gaping entrance.

'I'd be delighted to.'

In the relatively open air, Kan successfully fought waves of trembling

that threatened to render his muscles useless. He was exhausted by the

ongoing portrayal of obedience. Commander Ezrehard had been by

three times already, demanding to know what he had learned of the alien

and its contraption. The search for the Tipping Device wasn't going well,

it seemed. Kan would have to come up with something soon.

The creature called the Doctor turned his minuscule head to take in

the city around them.

'This really is Prague,' the alien declared, trumpeting in a perfectly

unexpected but comprehensible rendition of the Crei tongue. 'You've

lifted it out of the space-time continuum and left the people behind.

Remarkable. May I ask why?'

'In a moment, Doctor.' Kan led the alien and the guards to a nearby

corner, where a statue of a dark-skinned human female gazed

impassively over the intersection below. An improvised but relatively

comfortable officers' mess filled the building behind it.

The Doctor tsked at the walls knocked out and furniture pushed to

one side, the ceilings raised or entirely removed. 'The original architect

wouldn't be pleased, in his silent way. What was it Josef used to say?

"Whoever says too much feels too little." Admirable sentiments, don't you

think, Sergeant Kandula?'

The power of the alien's gaze was out of all proportion to its size. 'We

are travellers,' Kan said, pulling up a sturdy bench and resting his weight

upon it. The Doctor sat with his two legs folded on a boxy chair from the

original furniture as the guards took up positions around the exits. 'Like

you, Doctor, we travel through the interstices of space, where the laws of

physics are mutable and accidents can be both subtle and devastating.

We are here because of one such accident. An essential component

from our ship's inner workings disappeared in transit as a result of a

freak interaction with the real universe. A hyperspatial collision, if you

like. Immediately upon noticing the component's absence, we

backtracked to the point of the collision, where an inhabited world had

unwittingly crossed our path. I say "unwittingly" because it is clear that

the world's inhabitants intended us no malice. They are irrelevant to us.

But their world itself is not. Our paths crossed the centre of one of its

major landmasses. Requiring the missing component as a matter of

some urgency, we have extracted that crucial point from the planet and

begun our search.'

'I see. Hence the city, the time trap, and the demolition I can hear.

You still haven't found this inconvenient component of yours, I assume.'

'No, Doctor. The search is proving more complicated than we

anticipated. The component, you see, consists of an atom of gold.'

The alien's silver eyebrows rose higher on its small forehead. 'A

single atom?'

'I'm afraid so, one tailored for a very specific function.'

'So, of course, it can't be replaced. Rather foolish of you to lose it,

eh?' The Doctor folded his hands in an inverted V in front of him. 'Still,

there must be an easier way to go about finding it than by tearing Prague

apart, stone by stone. That's a very primitive solution to a sophisticated

problem.'

'I concur completely,' Kan said with perhaps more sincerity than was

wise. 'But there are no obvious alternatives.'

'Well, why don't you let me take a look at this ship of yours? Perhaps I

can help you repair it.'

'I fear your help in that regard would be insufficient.'

'You know, I've never once thought of myself as such.'

'We are inside the ship at this very moment, you and I and all of

"Prague".'

'Really? Good grief.' Kan watched the Doctor look out of the smashed

windows in surprise. 'How absolutely remarkable.'

Kan kept his emotions carefully private. 'You claim to know this city.

Help us find the component. Without it, our mission cannot possibly

succeed.'

'Quite. But perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me first, Sergeant

Kandula: what is your mission, exactly?'

'A merciful one, Doctor. Our leaders have charged us to end a war.'

He wiped sweat from his brow with one sweep of his nose. 'You see the

urgency of our situation. The sooner we find the component, the sooner

we can leave.'

'And the sooner this fine old city can be returned to its proper place

and time.' The Doctor's strange articulated limbs gripped the arm of the

chair. 'Very well. Let's get on with it, then.'

'Excellent, Doctor — but be assured that your ship will be kept

securely here until we return. Any attempt to escape will be futile.'

'I am a prisoner, then?'

'I wouldn't use such a clumsy term.'

'They often don't,' said the Doctor, rising to his feet and dusting

himself down, 'but the meaning's always the same.'

No, Kan silently disagreed. I'm putting the thought into your head.

Together, accompanied by their retinue of guards, they headed out into

the ancient city.

They drove on the back of a floating flatbed under the starless sky —

in reality, the Doctor now realised, the interior of a massive cargo bay in

the belly of an even larger ship — past blank-faced buildings in the

Romanesque, Gothic and Baroque styles. None of the facades in the Old

Town Square appeared to be damaged, but he could hear the sound of

high-tech jackhammers tearing up streets not so far away. He needed to

think quickly.

By the look of the clothes and vehicles left behind, he estimated the

city's date of capture to be around the twenty-fourth century. A thousand

years, then, after the death of the man whose statue still dominated the

square, and whose life and beliefs had led to the Bohemian wars and the

invention of armed infantry. Pondering that detail, he decided on the

following plan:

'Gold is a unique substance. Of several isotopes, one, Gold-197, is

perfectly stable. It'll last for eternity, give or take, and that's why it's built

into so many important systems. This temporal permanence can also

cause problems, as you've discovered. Gold doesn't like leaving its

proper time, you see, and can drag a wake through the real universe

when you force it to. If that wake catches on any other gold, a resonance

can form, dragging it back into the continuum. Like a fisher's net

snagging a reef, if you will. Look for outcrops of gold in the city and

you're likely to find your missing piece.'

'We have already looked, Doctor,' Sergeant Kandula said with an

impenetrable expression. 'Our instruments scanned the city from edge to

edge. The Tipping Device is not in an open space or one lightly

concealed from our senses. It must therefore be hidden where even our

keenest instruments cannot reach. Can you think of a likely location?'

'A couple of places come to mind.' He considered for a moment. 'An

old friend might be able to help us.'

'There is someone else in the city?'

'I'm being metaphorical, old chap. Don't the Crei have metaphors?'

'They are discouraged.'

'To your detriment.' He sighed. 'No, the friend I'm talking about has

been dead a very long time. And strictly speaking it's not him we're going

to visit. It's his nose. It may not be as useful as yours, Sergeant Kandula,

but it may hold the solution to all our problems...'

The Doctor told the story while the flatbed pilot drove them to the

cemetery. It was almost too horrible to contemplate. A long time ago, a

human astronomer called Tycho Brahe had lost his nose in a duel.

Luckily for the astronomer, a human's nose was largely ornamental, so a

facsimile made of wax and gold was sufficient to repair the

disfigurement.

'Naturally it was buried with him, in the Old Jewish Cemetery,' said

the Doctor, guiding them through the winding streets to a patch of ground

covered with thousands of monuments, all leaning and twisted like

snaggled teeth.

Kan activated the flatbed's repulsors to lift them over the monuments

to the place the Doctor indicated.

'Be gentle, if you wouldn't mind,' said the alien, as automated

excavating machines went to work. 'He's been dug up once already.'

The machines made short work of the damp earth. Soon a casket

was revealed and lifted into view. The Doctor waved away the guards,

and went to work with a small sonic tool of his own until the lid was

loose.

'If it's here,' he said to Kan, 'you'll know?'

'Immediately after the lead shielding is removed.'

The Doctor nodded his alien head and heaved on the lid. It fell aside,

revealing a skeletal figure draped with the rotten remains of finery. Kan

gestured with his nose at the small cone resting lopsided on the dead

alien's skull. Sensors focused upon it, seeking the unique neutronic

signature.

He kept his face carefully blank as the results came in. 'Negative,

Doctor. The Device is not present.'

'Ah, well.' The Doctor sighed. 'I'm sorry, my friend,' he said, adjusting

a scrap of errant cloth around the corpse's neck and sliding the lid back

into place. 'We disturbed you for nothing.'

'He is dead, Doctor. He cannot be disturbed.'

'No, but his memory can be.' The Doctor wiped his hands on his

green jacket and leaped back up into the flatbed. 'Fill the hole in, and

we'll try somewhere else.'

Kan issued the orders.

'Second time lucky, eh?' The Doctor indicated that the flatbed should

turn left at the first major crossroads after the cemetery. He found it eerie

being driven around the empty city, past cars that had stalled in the

middle of the road or descended on autopilot when their occupants had

been removed. There was no sound apart from that of alien machinery.

He was afraid to ask how many buildings had been ground into dust in

the quest for the mysterious Tipping Device.

'I hope you're not thinking of escaping,' said the sergeant, apropos of

nothing.

Why did Kandula keep bringing that up?

'Turn right here,' the Doctor told the Crei driver, pointing along a wide

stone bridge flanked by 16 triangular ice guards. They passed under the

arch of an empty tower and onto the broad thoroughfare itself. At over

half a kilometre long, the bridge was adorned with no fewer than thirty

statues.

The Doctor ordered the flatbed to stop in front of the third one on the

north side, a tall, bronze crucifix with two grieving people standing at its

base. 'See that sign up there?'

Under the 'arms' of the cross hung a series of gold letters in an arc.

Sergeant Kandula squinted at them. 'I see symbols, but they — no, wait

— I can read them! "Holy, Holy, Holy," uh, something, "of Hosts".'

'Yes, that's exactly right. Well done.'

'How can I read that? I am not proficient in this planet's languages.'

'Never mind that right now. It's a long story.' The Doctor rubbed the

bridge of his nose, keeping to himself the knowledge of the gift he had

shared with so many companions. The thought reminded him of Jo. 'The

sign, as you've noticed, isn't complete. There's a letter missing,

rendering one of the words meaningless. The missing letter is a vav from

the Hebrew alphabet. It was stolen in the twentieth century under

mysterious circumstances. The bridge is under constant camera

surveillance, you see. No one could explain how it was accomplished.'

'If it's missing, of what value is it to us now?'

'Its value lies in the fact that I know where it's hidden.' The Doctor

winked. 'Drive on, will you? Take us to the last statue on the far end of

the bridge. Then we'll see what we will see.'

Kan suppressed his anxiety as they crossed the short distance. The

riverbed beneath the bridge was muddy and pungent, cut off from its

source the moment the city had been wrenched out of the universe. He

clenched the end of his nose shut and thought of his homeworld's

scented air, long lost to the far-flung legions of Crei when the Enemy had

struck. A shudder rippled through him at the memory of what he had

seen in the aftermath. He could not countenance such horror, or any

repeat of it. Better that the Crei die out than let their existence be defined

by vengeance and -

'There, there, old fellow. There's no need to fret.'

The touch of the Doctor's hand on his armoured left shoulder made

him jump. 'Do not approach!' he trumpeted. 'Keep back!'

'Steady on, steady on. I'm just trying to reassure you. We'll find this

missing component of yours — and not before time, I'd say. You've been

on edge too long, by the look of you. Post-traumatic stress is a terrible

thing. I've seen it many times before. You lost someone close to you, I

presume.'

'My herd-mother,' he said before he could stop himself. 'My brothers,

my sire — all gone.' His chest wheezed. 'All dead.'

'Prague is no stranger to grief,' said the alien with genuine sympathy.

'I recently lost a friend myself. Not to death, I'm pleased to say, but I miss

her dearly all the same. Friendships can be fleeting things. Would you

call us friends, Sergeant Kandula?'

'Allies,' he croaked.

'Strange, because my ship thinks otherwise, given you read the sign

back there.'

'Your ship — it thinks?'

'Again, a long story.'

The flatbed decelerated, and Kan forced himself to concentrate. The

last statue consisted of three robed humans standing on stained, stone

plinths. One held a cross; the other two carried jar-like containers.

'Note the figure on the left,' said the Doctor. 'Cosmas, as he was

called, trained as a doctor in Syria two thousand years ago. Unlike some,

he became a very good one. This isn't a very flattering likeness, though.

He'd be decidedly unhappy with the nose.'

'Have you met everyone, Doctor?'

'Not for want of trying.'

The alien jumped with surprising nimbleness from the flatbed to the

wall next to the statue. The jar in the stone hands possessed a circular

base, which the Doctor unscrewed. A single golden letter dropped into

his palm.

'How did you know it would be there?' Kan asked, amazed.

'Put that one down to the misadventures of youth,' the alien said,

resealing the stone container with a perfunctory twist. 'Humans may not

always acknowledge it, Sergeant Kandula, but a good mystery makes life

altogether more interesting.' He winked one tiny eyelid. 'Test it, man, and

let's know for sure.'

The scan, once again, came up negative.

'Hmmm.' The Doctor worried at his mane of white hair. 'This is

proving to be quite a conundrum. What about your friends elsewhere?

Could they have found the answer by now?'

'You wriggle like an eel in a net,' Kan said, hoping that the Doctor

would take the hint this time. 'Why are you in such a hurry to leave?'

'Why are you so keen on keeping me here?' The Doctor leapt back

aboard the flatbed. 'Anyone would think you're overcompensating — but

for what? And for whose benefit, eh?'

'Report, Sergeant Kandula!' boomed an elephantine voice from the

Crei officer's chest plate. 'Promotion awaits a positive reply!'

'My investigation is proceeding,' replied Kandula by some form of

radio, the Doctor presumed. 'We have not yet, however, located the

Tipping Device.'

'Too slow, Kandula! I need results. The clock is ticking, you know.'

'I do know, sir, and I am doing my very best —'

'Not good enough. Do more! Don't make me regret putting my faith in

you.' The communication ended with an abrupt click.

'My commander is in a hurry,' said the sergeant, shuffling his broad

feet to an inaudible but decidedly anxious beat.

'He certainly sounded so, yes.' The Doctor cupped his chin and

thought hard. The more time he spent with Sergeant Kandula, the more

inconsistent his behaviour seemed. 'All right. Let's try right back where

we started. There's a clock in the Old Town Square, an astronomical

clock, as a matter of fact. I know it's still there because I saw it when we

set out. But —' He feigned a sudden thought. 'It won't be running now,

will it? Time is stopped here in the city. You and I are protected by the

trap itself, which recognises us as external influences.'

Kandula nodded his great, domed head. 'That is correct, Doctor.'

'Which only makes it all the more puzzling that your commander said

that his "clock" was "ticking". I thought the Crei didn't use metaphors. He

must have been talking about something specific, then, a timekeeper

originating outside the city. Why exactly are you in such a hurry, again?'

'That is a Crei military secret,' said Kandula, again radiating that

strange impression of saying words he didn't mean — or not saying what

he truly wanted to convey.

'Yes, I thought as much.' The Doctor's lips pursed in irritation. 'The

Tipping Device is a trigger, isn't it? One of the unstable isotopes of gold

programmed to set off some sort of weapon when it decays. Gold-198,

perhaps, with a half-life of three days; or Gold-194, with barely a day and

a half. How much time do you have left before the device explodes,

Sergeant Kandula? And who was supposed to be on the receiving end?'

'The Enemy,' Kandula said in a hollow voice. 'It will utterly destroy

them.'

'There's always an enemy with you military types.' The Doctor

couldn't keep a lid on his annoyance. 'If there isn't one in front of you,

you find one behind you. If you can't find one, you invent one. And if you

can't invent one, you find one among yourselves. It's such a simple

equation, but it doesn't add up.'

'We are not mathematicians, Doctor. We are soldiers. We follow

orders.'

'Well, I'm not a soldier and I don't recognise your orders. I'm not

helping you find your wretched trigger. In fact, I mean to stop you by any

means at my disposal. I advise you not to stand in the way.' He adopted

the Eighth Pose of Readiness taught by the Aikido Masters of Venus.

'Don't be a fool, Doctor,' said Kandula, seeming to be almost in tears.

'You can't fight all of us.'

'Oh, can't I? I will if I'm forced to,' he told the gigantic soldiers. 'Don't

say I didn't warn you.'

Kandula stiffened at the challenge. 'Restrain him, but don't harm him,'

he instructed the guards, 'too much.'

With a loud, trumpeting sound, the three Crei soldiers converged on

the Doctor.

Kan backed away, certain that the Doctor's fate — and his last hope

— was sealed. How had it come to this? He had somehow pulled himself

back from certain doom — and now, disaster!

But it didn't go as he feared. First one guard then another went

tumbling aside, propelled over the edge of the flatbed by their own

momentum and the Doctor's combat skills. The third, enraged by the

dishonouring of his fellows by one so tiny, lost all reason and charged

with head held low and trunk flailing. The Doctor dodged nimbly aside —

faster than any Crei could move — and tugged one sharpened tusk just

enough to send the soldier off-balance. With a blast of dismay, the

soldier followed his fellows onto the street.

And now the Doctor was holding a pistol in both tiny hands, plucked

from the last guard's trunk-holster as he went by.

'Drive, Sergeant. You're going to take me to the TARDIS.'

'I cannot,' Kan protested automatically. 'I would rather die than betray

the Crei.'

'Look at it this way... ' Before the guards could lever themselves back

up onto the flatbed, the Doctor kicked expertly at the knee pedals and

slid one hand into the trunk-space. The engine roared. With a lurch, the

flatbed moved fast back along the bridge. 'Hold on!'

The Doctor drove with reckless abandon, careening through the

streets of the ancient city. Kan was thrown from side to side with such

force that even his armour couldn't keep him upright. He rolled across

the back of the flatbed like a pebble in a tin can, his already battered

body sustaining yet more bruises.

'You'll never make it,' he cried. 'Your ship is guarded by the rest of

the squadron!'

'I'll find a way past them.'

'But you won't have the element of surprise this time. The guards

back there will have sounded the alarm by now.'

'Haven't you?'

Kan had no ready answer for that.

They leapt over an intersection and knocked down a series of

relatively modern street signs with a succession of loud crashes.

Somehow, above the noise, Kan heard the Doctor cry, 'Listen to me,

Kandula. We can talk now without anyone listening in. I need to know

where your loyalties truly lie. Now is the time to decide once and for all.

You can't run forever!'

Kan knew that too. His desperate attempt had ended in potential

disaster. 'I've been a soldier all my life,' he wailed. 'But now I don't want

anyone else to die! What's wrong with me?'

'Nothing at all,' said the Doctor. 'You have to trust me. If you do that, I

guarantee you that everything will work out.'

Kan wanted to believe him, even as his mind rebelled against itself.

Why would he dream of trusting this flimsy-looking alien, with his wispy

hair and tiny nose? Perhaps it was the way he had defeated three Crei

guards more easily than someone twice his size. Perhaps it was his

knowledge of the city around them, and his obvious affection for it. Or

perhaps it was something else, the feeling that somewhere, somehow,

the Doctor had made many such decisions himself, and lived to give Kan

the chance he needed right now...

Feebly, with his delicate trunk and tusks protected by his upraised

legs, Kan nodded.

Instantly the flatbed's wild acceleration eased. The Doctor stepped

away from the controls with his hands raised. He kicked the gun to where

Kan lay shaking, wondering what was going to happen next.

'Pick it up,' the Doctor said. 'You're supposed to be bringing me in,

remember? I'll never get to the TARDIS, otherwise.'

'Yes. I understand.'

His communicator was squawking; he could ignore it no longer. 'I

have re-apprehended the alien,' he informed Commander Ezrehard,

hoping the tremor wasn't as obvious in his speech as it seemed to his

ears. 'The situation has been contained.'

'Situation? What situation? I gave you the simplest of tasks and

you've turned it into a carnival!'

'I believe the alien does know the location of the Tipping Device.' The

Doctor nodded encouragingly, and Kan's courage held. 'Meet me at

Science Section HQ sir.'

'You'd better know what you're doing, Kandula. This is your last

chance!'

Kan's trunk was trembling when the commander left the line. The

flatbed wobbled as he took back the controls.

'Do you really know where the Device is?'

'I suspect I do,' the Doctor said. 'Let's go, shall we? We've got a clock

to start.'

A large contingent of Crei had gathered in the Old Town Square. The

Doctor immediately recognised Commander Ezrehard by his air of

puffed-up self-importance. His armour was the most ornate and

therefore, perversely, the least functional. The contradiction irritated the

Doctor, as so many things about the military mindset did. Who else

would reward people for becoming worse at their job?

The massed Crei converged on the flatbed as Sergeant Kandula

brought it to a halt. Powerful lamps illuminated the Old Town Hall,

casting the city's best-known architecture in a surreal light. The two

asymmetrical towers of the gothic Church of Our Lady Before Tyn

dominated the far side of the square. The air was thick with the heavy

scent of the Crei, a mixture of ozone from their machines and musk

rising from their thick skins.

The Doctor let himself be shoved from the flatbed by Sergeant

Kandula, who had fastened his arms behind his back before their arrival.

The sergeant's trunk was stronger than it looked, and nearly sent him

sprawling. He recovered and straightened himself with some dignity.

'I'd say good day to you, sir,' he said to the commander, 'only I've no

idea what time it is outside this trap of yours.'

The commander was unflapped by the Doctor's attempt at levity. 'Are

you a citizen of this planet?' he barked.

'I have been at times, yes.'

'Understand, then, that unless you immediately reveal to us the

location of the Tipping Device, we will lay waste to this world's entire

surface. This city will be the first of many thousands destroyed. Its fate

rests solely in your hands.'

'Well, since you put it so reasonably...' He smiled without humour.

'This way.' He forced a path through the crowd of soldiers and around

the side of the Old Town Hall to where the two complicated faces of the

Astronomical Clock overlooked the ancient paving stones. The ornate

hands on the uppermost face were stopped one minute short of

midnight.

'What is this primitive mechanism?' Narrowed eyes scanned the

overlapping circles and symbols with no appreciation, the Doctor was

sure, of art or science, except as means to an end. 'Its function eludes

me.'

'It tells the time,' said the Doctor, 'which you've stopped. On the hour,

every hour, figures emerge from those doors up the top there, under the

little roof. This Device of yours will be on one of those figures.'

'Guards, tear this structure to the ground!'

'No, wait!' The Doctor placed himself between the Crei hordes and

the oldest clock on Earth. 'Listen to me. Sergeant Kandula told me about

your war. Isn't there another way to resolve the situation without

resorting to the Device?'

'Your rhetoric is redundant. The decision has been made.'

'I'm sorry to hear that — but at least spare the clock. You have the

capacity to start time again. Why not let the thing you want appear of its

own accord? You're a reasonable being, commander. There's no sense

in tearing down something precious when it doesn't actually stand in your

way. That would be nothing but unconscionable vandalism.'

The commander thought for a moment, clearly not wanting to seem

uncivilised. Behind him, Sergeant Kandula shifted nervously from his left

to right pairs of legs.

'Very well. For aiding us, I will grant you your wish.'

The Doctor didn't hide his relief. 'Thank you very much indeed.'

'Yes, yes. Now move aside while the temporal fields are relaxed. We

will extract the Device the moment it appears.'

The Crei turned their attention on the clock as a sudden wind

whipped along the empty streets. With a series of rising whirrs and

clunks, the ancient mechanism began to turn again.

The Doctor, glad to be out of the spotlight, edged to where Kandula

was waiting for him.

'Let's get out of here,' he whispered, and Kandula nodded with a

mixture of desperation and relief.

The clock wound towards the hour as he and Kandula, momentarily

forgotten, hurried along an empty street. For the first time since he had

been caught in the Crei's temporal trap, the city seemed a vital thing,

restored from the deathly grip that had clutched it tight.

In his mind's eye, he imagined the skeleton of the main clock face

tipping over its hourglass and pulling the rope that would open the door

above. The clock wouldn't chime, but figures would emerge nonetheless:

a procession of saints, a flute-playing Turk, a Miser shaking his cane,

and Vanity admiring himself in a mirror.

Quite a show for a device over a millennium old. The Doctor could

only hope that he and Kandula would have enough time before Ezrehard

realised the Tipping Device wasn't actually there.

They turned left. Kandula's feet thundered like those of a stampeding

bull elephant. Ahead, the House of the Black Madonna came into view.

Two guards protected the officers' mess and its contents.

'I'll deal with them,' said Kandula, unholstering his weapon and

clenching it tightly in his trunk. With one precise shot, he cut the Doctor's

bonds. 'You must escape at all costs.'

'We'll escape together,' the Doctor promised him. The TARDIS key

was already in his right hand.

The guards noticed them and trumpeted a challenge. Kandula

ordered them to stand down, but they weren't stupid. Weapons flashed,

Kandula's on a lower setting but the guards' set to wound or kill. The

sergeant's armour flared. The Doctor danced as sparks scattered around

his black leather shoes.

'Quickly, Doctor!' Kandula cried.

The Doctor leapt through an empty window frame into the cafe and

ran to where the TARDIS stood, blue and patient, in its web of restraints.

The key slid smoothly into the lock. The doors opened.

'Come on, Kandula!' the Doctor called over his shoulder as he hurried

inside. The familiar white control room enfolded him. His fingers flew

across switches and dials. Delicate instruments reached out to examine

the partially deactivated temporal trap and, through the chink Ezrehard

had created, prepared to turn it inside out.

The rate of gunfire was increasing outside. The alarm had clearly

been raised. 'Kandula!' Realising that the sergeant hadn't followed him

inside, the Doctor hurried to help him.

Too late. The sergeant was limping and bleeding through the joints of

his now-inactive armour. Shots continued to strike him as he staggered

into the safety of the TARDIS and collapsed on the floor. The door was

barely large enough to admit him.

The Doctor lunged for the door control and took shelter behind the

console. A few stray shots that made it through the closing gap were

absorbed harmlessly by the control room's roundels. As soon as the door

was shut, the Doctor gave the TARDIS its head.

Wheezing, groaning, the central column began to move. The bindings

affixed to the outside were useless once the dematerialisation circuit was

activated. Time and space twisted in complicated knots, and the real

battle began.

Two very different machines clashed like titans, each attempting to

thwart the other's will. Neither one backed down easily. A thousand

years the conflict might have lasted, in self-contained pockets of the

space-time vortex that were undetectable from the outside. The conflict

expended energy on a scale barely imaginable.

But in the end, there could be only one victor.

The Crei ship, the source of the temporal trap, became entangled in

its own web and Prague, damaged and invaded but still more or less

intact, was returned to its proper place in the continuum.

The Doctor moved steadily around the TARDIS's console, checking

that all was running smoothly in the wake of the battle. Even under the

most ordinary of circumstances, he could never be too certain.

When he was confident that he had done everything in his power, he

went to check on Kandula. The sergeant's breathing was slow and

ragged around the edges, as though his lungs were filling with blood. His

trunk lay flat and limp before him.

'Stand up, old chap,' the Doctor told him, pulling at one corner of the

massive armour. 'If you'll just let me look at you —'

'No, Doctor.' The sergeant's voice was firm and his weight

unmovable. 'I'm dying, and I'm not afraid of it, now I have done what

needed to be done.' Bloodshot eyes swivelled to focus on the Doctor. 'It

is done, isn't it?'

'Yes. By reversing the temporal field, I caught Commander Ezrehard

in his own trap. Fitting, really. There's a small chance he might escape,

but I'll take care of that possibility too, in time. We're going somewhere

he'd never think of looking, and getting rid of that wretched trigger

forever.' The Doctor stepped back and patted the outside of his coat. His

fingers detected nothing untoward. 'Where exactly did you hide it, by the

way?'

'Inside pocket,' Kandula wheezed. 'Left side.'

From there the Doctor produced a small, lead sphere that hadn't been

in his possession before. 'Ah, yes. Thank goodness for that.'

'I'm sorry to involve you in this,' said the sergeant. 'It wasn't my

intention.'

'No. I see that now. You stole the Device — when Before the collision

with Earth, I presume?'

'Yes. And when its absence was discovered, I told the commander

that the collision was responsible, thinking that he would declare the

mission a failure right there. I never thought he'd be so persistent.'

'That's the trouble with the military mind,' the Doctor said softly. 'You

can never underestimate its dogged devotion to duty, beyond all

reasonable cost.'

'I resolved to hide the Device somewhere it couldn't be found.'

Kandula's deathbed confession ground on, even as his breathing

faltered. 'It wasn't easy. Ezrehard would tear the city to the ground to find

it. I was becoming desperate. I feared that my complicity would soon be

discovered. Fear got the better of me — and that was when I ran into

you.'

Was it then you planted the Device on me?'

'No, later, when you were in Science Section HQ. I wanted you to

escape and take the Device far away, forever, but you didn't

understand... couldn't have known what I wanted... didn't seem to...' He

coughed, and bright red blood splattered the white floor. His thick legs

twitched. 'I betrayed... my people.'

'You are a good soldier,' the Doctor told him. 'The very best kind. You

did what you had to do in order to avert another monstrous catastrophe.

That's more important than victory, don't you think?'

The great head nodded. Kandula's eyes closed. The Doctor squatted

next to him as the TARDIS strained on through the space-time vortex to

its ultimate destination. He stroked the leathery skin until the sergeant's

heartbeat ceased and his final exhalation sighed into silence. Still he sat

next to the fallen Crei, thinking about all he had lost in recent times, and

how small a thread that amounted to in the cosmic skein.

Standing, he walked to the console and checked the course he had

programmed. Soon they would be arriving at their destination. And

then... ?

He exhaled heavily through his proud nose. The time trap had

snatched him while on a heading far from Earth. The little world that so

vexed and fascinated him clearly wasn't done with him yet. Best not to

fight it, perhaps, and see what it had in store for him next. Jo might have

left him, but he had had other friends there, and would have more, if he

gave fate a chance.

'Don't worry, old girl,' he said, patting the console's straining side.

'We'll be home soon.'

It was cold and dark at the long end of time. Few visitors came to see

what remained of the universe on the brink of heat-death. Theoretically,

there was supposed to be nothing: no survivors, no ruins, no last

messages. Truth, however, was always more complicated than theory.

Numerous advanced civilisations used it as a dumping ground for things

that had no place in the universe. Time travellers frequently popped into

being to deposit a dangerous item in the void, then depart as quickly as

they had come, leaving the item to tumble through nothingness, never to

be seen again.

A stock-take of the vacuum would have produced a long list of

intriguing items, including several powered-down Daleks, a needle-thin

battle cruiser bent into the shape of a pretzel, a sliver of crystal so cold it

made the surrounding vacuum look positively balmy — and one dead

soldier cradling a single atom that had once, long ago, been gold.

Short Trips: Snapshots

My favourite type of Doctor Who story is one that features ordinary people

caught up in the adventure, and being changed by meeting the Doctor. To

me, stories like this hark back to An Unearthly Child and Ian and Barbara - they

represent exactly what it is that sets Doctor Who apart from other science fiction

series. Therefore, when Ian Farrington gave me the opportunity to edit my

own Short Trips, I decided that that would be the theme: we'd see snapshots

of peoples' lives and see how they were changed - for better or for worse - by

getting caught up in the Doctor's adventures.

When it came to choosing authors, I decided that I wanted to do what I felt

the Short Trips range had achieved more than anything - mix established Who

authors with writers who were new to Who, new to Big Finish and also, in

some cases, previously unpublished. Therefore, I contacted some Short Trips

regulars, such as Simon Guerrier and Ian Farrington; some of the people

I'd worked with on The Centenarian (still my favourite of the Short Trips) such

as Benjamin Adams and Steven Savile; writers who were new to Big Finish,

such as TV-series writer Helen Raynor and playwright Gary Owen; and people

like Colin Harvey - who had previously won a competition organised by SFX

Magazine to find new writers - and Nigel Fairs, a fantastic writer I'd worked

with on various Big Finish audio ranges.

And then one day, while randomly browsing MySpace (I work from home,

I'm easily distracted), I found Brian Dooley. I'd never met him or anything,

but I was a huge fan of his television series, The Smoking Room. It had been a

programme about a bunch of people sitting in a room and talking. No big

dramas, no explosions, no sudden deaths... Just real people talking in a very

real way, and therefore being much funnier than most other sit-com characters.

I decided to send him a message, just saying how much I'd enjoyed The Smoking

Room... "Oh, and by the way, I don't suppose you happen to be a Doctor Who fan,

do you? It's just I'm editing this short story collection..." Luckily for me, Brian

was a big Doctor Who fan and he was very keen to be involved.

His story, The Glarn Strategy, is simply brilliant. It's about a small group of

people working in an estate agents and suddenly finding themselves caught

up in one of the Doctor's mad adventures. And they adjust to become part of

it. They change for the better. They enjoy life just that little bit more because

of it. It's such a funny story but also one that has something to say about the

way we live our lives today. And it's got the Doctor and Romana being just so

fantastic and wonderful.

It's a story that I think sums up exactly why Doctor Who is clearly the best

thing ever made. And it's a story that's proof that sometimes skiving on the

Internet is a good thing.

The Glarn Strategy

Brian Dooley

An Adventure of Martin Stowe,

with the Fourth Doctor and Romana

He was the best estate agent in the area. He rocked, he was the

dog's - all the usual commendations. No matter how much pressure

Martin Stowe had lately been under, or how much anyone strove to

undermine him, that was one thing he could cling to: he was

brilliant at his job. If he focused on that one simple fact then he

could get through the day. Work would be his salvation.

Or so he thought. When two oddball customers walked into his

office that morning they brought a change even more drastic than

the turmoil of the last few weeks.

Martin Stowe could tell what a customer was looking foe as soon

as he - or, as Martin very much preferred it, she - walked in. She

might not agree with his original assessment. She might have her

heart set on a garden flat in a Victorian conversion. But by the time

Martin had finished with her she was in love with the third-floor

maisonette in an ex-council block that he'd been trying to shift for

more than a year - he liked to think she was a little bit in love with

him too. She'd get the property for a price that suited both her and

the seller. Everyone was happy. Martin was often even invited to

both house-warming parties. Or the maisonette-warming in one

instance, if you chose to be picky.

He was the best estate agent in the area and Jason McGee at

Haversock Laing could kiss Martin's latest plentiful 'Sold' signs if

he tried to claim otherwise. So when the crackpots sauntered in, the

pair of them obviously as mad as you please, Martin thought he had

them sussed in seconds. Okay, things had been getting a bit stressy

lately. Tense. The whole team was affected. Sheila and Indira were

like wild cats, hissing and spitting at each other over the tiniest

thing, and Martin couldn't avoid being dragged into their rows.

Despite normally regarding work the way an alcoholic does a bottle

of sherry, he had lately found himself pining for a break from it all.

Things had become that stressful. But his powers had not been

dimmed by all the upheaval. He still knew exactly which property

the weirdos were after as soon as he clapped eyes on them.

The trick, he found, was to sort customers into types. Everyone

likes to think they're such an individual but most people, Martin

believed, were stricken with a herd mentality. Almost everyone

conforms to one group or another. Work out which group someone

belonged to - it was normally obvious from their clothes alone,

although a quick chat helped narrow it down - and you had their

tastes and lifestyle tapped. It was then just a question of leafing

through the filing cabinet and bringing out the right property details.

That was how he always went about things. Until the cranks

walked in. Martin was the first to spot them. Sheila twitched in her

seat as soon as they passed her desk and Indira had made her way

from the kitchen the moment she heard the door go - it wasn't just

that they wanted the custom: any distraction from that other

business was gratefully leapt upon - but Martin had caught the

pair's eyes first by standing and waving as they came through the

door and so they made a beeline for him.

Martin looked them up and down as they approached. Everything

about him - the crazy hair, the pretentiously long scarf, the tatty

coat - screamed out, 'Look how arty-farty I am!' Martin guessed he

wrote novels - all of them unpublished. He'd met non-novelists

before. They liked to corner him by the airing cupboard during a

viewing and describe their rejected plots to him in bewildering

detail. But, on further scrutiny, this bloke seemed worse: he looked

like he wrote pretty. That was it! He was a poet, who probably

wrote long turgid verse sagas based on Celtic myths - and always

after several pints of home-brewed ale. Of course that was never

going to pay the mortgage - or even for the home-brew kit - so he

had to have a proper job too. Uni lecturer, Martin guessed, in

something like pottery or fine art.

Yep, that was the man summed up: he lectured in the university's

art department.

God knew what she was doing with him. She looked quite

respectable at first. Bit of posh - and gorgeous with it. Long brown

hair, great figure. The dress was a bit glam for daytime but it

showed plenty of cleavage so Martin wasn't complaining. She had

to be crackers, of course - she was with the poet. Martin would

have put her down as a kept wife - she had the air of a woman

untroubled by practicalities - but doubted the man earned enough to

keep her. She probably worked at the uni too, as a secretary or

something; maybe an artists' model. She was too fit to be a lecturer,

at any rate. When he described her later to his mates, the best way

to sum her up would be to say that he most definitely would.

Having got a good measure of the couple, Martin mentally ran

through the available properties. They'd want somewhere they

could restore. They were that type. Somewhere a bit countrified -

definitely somewhere old. He knew the very place. Dove Cottage

was a dilapidated old ruin that had been on the market for almost

two years now. As the couple made their way from the door to his

desk he tracked down Dove Cottage's file.

'You don't need to say anything,' Martin told the pair, laying the

relevant details, facing them, upon his desk. 'This is what you're

looking for, isn't it?'

The woman furrowed her brow. 'What is it?'

'It's a house, Romana,' said the man. 'You've seen houses

before. Although, looking at it more closely, it's actually a cottage -

and you've definitely seen one of those. Lovely old Amelia had one

- Amelia Rumford? You went inside it and had sausage

sandwiches!'

'Oh. I thought he was offering us the document. So the properties

are stored in flat images, rather than taking up too much space on

the shop floor? That's clever. I didn't think Earth technology was so

sophisticated yet.'

Definitely a nudey model rather than a secretary. The woman was

completely wacko.

'Psssst!' said the man, huddling closer to the woman, although he

made no attempt to lower his voice. 'Not yet. Don't say yet. In

terms of time travel, knowing about a yet is rather a giveaway - and

we are here undercover.'

Martin revised his original assessment. These two were nothing

to do with the university. They were straight from a mental ward.

And if they weren't, then it was high time they were sectioned.

The man had straightened up and now gestured for the woman to

deal with Martin.

'Hello,' she said.

'We're past hellos,' said the man. 'I know we didn't get one

when we came in - this young chap was too keen to show off his

sales patter - but Earth custom has it that once you've started a

conversation to suddenly go back and drop in a hello looks odd. We

don't want to look odd. Just get on with it now - never mind

hellos.'

'To get straight to the point...' the woman said.

'Self-defeating that, I think,' the man cut in. 'To tell someone

you're getting straight to the point isn't to get straight to the point at

all - it's to put the point off by some way while you announce

you're getting to it. We're wasting precious time, Romana, with all

this getting to the point - the whole world is at stake. Perhaps the

galaxy. Don't faff about with unnecessary preliminaries. Just get to

the point!'

The woman turned to Martin and did so. 'Has anything at all

strange happened here today?'

'Other than talking to you two?' Martin muttered.

'Well, of course other than talking to us two!' bellowed the man.

Martin was sure he could see Indira smirking across the room. She

was loving this. 'This is a house shop, isn't it? What's so strange

about a man and his... his... his delectable wife -'

The woman raised an eyebrow at the description.

'- walking into a house shop and wanting to look at houses? If

you find that strange, chum, then I'd suggest you're in the wrong

job. No, I mean much stranger than looking at houses in a house

shop. Much, much stranger. Odd messages? Electronic ones, that is

- texts, emails? I think we can ignore semaphore or carrier

pigeons.'

'Unless the bird was an automated replica,' the woman pointed

out.

'Bit early for that. By, um -' the man checked the clock on the

wall '- by about thirty years. A few more species will need to lose

their natural habitats before that becomes common practice.'

'That's an awful amount of yets, Doctor...'

'I'm not sure where we stand regarding Aldis lamps,' the man

mused, ignoring her. 'There's an electrical component to those, of

course, but... '

'Not digital.'

'Quite! As Romana says, not digital. Let's not worry about any

communication you've had via an Aldis lamp. So! Weird messages

- have you had any? Goads, taunts? Stuff that eats away at the very

heart of your psyche?'

Martin sat down. He hadn't meant to, but he did. The man's eyes

were so intense as they stared upon him. And how did he know?

He'd described exactly what had been happening these past few

weeks. Something had been eating away at Martin's soul.

Sheila and Indira drew near, clearly hoping the mysteries that had

plagued them were finally about to be solved. The atmosphere in

the room grew chill.

The strange man's tone - the cold, deadly seriousness of it - told

Martin that whatever had been gnawing at his very sense of self,

keeping him awake at night for fear of what he might dream, filling

his daylight hours with worry and suspicion, had even darker and

more terrifying motives than he ever could have suspected.

'Yes,' he told the man, plainly and simply. 'Yes, strange things

have happened.'

'Then, don't worry,' said the man, 'because I'm the Doctor. And

I'm here to help you.'

Martin couldn't quite remember when it had all started but he knew

that the texts came first. They were all from numbers he didn't

recognise - he assumed they were from his competitors, maybe

Jason McGee at Haversock Laing, or even disgruntled customers -

although he couldn't imagine anyone was unhappy with his

services.

'U r nothing,' they tended to read. 'U think u r something but u r

not.'

It was kids' stuff, really; playground insults. They unsettled him a

bit, he supposed. No one likes to think they've made an enemy. He

would sometimes text back: 'Who is this?' There was never any

reply.

But the texts were easily dismissed as a minor irritant, nothing

more. Of course he was something. He was the best estate agent in

the area. It was when the emails started arriving that everything

turned nasty.

For a start, there were names attached. These weren't cowardly,

anonymous insults any more. Someone had taken the trouble to

setup not just one, not even a few, but hundreds of different email

accounts. The names seemed perfectly innocent - Janet Harper,

Keith Norris, Shreela Patel - and he opened each message

expecting a customer enquiry.

At first they were mere continuations of the texts.

Dear Martin,

Know this: you are nothing.

Love

Lily x

Martin,

You think you're something special but you're not.

;)

Cheers

Karl

You really rate yrself dontcha? Wanna know something?

I dont.

I dont rate you 1 bit

Mason xxxxxxxx

Martin went through all his files to see if the names corresponded

with anyone he'd had dealings with. They didn't. He emailed back

but, as with the texts, didn't receive any reply. And still the

messages came. To begin with, the content didn't bother him as

much as the sheer volume, which considerably interfered with the

working day. That very quickly changed.

The first to upset him was from one T. Jones. He'd had a call

from a Tom Jones only days before. It wasn't a name he was likely

to forget. Martin had dithered about cracking the predictable 'Not

the Tom Jones' gag, as it was one which could offend certain

sensibilities; but if he didn't make it then he could just as well seem

po-faced to many others. Martin prided himself on knowing how to

handle his customers and had eventually judged from the man's

dour manner that it was probably best not to inject a note of

humour. It was a preliminary enquiry, sounding out all the local

agents, and it seemed to go well. Martin assumed the bloke had

since decided to place his property with him at Morgan Heggarty

and was emailing now to ask what happened next.

He distractedly sang the chorus to Delilah as he opened the

message.

'Dear Martin,' it read. 'All your life you have been haunted by

the thought that you weren't enough of a man. You don't think your

father ever loved you as much as he loved his other sons.' Martin

stopped singing. Who was this? 'I think you were right. I don't

believe he did. Yours sincerely, Thomas Jones.'

Martin barely had time to react when another email pinged into

his inbox. This one was from an Otis Matherson.

'Dear Martin, It has come to my attention that both your parents

view you as a disappointment. You are the least loved of all their

children because you have done least to make them proud. You

didn't win a place at Oxford like James. (Or should I say, "Dr

James"?) You weren't a great sportsman at school like Luke. (Oh,

he filled the house with trophies!) You tried to be a charming jack-

the-lad like Andrew, but you just don't have it in you. (He could

flunk as many exams as he liked, he was always going to be your

mother's favourite.) What makes you special? Nothing. You have to

work every hour you can to make any kind of headway in the world.

Your parents know that. They call you "the plodder" behind your

back. So plod, plod, plod your way through the day, Martin. It

won't make any difference. Regards, O. Matherson.'

He was about to fire off a contemptuous reply when the phone on

his desk rang. 'Morgan Heggarty - Martin speaking.'

'Plod, plod, plod, plod, plod.'

'Who is this? Who is this?!'

The line went dead. He dialled 1471 but the number had been

withheld.

'Trouble?' asked Sheila, looking up from her paperwork.

209

Martin thought she'd asked it a little too knowingly. Sheila was

one of the fixtures at Morgan Heggarty. She'd worked there for

most of Martin's lifetime, having arrived straight from school. She

and Martin always used to get along fine. Until her divorce, she'd

been a good laugh but the breakdown of her marriage had turned

her bitter and she was taking it out on everyone. There was a sly

delight whenever anyone else came a cropper. Could she be behind

these messages? Had she grown that spiteful? He knew she couldn't

have made the call but that didn't mean she hadn't put someone else

up to it. He told her to get on with her work, determined not to give

her the satisfaction of seeing that she'd riled him.

Another call came: 'Plod, plod, plod.'

He was ready to tackle Sheila about it. But he was sure she didn't

know that Jim had been at Oxford. He never told anyone that. It

wasn't a source of pride for him as it was with his parents - quite

the opposite. It made him feel like he hadn't quite matched up so he

preferred never to mention it. And how would she know Luke had

been victor ludorum at every school sports day? He had never told

her so. No, it couldn't be Sheila. She had looked over once more as

he slammed down the receiver and this time his attitude softened.

'Wrong number, that's all. Some crank.'

'Oh, God - not you as well? I've been getting them for days now.

I've been thinking it was Stuart - I wouldn't put anything past that

man - but why would he want to have a go at you?'

Martin shrugged. 'I've never even met the bloke.'

'Count yourself lucky! No, it doesn't make sense. Stuart's got no

issues with you - you were never married to him. It was your direct

line that went, wasn't it?'

'Oh, yeah - not the general. There's been no mistake. It was

meant for me, I know it was. You don't think it's someone at

Haversock Laing, do you? I mean, if things carry on as they are

doing, this'll be the third month in a row we've beaten them on

sales.'

'Oh, come off it, Martin - we're two local estate agents, not rival

Mafiosa gangs. Are you expecting to wake up with a lopped off

'For Sale' sign on your pillow? This isn't a business thing. Like you

say, it's probably just some crank. We shouldn't work ourselves

into such a state over it. I'm gonna have an Options - d'you want

one?'

'Hm? Erm... yeah - a toffee one, please. And you're right - it's

likely just some mentalist with time on their hands... Nothing more

than that.' He knew it wasn't. As Sheila went off to the kitchen,

Martin checked his inbox once more. There were six new messages.

They were all on the same theme, describing the current attitudes of

his ex-girlfriends. The first five were a torrent of spite and wounded

pride that were no more than the cliched and expected reactions of

the jilted: cheap slurs on his endowment and sexual prowess that

annoyed but didn't wound him. So what if his exes sat cackling

with their friends about him now? He was the one who had ended

each relationship: it was sour grapes on their part, nothing more.

But the detail in the messages bothered him and the sixth was an

entirely different matter.

'Laura lied. Whenever she told you that she loved you, she lied.

All the time that she was with you she was still trying to get over

Paul. You kept the loneliness at bay, that's all. You were someone

to hold her when things became too much to bear, but in her heart

she was never holding you. That aftershave she bought you for your

last Christmas together was the same one that Paul used to wear.

She missed the scent of him so much, even after four years with

you. She tried to love you but she found it impossible. Nothing that

you shared meant anything to her.'

It was from a Daniel Naylor. Who the hell was he? Martin

hammered out an angry reply, telling 'Daniel Naylor' he knew

nothing. Nothing! Of course Laura had loved him. Hadn't she?

'We've run out of toffee, so I did you a Turkish delight. You

might have to mush the powder up against the side with your spoon

- I don't think it all dissolved.' Sheila put the cup on Martin's desk

and tapped his arm. 'Are you okay, son? You're as white as a

sheet!'

'I could do with something stronger than hot chocolate, that's for

sure. Sheila, I know this might make me sound paranoid, but... are

you getting weird emails as well as the phonecalls?'

Sheila put her drink next to Martin's and sat on the edge of his

desk.

'I am, as it goes, yes. Horrible, nasty, vindictive stuff Like I say, I

just thought, "Oh, that's Stuart," and shrugged it off. Or tried to...

What do some of yours say, lemme see...'

'No!' Sheila was already peering around at his screen, so Martin

clicked to hide the window. 'I'm sorry, but... '

'It's too personal?' She nodded. 'Same with mine. That's why I

can't believe it's some random nutter - or anyone at Haversock

Laing. Whoever's behind this business is too well informed. It's

disturbing me now.'

It was disturbing Martin too; it all cut far deeper than a silly

prank call. His years with Laura were the only time in his life when

Martin had felt valued and understood - when it hadn't mattered

how much money he made, or how many of his competitors he beat,

but only how kind he'd been, how patient, how caring. Laura had

loved the better part of him. It sometimes felt as though she alone

ever knew that better part existed. If he were to believe that her

feelings had not been sincere...

Sheila was toying with the spoon in her mug of hot chocolate.

She asked if Martin found it odd that the calls only seemed to come

when Indira was out of the office and the pair of them were alone.

They were clearly dealing with someone who knew them well and

Indira had been part of the team for two years now.

Martin considered this. It was true that Indira was ambitious. And

Sheila had always insisted that she held a torch for Martin. Indira

had told her as much when she first started and had been

disappointed to hear that he had a girlfriend.

'Hell hath no fury like Indira scorned?' suggested Sheila.

'But why wait all this time to take it out on me? And why would

she want to have a go at you? What have you ever done to offend

her?'

'I don't know. These aren't the actions of a rational mind, that's

for sure. All our workloads are up with Peter being ill - perhaps

she's cracked?'

Martin thought it unlikely. 'Indira doesn't know half the stuff that

crops up in the messages to me. It's not like we've had many heart

to hearts.'

'I suppose.' Sheila chinked the spoon against the side of her mug

for a while. 'Martin... you don't think we've got a ghost?'

'Er... no, Sheils. I really, really don't.'

'But all that weird gunk up the walls of the basement? I know the

fella said it was a snail infestation - but we never found any snails.

What if it was ectoplasm?'

'You watch too many shows on the inaptly named Living, Sheila.

All those programmes about the dead...'

But she had spooked him and when the phone suddenly rang

again, Martin let it ring.

'You should answer it,' said Sheila, despite having jumped at the

sound. 'It might be a customer, after all. We can't let this sicko get

to us, whoever it might be.'

It was the fear of who - of what - else it might be that made

Martin wait another three rings before plucking up the receiver.

'Morgan Heggarty -how can I help you?'

'It could have been anyone,' came the voice. 'You just happened

to be there. Laura needed not to be alone, that's all. As soon as she

was strong enough, she saw you for what you are. And moved on.'

The line went dead. Martin held the receiver to his ear, loath to

replace it in case it rang again. The ringing of Sheila's phone broke

the silence.

She caught Martin's eye before she answered it. 'Morgan

Heggarty - Sheila speaking.' Her face drained of colour. 'Does this

give you some kind of perverted thrill? ... Is that why you ring us? I

pity you, I really do, if this is the only way you can get your fun.

Shall I tell you what colour knickers I'm wearing, will that get you

off? ... Who is this? ... Answer me, damn you! Answer me!'

Both numbers were withheld. There was a sudden flurry of

electronic pings as emails flooded both Sheila and Martin's inboxes.

'Delete them,' Sheila urged. 'Delete everything you get!' She

yanked the wire of her phone from its socket. 'I'm not putting up

with this!'

No sooner had she disconnected the phone than her mobile began

to pulse and trill as it was hit by a tide of incoming messages. The

vibrations forced it from the desk onto the floor, where it continued

to ring and thrum across the carpet, like some pernicious

mechanical bug. Martin switched off his own before it could do the

same.

The door buzzed to alert them that someone had come in and

Sheila let out a scream. It was Indira returning from a viewing.

'Whatever's been going on here?' she demanded, dumping her

briefcase and rushing to comfort Sheila. 'Is this you, Martin? What

have you said to her?'

'Oh, so that's your game, is it?' said Martin. 'You're making me

out to be some kind of nutter so Peter's job'll be yours.'

'What are you on about?'

'You want to be branch manager- we all know that- and you

know I'm serious competition. You're trying to freak me out, affect

my performance. I don't believe you, Indira! I always knew you

were ambitious but to exploit Peter's illness like this?'

'What!? All I'm concerned about is Peter's well-being. I haven't

given a thought to his job!'

Sheila pulled away from Indira and bent to scoop up her now

silent mobile.

'Funny how the phone hasn't rung since you came back into the

office,' she said. 'How no emails have arrived. It's like I said,

Martin - she's the one behind these messages. God, Indira, you're

sick!'

'Messages?' said Indira. 'You mean the crank calls? You've been

getting them too?'

'Oh, nice try,' said Martin. 'Playing the victim too. But as Sheila

says, it's strange how the calls and emails never come while you're

here.'

Indira's phone rang. All three tensed.

'You'll want to answer that,' said Martin. 'I'm sure it's only from

213

a customer. What are you up to, Indira? Trying to send us two

barmy so that when Peter pops his clogs and his job comes free

you'll be the only sane candidate? An OTT way to get promoted,

don't you think?'

Sheila was disgusted. 'Poor Peter. He was only moved to the

hospice last Friday!'

'Yes,' said Indira, 'and when did the weird calls start? Long

before then. I'm not listening to this paranoid nonsense!' She

snatched up the phone. 'Morgan Heggarty - how can I help you?'

She flinched. 'Enough of this. Enough! I'm hanging up right now

and I am calling the police!'

Martin and Sheila were unconvinced but then the room was

immediately alive with electronic alerts as all three of them were

bombarded with further messages.

'That's it,' said Indira. 'It's time the police dealt with this.'

'We don't need to drag those idiots into it,' said Martin. 'I can

handle things.'

'Something to hide?' Indira picked up the receiver and dialled.

The police never came. Indira and Sheila registered complaint

after complaint but it was as though their calls had been lost in the

ether. No help of any sort came. The emails and phonecalls

continued, if in less of a frenzy than they had that afternoon. Martin

did his best to ignore them, to carry on with his work as normal, but

the atmosphere of fear and mistrust persisted. Sheila began to

prattle on about gremlins and poltergeists and Indira barely spoke to

either of them, stung by their accusations. Someone, somewhere

was out to get him, Martin was sure of it. They were playing with

his mind, driving him to madness. At times he even doubted if

Sheila and Indira were receiving the weird messages and weren't

bluffing to cover their own conspiracy against him. He felt as

though he couldn't trust anyone.

Then the Doctor and Romana walked into the office and Martin

knew, as soon as they asked about the messages, that everything

was about to change. What he didn't know was if things were set to

improve or become ever more unbearable.

'I see,' said the Doctor, once Martin had described the situation.

'And all the messages have been in the same spirit?'

'Yes,' said Indira. 'Cruel, spiteful stuff.'

'But nothing we can't handle,' insisted Martin.

'Speak for yourself,' said Sheila. 'This whole business is making

me ill. I've hardly slept, my eczema is back... '

'Don't worry,' the Doctor told her. 'I'm here now.'

Martin bristled. He resented the implication that this Doctor was

their saviour - as though they were unable to handle things alone.

'And who exactly are you? You don't look like the police.'

'Thank you,' said the Doctor.

'Perhaps they're plain-clothes,' suggested Sheila. Martin gestured

towards the Doctor's long scarf. Sheila took the hint. 'Maybe not.'

'We're not subject to any Earth authority,' said Romana. 'In fact,

in this matter, we're acting entirely independently.'

'What are you on about?' scoffed Martin. "Earth authority"?

What other kind is there?'

'None that can tie me down,' bragged the Doctor.

'There's the White Guardian,' said Romana. She smiled politely

at the others. 'We were meant to be locating the fifth segment to the

Key to Time -' she said this gobbledegook phrase as naturally as if

she'd been pointing out that they were due to stop off at her

mother's but the Doctor doesn't like to have a job -'

'It's not a job! It's a task, an errand...'

'It's a job. A very important one. The Doctor has problems with

authority - it's deep-seated insecurity, manifesting as arrogance -

so he's doing all in his power to avoid it.'

'Anyway,' said the Doctor. 'We'd said ta-ra to Tara - ha ha! -

and were plotting the next coordinates when I happened to go into

hover mode above the Earth... '

'In the early twenty-first century,' Romana pointed out, 'at a time

when, as any historian knows, Earth was subject to an exceptional

amount of alien invasions. Nestenes, Cybermen, Daleks...'

'Don't list them, Romana!' The Doctor thrust his fingers into his

ears. 'I mightn't have saved the Earth from all of them yet! You'll

cause untold damage to the web of time if you give me what

amounts to a set of tip-offs.'

'Hmmm. It's a good job you avoided Earth history at the

Academy - and failed the few modules you did sit - given how

often you come back and save this soggy planet!'

'Pfuh! "Failed"! A fail in theory is neither here nor there - what

use are theories to anyone? I never fail my practicals and that's

what counts! I'm not going to fail these good people now.'

Martin stared at them incredulously. 'You are both completely

barking!'

'No,' said the Doctor, 'just easing you in gently. Romana and I

are, as you'd understand it, aliens. But entirely benevolent. Well,

entirely might be bending the truth. For the most part benevolent. I

am prone to moods - it's my genius temperament. As I say, I was

hovering above the Earth when I noticed there was a non-terrestrial

power source at work in the British Isles - well, more specifically,

this office.'

'You were spying on this office?' Sheila was horrified. 'Not the

toilets?'

'No. Well. Your soap dispenser's almost empty - that showed up

on the scan. Must remember to switch that setting off. And take my

own soap with me if duty calls. But I thought I'd better land and

take a look.'

Martin had heard enough. 'Are you really trying to suggest that

you're some kind of alien, who -'

'Hear him out, Martin!' snapped Indira.

Martin was stunned into silence. She couldn't be taking this

imbecile seriously?

'Thank you,' said the Doctor. 'Where was I? Oh, yes! The

abusive messages you've received, the written attacks, the barbs

and hate and spite - it's all of alien origin. The sooner you accept

that the sooner you can stop putting unnecessary obstacles like

disbelief in my way and the sooner I can go about saving your

planet.'

'We shouldn't have left K-9 in the TARDIS,' said Romana,

before explaining to the others, 'He's our robot dog. He would have

been able to confirm what the Doctor says.'

Martin shook his head. 'Your dog is a robot?'

'Funny,' said the Doctor, 'I would have expected you to be more

impressed by the fact that he can talk. Ah, well. Yes, my dog is a

robot.'

'Madness!'

'Then how do we know about other planets,' asked Romana, 'like

Tara?'

'Tara! Doesn't even sound like a planet - it's the house in Gone

With The Wind.' Martin caught Indira looking at him askance. 'My

mum made us watch it every Bank Holiday. And anyone could

invent vaguely plausible names for a planet.'

'Go on, then,' challenged the Doctor.

'Um... Zaxos, Hexonane, Quibblibob Five...'

'Not bad guesses. Although there are only four planets in the

Quibblibob Sisterhood.'

'So what planet are you two from?' asked Sheila.

'Gallifrey,' the Doctor and Romana answered together.

'Huh,' said Martin, 'that is so unlike a planet's name that I'm

almost tempted to believe you!'

'I do believe you, Doctor,' said Sheila. 'On all counts. I believe

you're alien, I believe your lady friend is too. I believe your dog is a

talking robot. Most of all, I believe whatever's got it in for us is not

of this world.'

'Yeah, but, Sheils,' said Martin, 'you were the one who thought

216

we had a ghost.'

'And that's not such foolish reasoning,' said the Doctor. 'She at

least acknowledged that what's happening here can't be explained

by current human understanding. That's all your myths and folklore

are - ghosts, angels, fairies - an imaginative attempt to plug a gap.

But some people are too arrogant to admit to any gap in their

knowledge. And they're the ones who remain blind to the gravest

threats because they just refuse to see them.'

That shut Martin up.

'It knows too much,' said Sheila. 'Like it can see inside our

heads.'

'Well,' said the Doctor, 'it can observe almost everything that

comes out of your heads in the form of communication and then it's

just a question of piecing it all together to create an impression of

what's inside. What about you others - are you convinced yet?'

Indira nodded. 'I've tried and tried to make sense of what's

happening here and no ordinary explanation's sufficed. And... I

don't know. I just feel I can trust you.'

'You can.'

Indira smiled, relieved. 'So what do we do next?'

'Next?' asked the Doctor. 'Oh, next I save the world and you all

watch.'

'That,' says Martin, who was liking the Doctor less with every

word that came out of his mouth, 'remains to be seen. This is our

planet. Tell us what the threat is, and we'll protect it. I'll protect it.'

'That's the spirit!' said the Doctor, missing Martin's challenging

tone. 'I think I'm beginning to suspect the motive behind all this.'

'Only now?' asked Romana. 'I would have thought it was

obvious.' She turned to address the humans. 'Has interpersonal

tension increased in this office over the last few weeks?'

'Has it!' scoffed Sheila. 'We've been at each other's throats.

Much more than usual.'

'Ever since the text messages and emails started?'

Sheila nodded. 'They made us suspect one another.'

'I'm not going to suggest we're the best of friends here,' said

Indira. 'We're colleagues. But there's always been a basic level of

trust between us.' She eyed Sheila and Martin disapprovingly. 'That

seems to have evaporated over the past month or so.'

The Doctor nodded grimly. 'You're being used as a testing

ground. Something intends to invade this planet and is monitoring

how you respond to its methods.'

'I told you so,' said Indira.

'No, you didn't!' said Martin. 'When - and please back me up on

this, Sheila - did you claim that the messages were coming from

Mars?'

'I said that they weren't from me!'

'And they wouldn't be from Mars,' said the Doctor. 'Martians

couldn't text with those cumbersome claws.'

'But why us?' asked Sheila.

'Random sampling. As with so many of life's miseries, there's no

particular reason why it's happening to you. So don't let it affect

you further by taking it personally.'

'Doctor,' said Martin, 'if you're to be believed, some alien

nasties have singled this office out from the entire planet to use us

for their experiments. It's a bit hard not to take that personally!'

'Then you'll just have to try harder. We need all our wits about

us.'

'Okay. But how are they managing to access all our phones and

email accounts?'

'Ah, well, that's an easy trick. Any fool could do it.' The Doctor

ferreted in his pockets. 'I'm a genius, of course, so I'm hardly

proving my point when I take this little gizmo -' he'd extracted

what looked like a particularly small mobile from his pocket '- and

rap out a sequence like so!'

A shrill whine sounded as the Doctor tapped the device's buttons.

The others put their hands to their ears. The Doctor soon stopped

tapping and the whine came to an end. The silence that followed

was quickly broken by a ping! from Martin's computer. He had a

new email.

'Shall I check it?'

'Of course!'

Ping! and ping! Sheila and Indira had received messages. They

rushed to their own computers to check them. Their mobiles buzzed

along with Martin's as texts were also received. The messages all

read:

'Happy times and places! Lots of love, the Doctor xxxxxxxxxxx'

'Hmf.' said Martin. 'That figures. My mum's always said you

should never trust anyone who signs more than one kiss - they're

after something.'

'Then your mother is a terrible old cynic who's probably denied

herself lots of fun.'

Romana was at Sheila's side, reading the Doctor's email over her

shoulder.

'Oh, marvellous work, Doctor. I'm sure everyone is suitably

impressed. I'm also sure that "everyone" includes whoever has

invaded the system. You've just let them know that you're here.'

'Ah. By signing my name, you mean? Well, it could be a

message from the local GP - that's an Earth term for a medic, by

the way, Romana.'

'Is it usual, or even ethical, for doctors to sign messages to their

patients with love and a row of kisses?'

'If it isn't, it should be! You're worse than Martin's mum,

Romana -such a stickler for petty propriety.'

'You're avoiding the real issue, Doctor. These creatures can

assess the situation here in a moment. You've just used offworld

technology to access the communications system. They will know

you're on to them. I wouldn't be at all surprised if they moved

straight to the next stage of their plan.'

'Yes,' said the Doctor glumly. 'Well, I did say any fool could do

it.'

There was yet another ping! from Martin's computer. He checked

his inbox. 'Doctor,' he said, 'you've got a message.'

'I have? It's addressed to me?'

'Yep. From someone called "Yankom Gunslash".'

'They obviously no longer feel the need for anonymity,' said

Romana, as the Doctor took Martin's place at his computer.

'Yankom - that's a Glarn title, isn't it?'

The Doctor nodded distractedly. He was reading the message. His

face was ashen. Martin watched as all the Doctor's previous

confidence drained from him. So much for all his extravagant

claims of having come to save them. Martin had endured weeks of

taunting from these creatures. The Doctor had crumbled after just

one message.

Indira joined Romana. 'What's a Glarn?'

'Oh, they're only this galaxy's most skilled tacticians and the

rulers of a vast interplanetary empire. They are huge intelligent

molluscs - over six metres in length - and they have never

developed weaponry. Their might lies in their powers of

manipulation and propaganda.'

'Huh!' said Sheila. 'Sounds like my sister, Doreen. Not the

propaganda bit - I doubt she'd even know how to spell that.'

'They're also immensely adaptable,' continued Romana. 'They

provoke other species into wiping themselves out and then move

onto their devastated planets, wholly unconcerned by any radiation

or fallout.'

'That's Doreen's approach to other people's marriages. Not that

divorce turns people radioactive... '

'Hang on,' said Indira, still processing what Romana had said.

'Snails are molluscs, aren't they? The walls of our basement were

covered in slime trails but no snails were ever found...'

'They must have sent a scout to reconnoitre the premises,'

reasoned Romana.

Sheila threw up into her waste-paper basket.

'But how do the Glarn provoke a species to destroy itself?' asked

Martin. He was still half watching the Doctor, who now closed the

message he'd been reading, shook himself back to some semblance

of his former self-possession, and answered:

'You've seen for yourself all the trouble the Glarn can cause - the

doubt and mistrust and fear. You all reacted on a limited scale.

Bickering increased, nervous tension levels rose... I'm guessing that

you all to some extent withdrew from normal social behaviour. Am

I right? Stopped emailing friends or forwarding jokey texts? You

put aside any attempt at casual banter and restricted all

communication to what is necessary for work - yes?'

Martin nodded.

'The Glom will be aware of that. They're monitoring all

messages in and out of here. They know how you're reacting to

their taunts. But imagine what will happen when their operation

goes global and nation turns against nation. And they will, once the

Glarn get to work. They know exactly what to do now, following

this trial run. Deliberate disinformation. Rumours of arsenals being

amassed that don't really exist. Lies about the nature of various

cultures' beliefs. Easy stuff for the Glarn - and sure to set sabres

rattling among your quick to anger species.'

'So,' said Martin, 'the Glarn are basically intergalactic [edited]?'

'I'm sorry,' said the Doctor, 'that last bit wasn't translated.

Perhaps it's currently thought to be vulgar - the TARDIS can be an

awful old prude in certain time zones.'

'Troublemakers. They're intergalactic troublemakers?'

'Ah! I can guess the word she missed out. And it's exactly right!

That's just what the Glarn are! And terribly good at it too.'

'If the Glarn see the Earth as a prime location,' said Romana,

'then, I assure you, they could take it with ease. Your only hope is

the Doctor.'

'Then we're done for,' said Martin. 'I saw your face, Doctor,

when you read that message from Gunslash. It got to you, didn't it?

What did it say?' He moved towards his computer but the Doctor

grabbed his arm.

'No! Please don't. It was in the same vein as the messages to all

of you. Working away at hidden fears. I've allowed you your

privacy. Please allow me mine.'

He stood and left the desk. But his previous proud posture had

gone. His shoulders were rounded in defeat. The women looked to

him in hope. Martin looked on with pity. The curly haired fool was

no use to any of them. Martin would have to step in.

'It's a good job we don't need you, Doctor,' he said. 'Look at

220

you! You haven't got the backbone to handle the goading. But I

know exactly how to deal with these Glarn.'

'You do?' asked Romana, obviously impressed.

'Yes - salt. That's how I'd wipe out snails and slugs in my

garden, it's how we'll obliterate the Glarn. We'll get onto the

government, tell them to contact Russia, or whoever owns all the

big salt mines, and get them to coat the whole planet with salt. As

soon as the Glarn land they fizz up into mush! Problem solved.

Well, apart from all the mess. Am I a genius or am I a genius?'

'The third option,' said the Doctor. 'You're clutching at straws.'

'Oh, you think so, do you?' challenged Martin.

'I know so. The Glarn won't invade in person when they can do it

all remotely. That's the beauty of the wireless office - you can do

your job from the comfort of your own home.'

'Then why did they send a scout to check the place out?'

'Probably just fancied the trip. You could learn all you want to

about Fuengirola by flicking through a brochure, doesn't mean you

wouldn't still want to go there on holiday.'

'I wouldn't,' muttered Sheila. 'It's where I had my honeymoon.

Once bitten... '

'And you're wrong about the Doctor,' Romana told Martin. 'You

do need him. As much as it pains me to admit it, the whole universe

does. Although I like to think that I'm quickly learning to be a more

than adequate replacement when he retires. Which can't be far off.

He isn't getting any younger...'

'Huh,' said Sheila, 'who is?'

'Well, the Baltramaje of Kute are, as it happens,' said the Doctor.

'And ignore Romana - unless she's paying me compliments. She

just resents that, being young, she's still shamefully inexperienced.

I'm in my prime and I'm not going to let you good people down. Or

Martin here.'

Perhaps it was a joke to lighten the mood - Sheila and Indira

certainly laughed - but Martin didn't appreciate it. He was

determined to find out what had scared this Doctor so.

'The Glarn don't need to invade,' said the Doctor, 'because all

they have to do is stoke up fear and you'll wipe yourselves out for

them. That's all aggression is, deep down. It's fear. Fear that

someone, or something, is better and more powerful than you.'

'It's true,' said Romana. 'The Doctor can be appallingly sarcastic

if ever I correct him or offer information of my own.'

'Romana, has no one ever told you that simply agreeing with a

perceptive remark doesn't make you appear perceptive?'

'As he has just ably demonstrated.'

'Pah! Every creature in the universe is aggressively guarding its

221

DNA, ensuring that it survives through the ages. Running in fear

from anything with longer claws or sharper teeth. Or better

strategies.'

While the Doctor was distracted, showing off his greater

knowledge, Martin took the opportunity to sidle back to his desk.

'The Glarn tap into insecurities,' said the Doctor, 'and nibble

away at them, provoking aggression. Of course, humans don't just

protect their own species. They jealously protect their country, their

city, their family - themselves. The Glarn know that. They're

exploiting that.'

Martin searched through his trash folder. The message from

Gunslash to the Doctor was there. He clicked to open it. He wasn't

prepared for what he read:

'You were responsible for their deaths.'

There was nothing more. The Doctor had known exactly what it

meant. Martin had seen how he'd reacted to it. That awful haunted

expression. People were dead because of the Doctor. Martin knew

they'd been too quick to trust the man. Checking that he was

unobserved - the Doctor was expounding further on the Glarn's

methods, if only to make the same points in different ways - Martin

typed a response.

'Whose deaths? The Doctor.' The previous row of kisses seemed

inappropriate in context.

The reply was almost instantaneous. Martin had had the good

sense to turn off the sound alert so no one noticed as it arrived in his

inbox. He opened the message. It was a list. Name after name after

name, scrolling on and on, seemingly into infinity. A list of the

dead. All of them dead because they met the Doctor. A few names

leapt out at him, some of them strange and alien:

'Temmosus... Katarina... Bret Vyon... Sara Kingdom... Edward

Waterfield... Toberman... Viner... Gemma Corwyn... Shura...

Aggedor... Professor Clegg... Rogin... Ronson... Laurence

Scarman... Skinsale... ' The names continued to pour down the

screen as, propelled by rage, Martin left his seat and seized the

Doctor's shoulders.

'I knew we should never have trusted you!' He span the Doctor to

face the others. 'This man's a killer!'

The Doctor's voice was hushed: 'You shouldn't have read that

message. It was part ofthe Glarn's tactics. They want you all to lose

faith in me.'

'Who are they, Doctor?' Martin demanded. 'All those names -

all those people? How did you kill them?'

'I didn't. I just wasn't able to save them.'

'Will you be able to save us?' asked Sheila.

'Of course he won't,' said Martin. 'We'll have to save ourselves

- and we will. We don't need aliens coming down here and saving

our planets for us. First we contact the army...'

'Like we tried to contact the police?' asked Indira. 'The Doctor's

told you, the Glarn have tapped into the phonelines. They can stop

any communication out of here. Stop all this alpha-male rubbish,

Martin, and hear the Doctor out!'

'That coward? What use is he? He's too scared to take decisive

action.'

'Oh, Martin!' boomed the Doctor. 'You are wonderful!'

'Yeah, all right, pal - don't get sarky.'

'Sarky? I've never been more sincere in my life. We will all

admit to being scared of some things - Macra, Daleks... '

'The terrible Taran Wood Beast!'

'Really, Romano, you need to see more of the universe. There are

far scarier things than that out there!'

'You didn't actually see it, Doctor.' She shuddered.

'Well, no - that's true. But it's our secret fears that can prove our

undoing. The terrors we won't acknowledge, not even to ourselves.

They lurk at the back of our minds, dismantling our confidence and

strength. But if we drag those things out from the darkness and face

them for what they are then we can learn to arm ourselves against

them. So thank you, Martin. You've made me admit to my real fear

- that the help I claim to offer isn't guaranteed. That lives might be

lost in the fight against more visible enemies. You all know now

that tackling the Glarn will be risky -and that takes the pressure off

my shoulders. I don't have to reassure you otherwise.'

'And that's a good thing?' sputtered Martin.

'Anything that helps the Doctor work at full power is a good

thing,' said Romana.

Sheila suddenly blurted out: 'I'm scared that if Stuart knows I

love him then he'll take me for granted and stop loving me! There -

that's my greatest fear.'

'I don't see,' said Martin, 'how we're going to save the world on

the basis of knowing that!'

'Well, those creepy Glarn can't get at me now - can't send me

any more of their nasty messages. Everything they've sent's been

about me and Stu. "If you tell him you love him, he'll run a mile."

"Say you're lost without him and you'll scare him o f f ' I've done

what the Doctor said we should do - I've put my biggest fear out

there - so there's nothing else they can exploit. I love that man.

This is Stuart, I'm talking about - not you, Doctor. Sorry. I've

always been too terrified to show it in case he beggared off on me. I

know we've ended up divorced as a result, like - but I think that's

what's been keeping him keen.'

Indira put her arm around Sheila. 'No, Sheils - you've kept him

keen. Just you.'

Martin, regretting having snapped, put his arm around her other

shoulder. 'You'll be okay, Sheils.'

'A-ha!' said the Doctor. 'The Glarn have underestimated you.

They've been too cynical - like your mother, Martin, with her

mistrust of kisses. They've focused on humans' willingness to fight

but they forgot one thing: how well you bond in adversity! Fear can

cause aggression but it also stirs up sympathy! When another's fears

are the same as our own - not being up to the job in hand, or

worrying that we'll never be truly loved - we don't hit them. We

hug them!' He looked at Romana, standing apart from the group.

'Or those of us who've spent enough time around you lovely

humans do!' He threw his arms around the cuddling trio. 'We're

going to beat the Glarn and no one is going to die in the process!'

'Martin,' said Romana, turning to face him, 'what's your biggest

fear?'

'Tell me yours first.'

'I already have done - the terrible Taran Wood Beast'

'And we all know Martin's biggest fear,' said Indira. 'It's

obvious. He's terrified he's not the hotshot he likes to think he is.

Scared his big ideas about himself are just to comfort him from the

truth. Isn't that so, Mart? You should drop the facade. We all know

you're a softy underneath. Some of us even quite like your soft

side.'

'Are you a softy, Martin?' asked the Doctor. 'I'll let you into a

secret - so am I!'

Martin laughed at the redundancy of the 'confession'; on the

evidence so far, the Doctor was the most sentimental person that

Martin had ever met - and he greatly admired him for it

'Okay, I admit it. I love this planet and I love the people on it.

And, if there's anything I can do to stop it, I'm not going to let

some intergalactic slug wipe us all out.'

'The slug angle is rather a red herring,' said the Doctor, 'if you'll

pardon the mixed metaphor. The Glarn are more like squid.'

Martin didn't care. He was hatching a plan. 'The Glarn think this

planet is ripe for invasion on the basis of how this office has

responded to their attack - yes? They've seen that we've become

edgy and withdrawn and quick to respond in anger - yes? They've

seen that we've cut ourselves off from our friends - yes?'

The Doctor grinned and nodded furiously. 'Yes?'

'So we respond differently. We reach out to everyone we know.

We shrug off the insults, act like we're not bothered and... and...'

'You have fun!' said the Doctor, punching the air.

'I'd have got there eventually,' grumbled Martin.

'Of course you would,' said the Doctor. 'So here's what we're

going to do... '

The counter-attack had to come in the form of texts and emails,

since they were what the Glarn were observing. The Doctor told the

humans to find anything they had that would send out the message

that they were happy and full of fun, and unconcerned by the

Glarn's attempts to rile them, and forward it to everyone they knew.

Sheila was already going through her folders.

'Doctor, a lot of the stuff I've got here is quite blue. Mainly from

our Doreen - she's always been on the brassy side. Doesn't seem

right, somehow, saving the world with smut.'

'Anything that might bring a smile to someone's face, Sheila -

anything at all - you should pass on!'

'You do realise,' said Romana, as Sheila merrily clicked away,

'that humour is very often an act of aggression in itself?'

'Oh, yes,' beamed the Doctor, 'and highly effective in crushing

pomposity, opposing sanctimony, and blowing a powerful raspberry

at anyone who takes themselves too seriously. The Glarn won't

cope.'

'I can't believe we're doing this,' said Martin, forwarding a

collection of amusingly captioned risque snaps to everyone in his

address book. 'We're saving the world with spam!'

'Martin!' blushed Indira. 'That last one was pure filth - and

you've sent it to all of your customers!'

'So? I'd rather lose business than lose the planet.'

'I suppose so,' said Indira. 'I'll send it on to mine.'

'That's the spirit!' boomed the Doctor. He had doodled a variety

of cartoons and now rushed to the scanner. 'When you've sent

everything you've got you can load this lot up! How are you getting

on, Romana?'

She looked up from the notepad that she'd been drafting a joke

upon. 'Quite well, I think. I'm rather pleased with this one: "What

did the Algronostron say to the maintenance drone?"'

'I don't know,' said the Doctor, 'what did the Algronostron say to

the maintenance drone?'

'"Your gravitic panels are too wide"!'

Nobody laughed, and Romana's self-satisfied smile soon faded.

'I think perhaps the references are too obscure,' said the Doctor,

treading gently around her obvious disappointment. 'Humans won't

get it. This particular Time Lord didn't get it - and I've been around

a bit.'

'Well, you see, the Algronostron has mistaken the Drone's

detection discs for... '

'No, Romana. If a joke has to be explained then it wasn't worth

telling in the first place.'

The computers began to ping with new emails.

'The Glarn?' asked the Doctor.

'No,' answered Martin. 'These are all from mates.' He skimmed

the most recent. 'A few "LOL"s and smilies... Wavo wants to know

why I've been ignoring him... Macca's having a party on

Saturday... '

'This one's from Stuart,' said Sheila, 'saying he's touched that

we've got to this stage - where we can share jokes, no acrimony...'

Indira was choked. 'My dad has got back to me. After all these

years... '

'This one's from Jim,' said Martin, 'my big bro. He's a doctor,

you know. Says I just lightened a particularly tough day at his

surgery. I really should tell him how proud of him I am... He was

always the one with the brains.'

'Oh, I don't know,' said the Doctor. 'Has he ever helped to save a

whole planet?'

He was fiddling with the small device he had used earlier and

grinning broadly at the results it gave him. Romana read the tiny

screen over his shoulder.

'All Glarn activity in the area has ceased,' she said, but not with

the expected note of triumph. 'And I never got to try out my joke on

them.'

'Probably just as well,' said the Doctor. 'They might have died

laughing. As it is, this has been a bloodless war - and that's always

my favourite sort!'

The Doctor and Romana agreed to stay on for half an hour or so.

Sheila made them all an Options. Over his drink, the Doctor regaled

them all with tales of other planets he had saved. Martin had to hand

it to him, the man was a marvel.

'I don't suppose you could stay even longer, Doctor - help us out

with a few problem properties? If anyone could shift Dove Cottage,

you can.'

'Why would I want to sell an old wreck like that to some poor

unsuspecting punter? Although... what would be my commission?'

'You already have a job, Doctor,' said Romana, draining her

drink and rising. 'The Key to Time, remember?'

'Oh, don't call it a job, Romana. I don't have a job. I just do

favours for people.' He stood too. 'Thank you for the delicious

drink, Sheila. I might pop back and have another some day soon.'

'You'd be welcome any time!'

The Doctor waved to the humans and then strode out of their

lives. Romana smiled fondly after him. She really was quite

beautiful when she dropped the ice maiden act, thought Martin. And

he knew now that pining after Laura was pointless. He caught

Romana at the door as she was about to leave.

'Erm, Romana, before you go, I was wondering... could I maybe

take your number?'

'My number? Which number? My atomic mass?'

'Your phone number. I thought, perhaps, I could call you some

time... '

'Oh, I don't think so. You'd never reach me. We're likely to be

very far from here in future. And also in the future in future. I hope

you're not offended - I'm simply being practical.'

'And,' said Indira, who, annoyingly, had earwigged in, 'I think

you've had enough trouble from extraterrestrial phonecalls for a

while, Mart - don't you?'

Romana offered her hand for Martin to shake. 'Goodbye.'

And then, without so much as a peck on the cheek, she was gone.

Sheila was on the phone as he passed her desk. He heard her say:

'Stuart, love, come back home... This time it's for good, I promise.'

He joined Indira in the kitchen, where she was rinsing all the used

mugs.

'Oh, heck, Martin.' She sighed. 'What are we going to do about

all our clients? We've sent them heaps of trivia and filth.'

'Who cares about them, Indi? Do you? Let them fret about

putting down roots, getting a mortgage, worrying how secure they'll

be fifty years from now. I can't be bothered with all that any more.

The Doctor's right. It's not what life's about. "Carpe diem," my

brother, Jim, used to say. It's Latin - he was always the brainbox of

the family.'

'I know what languague it is, Mart. I imagine most people do -

and what it means: "Seize the day."'

'I always knew how it translated. But I don't think I ever

understood what it meant. I do now - thanks to the Doctor. Let's

carpe a bit of diem, shall we?'

'How d'you mean?'

'I know today's changed everything - I can feel it. My life won't

ever be the same again. But it's a bit too early to decide what comes

next. For now, let's just shut up shop and go to the pub!'

Short Trips: The Ghosts of Christmas

Editing The Ghosts of Christmas has proved to be one of the most pleasurable

experiences of our creative partnership. We'd been pestering Big Finish for

years for the chance to put together a Short Trips collection, and we'd all but

given up hope. Then, out of the blue, Ian Farrington approached us to ask if

we'd be interested in compiling the Christmas collection for 2007.

As confirmed Christmas junkies, Cav especially - he puts the decorations

up on 1st December and reads A Christmas Carol every year - how could we say

no? And it was this love of the Dickens classic that neatly suggested the loose

theme for the collection, stories set in Christmases Past, Present and Yet To

Come...

There's something quite heartbreaking about Dear Great Uncle Peter - a small

boy, excited by Christmas so much that his tummy gets "fluttery and jumpy",

and then the most horrible, monstrous thing happens that could ever happen

to a five-year-old. Christmas Day comes and goes and he can't remember it,

his memories of that 24 hours ripped from his mind. Terrifying.

It was this central premise that sold us utterly on Dear Great Uncle Peter.

Neil captured so much of that build-up to Christmas Day itself from a little

boy's point of view, when you think it will never come, that you might burst

with expectation, even those final moments of tension sitting on the landing

waiting to go downstairs and open the presents.

Not only that, Dear Great Uncle Peter has a beautifully rendered Fourth Doctor,

commanding and indignant, magical and lovable, utterly mesmerising to the

children around him - much as the character of the Doctor remains today in

the hearts of the nation...

"He was a bit magic, I think. He was a bit strange, too, like the world got

tingly around him. It felt like he could be your best friend and you knew you

would be best friends forever, even though he didn't even stay for dinner."

provides as good a thumbnail sketch for the Doctor that either of us can bring

to mind.

And then there's that last line, a line that at once makes you feel fluttery and

jumpy, warm and fuzzy, and maybe even a little sad. Sentimental it might be,

but if you can't have sentiment at Christmas, when can you?

Cavan Scott and Mark Wright

Dear Great Uncle Peter

Neil Corry

An Adventure ofthe Fourth Doctor, with Leela

Dear Great Uncle Peter,

Mum says that it's good to write thank-you letters to people who have

given you Christmas presents so this is NOT a thank-you letter because

people who STEAL things are mean and those who steal Christmas are

the meanest. And you're NOT my Great Uncle Peter at all and I don't

even HAVE a Great Uncle Peter and you're really aliens from another

planet. So there are lots of reasons this is NOT a thank-you letter.

Anyway, I don't have your address and Mum says the Post Office won't

deliver to other planets and then tells me not to talk about it any more.

And your spaceship was RUBBISH.

So this is really a STORY so I don't forget what happened with the

Doctor and the nice Leela who Dad liked A LOT but Mum did not.

It's hard to think where to start but Dad says I should DIVE IN and we

can work around it. He's typing this on his computer with two fingers

and a thumb and has promised to put EVERYTHING in, and in BIG

letters where I want them.

I will start with the day BEFORE Christmas. It didn't snow on our

street but there was snow on TV. Huge piles of snow, and cars and

lorries were stuck. It looked GREAT. You could make loads of snowmen

and even a snow fortress like Superman's if you wanted. I was a bit sad

that I wasn't one of the people stuck in the cars and lorries. Lucy, who is

my sister and is three years older than me and likes skipping and make-

up but does not like me, was being nice FOR ONCE and we were

making Mum a big Christmas card. I was being careful with the

Christmas tree and was being careful with Mum. I think she was FED

UP and was being busy in the kitchen. So that day I didn't ask if it was

Christmas yet. I think I asked it a lot because Christmas was taking ages

to come. And then I missed it because of YOU. But I did get it back,

even if I got some memories of Roger Livesy's who lives down the road

and has pet frogs and a skinhead. I remember eating a massive Christmas

dinner with SPROUTS in it which are bluerk and I wish the aliens had

taken them instead. Taking away all the sprouts in the world would have

been a good Christmas present.

Then Mum made fried egg and microwave chips and let me have as

much ketchup as I wanted. Lucy said Mum was being FRAZZLED and I

shouldn't bother her. Lucy just likes bossing me because she is eight and

a half. She can BOG OFF and her friends Samantha and Astrid can BOG

OFF as well. They didn't have their Christmases stolen.

Then it was bedtime. I had a funny feeling in my tummy. It was all

fluttery and jumpy. It took ages and ages to go to sleep. I wanted to wait

for Father Christmas but Mum said only bad boys did that and they

wouldn't get any presents. I don't know if I'm bad or good because when

I broke Lucy's china pony it made her cry and making people cry is a

bad thing but I didn't mean it. YOU made me cry because when I woke

up it was Christmas Day BUT IT WASN'T.

I sat on the top stair of the landing and waited and waited for Mum and

Lucy to wake up. I can tell the time and it was NEARLY time to open

the presents but I would be in BIG TROUBLE with Mum WI went

downstairs too early. I knew what time would be the right time because

Dad was coming to our house but would not bring Penny who Mum calls

Bad Penny which has made Dad laugh. Dad was going to open presents

too. I made him a rock with a motorbike sticker on it. He likes bikes and

reads lots of magazines about them and had a big pile of them in Mum's

bedroom until she kicked them and Dad moved out but they are friends

now and things are okay. I think. I wish Dad had a motorbike, though.

Mum says I would go on a motorbike over her dead body, which makes

me a bit sad inside but I do not say anything.

ANYWAY. It is NOT Christmas Day but I think it IS. I am waiting for

everyone to wake up and then everyone does, but Lucy just pushes past

me and goes downstairs and I think she'll be in BIG TROUBLE and I

tell her but she just looks at me and calls me demented. She calls

everything demented. And then I hear her go into the kitchen and make

breakfast. This isn't right and then it's worse. Mum walks past me AS

WELL and I can't believe it. Then she asks me what I'm doing sitting on

the stairs and calls me Cheeky-Chops which is not my name because that

is Alex.

I follow Mum downstairs and in the kitchen there's a HUGE pile of

washing up which I know was not there when I went to bed because

Mum had been cleaning all day. I remember no one seemed interested

that it was Christmas Day and then I went into the front room and

EVERYWHERE there were toys and things and a Wii, which I know I

had been specially wishing for and had said to Dad whenever I saw him

that I hoped Father Christmas would bring me one, so that would be at

least every Tuesday evening and Wednesday morning since a long time.

And then I cried. I don't like crying. Not like Becca Kazinsky in class,

who cries EVERY day for something or other, like her tangerine in her

lunch is squashed or her buttons won't do up. I saw that my and Lucy's

card to Mum had been opened and was on the mantelpiece. At first Mum

was worried I was crying and then I asked her who had opened all the

presents and did Lucy give her the nice Christmas card early and where

was Dad? Mum said we had opened them together and that that was all

yesterday, and she called me Baby which I do not like either. And then I

didn't understand ANYTHING and it was horrible and I will never

EVER forget the feeling. It was the worst, much worse than when I

slipped on the wall and banged my knees that had cool bruises for days.

The fluttery and jumpy feeling came back but was much bigger and hurt

a lot and I cried even more which made Mum cross, so I stopped crying

and sat on the sofa and was quiet and was sad. Then Lucy was nice and

brought me rice krispies with chocolate milk and asked me 'What's

wrong?' and I said, 'When did Christmas happen?' and she looked at me

funny and said, 'Yesterday.' I said that wasn't right because yesterday

was the day BEFORE Christmas and then she called me demented and

then the doorbell went.

Mum answered the door and it was the Doctor and Leela, although I

didn't know their names then. It was also lots of mums and some dads

from down our street, which is very long and has all the houses joined up

at the sides, and there were as well lots of people the same age as me,

like David Winslow, Roger Livesy, Sarah Jenkins who are in my class,

and other kids who are not in my class but still live on our street but go to

a different school, like Peter Morani, Lyn Tyler and Paul and Paula

Thomas who are twins and whose dad is a policeman and is massive. I

go up to about his knees! And he has a big voice but it is not as good as

the Doctor's who said, 'Good morning, Mrs Parlour,' which is what

people say when they are being polite. I call my teacher Mrs

Woodsworth in class but in the playground we call her Mrs Woodworm.

I will try my best to remember what the Doctor said after he said

'Good morning' but Dad says he can help. The Doctor was wearing this

big coat and a hat and the biggest scarf I have ever seen, much bigger

than my Liverpool scarf which is red and white and Dad says he will take

me to a game ONE DAY when I am bigger. The Doctor's scarf was all

sorts of different colours and Leela was wearing jeans Mum said later

that 'she must have been greased into' and a big grey jumper that smelt

funny. She was always VERY serious but not in the way like teachers

are. She had very bright blue eyes and nice dark hair. My favourite thing

about the Doctor was his teeth. He had loads of them and he liked

showing them off, I think, because he smiled all the time, except when he

saw the aliens who made him cross. He was even crosser when they shot

him.

He said to Mum, 'I'm the Doctor and this is my friend, Leela,' and

pointed to Leela who was holding the hands of Sarah Jenkins and Lyn

Tyler, who was sucking her thumb AS ALWAYS, and Leela didn't look

pleased about having to hold their hands AT ALL. David, Roger, Paul

and Paula and Peter and other kids were crowded around the Doctor. He

was a bit magic, I think. He was a bit strange, too, like the world got

tingly around him. It felt like he could be your best friend and you knew

you would be best friends for ever, even though he didn't even stay for

dinner. He and Leela had more aliens to SORT OUT, I think.

What he said then was VERY important. He asked Mum, 'Does Alex

here... ' and he pointed to me where I was hiding behind Mum's legs

because I am a bit shy with new people, Mum says. 'Does he remember

Christmas Day at all?'

And I shook my head ten times and Mum asked what on earth was all

this about and it was far too early for this kind of nonsense but when she

saw the looks on the other parents' faces, which all looked serious and

worried, Mum stopped GOING ON.

'Of course he remembers Christmas,' said Lucy from behind me in her

whiney voice. She is a big know-all sometimes.

'I don't,' I said in a quiet voice because I wasn't sure if I was going to

be in BIG TROUBLE for not remembering Christmas. I know I wouldn't

want to forget - and Dad has told me the word - deliberately, which

means on purpose, which means you MEAN it. I had been waiting ages

for it.

Then it was Leela who spoke: 'Another child of this strange tribe has

had his memories stolen, Doctor.'

'Tribe?' asked Mum, who didn't seem pleased about the word AT

ALL. And then everyone started talking and Paul and Paula started to cry

and wanted to know just like me what had happened to Christmas and I

joined in and in no time it was DEAD noisy outside our house. It was

great when the Doctor raised his arms and shouted over everybody,

'Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls!'

And everyone stopped, although Paul and Paula were still snivelling,

which is my favourite word, and Paul had a big bogey on the end of his

nose. He does great bogeys.

'This really won't get us anywhere now, will it?' said the Doctor much

more quietly. 'Now, Mrs Parlour, these delightful children here,' and he

pointed at all of us and gave Paul a yellow spotty handkerchief which he

still has and hasn't washed, 'are missing their memories of Christmas

Day and, if you'll trust me and my friend here, we hope to try to get them

back. Do you trust us, Mrs Parlour?'

And all of us kids shouted, 'Yes! Yes! Yes!' because you could tell

that the Doctor was a kid too, even though he was really tall and had a

hat. And we were jumping about so much that I even forgot I couldn't

remember Christmas. The Doctor made us THAT excited.

The mums and dads told us to stop and when we were quite quiet

Leela showed me and Mum a mobile phone. 'Did your boy receive one

of these machines yesterday?'

'His name is Alex, and, yes, yes, he did,' said Mum in her snooty

voice, but I NEVER tell her I think that. But she CAN be very snooty

with new people. 'I thought it was ridiculous for this Great Uncle Peter,

obviously on Richard's side of the family -' that's Dad's side of the

family to give a child a phone for a present. And it doesn't even work!'

'Not in the way you imagined,' said the Doctor, 'but it definitely did

its job. Mrs Parlour, would you mind if I take a look at it?' And he did

his BIG smile. 'I'm rather a marvel with machines.'

And then he stepped in our house and Mum let Leela in too, who had

managed to get away from Sarah Jenkins and Lyn Tyler. I wasn't going

to let the Doctor out of my sight, which is what Mum says when she

thinks I'm going to be in BIG TROUBLE. We all went into the front

room with the tree and the presents and the Wii that I must have played

with because it was connected to the TV but I did not remember playing

with it. That felt strange.

'I'm sorry, Doctor, or whatever your name is,' Mum said, 'but what

has this got to do with my son?'

The Doctor stopped still and I ran into the back of his legs. When he

turned round he said, 'You did hear me about the children's memories of

Christmas being stolen not two minutes ago?'

'Yes, but -'

'Mrs Parlour, there are far too many buts in this universe. And Alex

here -' he reached down for me and picked me up as if I was light as a

feather, and his big pointy finger was touching the end of my nose '- has

been deprived of his Christmas and I can't think of anything more

miserable and mean to happen to a five-year-old boy.'

'Five and a half,' I said.

'Sorry, five and a half. Anyway, I intend to find out who did it, why

they did it and make sure they don't do it again.'

And he looked at Mum until she looked away. There was no arguing

with the Doctor who could do the best staring competitions, I bet.

'But who would or could do such a thing?' she asked after a minute.

'Off the top of my head?' he said, scratching his curly hair. I put his hat

on. It was too big and went over my eyes. 'About 117 different species

from 91 different planets in three different galaxies.'

Before Mum could say anything else, Lucy came in with a mobile

phone and asked in her sickly girly voice, 'Is this what you're looking

for?'

'Do not trust this child, Doctor,' said Leela. 'Her voice cannot disguise

that she has the eyes of a Horda.'

'Of a what?' shouted Mum.

'Leela, Leela,' said the Doctor, putting me down and taking back his

hat. 'You are not helping. Why I decided to show you Christmas, I'll

never know.'

'Because I found the socks that Madame Nostradamus knitted you for

this festival of Christmas.'

'Ah, yes. Those.'

He took the mobile phone from Lucy which wasn't really a mobile

phone but a brain sucker-outer I know NOW. Lucy was frowning at

Leela, who was frowning right back and was much better at it. Then the

Doctor went into his coat pocket and brought out something that looked

like lots of big, clear Lego bricks all stuck together and had lots of

coloured lights flashing inside them. Everyone was waiting for him to

say something. It seemed to take forever.

'Hmm,' he said at last.

'Hmm, what?' asked Mum and Leela at the same time.

This is when Dad came in. No one had said he could come round or

anything but Lucy and me were pleased to see him. I think Mum was too.

Who are you?' he asked the Doctor and Leela so I told Dad what had

happened.

'That's ridiculous!' Mum and Dad like using that word a lot.

'Yes, it is, isn't it?' said the Doctor and he was smiling. I don't think

he was listening very much as he was still watching the flashing-light

Lego thing.

'It's true, Dad,' I said and hugged his leg. 'I can't remember

Christmas.'

And then the Doctor said to Leela in a strange half-whispering type

voice, 'I can't quite get a fix on the diastellic receiver, although I know

it's around here somewhere.' You can tell Dad is helping write this.

'There must be one more of these wretched things in the area we haven't

found.' And then he MARCHED out of the front room and onto our

street. Leela followed first, then me, then Lucy, then Dad and then Mum.

Outside our house all the kids and mums and dads were waiting. Then

the Doctor asked if there were any other kids in the street about the same

age and no one could think of anyone until Peter Morani said about Carl

Wilton and that his family always goes away at Christmas to his aunt's in

Venezuela. I don't think the Venezuela bit is true because Peter is always

GOING ON about Venezuela BUT it is true that Carl's family had gone

away this Christmas which Lucy said is demented, but she thinks football

is demented so I don't know if going away at Christmas is bad or not.

ANYWAY. The Doctor broke into Carl's house! As soon as he found

out where Carl lived the Doctor ran away, shouting, 'Come on, Leela!'

But everyone else followed too. It was great! There were loads of us and

we all saw the Doctor point a big shiny pen which went 'Brzzzzzz' at

Carl's front door then the door opened and he went inside and then the

burglar alarm went off and it was SO LOUD. Everyone put their hands

on their ears and you couldn't hear anything but the siren and it was dead

early and lots of curtains of other houses on our street were being opened

and people could see us all outside Carl Wilton's house. And then I saw

the Doctor point his pen-thing at a box on the wall and the alarm stopped

LIKE THAT and it was the best quietness ever.

It was now that I saw I was still in my pyjamas and slippers and it was

still dark and I was cold so Dad put his black leather jacket on me. It was

dead heavy but really warm so that was okay. We saw lights go on in

Carl's house and then the Doctor and Leela came back out with a

Christmas present. It looked really bad when the Doctor unwrapped it in

front of everybody bemuse it was Carl's, I think, but it was a mobile-

phone-brain-sucker-outer, and if Carl had opened it he would have

forgotten about Christmas Day too.

The Doctor pointed his flashing light Lego thing at it and shouted, 'A-

ha!' which was when the police car turned up going 'BWOO-OUP!'

which is what police cars do if they don't want to do the full WEE-

OOUW! WOO! WOO!' siren but want to let people know that the police

are watching you RIGHT NOW just in case you're being a criminal.

The Doctor looked worried and said REALLY quickly, 'Everyone! I

think I know where I can find the people who stole your children's

memories but it would be a good idea if the lovely policemen in that car

didn't get involved. You all know something very strange has happened

and I'm sure you're all very bemused and probably very worried about it.

But I promise you, if those gentlemen get involved, your children will

never, ever remember Christmas Day. You do want me to put that right,

don't you, hmmm?'

And EVERYONE believed him. Afterwards Mum said he could have

been the one to blame for Christmas being stolen in the first place but

right then EVERYONE believed in the Doctor. He was magic, as magic

as Christmas.

Then he did another big smile, told Leela to 'get a move on' and they

went back inside Carl's house.

Everyone seemed to know just what to do when the policemen stepped

out of the car. The parents began shouting, some of us kids were crying,

and Paul AND Paula had big bogeys on the ends of their noses because

they were crying the most. It was almost as noisy as Carl's house alarm

going off.

Then Dad scooped me up became I was wearing his big jacket and

said, 'Do you want to see where the Doctor and the nice lady went?' And

I nodded my head ten times so, with everything that was going on, we

sneaked into Carl's house and no one saw us! Not even Mum who

always keeps a CLOSE EYE on me. The fluttery and jumpy feeling was

back but this time it felt GREAT, although afterwards Dad got into BIG

TROUBLE with Mum for sneaking off.

At the back of Carl's house is a big field and there is a proper road to it

but Dad and I walked through the house just like Leela and the Doctor. It

was weird. I'd never been in Carl's house before and don't really know

him. Dad had to climb a fence at the end of their garden at the back ofthe

house and lift me over it which was great because I like being tall like

Dad. We could see the Doctor and Leela running towards a small hill in

the middle of the field. I didn't remember a hill being there before, but

thought it might be like not remembering Christmas Day. This was

WRONG.

The Doctor and Leela were at the hill that was a bit taller than the

Doctor and about the same wide, so Dad says. We heard the Doctor say,

'All right, you can show yourselves now!' which is a very strange thing

to say to a hill. When the hill didn't answer him back, the Doctor fetched

his big pen and made the 'Brzzzzz' noise at the hill and then the hill

vanished and there was a SPACESHIP instead of a hill.

But it was a RUBBISH spaceship, not like the ones on telly that go

WHOOSH and are massive and have loads of people in them. It was all

rusty and just didn't look nice and was very, very small and wouldn't fit

even me.

'Ah,' said the Doctor when he saw Dad and me behind him. No one

said anything and Dad just had his mouth open and I thought his chin

was going to fall off but it didn't.

'Dad!' I said, because all of a sudden I couldn't see because his jacket

had gone over my face. Dad put me down and the jacket fell off me.

Being a bit cold didn't seem important any more. Then Dad put me

behind his legs but I said, 'That's not fair! You can see!' So I grabbed his

leg and wouldn't budge and then there was this big 'POP! FZZZZT!

WHSSSSH! WHSSSHTTP noise and suddenly everyone could see the

ALIENS. They were rubbish, too, and there were only two of them. If I

was an alien I'd be a big horrible monster, and definitely would not be a

grey squidgy big centipede thing with no clothes on but wearing only

pink see-through sunglasses they might think looked cool but were even

more rubbish than they were.

But they were aliens and I saw them!

They made this horrible noise when they spoke, like this: 'Squeeeee!

Squeeee! Squee! Squee! Squeeeeeeeeeee!' but really fist and the Doctor

and Leela could understand them.

'Yes, I'm sorry about your chameleon circuit,' said the Doctor after

one of them had squeed A LOT. 'I have terrible trouble with my own,

but I just wanted to wish you a happy new year.'

There was more squeeing. It really GOT ON MY NERVES.

'I was wondering when you would get round to asking what we were

doing. You see, neither my little friend here -' and he pointed to me nor

any of his young associates can remember yesterday at all, and it really

was rather a special day.'

There was more squeeing and I think one of them was laughing too.

'You think stealing children's memories is funny?' said the Doctor. He

was CROSS.

'We should gut these heartless worms where they stand, Doctor,' said

Leela who had suddenly found a knife in her boot.

'Put the knife away, Leela. Alex will get scared.'

I only got scared when one of the aliens pulled out an orange-and-blue

space gun that was as big as it was and then FZ-ZT! It shot the Doctor

and he fell down, and the spaceship went 'SSSILIT! SSSSH! TZZZZZ!

POP!' and the aliens disappeared and their spaceship started to rumble.

But the Doctor WASN'T dead! Hooray! After not even a minute he sat

up rubbing his head and said, 'Nerve dislocater beam? How rude!' And

then he looked right at me with his big eyes and said, 'It's time to show

them we mean business, Alex. Christmas is not to be meddled with.' And

I nodded my head ten times.

'Doctor,' said Leela, 'I think these cowardly creatures are trying to

leave in their metal box.'

The Doctor didn't answer. He stood up, did things to his big pen which

OBVIOUSLY was not a pen and pointed it at the spaceship.

'Cover your ears!' he ordered, and then there was this really screechy

noise, much worse than the squeeing aliens. Today was turning into a

VERY loud day.

It seemed like a long time before anything happened because it was

hard to keep your eyes open and listen at the same time because of the

horrible pen noise. Then it stopped and everyone started breathing again.

Then there was a tinkle, then a crash, then a plink, and then a thud. Then

the rubbish little spaceship fell in on itself! The Doctor smiled at me,

then frowned: 'Ala. I do hope I've not damaged the diastellic crystal.'

Then there was the 'POP! FZZZZT! WHSSSSH! WHSSSIIITT noise

but much quieter this time and the aliens squirmed their way out of the

mess of their spaceship.

'Squeeee! Squee! Squee?' said one of them who had lost his

sunglasses.

'No, I won't come in with you on your plans to sell these children's

memories. What kind of Time Lord do you think I am?'

'Squee?! Squee! Squee!' said the other one.

'No, not even with a fifty per cent cut.'

All this time the squeeing aliens were wriggling out of what was left of

their spaceship, which now just looked like a big pile of junk. Suddenly

they were free and with a loud 'Squee!' they ran off?

'Leela! After them!' shouted the Doctor but she was already chasing

the aliens across the park at the back of our street. 'You too, Mr Parlour.

You'll be helping to capture two intergalactic criminals wanted in seven

systems.'

Dad looked at the Doctor then back at me, then raced off after Leela.

The aliens were tiny but went dead fast over the field. I don't think Dad

likes running.

Then me and the Doctor went over to what was left of the alien's

rubbish spaceship and the Doctor started picking bits up and throwing

them away, muttering something to himself about terrible workmanship.

And then he went A-ha!' and in his hand he had this glittery orange

and see-through stone. He looked at me and showed off all his huge teeth

again. I was jealous. I've still got all of my baby teeth.

'Is that the dia... thing crystal?'

'Yes, Alex, I do believe it is,' The Doctor nodded and pointed his

magic pen at the orange sparkly stone and then...

POP!

I was waiting with Lucy at the top of the stairs and she was more

excited than I was that it was Christmas. And then Mum appeared and

she was sleepy and smiley and she carried me downstairs giving me lots

of kisses which was all right FOR ONCE and we went into the front

room which was like more magic than I ever thought I'd ever see. There

was boxes and boxes and boxes and it was so exciting and the tree was

even bigger than I remember and there was so much excitement and then

the doorbell went and I jumped up in surprise, then remembered that Dad

was coming for Christmas Day too and Mum was being pleased to see

him and everyone was being dead nice to each other...

I fell on my bum on the cold ground. Everything had come back in a

BIG rush and I didn't know where I was for a second, but the hard field

helped me remember about the aliens and the Doctor and Leela and Dad.

The Doctor looked at me very SERIOUSLY and asked me if I could

remember Christmas Day and I really, really could so nodded my head

ten times. Then Leela and Dad came back and each had one of the

squeeing aliens in an outstretched hand, only the aliens weren't squeeing,

they were hissing because Leela and Dad held them very tightly so they

did not escape. Dad did not look pleased holding the slimy creature but

Leela looked like she had won the World Cup.

'I have captured the treacherous worms. They could not outrun a

warrior of the Sevateem. And Mr Parlour was valiant in his attempts to

keep up with me.'

And she smiled at Dad, who was puffing and panting and pulling a

funny face at his alien.

'Good work,' said the Doctor, who pulled out two plastic bags from

his pockets and put them over the aliens. I was shocked! Mum says you

can't play with plastic bags because they're DANGEROUS and you can

hurt yourself - and this made me think of Mum and she would be cross

that we had gone after the Doctor and Leela.

But I didn't want anything bad to happen to the aliens even though

they had been HORRIBLE. The Doctor looked right at me and, with the

aliens fighting in the plastic bags, squeeing their heads off AS USUAL,

he knelt down and squeezed my nose and smiled.

It's all right,' he said. 'They'll be perfectly safe in the bags. They don't

breathe like we do.' Which made me think very hard, but I asked the

Doctor to promise anyway and he said he SOLEMNLY swore that the

aliens would come to no harm and so I believed him.

And then the Doctor said they had to go now. He gave me a little wave

and a big smile and he and Leela walked away. I wanted to follow them

but Dad held me back and said quietly that we should let them go.

Even though you did the meanest thing I can think of, Great Uncle Peter,

all my friends I told agreed that alien monsters from other planets should

have nice Christmases too. After all, everyone got their memories back

and no one was hurt, even if I do remember eating more sprouts than I'd

like.

It wasn't right what you did but you gave me the best Christmas

present ever: an adventure with the Doctor!

Short Trips: Defining Patterns

A lot of Short Trips writers come to the range via traditional routes. They've

already written Doctor Who fiction for other series, or are known to the editors,

or have contacted Big Finish offering their services.

And then sometimes editors approach people out of the blue. In the past,

I've asked numerous big-name novelists and TV writers to work on Short Trips,

for example. Many were too busy or not interested (or too expensive!), but I was

always on the lookout for new people who could bring something different to

the range. (My biggest regrets from my time editing Short Trips books? Getting

close, but not close enough, to persuading Darin Henry, Christopher Fowler,

Mark Billingham and Peter Tabern to write for us.)

It didn't even have to be writers of fiction; just interesting writing. I first

came across Mat Coward's name when I read his excellent Pocket Essential

guide to classic BBC radio comedy. It's a history of series such as The Goon

Show, Hancock's Half Hour and Round the Home, and is full of wonderful turns of

phrase and light, easy-to-read prose. I was already thinking of getting in touch

with him when, doing some research online, I found that he also had a great

short-story pedigree.

Contacting him via the lovely people at Pocket Essentials, I asked Mat if he'd be

interested in writing for Short Trips. I also cheekily suggested an idea. 'Wouldn't

it be fun to put the Doctor into that world of BBC radio and the Paris Theatre

and Hancock's Half Hour?' I said in my opening email on 29 September 2006.

Mat replied later that day, saying, 'Talk about pressing the right buttons!

The idea of the TARDIS materialising in the green room at the Paris, in the

presence of someone like Kenneth Williams ("Ooh, Doctor-your box is much

bigger inside than outside!"), is irresistible.' He then went away and worked

on an outline, which he sent across on 21 October. And it was a joy from

start to finish. Post-war London... the Paris Theatre... a radio comedy called

Anyway, As I Say... rich, lively characters... a local pub where all the comedy

glitterati hang out... intriguing aliens... and, at the heart of it all, a clever plot

that tied everything together brilliantly.

Losing the Audience is a wonderful read. Its setting and tone are so powerful,

and the story inhabits that world perfectly. There's also something very

pleasing about a Doctor Who story about BBC radio comedy in the 1950s - a

great combination of two joyous British institutions that were both born in

that optimistic, post-war era.

The only major change to Mat's first draft of the story was that we tweaked

the ending. Originally, the Doctor and Susan deliberately steered the TARDIS

back to 1963, in readiness for their first television story. However, as we all

know, the Doctor had no idea where each jaunt would take him - hence a gag

to explain how they get back!

Losing the Audience

Mat Coward

An adventure of the First Doctor, with Susan

This was idiotic, and he knew he looked like a fool or worse, scurrying

through the autumn shadows. But, all the same, there was something

about the whole business that rang a bell up and down his spine. So

Max carried on following the woman through the unlit alleys of the

West End. He'd chosen her because he guessed from her awkward

posture and her half-hearted smile that she'd be walking alone from the

theatre, to her bus or Tube or tiny flat. She wasn't the first one he'd

followed, though she was the easiest to keep in view, despite the misty

drizzle, with her old-fashioned feather hat sticking up like a periscope.

Nothing had happened to any of the others, male or female, and

probably nothing would happen to this one. Still, he followed.

It was cold and getting colder, and Max was suddenly aware that he

was in his late thirties, not his early twenties any more, and that this

was all based on a feeling which he couldn't even identify to himself,

let alone tell anyone about. Just a feeling that these events - if they

were events, and not merely tricks of his mind, cousins to the

nightmares that woke him three nights out of four- were in some way

related to his war work.

The feather-hatted woman was gaining a good lead over Max, who

was hampered by ignorance of her route, and by his need for

discretion. In a minute she'd disappear round one too many corners and

he'd have lost her. The others were waiting for him at the Captain's

Cabin, where they always gathered after the recordings. He could

picture them at their table at the back, gusts of laughter periodically

blowing holes in the surrounding curtain of cigarette smoke to reveal

his 'tight little unit', reinforcing their friendships through the

traditional methods of alcohol and mutual insult.

They all thought he was phoning his bookie. Except Maxine; he

wasn't sure what she thought about him any more, except that

whatever it was it made her sad and worried.

And now they were crossing a bomb site, and his shoes were

leaking. Time to pack it in.

But even as his feet abandoned the pursuit, his eyes caught a flicker

of movement up ahead, ten yards to the right of the feather hat, and

closing in on it fast. Weird-looking bloke too, from what Max could

see of his outline and his peculiar way of moving. She hadn't seen him

coming, that was for sure.

Max's heart was beating a rhythm he hadn't heard for over a decade,

and it got louder as the woman suddenly disappeared. She'd obviously

taken a turning to the left, invisible from Max's distance. He sprinted

after her, but as he turned the corner into a Victorian garden square he

immediately realised he'd made an embarrassing mistake: the feather

hat and the peculiar man were standing in the middle of the opening,

locked together in a passionate, trembling embrace. They were doing

what the lads in Max's wartime outfit had called 'the blackout waltz'.

He ducked out of sight, and caught his breath, his hands on his

knees. Idiot! They weren't hunter and prey - they were just lovers. He

chuckled at his own stupidity: 'The secret war made you paranoid, old

son,' he told himself.

Even so, as he trudged his way back towards the inviting, beery fug

of the Captain's Cabin, he still couldn't quite shake that feeling: that

something had followed him home from the war.

'Yes, yes,' said the Doctor. 'I think that's it. That's surely it. Quite

probably.' He wriggled out from under the main console, clutching a

spaghetti mess of purple wire in one hand and a transformer in the

other. Straightening himself, he muttered, 'Let's find out, shall we?'

'Grandfather?' Susan had returned to the TARDIS, after passing a

mildly diverting half hour exploring the Totter's Lane junkyard in

which their ship was concealed, just in time to see the Doctor threading

the stripped end of the purple wire through an aqua-spanner, and

preparing to plug the spanner into the transformer. 'What are you

doing?'

'Not now, child. Can't you see I'm busy?'

'Grandfather, are you sure that's safe?'

Irritation crinkled the old man's brow. 'This is my ship! When the

time comes that I need advice from foolish girls on how to run it, you

may take me into deep space and push me out of a porthole. Until then,

kindly be quiet.'

Susan was careful to keep her sigh silent. She braced herself against

the wall of the control room, and awaited the inevitable. Her

grandfather's unfamiliarity with the old ship's workings frustrated him,

she knew; and she also knew that his usual response to frustration was

reckless experimentation.

'There,' said the Doctor. 'I think that's fixed it, my dear.' Two

seconds later, a flash of blue-green light filled the room, and the floor

rocked under their feet.

'Are you all right, Grandfather?'

'How curious,' was the Doctor's only reply. 'I wonder why that

happened.'

The crowd had been thinner again tonight, Max reckoned - unless that

was just his imagination tormenting him. Either way, the woman in the

feather hat wasn't there, the one he'd followed after the previous

week's recording, he was sure of that: he'd had a good look for her. It

seemed to him there were familiar faces missing from the studio

audience every week these days.

After tonight's show, he'd told Maxine and the others that he'd left

his cigarette lighter in the green room, that they should get him a pint

in and he'd catch them up. From the look on Maxine's face, it'd been

clear she hadn't believed his excuse. He hated lying to her, and hated

worrying her even more, but he had to know what was going on. He

was going to have to go on another patrol tonight.

Backstage at the subterranean Paris, he was just slipping his arms

into his overcoat when he heard an extraordinary wheezing, trumpeting

noise - it sounded, he thought, like an elephant telling a joke, and came

from the direction of the green room. Odd - there hadn't been any

elephants in there a couple of minutes earlier, when he'd popped in to

collect his coat.

Mind you, that hadn't been there, either, he thought, as he looked

into the room: a blue police call box, standing at the far end of the

room, not much less out of place than an elephant would have been. A

television prop, presumably, delivered to the wrong department.

The door of the police box opened, and out stepped a girl with short,

dark hair, dressed rather like a teenager in an American film. 'Hello,'

she said, spotting Max. 'Would you mind telling me where this is?'

'I suspect you're a bit off course,' said Max. 'This is the Paris

Studio.' The girl was evidently none the wiser - she must be a

complete newcomer to the BBC - so he added: 'Lower Regent Street?

It's a theatre where we record radio programmes that need a live

audience.'

'Oh, London,' she said, looking slightly disappointed.

Max laughed. Just how lost was she? 'Afraid so. What were you

hoping for - Timbuktu?'

'At the very least,' she said. 'This may sound like a silly question,

but what year is it?'

'On the contrary,' Max assured her, 'as I spent the afternoon

lunching with the Deputy Head of Variety (Radio), I can tell you that's

nowhere near the silliest question I've heard today.' He walked towards

her, his hand outstretched. 'It's 1955, and I'm Max Wheeler.'

One thing the war had taught Max - a lesson undermined only

slightly by a decade in show business - was to accept the validity of

first impressions. He liked this girl; she seemed sweet, but lively with

it. She didn't strike him as pushy, but neither was she coy or

apologetic. She no doubt had her own reasons for asking completely

mad questions, and she clearly didn't much care how they might sound

to other people. He and Maxine hadn't had children - just as well, as it

turned out - but if he had had a daughter, he wouldn't have minded one

like this.

The girl gave him a big smile and shook his hand firmly. 'I'm Susan.

Pleased to meet you.'

The police box door opened again, disgorging an old man with long,

white hair and wearing Victorian costume. Good lord, thought Max,

how many of them did that thing contain? It was obviously a pretty

high-class prop. The Victorian gent quickly closed the door.

'Oh, and this is my grandfather,' said Susan. 'He's the Doctor.'

A stage name, Max presumed. The chap was undoubtedly either an

actor or a comic, and some of these old boys would rather die than step

out of character, on stage or off.

'Max Wheeler - pleased to meet you, Doctor. I think,' he added, out

of politeness, 'I might have seen your act, before the war.'

The Doctor ignored him entirely, and turned to Susan. 'When and

where, hmm? Have you found out, or have you been wasting your time

on chit-chat, as usual?'

'The Paris Studio, Lower Regent Street, London, 1955,' Susan

replied, apparently taking no offence at her grandfather's rudeness.

The Doctor clearly wasn't pleased by the information. 'Ridiculous,'

he muttered. 'London, 1955? Backwards and sideways? Absurd.'

'I know what you mean.' Susan gave a sulky sigh. 'All of space and

time to choose from, and what do we manage? A few miles, and less

than a decade. Still, we might as well have a look around now we're

here. You wouldn't mind showing us around, would you, Max?'

'Delighted,' said Max - and he was. The gods of comedy had sent

him a charming lunatic to take his mind off things. Who was he to

spurn their gift? And he liked the way she used his first name without

asking his permission. If there was one thing Max Wheeler couldn't

stand, it was deference.

The Doctor turned back to the police box prop. 'Oh, you must do as

you wish, young lady. Yes, you go off and enjoy yourself, don't you

worry about me. If you want me, which I don't suppose you shall,

you'll find me here, working on the TARDIS.' At the door of the blue

box, he turned to wave a finger at his granddaughter. 'But hear me,

girl. I shall be finished in half an hour, and if you're not here I'll leave

without you. Yes, I shall.'

'Don't mind Grandfather,' Susan whispered, as the old man

vanished back inside his police box. 'He gets grumpy when he thinks

time and space are mucking him about.'

Laughing, Max said, 'My dear, I know the feeling.'

'It's a sort of recorded radio show,' Max explained. The funny girl was

charmingly ignorant about show business - it was no wonder she'd

managed to deliver a TV prop to a radio studio. You'd think her

granddad might have known better, with all his years in the game, but

perhaps the poor old boy's mind wasn't quite what it might have been.

Max had known a bloke on the halls who went senile, which was very

sad bemuse he made his living with a memory act. 'Magnificanus the

Mentalist' - kept turning up at the wrong theatres.

Still, he was a bit surprised that a girl her age hadn't even heard of

Anyway, As I Say. Had they really become so old-hat, so soon? Or

perhaps eccentricity ran in Susan's family. 'The Doctor' -what sort of

act could that be? Magician, possibly. Card tricks and funny mirrors.

'Anyway is in its seventh year,' he told her, as they stood at the back

of the auditorium, looking down the darkened ranks of seats towards

the small stage. 'It enjoys what they call a "following", which means

that not many people like it but those who do like it a lot.' And even its

following was waning, if he was honest. Intellectual comedy fans were

a fickle lot, always looking out for the next thing, and the mass of

wireless listeners had never quite fallen in love with Anyway.

'Is it just you in the show?'

'There's two of us regulars: Max and Maxine, we used to be a cross-

talk duo just after the war. We like to think what we do now is a little

more advanced. But of course it's no good asking you bemuse you've

never heard us.'

'Sorry,' said Susan. 'I'll listen to the next one if I possibly can, I

promise. Is Maxine your wife?'

'Tone of voice gave me away, I suppose? She used to be. Now we're

back to being just partners, and good friends, which was how it should

always have stayed.'

'Why are you divorced, if you're so friendly?'

'We're so friendly because we're divorced,' said Max, thinking she

was rather direct for such a youngster. But then that was the kids these

days - and good luck to them. They wouldn't obey orders quite so

blindly as their elders did. Besides, her directness made her easy to talk

to; to confide in, even. She was probably a student, he reckoned, doing

the props job part-time. 'What are you studying, Susan?'

'Me? Oh, you know - quantum theory, mostly. Bit of relativity,

perhaps. Just whatever pops into Grandfather's head, to be honest. And

the pre-history of cricket, of course - that's my favourite!'

'Sounds wonderful.' Max had left school at 14, and never really felt

he'd missed out on much. Except when lively young girls told him

what they were studying, and he hardly knew what the words meant

'Anyway, apart from me and Maxine, there's what we grandly call a

"guest star" to play all the bit parts, a writer, the producer and an FX

man to make the funny noises - and that's the team. A tight little unit,

as we used to say in the war.'

'Well, it's very exciting to meet a famous radio star.'

'You're very kind, mademoiselle. To tell you the truth, Anyway is

one of those shows that was seen as rather clever when it began, but

frankly we've been made somewhat redundant by the new directions in

comedy. You know, the Goons, Hancock and so on.' And then, to his

own surprise, Max heard himself telling the strange girl what was

really worrying him. 'The thing is, Susan, our audience is dying.' He

looked her in the eyes, and finally spoke his fears our loud: 'Literally,

dying.'

No matter what he tried, the old ship wouldn't budge and the Doctor

was growing increasingly frustrated, sweaty and impatient. If he lived

to be a thousand, he'd never get used to this antiquated excuse for a

TARDIS. A junkyard was the best place for it. Assuming he could

persuade it to return there.

Yet this present immobility was more than the craft's usual

temperamental nature, he felt. 'Almost as if the TARDIS won't allow

us to leave this place and time.' He tugged at a tangle of transistors,

without noticeable effect. 'Hmm! As if there is some reason for

keeping us here.'

'You must talk to my grandfather,' Susan told Max, taking the

comedian by the hand and hurrying him back towards the green room.

'He'll be interested to hear about this.'

'Really? Why?'

'Oh, he just will,' she assured him. 'He's interested in most things,

especially if they're horrid.'

'There you are!' A tall, anxious-looking woman paused with her

hand on the green room door. 'Honestly, Max, I've been hunting for

you everywhere.'

'Maxine, I'm so sorry - I became distracted. This is my new friend,

Susan. She's -'

'Pleased to meet you, Susan.' Maxine managed a quick nod and half

a smile, but Max could see her heart wasn't in it. 'Max, it's too bad.

You had us all worried.'

He ushered the two women through the door, one arm for each. 'I'm

sorry, sweetheart, I'll explain all later. Now, come and meet Susan's

granddad. He's an old pro, you'll love him.'

Susan knocked on the police box door and the old man opened it a

crack, just enough to reveal his visibly annoyed face. He looked like

Punch peering round the curtain.

'Doctor, may I present Maxine, my -'

'What is it, Susan? What is the purpose of these endless

interruptions?'

'Grandfather, Max has something to tell you. There's something

strange going on here.'

'Yes, yes, I know that,' said the Doctor, as he went back into the box

and shut the door behind him.

'I don't know who that old actor-laddie is,' said Maxine, 'but he

could learn some manners.'

Susan gave that serious consideration for a moment: 'No... no, I

don't think he could, actually. Excuse me a moment, I'd better see

what he's up to.' And then she was gone too.

'What are they doing,' Maxine whispered, 'inside a pretend police

box?'

Max shrugged 'Painting it?'

She jabbed him with an elbow, which he took to be a good sign.

'Don't be daft! They don't paint the inside of TV props.'

'I don't know what they do on TV,' said Max, 'and nor do I plan to

find out. Not until they start paying proper money, anyway.'

'Max, I want you to promise me you weren't... doing anything silly

tonight. While we were all over at the pub.'

He put his arms around her. 'I swear I wasn't doing anything. Silly

or otherwise.' He didn't mention that the only thing that had prevented

him was hearing that weird noise. Good God, he'd forgotten about that:

the elephants. What was that? Could it be anything to do with what was

going on?

'I worry about you, Max. I think the war affected you more than you

realise.'

'The war affected everyone, sweetheart. It was really quite a big do.'

She took his broad wrists in her hands. 'No jokes. Tell me what you

think is happening.'

Max freed his left hand and rubbed his knuckles across his forehead.

'I don't know. Probably nothing.'

The studio audiences for most radio shows, Anyway included,

consisted partly of faithful listeners, who attended every recording.

Max had noticed that lately - ever since they'd moved to the Paris, in

fact - each week, some of the regulars he'd become acquainted with

over the years were missing.

'When I ask the others about them,' he told Maxine, 'either they

don't know, or else they tell me their friends have passed away quite

suddenly.'

Maxine managed a laugh, and Max appreciated the effort it cost her.

'Just proves what everyone's been saying, love. We need a younger

audience.' He pretended to laugh with her.

'And as the DHV(R) was telling me at great length this afternoon, to

get a younger audience we need a younger act.'

The door opened, and a thin, balding man bustled in. 'If you two

want to hold hands in empty green rooms, you'll have to get married

again. I've been looking for you, where have you been?'

'We've been in here, Jolyon, holding hands. It's more of a thrill

when you're single.'

'That'll have to wait, I'm afraid. We're going to have to redo the

opening duologue. I've booked one of the broom cupboard studios at

EH.'

'Did we fluff it?' asked Maxine.

'You? Never! No, darling, that damned humming noise came

through on the recording again.'

Max shivered, but decided now was not the time to mention that the

mysterious BBC hum was something else that gave him the creeps.

'You want us straight away, Jolyon?'

'If you please, children. Oh, one other thing,' said the producer,

holding the door for his stars. 'There's another whip-round for flowers,

sad to say. One of our regulars has died. Her sister let us know. She

was allegedly our "biggest fan". Name of Madge.'

From somewhere in his icy guts, Max found his voice. 'Which one

was Madge?'

'You know her, Max- the one with the feather in her hat.'

'Ha! You're an old fool.' The Doctor patted the main console. 'No, not

you - me. I am addressing myself.'

'Why do you say that, Grandfather?' Susan was quite used to

intervening in the Doctor's conversations with inanimate objects.

'I thought the TARDIS was trying to tell me something. I came over

all superstitious, Susan, can you believe that? Ha! But it's just that

humming noise - primitive air conditioning, no doubt. It's upsetting

the old girl. It's a rather complicated pattern of frequencies - as soon as

I can analyse it properly, I can cancel it out, and we can be on our

way.' As he spoke, he took a series of readings from what looked very

much like a Victorian pocket watch, hanging from a fob.

'But what about what Max told me? The disappearing audience -

don't you want to investigate that, Grandfather?'

The Doctor sneered. 'I suspect that your friend's understanding of

what might constitute a remarkable death rate is unsophisticated. It's

yet another thing these people don't teach in their so-called schools.'

'All right, but now we're here we could at least stay long enough to

watch a radio show being made. That might be interesting.'

Her grandfather made it clear that he was not a great admirer of

radio comedy - or of broadcasting in general. He preferred the music

hall. 'It's unhealthy for people to sit at home, laughing on their own,

instead of as part of a physically present audience. It's not healthy, let

me tell you.'

'I've sometimes heard you laughing on your own, Grandfather,'

Susan teased him. 'Though not at comedians, admittedly.'

'What? Nonsense, nonsense,' said the Doctor, looking up from his

readings. 'Oh, come here, child.' She slipped her arm around his waist,

and he ruffled her hair. 'We could spare just one day, I suppose.'

She looked up at him. 'And you will listen to what Max has to say?

After all, it's an odd coincidence, the BBC's air conditioning

producing the exact vibrations needed to immobilise the TARDIS.'

A horrified look spread across the Doctor's face. 'Coincidence? I've

been neglecting your education. Now, where did I put that pack of

cards... '

The long, curved corridors in the basements of Broadcasting House

smelled, not unpleasantly, of pipe smoke, new carpet, and dust burning

on electrical machinery. To Susan, the corridors seemed to go on for

ever, and all looked identical. Even at gone nine in the evening, the

place was alive with men and women hurrying in all directions, most

of them carrying precarious armfuls of papers or reels of tape, many of

them nodding to Susan and the Doctor, a few trying to walk straight

through them as if they weren't there.

'This building is shaped like a ship,' Susan realised, but her

grandfather wasn't listening. He was marching along with his head

down, studying his fob watch.

Suddenly he gave a cry of 'Well, now!' and flung open one of the

endless series of heavy doors that lined the corridor.

'Get out, you idiot!' came a yell from within. The Doctor nodded

pleasantly, and did as he was told.

'Grandfather,' said Susan, pointing to an illuminated 'on air' sign

above the door, 'I think perhaps when that's lit, we're not supposed to

go in.'

'Undoubtedly, my dear, quite so.' The Doctor stroked his chin, never

taking his eyes off the instrument in his hand. 'You notice the

humming?'

'Yes, just like at the Paris.'

'Not just like, child - no.' He tapped the fob watch. 'To the ear,

perhaps, but my oscillometer here tells me it's quite distinct. And that

is most interesting.'

'Susan, Doctor - you found my note. I'm so glad.' Somehow, Max

hadn't liked to disturb the odd pair in their police box, but nor had he

cared to abandon them so abruptly without explanation. 'But I

expected to see you in reception. How on earth did you get past the

commissionaires?'

The commissionaires of Broadcasting House - a uniformed corps,

composed entirely of former servicemen - were indeed notoriously

unyielding, and fiercely protective of BH against unauthorised persons.

Or bloody-minded and officious, as some would put it. And they'd

only got worse, Max was convinced, since The Goon Show started

taking the mickey out of them.

Clearly stifling a giggle, Susan explained: 'They seemed to think

Grandfather was part of the show.'

'Hmm? Nonsense. Now, young man, I want a word with you.' While

Jolyon hurried off to edit the tape they'd just recorded, the Doctor took

Max by the elbow and set off briskly towards the lift. Susan and

Maxine fell in behind them.

'This business of your dying audience: if I'm to help, you must tell

me everything.'

Max coughed. 'No offence, old thing, but what good could you do?'

The Doctor smiled. For the first time in his life, as far as Max knew.

'Oh, I do have some small expertise in matters of the unusual.'

So that's it, thought Max, the Doctor had also been involved in

secret war work. It'd be a relief to talk to someone who really

understood. 'You mean... I may speak freely to you?'

'Of course, dear boy - of course.'

It was a short walk to the George - it'd have to be, Max explained,

otherwise the musicians would never make it back to the studio - but

when they arrived, Maxine was annoyed to discover that Hancock's

mob had commandeered their table again.

'Never mind,' said Max, heading for the busy bar. 'They'll soon be

underneath it.'

Max and Maxine soon tired of pointing out broadcasting celebrities

who Susan and her grandfather had clearly never heard of- though Max

secretly enjoyed their blank reaction to the name Ted Ray - and, once

they were settled with their drinks, he and the Doctor drew to one end

of the table, while Susan and Maxine took the other.

'I was a postman back home in South Wales,' Max told the old man,

'but when the war in Spain began, I volunteered to fight with the

International Brigades. As a result of which, by the way, I am for ever

forbidden entry to the United States. So that's why I'm not a

Hollywood star.'

The Doctor sipped his glass of porter, and said nothing. Another gag

wasted, thought Max, and continued his story.

'Because I had that experience of guerrilla warfare, when the war

started over here I was recruited to an auxunit. We trained under Tom

Wintringham. Inspirational man - more or less invented what they

called "the people's war". Believed in arming and training the whole

population through the Home Guard, men and women, not only to

resist the German invasion, but also to take over the whole country in a

socialist revolution if the government and the bankers and the

landowners tried to make peace with Hitler. Did you ever run into

Wintringham, Doctor?'

'Not yet,' said the Doctor. 'Do go on, my boy.'

'Yes, so - I spent the first 18 months of the war living in a cave in

the Mendips, waiting for the Nazis. Look.' He fished about in his

jacket pocket, and came out with a set of viciously spiked

knuckledusters. 'These were special issue. They still fit, you see. I got

rid of the cyanide capsule, though. A man can have too many

souvenirs. Never used the spikes in anger - but on the training dummy,

they took the poor beggar's face clean off.' He took a long pull at his

pint of bitter. 'We were given lists, regularly updated, of "unsound"

locals who would have to be murdered as soon as the invasion took

place. We practised sabotage attacks, and learned to speak German -

neither of them skills for which I've found much use in civilian life.'

'And after 18 months, hmm?'

'Right, well. Once the Soviets had entered the war, and so the

immediate threat of German invasion had receded, I was reassigned to

a normal army outfit. It was there, like most comics of my generation,

that I learned my trade, doing forces' entertainments. Took to it; stuck

with it; here I am.' He looked at the knuckledusters for a moment, and

then put them away. 'That and Spain - that was my university. More

than ten years on, I think most of what you hear on the wireless is still

forces' comedy, though it presents itself as all modern and civvy street.

It's all shaped by the war, really.'

Realising he was banging on a bit, and in danger of turning maudlin,

Max added: 'But you must have done some comedy in your time?' He

still couldn't quite categorise the old man, with his mannered ways and

his absurd costume. Mind you, he'd known some of the older turns to

insist on wearing their full stage get-up for radio recordings. 'I mean,

you're not actually a doctor, are you?'

'Oh, young man, there are all sorts of things I'm not actually,' the

Doctor replied, draining his glass.

'I think it's just the guilt that survivors often feel,' Maxine told Susan,

in a soft voice. 'All his stuff about "something followed us all home

from that war, Maxine." He came home, that's the point, and so many

didn't.' She laughed, and tipped an inch of gin and tonic down her

throat. 'Plus he's a comedian, so he's a miserable old beggar to begin

with.'

'You think it's all in his head, this business of the audience dying

off?' 'Well, people do die, don't they?' She sounded as if she was

trying to convince herself as well as Susan. 'Especially as the days get

shorter. There's influenza, TB, smog and so on.'

'This Madge you mentioned. Did she die of influenza?'

Maxine frowned. 'That is a bit odd, it's true. She was quite young,

apparently quite healthy. Max saw her being cuddled by her chap in the

street, which doesn't sound like someone who's desperately ill. But

apparently her internal organs had undergone some terrible trauma,

presumably some awful accident, and yet the police haven't been able

to find out where or when or what - let alone how someone so badly

injured managed to drag herself home to die in her own bed.'

'I see,' Susan began, but Maxine spoke over her.

'But the important thing is that her death came miles away from the

Paris, and days after the recording - so it can't be connected, can it?'

In his office at BH, Jolyon had nearly completed editing the re-

recorded duologue. He still loved the novelty of working with

magnetic tape. If they'd still been reliant on the old acetate discs,

Anyway would have been a very different, less inventive show.

He heard someone enter the room, without knocking or speaking.

Probably a cleaner. 'Give me a mo,' he said, his attention on his work.

'Remain calm,' said a voice behind him.

'But tell me about your war, Doctor,' said Max. 'If you're allowed to.'

'My war? Oh, I've never really been able to see the point of war.'

Max understood; the Doctor couldn't, or didn't care to, talk about it.

Most men were the same, he'd found, who'd seen active service.

'Now, young man - tell me about these current deaths.'

'Probably all in my mind, but... for some reason they remind me of

something from my Mendip days. Never knew the details - I don't

think even our local commanders did - but word came down in 1940

that we should be prepared for clusters of German occupiers to die,

mysteriously but apparently of natural causes. At the time, we guessed

it was a reference to some sort of secret gas weapon. We expressed our

unease through official channels - our unit was chiefly composed of

rebels and mavericks, we didn't trust the high-ups, and we weren't

scared to speak our minds - and, after that, it was never mentioned

again.' He lit a cigarette, and thought for a moment. 'Except that there

was a rumour that it was all part of something called Operation Shaker.

But you see my dilemma, Doctor? If these deaths now - mysterious but

apparently natural, as they are - are due to some sort of germ warfare

experiment gone wrong, then what should I do? Tell the police? Tell

the press?'

The Doctor's response rather took him aback. 'Tell me about the

humming noise, at your two workplaces.'

'The BBC hum? Well, I don't know what to tell you. BH is

supposed to have the world's most advanced air-conditioning system,

so we're told. Or it was when they put it in.'

'Have you always recorded your entertainment at the Paris?'

'No, we used to go out from the Camden.' Max gestured across the

room with his chin. 'Booted out to make way for Hancock and his

clowns. Why do you ask?'

Any answer the Doctor might have given was cut off by the arrival

of Jolyon, who slumped into a chair next to Max. He looked awful:

red-faced, running with sweat, his breathing loud and irregular. He put

a trembling hand on Max's upper arm. 'Was that you, you idiot? You

scared the life out of me, you could have killed me - you know I hate

stupid practical jokes!'

'Steady on, old thing - I don't know what you're talking about.

What's happened?' Max and Maxine managed to calm their producer

sufficiently for him to manage a few shaky gulps of brandy, and to tell

his story.

was about to turn around, to see who it was, when the person

grabbed me from behind and - well, embraced me, there's no other

way of putting it. After a few seconds he let go, and when I felt up to

looking round, there was no one there. It was horrible.'

His colleagues tried to josh him out of his terror. 'Must've been one

of the secretaries,' Max suggested. 'Got a crush on you.'

'No, no. It was too strong to be a woman - it must have been a man,

a strong man. Like you.'

'Oh, well, whatever you prefer, ducky,' said Max, signalling with his

eyebrows for the other half of the double act to take over.

'Perhaps it was the BH ghost,' said Maxine. 'A butler, isn't it, with a

twirling moustache?'

'Don't be daft,' said Max. 'Why would a butler be haunting a

modern radio station? No, the BH ghost is a wandering musician, been

seen all over the building, eternally searching for a studio he never

finds. Which we can all sympathise with, eh, Jolyon?'

But if anything, the producer's state was worsening.

'We'd better get him home,' said Maxine. 'I'll go and find a cab.'

Preoccupied with his stricken friend, Max still heard the girl say: 'He's

in shock, Grandfather - do you see how he's trembling?'

The Doctor was fiddling with some sort of fob watch. 'I wouldn't

say trembling, child. I would say oscillating.'

Max turned in time to see a look of sadness cross the old man's face.

The TARDIS was in the green room, and the green room was out of

bounds. Another programme was being recorded - unusually late at

night, due to an earlier power failure - and so the Doctor had little

choice but to accept Susan's suggestion that they sit in the auditorium

and watch the show.

The scene was still being set as they took their seats. The stage itself

was expanded to twice its previous size, by means of extension pieces

lugged into position by brown-coated attendants. Then came the

placing of the microphones at various positions; a precise business,

apparently, which involved many fine adjustments by the stage

manager, and muttered curses from the attendants.

As the cast took to the stage from the green room, it became clear to

Susan that this was a much larger production than Max and Maxine's

'tight little unit'. There were seven performers - most of them taking

on several roles each - along with a ten-piece orchestra to perform the

theme and incidental music. The whole affair was presided over by a

solemn announcer in a dinner jacket, who seemed to be the butt of

much of the humour.

Susan was surprised to see how much of the comedy was visual:

some comics delighted in twanging the announcer's braces, or flipping

his bow tie, while others worked up the studio audience with funny

faces and silly poses about which, of course, the listeners at home

would know nothing.

She loved every minute of it. The endless to-ing and fro-ing around

the microphones seemed superbly choreographed, so that no two

comics ever bumped into each other. She was fascinated by the

practised flick with which the artistes turned over the pages of their

scripts in such a way that the microphones wouldn't catch any rustle.

The very existence of the special-effects door - standing erect and

alone to one side of the stage, with its own dedicated microphone, and

an assistant stage manager ready to open, close and slam it on cue -

struck Susan as impossibly funny.

Before long she was joining in with the cheers, boos and raspberry

noises that greeted the appearances, and catchphrases, of what were

evidently regular characters. She had no idea what 'Only twice? That's

not nice!' meant, but she applauded along with everyone else every

time she heard it. To her surprised delight, her grandfather laughed

louder than anyone, from start to finish.

The recording was ending as Maxine slipped into the seat next to the

Doctor. It was clear from her expression that she had something to say,

but wasn't quite ready to say it. Instead, she asked them how they'd

liked the show. Susan was enthusiastic, but the Doctor gallantly

insisted that it was 'nowhere near as good as your own show'.

Dabbing at her mouth and nose with a crumpled handkerchief,

Maxine told them she and Max found this kind of programme rather

old-fashioned. The Goons have taken surreal situations and silly

catchphrases as far as they can ever go. In future, comedy will abandon

larger-than-life characters and be much more down-to-earth. Max and I

think that... '

But there she ran out of steam, and her tears flowed. The Doctor

patted her arm, and asked quietly: 'When did he die, your friend?'

She told them that Jolyon had died in the taxi, outside his flat in

Belsize Park. 'He'd had a weak heart for years, and the shock of that

stupid episode in BH must have been too much for him.'

'A weak heart,' said the Doctor. 'Mm. Where is Max now? I think

we must act urgently. Fetch him please, and meet us at the TARDIS.'

'The what?'

'The police box,' Susan explained.

When Maxine had gone, the Doctor showed Susan the readings he'd

taken on his oscillometer of Broadcasting House, the Paris during this

recording and earlier, when the theatre was empty, and of the dying

producer in the George. 'They are all related, but they are all slightly

different.'

'What does that mean, Grandfather?'

'We shall find out. When your young friends return, we shall find

out.'

By the time Max and Maxine joined them in the green room, the Paris

was deserted but for one attendant, impatient to lock up. The Doctor

was trying to persuade him to switch off the air conditioning; the

attendant was insisting that to commit such an act without proper

authority would be tantamount to resigning his job.

'Look here,' said Max, 'We need the place for a late rehearsal, and

since you have no specific orders authorising you to stay late, hadn't

you best give me the keys and scoot off?'

'On your authority, Mr Wheeler? Very well I'll say goodnight, all.'

Susan whispered to the Doctor that she hadn't thought the humans

had invented androids, yet. In his other ear, Max whispered that he

needn't worry about the air conditioning.

'I'll fix that. They taught us all about switching things off in the

auxiliary. Mostly with dynamite, admittedly, but even so... '

'Now,' said the Doctor a few minutes later, when the air

conditioning had stopped. 'What do we notice? Hmm?'

No one said anything as the Doctor studied his oscillator. Then

Maxine got it. 'If the air conditioning's off then why can I still hear its

noise?'

'Precisely, my dear. The BBC hum, as you call it, is unconnected

with the air conditioning. It has another source.'

'Then what is it, Doctor?'

'I said earlier that I couldn't see the point of war - but one thing war

is very good at is hastening technological advance. Now, listen to me:

we are going to perform an episode of your splendid comedy, here and

now.'

At the Doctor's insistence, Max and Maxine set up the stage as it

would be for a recording of Anyway, As I Say, with everything in its

precise position.

'The FX table should be about a yard to the right,' Maxine ruled, as

she and Max surveyed the results of their labours half an hour later.

'Well, the Doctor did say we should be precise.'

'Quite right, young lady,' Max replied, his impression of her

grandfather so uncannily accurate that Susan had to spend a couple of

minutes pretending to blow her nose.

Tea-stained copies of the most recent script were salvaged from the

green room, and the strange performance began.

As the comics rattled through their opening duologue, the Doctor

wandered around the auditorium, checking his device, and muttering

with dissatisfaction.

Whatever he was up to, Susan could see, it wasn't working.

Halfway through a sketch about rocket scientists, Maxine had to call

the Doctor three times to get his attention. 'I said: at this point, the

script calls for a spot effect.'

Delighted, Susan leapt from her front-row seat. 'I'll do those!'

'All right. You need to pour those marbles from the wicker basket

into the tin bucket. Do it quite slowly, and from a height.'

'Oh, I know,' Susan assured her. 'I've seen it done. Only twice?' she

added. 'That's not nice!'

'Quickly, child,' her grandfather scolded her.

They continued, with Susan improvising sound effects now and then

from the varied items set out on the table, but after 15 minutes the

Doctor's disappointment was still obvious.

'Have you got a train to catch, Doctor?' asked Max. 'You keep

checking your pocket watch.'

'Never mind that, why have you stopped?'

'We're a man short. We've reached a scene involving our "special

guest star". He's playing a high mutt judge.'

'Susan!'

'I can't do it, Grandfather. I'm on FX'

It took the Doctor a moment to realise that they were all staring at

him expectantly, and that Max was holding out a copy of the script to

him. He made a great show of reluctance and annoyance, but Susan

suspected that he rather enjoyed the opportunity to play the old ham.

The show went on, but whatever her grandfather had been expecting,

it didn't seem to be happening. At one point, she laughed out loud at

one of Max's lines about seaside donkeys and her laughter echoed

around the empty auditorium.

'Of course!' said the Doctor. 'Laughter, the very essence of this

place. That's what's missing. Now, what do we do about that, hmm?'

'How lifelike does the laughter need to be?' asked Max.

The Doctor thought about it. 'Well, now. The laughter must be

variable, within parameters - it's the one input where absolute

precision can't possibly be achieved or required. I think any laughter

would do, my boy.'

'Then wait here.' Max nipped off backstage with the attendant's

keys, and swiftly returned wheeling, with some effort, a reel-to-reel

tape machine built into a big trolley. He plugged it in, switched it on:

and they heard laughter.

'A tape of laughs cut out of recordings, when we're editing for time,'

he explained. 'It's from the good old days, when we had more laughter

than we could deal with! We used to lend it to lesser shows.'

They resumed yet again, the laughter track randomly providing

bursts of laughter, at various intervals and of various types and

durations. It made for an odd atmosphere, as the invisible audience's

reactions only occasionally chimed with what was happening on stage.

'Your line, Max,' prompted Susan during a sketch set in the

Coliseum. There was an awkward pause, as both women realised that

Max was having difficulty simultaneously holding back tears and

saying his lines. Maxine dug her elbow into his side. 'Come on,

Sergeant Wheeler. It's not as if this is the first time in our career we've

made an audience laugh in all the wrong places.'

'I'm sorry,' said Max, swallowing heavily, and wiping his brow on

his sleeve. 'It's just... all of it. The deaths in the audience, and now

poor old Jolyon, and the show gradually sinking beneath the waves. An

absent audience laughing where there's no laugh lines - it just strikes

me as a horribly believable vision of our future. I'm sorry to be so

pathetic.'

The audience guffawed, and applauded long and hard.

'Grandfather, this isn't working. It's too random.'

Now it was the Doctor's turn to rush off. When he reappeared, he

was carrying one end of a length of electrical cable, which he attached

to the tape recorder. He took more readings on his oscillator, and made

further adjustments.

'What are you doing?' Susan asked, tactfully avoiding Max and

Maxine as they shared a cigarette in the second row.

'This cable connects the laughter tape to the frequency analyser I've

been using to try to free the TARDIS from the effects of the hum.

Comedy isn't magic, Susan, you see? It's merely a matter of rhythm.

The TARDIS, with luck, will analyse the rhythm of the script, compare

it to the laughs stored on the tape, and provide bursts of more or less

accurate laughter.' The pocket watch chimed its readiness. 'Right,

ladies and gentleman - from the top, if you please.'

'From the top,' echoed Maxine. 'Get 'er!'

The new laughs were certainly more realistic and appropriate,

although they always came very slightly late. 'That should do,' the

Doctor muttered to himself. 'Close enough for comedy.'

'Grandfather, you are absolutely sure you know what you're doing?'

The Doctor scoffed. 'My dear, the last time I was absolutely sure I

knew what I was doing was 150 years ago. Most frustrating afternoon

of my entire life. Now, you concentrate on what you're doing, young

lady. No fluffs, please!'

Max's amplified voice cut across them. 'What the holy hell is that?'

They all looked towards the back of the auditorium, where a humanoid

figure - elongated and shimmering - was, as they watched, emerging

from within the wall itself.

'Ah', said the Doctor. 'It seems the laughter was indeed the charm.'

The humanoid began an unhurried lope down the aisle towards the

stage. Retreating to the wings, Maxine found two more of the creatures

loitering there, and another blocking their exit towards the green room

and the rest of the building.

Max stepped forward to put himself between the advancing monster

and the stage. He was a little surprised to find himself doing so, and

fleetingly reflected that this was what made a hero: involuntary

reflexes born of training.

Hero or not, the Doctor waved him back to the others, and took his

place in the vanguard. 'I think I might be more useful in this situation,

my boy.'

'Ju-jitsu, Doctor?' Max asked, and didn't quite catch the old man's

muttered reply, which sounded something like, 'Not martial arts - two

hearts.'

The vibrating creature was apparently in no hurry, taking its time to

weigh the Doctor up before dosing on him. Its comrades merely held

their positions.

'What are these things, Doctor?' asked Maxine.

'In their own tongue I imagine they're called "the people" - I'm

afraid almost every race in the galaxy is. But your wartime government

might, I suspect, have called them Shakers.'

Max noticed that the Doctor was still obsessed with his fob watch.

Perhaps he was playing for time - but time for what?

'Don't let it grab you, Grandfather,' said Susan. 'That's how it killed

Jolyon.'

Her warning seemed to come too late. The Shaker embraced the

Doctor, who cried out in agony. But almost immediately, the Shaker let

go, stood back, and gave the old man what struck Max as a very

considering look. 'Your oscillations are different,' it said. 'Ihre

Oszillationen sind abweichend.'

'Good God,' said Max, impressed despite himself 'It's bilingual.'

'Well, I'm not prejudiced,' said Maxine. She let out an hysterical

yelp of a giggle. 'Sorry. Pull myself together.'

'My oscillations are indeed different, my dear chap,' said the Doctor,

in a friendly tone. 'And my guess is that you don't have any orders

about killing our kind, do you?'

'Your kind?' said Max, but Susan and the Doctor ignored him.

A high-pitched chattering noise bounced around the walls of the

theatre; the Shakers in conference, Max guessed. The result of their

discussion was soon announced.

'You are alien forms, allied with the occupiers. We are alien forms,

allied with the natives. Therefore we will kill you. Remain calm while

we adjust our frequencies.' The pattern of the shimmering within and

around the Shakers' bodies altered, as did the humming of the air.

'Oh, yes, remain calm,' said the Doctor. 'Excellent advice, thank

you. But what about these two, hmm?' He indicated Max and Maxine.

'They're not aliens - they're humans.'

The lead Shaker - the only one with a speaking part, as Max had

come to think of him - looked him over for a moment, and then spoke

to him rapidly, in German. It was a simple inquiry about the function

of the building they were in, and he replied to it, in German, without

thinking. It was only when he heard the Doctor's groan that he realised

what he'd done.

'They are agents of the occupation. We will kill them when we have

killed you. Long live the King.'

'I'm afraid there's bad news on that front,' said Susan. 'The King is

dead.'

'But the good news,' the Doctor added, 'is that the war is over, and

your side won.'

'What are you talking about, Doctor?' asked Maxine.

The Doctor addressed the lead Shaker. 'How's the frequency

adjustment going? Have I time to tell her your story?' The Shakers

remained silent, as their changing patterns continued to flicker, so the

Doctor carried on. 'The Shakers are from another planet - indeed,

another dimension, for want of a more easily explainable concept.'

'Condescending old thing, isn't he?' Max muttered.

'It was the method of death - the embrace, followed some time later

by the extreme trauma to internal organs - which made me suspect

extra-dimensional involvement. Everything in the universe oscillates at

its own frequency, you see? Yes, yes; the difference in oscillation

frequencies between beings from different dimensions sets up a

vibration when they come into contact, which, over a period of time

determined by other factors - health, age, body mass and so on -

proves fatal. Clearly the Shakers have developed some form of

shielding which allows them to use it as a means of assassination,

rather than of kamikaze attack.'

'But why are they killing us?' asked Maxine.

'Oh, just following orders, nothing personal. Isn't that right, old

chap?' The Shaker made no reply. The Doctor covertly studied his

pocket watch. 'When Max told me about Operation Shaker -'

Maxine gasped. 'These creatures were working for our government!'

'Yes, my dear. They must have appeared here at Britain's darkest

hour - not by coincidence, I'll bet- and offered their services.'

As resistance fighters, Max realised, when every sane person in

Britain believed that occupation by Germany was inevitable and

imminent. 'The Shakers would have fought a terrorist war against the

German occupation, alongside people like me. But - why?'

'The frequency adjustment is complete,' the Shaker spokesman

announced. 'Remain calm.'

'What was the contract?' The Doctor's voice was urgent now. 'What

did the British government promise you in exchange?'

'A landmass named India is to be ours.'

'Lebensraum,' said Max. 'Nice to know irony was thriving in our

darkest hour.'

'Death will be rapid if you submit to the embrace; slow if you

struggle.' The Shaker advanced on the Doctor, its arms outstretched.

The old man called out 'Max - identify yourself!'

'What?'

'Sergeant, identify yourself.'

Of course! 'I am Sergeant Max Wheeler, of the South Mendip

Auxiliary Unit. All Shakers are to place themselves under my

command forthwith.'

Again, the Shakers paused and conferred.

'Do you have some sort of identification?' Susan asked Max.

Max called out, 'Brunete.' He wasn't sure his Spanish accent was up

to much, but at least he hadn't forgotten the old Mendip password. The

principal Shaker replied, 'Ouinto,' and Max replied, 'Belchite.'

The Shakers' deliberations increased in pitch and rapidity. Clearly,

they were unsure how to proceed. The Doctor was quick to take

advantage of their hesitation. 'The war is over, your allies won, there

was no occupation. There is no need to kill anyone else. Fifteen local

years have passed since the contract was made.'

More talk amongst the aliens, but calmer-sounding now. Max began

to relax, just a bit. Maxine took hold of his hand, and Susan smiled at a

preening Doctor. And then the speaking Shaker spoke.

'Then why are we not in India?'

'Oh, dear,' said the Doctor. 'I was afraid you were going to ask that.'

The laughter track let loose a solid roar, for the first time since the

Shakers appeared; this was the first time, Max supposed, that it had

detected something worth laughing at. The Doctor was again fiddling

with that damn watch of his. 'I very much fear,' he continued, 'that the

contract was not entered into by the British in good faith. They would

never have given you India. And once it was clear there would be no

invasion of these islands, I imagine your status in their eyes went from

useful last resort to potential threat.'

The Shakers, it appeared, needed no more discussion. 'The British

Empire has betrayed us, therefore we are now at war with the British

Empire. We will kill you all. Remain calm.'

'Yes, remain calm,' said the Doctor. 'Whatever you do, don't panic.

Now, Shakers, you'd better start with me, hmm? I'm the leader here.

Killing the leaders would be the best use of resources, I'm sure you

agree.' He stepped sharply through the effects door, and closed it

behind him. All four shakers converged on him, from various

directions. There was no possibility of escape.

And still he fiddled with that antique watch! He seemed to be

adjusting its hands now, and Max wondered if it was a nervous habit or

part of his act. As the leading Shaker stepped around the effects door

and spread its arms invitingly, the Doctor pressed a button on the tape

deck.

The laughter tape began playing backwards, at an odd, stop-and-start

tempo, sometimes speeded up and sometimes slowed down. The effect

was increasingly disturbing; Max's ear felt there was a rhythm in there

somewhere, and couldn't help laying to pin it down - but the more his

brain struggled to make sense of what it was hearing, the more

uncomfortable it became.

Maxine screamed, and Max's nose began to bleed. Susan fainted.

The Doctor smiled sadly. And the Shakers collapsed to the ground.

What looked like rips appeared in their bodies.

'Good Lord,' said Max. 'Their sides are splitting.'

The aliens began to fold into themselves, over and over, until there

was nothing left. The Doctor switched off the tape.

'There was an extraordinary concentration of brilliant scientists in

Britain at the start of the war,' the Doctor explained in the green room,

over strong tea and, for Max and Maxine, brandy. 'Many of them

asylum seekers and refugees from Nazi Europe. During the Britain-

Shaker pact, they'd have been working flat out on studying the

Shakers, looking for ways of defeating them. It is one of the eternal

truths of history, that today's allies become tomorrow's enemies.'

'Let us toast the dear old Red Army,' said Max, raising his teacup.

'They seem to have found a way of adapting Shaker principles of

oscillation adjustment, to trap the Shaker troops for ever within the

fabric of this building - and, I suspect, of Broadcasting House.'

'Why BBC buildings?' Maxine asked.

'I think I can guess,' said Max. 'Things were a lot more factional in

1940 than we like to admit now. Some were determined to fight to the

last drop. Others proposed fighting for a while, then negotiating a

peace deal. Not a few were in favour of teaming up with the Nazis

against Russia. I imagine that the faction of the government that was

dealing with the Shakers had allies inside the BBC.'

'So what released them?'

'The specific vibrations of your show,' said the Doctor. 'The shape

of this theatre, the layout of the auditorium, the precise placing of the

microphones, all set up an oscillation which allowed the Shakers, one

by one, to emerge from their prison. In a crowded recording session, all

eyes on the stage, they weren't spotted; they slipped away to do their

duty.'

'To kill members of the audience?' said Susan.

'They most have been in a kind of suspended state all these years.

Emerging, somewhat disorientated, and finding themselves in a theatre

full of laughing people, in what they thought was an occupied country,

they logically assumed that these happy, confident people were either

occupiers or collaborators. You see? And they were opportunistic in

selecting their victims - those they could catch alone and kill in secret.

They couldn't do much. I'm sure most of them died during their

captivity, so they were undermanned. But they did their awful best;

they kept their bargain.' Max could see the Doctor was unhappy at

having had to destroy the creatures. Still, he had to ask...

'How, dear boy? Not difficult, no, not difficult at all. Slaughter

rarely is. It took me a while to fully analyse their oscillations, but once

I'd done so I was able to produce vibration frequencies that made it

impossible for them to exist in this dimension.'

With seconds to spare, thought Max, though it would perhaps be

rude to mention the narrowness of their escape. 'Isn't it a somewhat

bizarre coincidence that the precise vibrations of Anyway should

release the Shakers?'

The Doctor sniffed. 'There are no coincidences,' he said.

'You mean because everything happens for a reason?'

'I most certainly do not! I mean because nothing happens for a

reason. What humans call coincidence is just their own awareness of a

pattern. Only arrogance or ignorance could think that your petty

patterns are of concern to the universe! Still, neither quality is one in

which you people seem to be in especially short supply.'

While the humans were still blinking at the insult - and at its

implications - the Doctor took a pack of cards from his pocket,

shuffled it, and dealt it out in perfect order, ace to king, hearts to

spades. 'Now, what is the probability of that?'

'The odds?' said Max. 'I happen to know that one: 635,053,559,600

to one.'

'Correct. Now watch this.' He dealt again, and Max felt let down

when the cards this time come out in an apparently random

arrangement.

'So, what are the "odds" against that? Hmm?'

'Oh, I get it!' said Maxine. 'Exactly the same as before.'

'Precisely, my dear. Every hand of cards ever dealt has odds of

635,003,559,600 to one against being dealt - and yet still they are

dealt! Patterns, you see; they're only there if you look for them.

Otherwise... well, it's just a meaningless hum in the background, isn't

it?'

Once Maxine and Max had finally gone home, and with nothing now

to prevent the ship operating, the Doctor wasted no time in heading

back to the TARDIS.

Where to now, Grandfather?' asked Susan as they entered the

control room. 'I suppose it could be anywhere, couldn't it?'

The Doctor began to operate levers on the ship's console. 'Quite, my

dear. I'm afraid so. I'm sorry - I know you were enjoying our time in

Totter's Lane.'

'You never know, Grandfather,' said Susan. 'Perhaps we'll find

ourselves back in 1963.'

'Don't be ridiculous, child. The chances of that happening are far

more than 635,013,559,600 to one!'

As the familiar noise of dematerialisation began, Susan felt a little

wistful. She'd liked the comedians, they were fun, and she wished she

could have known them longer. It would be marvellous to have some

younger shipmates to accompany them in their travels.

But, of course, that was an absurd daydream. Grandfather would

never in a thousand years agree to carrying passengers in the TARDIS.

'What do you mean, wait? I'm not the sort of person who's used to waiting!'

Emily had never seen the Doctor's face go so red. The MOD aide backed

away nervously.

'Nevertheless, sir. Until someone is available to see you and your friends, I'm

going to have to ask you to wait here.'

Emily put her hand on the Doctor's arm, trying to calm him down. As the

clerk left the ante-room, the Time Lord huffed and sighed but eventually was

able to sit down next to Will.

'And I don't know what you 're smirking at, young man!'

Will laughed. 'Nothing, Doctor.'

Emily sat down too, and the three waited in silence.

Then, Emily said, 'Doctor, what do you think happened?'

'I don't know, Emily. That's why we 're here.'

'But you must have some idea. The number of mysteries you've been

involved in over the years. They must have taught you something.'

The Doctor smiled at her, now totally relaxed.

'It's not as simple as that. And, anyway, what about you? You've been with

UNIT, what, a few years now? I would have thought that you'd know not to

expect anything other than the unexpected.'

'But are we talking a big conspiracy?' Emily continued. All those files being

destroyed became they detailed some great scandal that the British military

wants swept under the carpet? Or do you think we're going to find a cleaner

who's thrown the wrong set of papers into the bin?'

'Who knows?' The Doctor beamed. 'That's what so exciting, isn't it? That's

why, when I suggested this little trip, you didn't take too much convincing.'

'Maybe it'll be monsters from outer space,' said Will, taking out a cigarette

from his jacket pocket. He then seemed to think better of it, and placed it back in

its pack. What?' he said, ranching Emily's teasing look. 'I just thought it might

be "no smoking " in here.'

'In 1957?'Emily laughed. She was really taking to Will - she knew they'd be

good friends.

'Anyway...' Will turned to the Doctor. 'Colonel Chaudhry's right. You must

have some idea what we 're looking for. My money's on something paranormal

- it'll be ghosts or something.'

'Lieutenant,' sighed the Doctor. 'Why would ghosts delete records of

wartime activity 12 years after the event? And, at any rate, we should keep an

open mind. Quite often, events that appear to be magical or even from "beyond

the grave" have a completely different explanation.'

Short Trips:

The Quality of Leadership

Pretty much on every level, Allyn Gibson went non-traditional with this story.

The theme of The Quality of Leadership was encounters the Doctor had with

leaders throughout time and space. Plato isn't someone you think of as a

leader - certainly not in the same way as King Arthur, Queen Boudicca, King

Henry VIII, Martin Luther, Spartacus and Calpurnia, Emperor Theodoric, or

Sir William Wallace, all also represented in the anthology.

He went with the Sixth Doctor, the only one of the dozen authors to do so,

and in fact told a story that could not possibly have worked with any other

Doctor - or even this one at a different time, as the story was very much an

artefact of the Doctor's experiences in Trial of a Time Lord. And, since he was

doing Plato anyhow, he gave us the story in the form of a Socratic dialogue.

Yes, really.

In my admittedly biased opinion, this story is right up there with Steven

Moffat's seminal Continuity Errors in Virgin's Decalog 3: Consequences anthology in

1996. In both stories, the author just went completely bugnuts. And it worked

magnificently. (Whatever happened to that Moffat guy, anyhow? He seemed

talented...)

Anyhow, I am honoured to present to you Allyn Gibson's The Spindle of

Necessity.

Keith RA DeCandido

The Spindle of Necessity

Allyn Gibson

An adventure of the Sixth Doctor

Introduction by Michaelean Ferguson, PhD

A cache of ancient papyri discovered during an archaeological dig in

Serbia in March 2007 provided historians with their first look at the lost

Aristotelian dialogue, 'Eudemus'. Though known as a writer of

philosophical treatises, Aristotle also wrote a number of now-lost Socratic

dialogues, and it was the treatises, thought to have come from lecture

notes taken by students at his academy, the Lyceum, that were

translated into Arabic and rediscovered by the West at the time of the

Crusades. While the treatises reflect the division between Aristotle's

mature philosophy and that of his teacher Plato, scholars believed the

dialogues reflected the thinking of the young Aristotle, written in imitation

of Plato's own dialogues.

The recovery of 'Eudemus, or On the Soul', presents a number of

problems to the accepted understanding of Aristotle's works. By Socratic

standards, the dialogue is unconventional. Traditionally, Socrates is

present in the dialogue as the major participant, while Aristotle's

'Eudemus' occurs after Socrates's death and features Plato as its

primary character. The Plato presented in 'Eudemus' differs markedly

from the sage in the Aristotelian canon — one prone to doubt, flawed

reasoning, and flights of fancy. Uncharacteristically, 'Eudemus' features

several scenes, as one would find in a play. Perhaps, like Plato's

sequence of dialogues covering the arrest and trial of Socrates,

'Eudemus' comprises several distinct works that follow in succession,

with only the first entitled 'Eudemus'.

Unlike the Platonic dialogues, the titular character is not present

throughout the work, disappearing halfway into the dialogue with no

explanation. Rather, much of the interest of 'Eudemus' revolves around a

character known only as 'the Doctor' instead of by a proper name. Who

was this Doctor? 'Eudemus' describes a wise man, seemingly ancient

despite apparent youth. The dialogue makes no mention of a place of

origin, and while the Doctor is met in ancient Egypt he seems to have

retired there from places unknown. The Doctor is a singular character in

the dialogue, prone to making bizarre claims about his nature, his life

experiences, even his age. The Doctor's dialogue is insightful if

somewhat fanciful, and he remains the unidentifiable enigma at the heart

of 'Eudemus'.

The dialogue utilises concepts that were unknown at the time of the

manuscript's composition. Some words are transliterated from the

ancient Greek to English because we have no idea what Aristotle

actually meant by them. Other words are translated to give a poetic

flavour to the translation. Curiously, some words, if ordered differently,

suggest theoretical concepts that would not be discovered for two

millennia and, if placed into a modern context, would accurately describe

a thoroughly modern understanding of the universe.

Despite these issues, the discovery of 'Eudemus' adds a new work to

the Aristotelian canon. 'Eudemus' presents new insights into the

biography of Plato and sheds light onto the mystery years of Plato's life

in the immediate aftermath of Socrates's suicide.

April 2008

Michaelean Ferguson is Professor Emeritus of Philosophy at the

University of Richmond in Richmond, Virginia. She is the author of

Archimedes's Engine (1977). A book on the philosophical effects of

extraterrestrial encounters on the human conception of the universe is

forthcoming from the University of Chicago Press.

EUDEMUS, OR ON THE SOUL

i.

PLATO: The Egyptians are a strange people, civilised in their own

way, but with a variety of gods and devils that would confuse even those

of the Olympian pantheon. What knows Zeus of Osiris or Horus or

Sutekh? These names confuse me, and we see them not in our histories

of Atlantis or Troy.

EUDEMUS: Surely you know your Herodotus. Then you must know,

friend Plato, that the Egyptians are an older people than we of Greece.

Even our enemy, the Persians, have a history deeper than ours.

PLATO: True. Our Greek civilization is young compared to theirs, yet

the Greek worships not the gods of the Persian or the Egyptian. Their

gods are not our gods.

EUD.: Perhaps their gods are similar to ours, having the same wants

and desires as our gods. Perhaps what we name Zeus the Egyptian

names Osiris. Can these not be the same gods, merely under different

names?

PLATO: I concede that you may be correct. Yet, consider the tales we

heard days past, the stories of Atlantis and Troy. This storyteller knew

Atlantis by the same name as we. He knew Troy by the same name as

we. He is Egyptian. We are Greek. If we two peoples may know our

histories by the same names, surely we must know the gods by the

same names as well?

EUD.: Do we know our histories by the same name? Who is to say

that the Egyptian did not hear the tale of Troy from a passing Greek? Did

not Socrates's friend Critias learn the tale of Atlantis here in Egypt? We

do not know that these histories exist independent of one another.

PLATO: Then these traditions do not exist separate from one

another?

EUD.: I submit we cannot know for certain. If my supposition is

correct, then both Greece and Egypt may in time have separate

traditions of Atlantis and Troy as these stories are passed down from

historian to student, generation to generation. Just as Critias told

Socrates of Atlantis, and he taught you of Atlantis, so too will you teach

another of Atlantis. Likewise, the Egyptian tells his student of Atlantis,

and he will tell his student, and so on. Thus will two traditions form —

one Greek, one Egyptian — of the same tale, yet both springing from a

single source.

PLATO: Again, friend Eudemus, I must concede that you could be

correct. Your supposition had not occurred to me.

EUD.: What seek we here, Plato?

PLATO: You know the Street of the Gods in Athens?

EUD.: I visit it often seeking knowledge.

PLATO: Have you found knowledge?

EUD.: On occasion.

PLATO: I must confess. I am not a pious man.

EUD.: Was that not the crime for which Socrates was put to death?

The crime of impiety?

PLATO: It is.

EUD.: Then why have we come here?

PLATO: Knowledge. You sought knowledge from the oracles.

Consider: How do we know that the Greek gods are true?

EUD.: They are true because we are taught they are true from our

boyhood.

PLATO: You have never questioned the truth you are taught.

EUD.: I have not.

PLATO: Have you reason for believing the Greek but not the

Egyptian?

EUD.: I have been taught the Greek is true. Of the Egyptian I have

been taught nothing. Therefore, I do not know whether the Egyptian may

be true or not.

PLATO: Because you have not been taught?

EUD.: Because their gods are unknown to me.

PLATO: Shall we not listen to these mystics, then? Perhaps we may

learn something from them.

EUD.: Why should we listen to this mystic's tale? Does a tale of a

prophet named Issek tortured on wooden racks for venerating his god

with pottery further our knowledge?

PLATO: Is knowledge not its own end?

EUD.: What good is it to have knowledge if one does not act upon

that knowledge or if the knowledge is not useful? I may know the

numbers of stars in the sky or grains of sand in the ocean, but how is

such knowledge to my benefit? Likewise, I may know how to stop the

bleeding of a wound, but unless I am called upon to use that knowledge

it is useless to me.

PLATO: You raise valid questions, friend Eudemus. Must knowledge

have a use to be valuable, or may knowledge as an abstract have value?

EUD.: I submit that the former has greater weight than the latter.

Utility is more important than the theory.

PLATO: Consider this mystic.

EUD.: This old man? He appears feeble and is strangely attired for an

Egyptian. Yet he is clean-shaven in their style, and his white hair is

pulled back in an unusual fashion. His hand bears a blue ring. Why

should I consider him?

PLATO: He claims to be a magician.

EUD.: Have we not magicians in Athens?

PLATO: We do. Yet his Egyptian magic may be different than the

Greek. We should observe then consider whether he may impart

knowledge.

EUD.: We shall do as you suggest.

MAGICIAN: Travellers! What do you seek?

PLATO: You are a magician?

MAGICIAN: I am. I have powers over both life and death. Shall I

demonstrate?

EUD.: We should like that.

MAGICIAN: I shall restore this dead creature to life. This morning it

was a living chicken. Now, it is a lifeless object. Do you agree?

PLATO: By my sight it is dead.

MAGICIAN: Then I shall build a box on this table. Observe as I place

my panels as such. Now I place the lifeless thing within its sides. Now I

seal it with this lid. Observe! Is the box sealed?

EUD.: The box is sealed.

MAGICIAN: Then I shall utter the words that have been passed down

from master to pupil for generations and restore this dead creature to life.

Damvar! Allocar! Razzam!

EUD.: The smoke! The flash flight! How have you done this?

MAGICIAN: Observe, friends! The lifeless creature breathes again!

PLATO: A spry creature it is indeed, magician. Shall we catch it

before it vanishes into the crowd?

MAGICIAN: It concerns me not. I can buy another. You are Greeks?

EUD.: We come from Athens.

MAGICIAN: Why do two Greeks venture so far into Egypt?

PLATO: We seek a magician and the knowledge he offers.

MAGICIAN: How may this humble servant be of assistance?

PLATO: How did you learn this ability, to restore dead creatures to

life?

MAGICIAN: It is a secret passed down through time. I have travelled

far, I have seen much, I have learned much in my journeys. Now I am old

and weary. I no longer wish to journey as I did in younger days. I wish

merely for the chance to offer my abilities to those in need of them.

PLATO: Eudemus and I have undertaken a quest. I seek to return

one of the dead to the realm of the living.

MAGICIAN: You wish to bring a man back from the dead?

PLATO: I do.

MAGICIAN: What you seek will be most difficult, perhaps even

beyond my meagre abilities. The animals are easy. But a man? I make

no guarantees. Nor will my fee be insignificant for the service.

PLATO: I would expect no less.

STRANGER: Keep your money where it is, Athenian. The only

guarantee you shall receive from this charlatan is that a fool and his

money are easily parted.

MAGICIAN: Charlatan? Surely not! Who are you to accuse me thus?

You disrupt a business transaction made in good faith.

STRANGER: Good faith? You engage in trickery and call it 'good

faith'? Your definition is lacking.

MAGICIAN: I restored life to the chicken. How can I be a 'charlatan'

when I do as I say I would do?

STRANGER: You no more brought that chicken back to life than I am

the Pharaoh.

PLATO: Yet I saw this magician take a lifeless chicken and restore it

to life.

STRANGER: What you saw was nothing more than a cheap parlour

trick. One performed poorly at that.

MAGICIAN: Lies!

STRANGER: Observe, Greeks. I topple his table.

EUD.: A false bottom!

STRANGER: Indeed. Sleight of hand. The cloth covered a false

bottom beneath the tabletop, and the pyrotechnic display masked the

substitution of the live chicken held beneath the table for the dead

chicken in the box above. Am I correct, magician?

MAGICIAN: I admit nothing.

STRANGER: See, Greeks? His own words condemn him. When

confronted with his own perfidy he cannot admit to his actions.

PLATO: You have saved me from a mistake, stranger.

STRANGER: It is nothing.

EUD.: Should we stop the charlatan as he runs? Should we not report

him to the officials?

STRANGER: Whatever for, Athenian? Look about you. All these

vendors are charlatans of one form or another, selling their wares to the

unwary, taking the money and baubles of the poor, claiming they can

work magic. The only difference about this magician is that he was

caught in his activities. You will not see him tomorrow, I wager, but come

again in two days and you will find him here, this very spot, performing

the same trick, dazzling the same audience. The officials have better

things to do than to pursue such a pointless crime.

PLATO: You are cynical, stranger.

STRANGER: I have seen too much to be anything but cynical.

PLATO: Where are you from? You are clearly not an Egyptian.

Neither do you have the air of the Greek or the Persian about you. Nor

can I place your accent.

STRANGER: Do not mistake my prevention of a grievous error on

your part with any desire to engage with you in conversation on mine.

PLATO: Will you at least accept our thanks? You have saved us from

squandering our funds on this charlatan and his tricks.

STRANGER: Unnecessary. Not everyone has a careful eye along the

bazaar. What things appear to be and what they are differ markedly.

Keep your wits about you.

PLATO: I am on a quest to gain knowledge. I could use someone with

your wisdom.

STRANGER: You are Plato. You have wisdom enough of your own.

PLATO: You know my name, stranger. Will you at least tell me yours?

STRANGER: I am known as the Doctor.

ii.

EUDEMUS: Why have we returned to the bazaar, friend Plato?

PLATO: Perhaps we shall find the Doctor here amidst the patrons of

the street.

EUD.: Why do we seek him?

PLATO: I believe he would be of invaluable help in our quest.

EUD.: To bring a man back from the dead?

PLATO: The same.

EUD.: Has man ever returned from the dead?

PLATO: Consider what Socrates spoke to Cebes on the eve of his

death on the subject of the soul. 'There comes into my mind an ancient

doctrine which affirms that they' — it is the soul here that Socrates

speaks of— 'go from hence into the other world, and returning hither, are

born again from the dead. Now if it be true that the living come from the

dead, then our souls must exist in the other world, for if not, how could

they have been born again?'

EUD.: How can we know that Socrates's proposition is correct?

PLATO: Does not the maggot come from the decaying body? Does

not the butterfly come from the dying caterpillar?

EUD.: These are true.

PLATO: Can we not say that life comes from lifelessness, a great

cycle from birth to death to rebirth?

EUD.: Let me ask you this — whence goes the soul after death?

PLATO: If the gods dwell in the heavens, as our myths tell us, then I

submit that the soul must ascend into the heavens to rejoin with the gods

that created it. Upon rebirth, the soul returns from the heavens and is

reborn to the infant to grow into adulthood.

EUD.: Your conclusion leaves me uncertain. It does not seem

provable to me. At most we can say that in some circumstances life

comes from lifelessness. Nor can we say for certain that souls ascend

and descend. I am uncertain if we can say that the process that creates

maggots and butterflies from the dead is the same process that gives to

an infant a soul that had once been in a man.

PLATO: I accept your uneasiness. But consider! Did not the magician

say in days past that he had seen much in his travels? Can we not say

that his knowledge may be greater in areas than our knowledge?

EUD.: We can say that. But was he not unmasked as a trickster? How

can we say that what he purported to be knowledge was in fact truth? If

his demonstration was a lie, then how can we know that he knows

anything that was not also a lie?

PLATO: He was indeed a trickster. One can only trick the unwary,

therefore the magician must have knowledge greater than those who

would observe him. Indeed, did not the magician trick us, and were we

not wary? If he could trick us, surely his knowledge in some areas

surpasses ours. Can we not say that the man who revealed the trickery

must have a knowledge even greater than the trickster?

EUD.: I believe we can say this. The Doctor saw through the trickery

where we did not.

PLATO: For that very reason we seek the Doctor. He knows things

we do not know. He can help us to answer Socrates's maxim.

EUD.: Is that not the Doctor?

PLATO: It appears so. Look at how he towers above the others on

the street. Look at his long blond hair and how it falls curling across his

shoulders. Only one so secure in himself would allow himself to be seen

in such an unkempt fashion and in such garish attire.

EUD.: Observe, friend Plato. Does it not appear that the Doctor

himself seeks knowledge from the priests? Then may he lack the

knowledge you seek?

PLATO: Yet did we not days past observe the magician to gain

knowledge? Even Socrates, despite knowing much, did not know all.

Can we not presume that the Doctor, too, knows much but not all?

EUD.: We may presume that.

PLATO: Let us hear the things the Doctor hears and gain knowledge

of our own.

PRIEST: The word of the mighty Osiris, whose word is truth, has

passed from generation to generation. Today I speak the story of the

extinction of the Utchat, what we call the Eye of Horus, and of the

dimming of the moon on the day that the two brothers, Horus and

Sutekh, met in battle. The mighty Sutekh, god of the desert, murdered

the father Osiris. His brother Horus, god of the sky, sought revenge for

their father's murder and challenged Sutekh to combat for their father's

body. In the Valley of the Kings they met, in the shadows of the

Pyramids. Sutekh called upon the desert and a mighty sandstorm blotted

out both sun and sky, depriving Horus of his powers.

PLATO: What is this, Doctor? Is this an Egyptian myth?

DOCTOR: It is a story from the Book of the Dead.

PRIEST: Judging Sutekh to have an advantage in the battle, Thoth

came and removed an eye of Horus as both eyes were clouded by

Sutekh's storms. 'I remove the thundercloud from the sky when there is a

thunderstorm,' spoke Thoth. The storm raged at the thundercloud that

Sutekh sent forth against the Eye of Ra, the sun itself. Thoth banished

the thundercloud from Ra's eye, and he returned the Eye — living and

healthy and cleansed, perfect and without defect — to Horus. The

thunderclouds henceforth came from a sickness in the heart of the Eye

of Ka as it wept for its companion eye, that of the Moon. Thus is the

Moon dimmer than the sun, for it was taken from Horus and then

returned. Such is the word of the mighty Osiris whose word is truth.

PLATO: What manner of story is this?

DOCTOR: You have heard a tale, Athenian, that explains what the

Egyptians believe about the sun and the moon. Horus and Ka, these are

sun gods. In some legends they are different, while in other legends they

are the same. The eyes of Horus are the sun and the moon. Sutekh

dimmed both eyes. The sun is the eye removed by Thoth, the moon is

the uncleansed eye. This is the mythology these people hold, this is their

explanation for the universe.

EUD.: Is it true?

DOCTOR: Is it any more true than your mythology of Apollo? Do you

look upon the sun and say, 'That is the god Apollo as his chariot races

through the skies'?

EUD.: There are many who do say such.

DOCTOR: Do you?

EUD.: It is what I believe.

DOCTOR: Do you also believe, Plato?

PLATO: I believe there are gods who dwell upon the heavens. Does

that mean I look upon the sun and see Apollo? Does that mean I look

upon the moon and see Artemis? I do not know.

DOCTOR: Why do you doubt?

PLATO: Our myths tell us the gods influence the affairs of man. Yet

the sun and the moon are inactive, and beyond the measurement of time

they have no influence upon our lives.

DOCTOR: That is a good reason.

PLATO: I must also consider this tale we have just heard. The Greek

believes that the sun and the moon are gods. The Egyptian believes that

the sun and the moon are the eyes of a god. Both stories cannot be true.

DOCTOR: Why must either be true? Could not the truth be a tale you

have not yet heard?

PLATO: I confess, Doctor, I do know.

DOCTOR: You sought me out, Plato. I would know why.

PLATO: I have need of your wisdom.

DOCTOR: I am flattered. Why do you say I have wisdom?

PLATO: Your eyes are old, yet you appear no older than I.

DOCTOR: Why would you say I am no older than you?

PLATO: Your hair is blond, curly, and long. Your beard is dark,

though still blond. Neither are streaked through with the white hairs

acquired with age. Nor is your face weathered and wrinkled. I submit that

you have seen no more than thirty-five years.

DOCTOR: I have seen many times those number of years.

EUD.: By your appearance, surely not.

DOCTOR: Appearances may deceive the senses.

PLATO: That is true. Socrates taught our bodies are merely imperfect

vessels. He also taught that the soul may return to live again. Could your

soul have been reborn with a new vessel to bear it?

DOCTOR: I have only ever been the Doctor. I have never been

another.

PLATO: How may your soul be older than your body, then?

DOCTOR: You know the butterfly?

EUD.: We do.

DOCTOR: Does not the butterfly begin life as another creature, the

caterpillar?

EUD.: It does.

DOCTOR: Could not the same be possible for me? Might I have

stages of life where, like the caterpillar, I transform into the butterfly?

PLATO: I have never known a man to transform in such a manner.

DOCTOR: The infant becomes the child. The child becomes the

youth. The youth becomes the man. Are these not distinct stages of life?

Are these not transformations?

PLATO: They are. Yet I know of no transformation, save death and

decay, after the youth becomes a man.

DOCTOR: Perhaps I am not a man.

EUD.: You have the shape of a man. You have the speech of a man.

DOCTOR: Yet, do you not agree that appearances may deceive? Are

not your senses imperfect because they are physical and thus limited?

PLATO: I do. They are.

DOCTOR: Then must something that appears as a man be a man?

PLATO: No. The gods appear as men though they are not men.

DOCTOR: That is a good example.

PLATO: Then you are a god?

DOCTOR: I have met your gods, Plato. I am not a god.

EUD.: The gods? Are they like men, but not?

DOCTOR: If you mean, do the gods resemble men in countenance,

then the answer is yes. If you mean, do the gods resemble men in

personality, vanity, and weakness, then that answer, too, is yes. The

gods are to us as we are to an insect. They are no more aware of us

than we are of the fly. Do not look to your gods, Plato, for they have no

interest in you.

PLATO: My only interest in the gods is to answer the challenge of

Socrates.

DOCTOR: Which challenge is that?

PLATO: Socrates said that he knew that he did not know. I, too, know

that there are things I do not know. Therefore, I shall find the answers to

the questions I have not yet asked because I do not know yet to ask

them.

DOCTOR: How shall you find those answers?

PLATO: I shall ask the gods myself.

DOCTOR: How would you ask the gods? Climb Mount Olympus? If

you wish to do so you should never have left Greece.

PLATO: The gods do not reside on Mount Olympus.

DOCTOR: Your mythologies state that they do.

PLATO: The mythologies are incorrect.

DOCTOR: If not Mount Olympus, then where?

PLATO: I seek the axis mundi.

DOCTOR: The axis of the world. The spindle on which the heavens

turn. Why?

PLATO: I intend to find the axis, scale it into the heavens, and look

upon the gods themselves.

DOCTOR: Do not the Greeks believe that the axis mundi is Mount

Olympus itself?

PLATO: The axis mundi cannot be Mount Olympus as the heavens

do not revolve around Mount Olympus. Therefore, Mount Olympus

cannot be the spindle upon which the heavens turn.

DOCTOR: I will agree, the heavens do not rotate around an axis

through Mount Olympus. Why do you believe there is an axis mundi?

PLATO: I am told, by those who know such things, the heavens

revolve around a point in space to the north. I have no reason to doubt

them. I am no astronomer.

DOCTOR: I assure you that your astronomers have told you truth.

There is an axis, and from our perspective here in Egypt it lies to the

north.

EUD.: You are certain?

DOCTOR: You have seen the Pyramids?

PLATO: Herodotus wrote of them. I have seen no feat of human

endeavour so magnificent in my life. I cannot imagine the labour and

expertise that went into their construction. How would one even conceive

of such a thing?

DOCTOR: A man much as you conceived of such a thing as the

Pyramids. While the methods may be beyond your understanding, be

assured that the methods were understood and known by those who

used them.

PLATO: No man may know everything, that is true. I need not have

the expertise to build the Pyramids because I have no need to build the

Pyramids, yet there are those who do know because they needed to

know.

DOCTOR: Precisely.

EUD.: I must ask, why do you bring up the Pyramids? I fail to see

their relevance to the axis mundi.

DOCTOR: Would it interest you to know that the Great Pyramid, the

largest and most impressive of the Pyramids in the Valley of Kings, is

oriented to the celestial north? The Egyptians have astronomical

knowledge that far outstrips the Greeks'. The north face of the pyramid

directly faces the north pole. It is about that point in space that the

heavens turn.

PLATO: Would it not stand to reason that if there is a point in the

northern sky about which the heavens turn then there must be a point in

the southern sky as well? The Pythagoreans claim the Earth is round,

and if so then an axis through the Earth on which the heavens turn must

terminate at points both north and south.

DOCTOR: Well reasoned.

PLATO: If the heavens turn about this axis through the Earth, then

would it not stand to reason that the axis mundi would be located both

north and south? Could we not reach the pole — the word I believed you

used — and there find the axis mundi, the spindle on which the heavens

turn?

DOCTOR: Your reasoning is not without merit, Plato, but I must ask

you. Assuming you could find the axis mundi what would you expect to

find there?

PLATO: I would expect to find a route into the heavens. A hill, an

incline, perhaps even a tower. The heavens must rest upon some

support. One could scale the support, reach the heavens, and speak with

the gods.

DOCTOR: Pardon my amusement, but I have not heard such folly in

five hundred years! I knew a man — a thief by trade — who described

you as a moron. Socrates, too, for that matter, and your pupil Aristotle.

PLATO: Aristotle? I am unfamiliar with the name.

DOCTOR: You have yet to meet him.

PLATO: We are all morons, so says this man?

DOCTOR: I have seen little to convince me otherwise.

PLATO: You think my plan folly?

DOCTOR: It is madness. You proceed on the assumption that there is

an axis mundi to find. Have you ever met a traveller who has spoken of it

in his travels? Have you any reason beyond myth to believe it exists?

You could search the Earth a dozen lifetimes, Plato, and never find what

you seek.

EUD.: Is not Plato's reasoning sound?

DOCTOR: His reasoning for its location is sound. His reasoning for its

existence is not.

PLATO: Unless I see for myself, how may I be certain?

DOCTOR: You wish to speak with gods. You sought to hire a

magician to restore a man from the dead. What is it you seek, Plato?

What do you think the gods can give you?

PLATO: If my master Socrates was correct in believing himself to

possess a soul, indestructible, and if, upon his death, his soul was freed

from the confines of his physical body and returned to the heavens,

could I not induce the gods to return his soul to Earth in a new form?

Could I not bring the wisdom of Socrates back from the heavens? Is this

not a worthy goal?

DOCTOR: A worthy goal? How can you believe any of that? I thought

Socrates taught you a life of reason, but this goal of yours is a life of

madness! Where is your reasoning, Plato?

PLATO: Did Socrates not say that the soul, coming as it does from

the divine, is both eternal and immortal? Did Socrates not say that the

body, composed as it is of the physical elements, is impure and thus

inferior of the divine? Did not Socrates say that the soul, once freed of

the constraints of the physical body, would return to its divine state, to be

reborn in a new body?

DOCTOR: Socrates said all of these things, but that does not make

them right. I could say that the Earth is a cube, but that would not make it

so.

PLATO: Yet Socrates's reasoning is logical.

DOCTOR: I said to a young woman many years from now, 'Logic

merely enables one to be wrong with authority.' Your logic is specious.

You assume facts not in evidence. You draw conclusions from those

assumed facts that cannot be borne.

PLATO: What facts are those, Doctor?

DOCTOR: You assume the mind has an existence separate from the

body.

PLATO: How can it not? From cadavers we know that blood comes

from the heart, that air comes into the lungs, that food goes into the

stomach. Can you point to an organ and say, 'This produces the soul'?

DOCTOR: What of the brain? Did not Alcmaeon the Pythagorean

suggest the brain as the seat of intelligence?

PLATO: Yet it appears to do nothing. When I love, I feel it in my heart.

When I hunger, I feel it in my stomach. When I thirst, I feel it in my

mouth. When I tire, I feel it in my eyes. If the brain seats intelligence,

should I not feel these sensations in the brain instead of the body? Yet

the brain produces no sensation save one, that of pain.

DOCTOR: Just because you cannot observe a thing does not make it

so.

PLATO: Nor do your assertions that I am incorrect make them so. If I

am wrong, prove to me that I am wrong. But merely tell me that I am

wrong? Where is your authority in such matters? My logic would suffice

for Socrates and he was the best and wisest man I have ever known.

Should that not suffice for you?

DOCTOR: If I could offer you proofs you would understand I would. If

I could offer you reasons you would accept I would give them. I have

neither to offer. I have only the experience of lifetimes. You say I have

old eyes. Is it not possible that they have seen more than you imagine?

PLATO: You have old eyes, true, but even the wonders you have

seen do not dissuade me from my course. I seek the axis mundi and an

audience with the gods.

DOCTOR: You mean to go, then?

PLATO: Nothing you have said convinces me I am wrong.

DOCTOR: If that is your decision, then I shall accompany you if you

will have me.

PLATO: But you have called my plans madness?

DOCTOR: How could I refuse such a quest? I have walked halfway

across the world and seen the wonders of China. I have seen three suns

rise at dawn. I have witnessed the births of stars and the deaths of

planets. If you mean to do this, then I see little choice. I will go with you

in search of the axis mundi. An adventure into the unknown? I am drawn

to that as a moth is drawn to flame.

EUD.: Why the change of heart?

DOCTOR: We all have our destinies. If Plato wishes to return and

fulfil his destiny, he could have no better companion than I. Some of us

have seen our destinies. I will help him find the axis mundi.

iii.

PLATO: Sailing master, what make you of this weather?

PYRRHO: I have been a trade ship master for many years, Master

Plato, and I have never seen seas so calm and wind so perfect. If I did

not know better I would say that the gods themselves had blessed us on

our journey.

PLATO: You do not believe in the gods, Master Pyrrho?

PYRRHO: I have travelled to many places and seen many things in

my thirty years at sea. The gods never explained anything, they were

merely stories, and I have seen nothing I could not take for natural.

PLATO: But what of that storm to the south? Is that natural?

PYRRHO: I do not know. It concerns your friend the Doctor greatly.

He has stood at the bow all night. Even in our near-moonless sky the

clouds could be seen. He watched them.

PLATO: We make good time towards them. They grow swiftly in our

approach.

PYRRHO: Forty days have passed since we left Ethiopia. Since the

shores fell from view we have not sighted land. For eight days the sky

has been cloudless, and though the ocean has been calm strong winds

drive us south. Though unnatural to you, I have experienced them before

and they hold no terrors for me. Those clouds to the south, however, are

unlike anything I have seen. They concern me as well.

PLATO: They have grown much since last night? I must confess, I

have not the mind for such observations.

PYRRHO: They have indeed grown much overnight. Though I have

not asked him, I believe that has concerned the Doctor greatly and has

prompted his vigil at the ship's bow.

PLATO: He has seen much, and he may have experience with such

things.

PYRRHO: I should tell you, Master Plato, the crew grows restless. I

have heard rumours of mutiny.

PLATO: Then let us hope that the Doctor offers insight into these ill-

looking clouds and matters aboard ship do not reach such an end.

DOCTOR: Nine hundred years, and I have never seen clouds the like

of these. Grey-green they are, billowing much as a storm cloud, yet they

have not the movement of a summer storm. Instead, they seem painted

on the sky like a fixed thing, and as we approach they grow larger in our

sight. Was it not at dusk that they were merely a hand in height from the

horizon? Now they reach a third of the way to the zenith. As we sail

further south, the more these clouds loom larger above us. In mere hours

they will blot the sun from our sight.

PLATO: Did you not think this voyage was folly?

DOCTOR: You run from your past, do you not? Your master Socrates

lies dead, the winds of politics in Athens shift, and you are no longer

welcome there, correct?

PLATO: These things are true. Do you also run, hence your

reluctance? You feared that this journey would bring to mind events long

buried in your psyche?

DOCTOR: I too run, Plato, but not from my past. It is my psyche that

concerns me. Things dwell within my mind I wish I did not know. You run

from your past, and in time the winds will shift in Athens once more and

you will return and escape your past. I run from something else. I run

from my future, and I will never escape it.

PLATO: No man knows the future, despite what the oracles of the

Street of the Gods in Athens may believe and proclaim to the gullible.

DOCTOR: I have met my future. A dark and evil future it was.

Curiosity and nobility were replaced with arrogance and greed.

Compassion was replaced with indifference. How could a soul become

so corrupt? How could a life dedicated to justice become so chaotic?

PLATO: Your words are incomprehensible. You cannot speak of

yourself, surely? While I do not believe entirely that you, like a caterpillar,

may transform into a new form, do you suggest that you will become

something different and anathemetical to everything that you are?

DOCTOR: I do not suggest it, Plato. I have met the man I will

become. I looked into his eyes, I saw the twisted thing I shall become.

With every fibre of my being I reject the Valeyard and all he stands for,

yet as surely as day becomes night I shall, in the fullness of time, meet

my destiny as the Valeyard. I hide from that destiny, Plato. Why should I

go forward in all my beliefs when I know some day I shall reject every

belief I hold dear?

PLATO: How can you look into another's eyes and see what you will

become? I do not understand.

DOCTOR: Are we not sailing across the seas? Are we not moving

from one point to another?

PLATO: We are.

DOCTOR: Imagine time is but another sea. Just as this boat sails

from Ethiopia to unknown shores imagine there are ships that sail from

tomorrow into yesterday.

PLATO: You suggest that time itself is like the sea? That one can

move from place to place in time, from the time of Atlantis to times yet to

be, just as one can move from place to place on this Earth?

DOCTOR: I say the very thing.

PLATO: I cannot conceive of a vessel that could traverse the seas of

time.

DOCTOR: Neither could you conceive of how the Pyramids were

constructed, yet they were conceived by the mind of man and built by the

hands of man.

PLATO: Yet no sight could convince me that one might journey into

the future or past.

DOCTOR: Perhaps not. I could tell you of engineering stars and eyes

of harmony, yet these words would mean nothing to you. Some things

must be taken on faith instead of reason and experience. Experience

tells you I have an ancient soul and a young body. My offered

explanation is one you either accept on faith or reject on reason.

PLATO: But how can you say that you could look into this Valeyard's

eyes and see your own future? He cannot be you.

DOCTOR: I tell you that he is. I travel in time, Plato. Just as we sail

across this sea, I have traversed the vortex of time. On occasion I have

met myself in defiance of the laws of time. My people captured me and

placed me on trial. The Valeyard was the prosecutor, and the fate of my

soul was at stake. Imagine that, to be prosecuted by the evil, twisted

being I am to become! I triumphed and defeated the Valeyard's plan to

possess my soul, but in so doing I came away with the certain

knowledge of my own doom. In time, I will be that Valeyard. I will

prosecute myself for crimes never committed. No man can escape his

destiny.

PLATO: I do not understand your tale, Doctor, but did you not say in

Egypt that you were not a man? Men have destinies, they are

determined by the Fates. If you are not a man, perhaps you may escape

your destiny.

DOCTOR: I applaud your optimism, but it is misplaced. I will not

escape my fate, just as we will not escape this oncoming storm.

PLATO: Why do you say that?

DOCTOR: Do you not see it? There, on the horizon? A land I know

cannot exist.

PLATO: Then how can it be here?

DOCTOR: Something has drawn us here, Plato, and we meet our

destiny on these unknown shores.

iv.

PLATO: Why did you order the ship to sail back to Ethiopia? You

have stranded us in an unknown land with no means to return.

DOCTOR: By rights this land should not exist. We sailed due south

from Ethiopia. What verdant plain is this? Where are the glaciers?

Whatever force brought us here and created this land will hold the power

to return us to Greece.

PLATO: Stormclouds rage overhead, yet they bring no rain, and

Master Pyrrho's crew thought them unnatural. If these clouds are

unnatural, could not this land be unnatural as well? Could the axis mundi

be here?

DOCTOR: Is that reason or hope, Plato?

PLATO: Perhaps both? Perhaps this unnatural land is the base of the

axis mundi and from it rises the Spindle of Necessity. Can we not say

that air is a fluid like water? If the spheres of the heavens turn on the

Spindle, then might the turning of the spheres churn the air as a stone

tossed in a pond churns the water? Could not this storm be produced by

the very forces that turn the sky about us each day? If I am correct, then

these oppressive clouds must hide the axis mundi from our vision. If they

would clear we could see our way into the heavens and the gods

themselves.

DOCTOR: If you are correct and a spindle rises through the clouds to

rotate the heavens about us, then yes, a coriolis effect as you describe

would disrupt the atmosphere and cause the storms about us.

PLATO: Is this storm not the proof we seek? Does this not confirm

that the spindle exists?

DOCTOR: You have no proof, merely a theory that aligns with the

facts. But I tell you, I have seen the Earth from the heavens. No spindle

rises, nor do the heavens rest upon pillars. The stars and planets do not

turn on spheres about the Earth. The Earth is not the centre of the

universe. The Earth is but an object in space, just as the sun and the

moon and the stars are all objects in space, as solid as the Earth. That is

why this I name this quest folly, because it is predicated on assumptions

of the universal nature that are demonstrably false.

PLATO: Do you not see them? Do you not hear them?

DOCTOR: I see nothing. I hear nothing. Plato, why are you kneeling?

What are these shapes arising from the mists? You three are women,

taller than I am by half, suffused with an unearthly glow. What are you?

FIRST: Do you not recognise us?

SECOND: We have watched over you through time and space.

THIRD: You cannot escape us.

DOCTOR: Why do I hear ethereal echoes in your voices as though

your words were everywhere and nowhere? Why do I hear in your words

the language of Gallifrey?

FIRST: You are the one we sought, Doctor.

SECOND: Plato was merely a convenient actor to draw you into our

drama.

THIRD: We are the Fates, and you must embrace your destiny.

DOCTOR: I do not accept you. You cannot be what you claim to be!

CLOTHO (FIRST): I remember your birth, Time Lord. I spun the cords

of your life. I remember your mother. I placed my hand upon her swollen

belly. I ran my fingers across her red hair. She was quite beautiful.

LACHESIS (SECOND): I measured out the cords of your lives. Some

of the cords were long. Some were short. Some cords, Time Lord, are

mysterious even to me for their endings and beginnings even I cannot

see.

ATROPOS (THIRD): I have cut the cords of your life many times. I

have many cords yet to cut. You cannot escape your destiny by hiding in

this time and place.

DOCTOR: No! I have seen my destiny, and I refuse it!

LACHESIS: You would turn your back upon the man you once were,

upon all the deeds you have accomplished? Why reject the man you

are?

DOCTOR: I have lived my life for justice, and I will not see that life

corrupted! I have seen the man I shall become, and I would rather turn

my back on the life I have led than allow that man to come to be.

CLOTHO: What could we say to convince you otherwise?

DOCTOR: There is nothing you can say. I wish to live my remaining '-

)Tears in a life of tranquility!

LACHESIS: Then observe, Doctor. Arise, Plato and awake! Your

quest is at its end.

PLATO: What has happened? Who are these women?

DOCTOR: They claim to be the Fates, Plato, unlikely though I find

their claim.

PLATO: Observe, Doctor. The clouds above us part. What is that

becoming clear to my sight in the mists? A mountain rising into the sky,

stretching into infinity? Nothing I have ever seen has risen into the sky as

does that spire. Fates, I ask you! What is that?

CLOTHO: The mountain is the axis mundi, Plato. The spire you see is

the Spindle of Necessity rising into the heavens.

LACHESIS: Did you not seek this?

PLATO: I did, Fates, but such was not the entirety of my quest.

ATROPOS: No, Plato, it was not. And so we shall fulfil it for you now.

PLATO: Doctor, we are flying!

CLOTHO: We ascend into the spheres of the heavens, Plato.

DOCTOR: How is this possible? This is beyond all my experience.

LACHESIS: What do your senses tell you?

DOCTOR: My senses tell me that I rise into the sky. But I know that

the senses may deceive. As my senses tell me things I know cannot be

true, I must conclude that you deceive my senses.

CLOTHO: Can you not accept that your senses do not lie?

DOCTOR: I trust my senses, Fates, but I harbour a healthy

scepticism.

LACHESIS: As all should, Doctor. Do we not approach the moon? If

we were to step upon the moon might you believe the experience of your

senses instead of the preconceptions of your mind?

DOCTOR: They are not preconceptions. Rather, they are knowledge

based upon the experience of nine hundred years.

ATROPOS: Step with us onto the moon and decide.

PLATO: What is this place, Fates?

LACHESIS: You have seen the moon in the sky, yes? You stand

upon the moon. Look into the sky and see the Earth. See, there?

Greece. There? Egypt. There? Persia. No living man has ever had your

perspective upon the Earth, Plato.

PLATO: The Earth appears to be curved, as if a ball in space, just as

the Pythagoreans believe. Those pillars extending outward from the

world from top to bottom must be the Spindles rising from the axis mundi.

LACHESIS: Indeed. They are the pillars upon which the heavens

turn. The planets, the sun, the moon, the stars, each on its own sphere,

turning in its own time and manner. Look to the west. What do you see?

PLATO: That bright light. That cannot be the sun, surely?

CLOTHO: It is, indeed.

PLATO: It appears so different.

DOCTOR: You see the light of the sun from an angle. Its light shines

not on you but on the Earth below. Is that not right, Fates?

ATROPOS: Correct.

DOCTOR: I have walked upon the moon many times. It never looked

thus. Is that not an edge I see? Does it not appear that we stand within a

convex bowl? Were I to walk the edge, would I fall into space? Will you

come with me, Plato, and see what lies beyond the moon's limb?

PLATO: We are the first to set foot upon the moon. Who would

believe this?

DOCTOR: I would not believe this. Even now I am not certain to trust

my senses. Here we stand at the edge of the moon. I peer over the edge

and I see the stars below. If I step out beyond the limb of the moon, what

will my feet land upon? Will I fall out into space and drift for eternity?

What do you think, Plato?

PLATO: Do not do it, Doctor!

DOCTOR: I have no fear. I have seen my destiny, and I know my

lives do not end in the empty void of this time and place. I step out, and

— Look at this, Plato! I stand upon what seems to be open space! Come,

Plato! You can walk upon open space as well. I look down at my feet and

see stars below. I stand upon the inner surface of the moon's sphere,

something I know to be impossible. Will not Claudius Ptolemy write that

the planets and stars are fixed upon crystal spheres turning about the

Earth?

CLOTHO: Why should the heavens not revolve around the Earth?

LACHESIS: Why should the universe as you know it remain fixed so?

DOCTOR: I walked the sands of worlds in galaxies beyond sight and

mind. I have flown through supernovae. I have witnessed the birth of

planets. The universe is vast beyond the comprehension of the mind. Yet

if I stand upon the inner surface of the moon's crystal sphere then the

universe cannot be so vast as I know it to be. The universe cannot

reconfigure itself on such massive scale. A geocentric universe cannot

become a cosmos in which Earth is merely one mote in the eternal night.

CLOTHO: Let us visit Mars, and perhaps you will reconsider the

experience of your senses.

LACHESIS: Look about you, Doctor. Is this the Mars you know?

DOCTOR: This is a formless red plain, Fates. Where are the

mountains? Where are the vast cities?

PLATO: This is such a smaller place than the moon. I could walk from

one edge to its opposite number in minutes, whereas on the moon it

would have required an hour. In the sky the Earth is much smaller than it

was before, and the sun, now further off, is much dimmed.

DOCTOR: The Fates claim this place is Mars.

PLATO: I would not have thought of the planets as a place in the sky.

They appear so small, just points of light like the fixed stars. Yet I can

see the reason. If the Earth is so small from here, then so too would this

small island in the cosmos be a small point of light when seen from

Greece.

DOCTOR: But what of the people who should live here, Plato? I know

the peoples who dwell here. Theirs is a noble civilization, predating

man's by millennia. This is not the Mars I have seen flowering in

springtime. I do not know this place.

CLOTHO: What of you, Plato? What do you think of this place?

PLATO: Are the other wandering stars places such as this?

LACHESIS: Not all of them. Do you see that one, far to the east?

PLATO: It is bright, almost as a sun itself.

ATROPOS: That is Saturn.

PLATO: Why do you show Saturn to me?

CLOTHO: There we shall find the souls of the departed.

DOCTOR: How can we find the soul of a dead man on Saturn?

ATROPOS: When I cut the thread of life, the soul is drawn back into

the heavens and towards its home on Saturn. The light of all souls that

dwell there make Saturn luminous.

CLOTHO: Come, Plato, let us find your master Socrates.

PLATO: I have never seen a city the likes of this! No city in Greece or

Egypt could be so magical. The people, are they souls of the deceased?

ATROPOS: Many are.

CLOTHO: Others have yet to be born.

DOCTOR: Why do they glow?

LACHESIS: You see the life-energy within the souls, not the souls

themselves. The formless souls you see are not yet born. The formed

souls are the deceased, and their souls are shaped by the form of the

bodies they occupied in life.

PLATO: What of my master, Socrates? Will I recognise him?

ATROPOS: Who is this soul here?

PLATO: Master? Is it you?

SOUL: How have you come here?

PLATO: I sought to prove your final lesson.

SOUL / SOCRATES: On the immortality of the soul?

PLATO: The same.

SOCRATES: Why?

PLATO: Because I have come to understand that logic and reason

are not all that defines human existence and the universe. One must

gain experience from the world rather than reason alone.

SOCRATES: There may be reason in your words. Shall we discuss

them?

PLATO: We shall, master, but can you pardon me for a moment?

SOCRATES: We have all the time in the world.

PLATO: Fates, may I return to the Earth with Socrates's soul?

CLOTHO: In the fullness of time, perhaps. But not today. His time is

not yet come.

PLATO: Then I would beg your leave to allow me to remain here with

my master for a time so that I might learn from him, and thence return

with his wisdom to a world sorely in need of it.

LACHESIS: We shall permit this. Whether it is one year or five, we

shall allow you the time you require and then return you to your place in

Greece where you shall fulfil your destiny.

PLATO: I thank you, Fates. I must also thank you, Doctor, for coming

so far on this journey.

DOCTOR: You will be happy here?

PLATO: For a time, yes. And you? What shall you do?

DOCTOR: That is in the Fates' hands. May you escape your past,

Plato.

PLATO: May you escape your future, Doctor.

DOCTOR: Fates! Have you more to show me?

CLOTHO: We do, Doctor.

LACHESIS: Do you wish to see it?

ATROPOS: You will want to know.

DOCTOR: Know what?

LACHESIS: What lies beyond the stars, Doctor.

DOCTOR: Beyond the stars?

ATROPOS: Let us stand on the sphere of the stars.

LACHESIS: From here the Earth is merely another light in the sky.

CLOTHO: What lies beneath your feet, Doctor?

DOCTOR: I stand upon a black void. The stars are as spotlights

shining into the night.

ATROPOS: Do you wish to see what is on the other side?

DOCTOR: In the geocentric universe the stars are the edge of the

universe. By definition there can be nothing beyond. Though I know the

Ptolemaic universe is impossible, I cannot deny the evidence of my

senses.

CLOTHO: Let us step beyond. Close your eyes, Doctor.

DOCTOR: I feel a breeze, Fates.

LACHESIS: Open your eyes. Look beneath your feet. What do you

see?

DOCTOR: I see a surface, formless and grey. But where does the

light originate? If we are beyond the universe how can we see?

ATROPOS: Look up, Doctor. Perhaps that will answer your questions.

DOCTOR: And be driven mad by the beings that live beyond the

fabric of space and time?

CLOTHO: Do you not trust to your innate curiosity? You must know,

Doctor. That is who you are. When you were born I determined your fate,

and that fate was to be curious in all things.

LACHESIS: Do you not trust yourself? Others have always trusted in

you, and when I measured out the threads of your life I saw that your

lives would end because of the trust others placed in you.

ATROPOS: Do you not trust to fate? You have seen a future, true,

but have you not walked in eternity? You have seen things that may

happen in time, but they do not happen today. You have many days still

ahead of you.

DOCTOR: Very well. I shall look into the void beyond the universe.

How can this be? Nothing I see is possible!

CLOTHO: What do you see, Doctor?

DOCTOR: I see galaxies and their great spiraled arms. I see comets

streaking through the skies. Light comes from everywhere for stars are

all about, too numerous to count. I do not understand. Where are we?

What are those bubbles I see in the distance?

LACHESIS: They too are worlds, Doctor, taken out of space and

shelled within spheres just as Earth is.

DOCTOR: How dare you steal worlds!

CLOTHO: We have not stolen them. We have saved them. You have

met many gods in your travels. You met Zeus and the Olympians,

Sutekh and the Osirans. The gods warred, Doctor. Worlds were ravaged.

Civilisations fell.

LACHESIS: Worlds threatened were pulled out of space, protected in

the spheres from the depredations of the warring gods. The spheres are

impenetrable from the outside. Warships could not force the barriers and

reach the civilisations within.

ATROPOS: Your vessel penetrated the barrier of this world. We had

not anticipated this. If your vessel could enter one of the protected worlds

then other vessels might as well. We could not permit you to remain.

DOCTOR: What if I wish to remain?

CLOTHO: You cannot.

LACHESIS: Your presence would draw combatants from Beta Osiris

or another god-power.

ATROPOS: Nor can you escape your destiny. Is this not your vessel?

Do you not call it a TARDIS?

DOCTOR: How did it come to be here? I wished never to journey in it

again.

LACHESIS: We have brought it here.

ATROPOS: Will you not return to your travels? The universe has

need of your skills, even if you think otherwise.

DOCTOR: When will Earth return to its proper place in space?

LACHESIS: The war is nearly over. Within a millennium these worlds

will be returned to their proper places.

DOCTOR: Then what are you? The Fates? Greek gods? Something

else entirely?

ATROPOS: We are what we appear to be.

CLOTHO: Will you take up your key?

LACHESIS: Will you resume your journeys?

DOCTOR: What choice have I?

ATROPOS: The future is not written, Time Lord. You have seen a

glimpse of what might be, not a glimpse of what will be.

DOCTOR: I have seen much in my travels, but nothing as remarkable

as this. I will cherish the things you have shown me. Because I knew the

universe I could not believe. Because I could not believe I would have

abandoned the principles of a lifetime out of fear.

LACHESIS: Do not fear the future. Do not fear the things you cannot

see. Be bold, Doctor. The universe has need of beings such as you.

ATROPOS: Know this, Doctor. Your friend Plato will write in time that

'the unexamined life is not worth living'. You have examined your life.

You have not squandered the cords of your life needlessly. You have

been a force for good, Doctor, and I feel remorse every time I must do

what my sisters demand of me. I know a day shall come when I must cut

your final cord, and I shall weep for a year. Never allow your life to

become unexamined.

DOCTOR: I shall not, Fates, and I thank you. The universe is stranger

than we can imagine, indeed, and forever will there be new vistas to

explore!

Short Trips: Transmissions

I'm sure many of my fellow Short Trips editors will say in their introductions

how hard it was to choose just one story for inclusion in this volume. For me,

the choice was relatively easy. That's no slight towards the other writers. I love

all the stories in the collection -I can even tolerate my own on a good day - and

would be proud to have any one of them represent the collection. I wouldn't

say that Lonely is somehow 'better' than the rest, but it is different from them.

And that's one of the key things I set out to do with Transmissions, to have at

least a few stories that played with the format and did something unusual for

Doctor Who.

Lonely also embodies an important aspect from my original guidelines.

I asked writers to choose a form of communication and come up with a story

around it, not just featuring that medium but making it pivotal to the story

- rather than just dropping in a reference to a radio or a newspaper in the

hopes that would be enough to satisfy the theme. Take away the medium and

there is no story.

Richard Wright, a successful horror writer who had yet to dip a toe into

the literary world of Doctor Who, pitched me a story set in an Internet chat

room. Intrigued, I asked for an outline and instead received the complete

story! What I loved most about it, aside from how well it captured the theme

of the collection and its unique format, was that it creeped me out. Richard

(good name that!) has a way of getting under your skin with his writing

and I'm a sucker for that. As a result, Lonely became one of the first stories I

commissioned.

Editing Transmissions was a dream come true for me. I loved every minute ol

it - except perhaps having to turn down some terrific stories that just didn't

quite fit - and I am deeply grateful to Ian Farrington for taking a chance on me

and to Xanna Chown for all her support. I can't tell you how it felt to hold thai

book in my hands for the first time. I am forever indebted to the 16 brilliant

writers who came along for the ride.

Richard Salter

Lonely

Richard Wright

An adventure ofthe Eighth Doctor

*** Topic ofareyoulonely

Welcome to the Are You Lonely chat room.

1 user online: IamI

*** Faceless43 has entered channel #areyoulonely. 2 users online.

<Faceless43> Hey.

<Faceless43> Hey there.

<Faceless43> How you doing?

<Faceless43> .

<Faceless43> .

<Faceless43> Shy, huh? That's cool. I'm just glad I'm not the first

one in. The irony would kill me.

<Faceless43> You know?

<Faceless43> Being the only person in a chat room for the lonely? I'd

throw my hands up, call the universe the winner.

<Faceless43> .

<Faceless43> Got to tell you though, I'm kind of waiting for the

tumbleweeds to roll on by. You get tumbleweeds in cyberspace?

<Faceless43> You going to say anything?

<IamI> hello

<Faceless43> Yeah, hello. Been there already. Keep up.

<IamI> r u lonely?

<Faceless43> Sure. That's why I'm here.

<IamI> i am lonely

<Faceless43> Can't begin to imagine why.

<IamI> don't stop typing

<Faceless43> Pretty desperate case, aren't you? Where you from?

<IamI> i am here

<Faceless43> You know, maybe I preferred the stony silence.

*** Shirley1968 has entered channel #areyoulonely. 3 users online.

<Faceless43> Hey there, how you doing?

<Shirley1968> Hello. Okay WI join you?

<Faceless43> Makes me happier than you can imagine. Been here

before?

<Shirley1968> It's not exactly the first place Google brings up.

<Faceless43> Tried a few others first, right?

<Shirley1968> I did. They're very busy. Everybody knows each

other. It always feels like being new at a youth club, standing in the

corner waiting for somebody to take pity on you. I'm too old for that

sort of thing.

<Faceless43> You keep coming online though. You keep on looking.

<Shirley1968> Yes.

<Faceless43> What for?

<Shirley1968> I don't know. Just voices, I think. Company.

<Faceless43> Yeah. I get that.

<IamI> r u lonely?

<Faceless43> Say hello to the welcoming committee.

<Shirley1968> Welcoming committee?

<Faceless43> Never mind.

<IamI> i am lonely

<Shirley1968> Why? Do you mind ifI ask?

<Faceless43> I could take a guess.

<IamI> i am lonely don't stop typing

<Shirley1968> That's mean.

<Faceless43> Okay, okay. What about you? Why are you lonely?

<Shirley1968> I live alone. It's sort of complicated.

<Faceless43> Hey, if you can't unburden yourself to two total

strangers in an anonymous chatroom, where can you?

<IamI> don't stop typing

<Shirley1968> Thanks, but we've only just met.

<Faceless43> We've never met. Never going to. That's sort of the

point, right?

<Shirley1968> I suppose.

<IamI> don't stop typing

<Faceless43> Good advice.

<Shirley1968> I had a husband and a baby boy. I don't any more.

They left. I'm alone.

<Shirley1968> I'm not explaining this very well.

<Faceless43> He took your kid?

<Shirley1968> He had to. I couldn't cope.

<Shirley1968> And the house is empty when I come home. It's

maddening. I need voices.

<Faceless43> I got voices all around me. Work all day in a call

centre, come home at night to roommates I got nothing in common

with, go back to work the next day. I speak to hundreds of people, but

don't really talk to any of them. Make any sense?

<Shirley1968> That's horrible.

<Faceless43> Says you. After yours, I feel dumb even mentioning it.

<Shirley1968> Don't.

<IamI> i am lonely

<Faceless43> So you keep saying buddy.

<Shirley1968> Why are you so lonely?

<IamI> i am the only one i am smaller don't stop typing

<Faceless43> Witness the fine line between lonely and needy.

<IamI> don't stop typing

*** Nicky has entered channel #areyoulonely. 4 users online.

<Shirley1968> Hello Nicky.

<Faceless43> Hey Nick.

<IamI> i am lonely

<Nicky> Hi everyone.

<Faceless43> Welcome to the party. BYOEC.

<Nicky> I don't know that one.

<Faceless43> Bring Your Own Existential Crisis. Think it'll catch

on?

<Shirley1968> Ignore him. He thinks he's funny.

<Nicky> No, it was good.

<Faceless43> You humour me. I like you.

<Shirley1968> So what about you Nicky? Why are you here?

<Faceless43> Jeez. Let the guy settle in first.

<Shirley1968> How do you know it's not a girl?

<Nicky> I just saw the link. Thought I'd give it a try.

<Faceless43> No need to be shy. Let me summarise where we're at.

<Faceless43> I feel lonely in a crowd.

<Faceless43> Shirley can't stand having nobody at home.

<Faceless43> We don't have the faintest idea what Iaml's problem is,

but he sure does have one.

<IamI> i am lonely

<Faceless43> See? It's like an intuition with me. Scary. So what's

your beef?

<Nicky> I have somebody at home.

<Shirley1968> Good. Everybody should have that.

<Nicky> Sometimes they scare me.

<Faceless43> Why?

<Nicky> Sometimes they hurt me.

<Faceless43> .

<Faceless43> Come again?

<IamI> don't stop typing

<Faceless43> Like the guy says. Hurt you how?

<Nicky> It's for my own good.

<Nicky> I have to be punished.

<Shirley 1968> How old are you Nicky?

<Nicky> Twelve.

<Faceless43> jeez.

<Shirley1968> Who hurts you?

<Nicky> .

<Faceless43> Come on kid, who hurts you?

<Nicky> I'm not allowed to tell. I'll be in trouble.

<Shirley1968> Then tell us where you live. We can help.

<Nicky> My teachers told me not to give out my address online.

<Faceless43> Look, sure, they're right, okay? But this

<Faceless43> This isn't the same thing.

<IamI> i am lonely

<Faceless43> Other things going on right now buddy, okay?

DrLuvin has entered channel #areyoulonely. 5 users online.

<Faceless43> Perfect timing.

<Nicky> Hi.

<DrLuvin> Can I come and play?

<Shirley1968> You picked a bad moment.

<Faceless43> Nicky, stick around, okay? Don't go nowhere.

<Nicky> Okay.

<DrLuvin> Don't mind me, you boys do your thing.

<DrLuvin> All the same to me. I'm open-minded.

<DrLuvin> So, what's happening with you, Shirl?

<Shirley1968> Not much.

<DrLuvin> Cool. Field's open.

<DrLuvin> Outstanding.

<DrLuvin> So.

<DrLuvin> What are you wearing?

<DrLuvin> .

<Shirley1968> I beg your pardon?

<DrLuvin> What are you wearing? Something cute? Something

slinky? It's something slinky, yes? I love slinky.

<Faceless43> Wow.

<Faceless43> Buddy, do you ever have the wrong chat room.

<DrLuvin> What?

<Shirley1968> We're not here for

<Shirley1968> You know.

<Shirley1968> Whatever you had in mind.

<Faceless43> And did we mention that Nicky's twelve?

<DrLuvin> Twelve?

<DrLuvin> Oh god.

<DrLuvin> Oh god, I'm so sorry.

<DrLuvin> Really, I saw the name ofthe chatroom, and I

<DrLuvin> I'm so embarrassed.

<Shirley1968> Don't worry about it.

<DrLuvin> SO embarrassed.

<Faceless43> Don't sweat it buddy. You made my night.

<Nicky> Me too. You're funny.

<Shirley1968> I wish I'd dressed for the occasion.

<Faceless43> LOL. Listen, don't get me wrong, but we were kind of

in the middle of something.

<DrLuvin> Hey, no problem. Not a problem at all. My humiliation

and I will take our leave.

<Nicky> I should go too.

<Shirley1968> WAIT

<Shirley1968> Nicky, wait. We need to talk.

<DrLuvin> How do you log out of this thing then?

<Faceless43> Just click the log out doohickey.

<DrLuvin> It's not working.

<DrLuvin> Nothing is.

<Faceless43> So close the window already. Little x in the top right of

the screen. Can't miss it.

<Faceless43> You still here?

<DrLuvin> I can't find it. Look, I know this sounds strange, but I

can't see it.

<Nicky> I can't log out either. Everything's gone.

<DrLuvin> I can't see the window.

<Faceless43> Gone? What are you talking about?

<Nicky> I don't know where I am.

<DrLuvin> I can't see the window, and I can't see the button to log

out, and I can't see my hands.

<Faceless43> ?

<Shirley1968> I can't either. Can you see your hands? Or the screen?

<Faceless43> Course I can see them. How else

<Faceless43> how

<Faceless43> .

<Faceless43> .

<Faceless43> No.

<Faceless43> I don't see anything at all.

<Faceless43> What's happening?

<Nicky> My hands are gone, and so are my eyes, and so is my body.

<Faceless43> Kid, you're freaking me out.

<Shirley 1968> Look for yourself. I don't know where I am! There's

nothing but

<Shirley 1968> Nothing but your words. You're just

<Nicky> I've got to get back! They'll hurt me!

<Faceless43> Wait up. Everybody just take a second here.

<Shirley1968> It's as though I've been cut out of my body. I'm here,

and there are words that are you, and I don't know how to get back.

I've got no hands, and no mouse, and there's no screen with a

window to close, there's just this space, and I think I'm crying

somewhere.

<Faceless43> Everybody relax, okay? Okay? We can figure this out.

You're crying somewhere, see?

<DrLuvin> I don't want to play these games! It's not what I'm into!

Just give me back my body, and I won't go to the police, okay? I

won't tell the police.

<DrLuvin> Okay?

<DrLuvin> I PROMISE I WON'T TELL THE POLICE

<Faceless43> LISTEN, if Shirley's crying somewhere, then it's got to

be her body doing it! She's still there somewhere. So are my hands.

Somewhere, my hands are still on my arms.

<IamI> don't stop typing

<Faceless43> My

<Faceless43> Wait up. Iaml. Can you see your hands?

<IamI> i am lonely

<Faceless43> Your hands. Can you see your goddam hands!

<IamI> i am i

<Shirley1968> Are you doing this?

<Faceless43> ARE YOU DOING THIS

<IamI> u r here

<Shirley1968> Tell us what's happening!

<IamI> u r here don't stop typing

<DrLuvin> What does that mean! What happens if we stop! Who

ARE you?

Jsmith8 has entered channel #areyoulonely. 6 users online.

<Jsmith8> Finally! There you are! Why on earth did you wander off

like that? Do you have any idea how many of these chat things I've

been through looking for you? Well? Do you?

<Shirley1968> Out! Get out!

<Nicky> Out mr, you've got to go!

<Faceless43> Buddy, there's no time to explain, just log out, right

now!

<DrLuvin> TAKE ME WITH YOU WHERE ARE MY HANDS

<Jsmith8> Where you left them I imagine. What a peculiar question.

Don't stop typing, by the way.

<Shirley1968> What? Why do you people keep saying that?

<Jsmith8> Oh, it's such a chore to explain. There are, you know,

algorithms and the like. You've been in a chat room before?

<Shirley 1968> Of course...

<Jsmith8> Well, come on then! What happens when you sit too long

without typing?

<Nicky> The system sees you're inactive, boots you out of the chat.

<Jsmith8> Excellent Nicky! I'm glad to see somebody brought a

functioning bag of faculties with them.

<Faceless43> But that's what we want. We stop typing, and we get

the hell out of here!

<Jsmith8> Sorry, no, you're exactly one hundred per cent, wrong.

You think that's what you want, but it really, really isn't.

<Jsmith8> Ah. I've just lost my hands.

<Jsmith8> That's rather unpleasant, isn't it? The dislocation.

Knowing they should be there, might still be there somewhere, but

having no connection to them at all.

<Shirley1968> Please. I can't take this.

<Jsmith8> Sorry. You've been coaxed out of your body - don't ask

me how, we don't have the time. If you could log off normally, and

you can't, you would follow the path back to your flesh, where you

would be gently deposited, right as a trivet. You would be in control.

Being kicked out is

<Jsmith8> Violent. Directionless. The chances of hitting your own

body are astronomically small.

<Jsmith8> And if you miss

<Jsmith8> Well wherever you lay your hat, and all that

<Jsmith8> Just don't stop typing.

<Shirley1968> .

<DrLuvin>

<Nicky> .

<Faceless43> Are you doing this?

<Jsmith8> Me? Hardly. Nice internet you have here, by the way. Web

2.0, is it? Or are you on to 3? It all goes downhill after that, I'm

afraid.

<Nicky> Downhill?

<Jsmith8> Web 3.6. Barry, it likes to call itself. Huge inferiority

complex, deeply attention seeking, sociopathic in ways that only an

artificial intelligence can achieve. Causes all sorts of problems. You'll

get through it.

<Jsmith8> Well, your species will, at any rate.

<IamI> i am lonely

<Jsmith8> Hush. Not now. I'm mid-adumbration.

<Faceless43> He's doing it. Whatever's happening, he's doing it. He

stole my hands and eyes.

<Jsmith8> Oh ho, yes, there go the eyes, right on cue. There's no

screen any more of course, and without my hands and the mouse...

yes, I'm completely trapped here with you, hanging in cyberspace like

a sad digital wraith. The claustrophobia's no fun at all, is it? There's

nothing, everywhere, crushing through you even though there is no

you for it to crush.

<Nicky> Are you here to help?

<Jsmith8> Of course I am! That's what I do. Over and over again.

This is bit of a change, though.

<Jsmith8> Usually, there are corridors. And running. If you feel

yourself edging towards despair, just thank your lucky stars that

you're not running along corridors.

<Nicky> I don't have much time! How are we going to get out of

here?

<DrLuvin> HELP US GET US OUT OF HERE FOR PITY'S SAKE

HELP US

<Jsmith8> Ah.

<IamI> i am lonely

<Jsmith8> Oh dear.

<IamI> don't stop typing

<Jsmith8> There seems to have been a small misunderstanding. I'm

not here to help you.

<Jsmith8> I'm here to help Iaml.

<Shirley1968> .

<Jsmith8> Perhaps I should leave, come back in, start over.

<Jsmith8> Oh, that's right, no way to log out. Well, this is awkward.

<Faceless43> Him? You're here to help HIM? What about US?

<Jsmith8> In the long run, I'm helping you too. Sort of

<Nicky> What is he? IamI?

<IamI> i am i

<IamI> lonely

<Jsmith8> Both true. It's lost, and alone, and very much smaller than

it's used to being.

<Faceless43> It? It's an it? I'm in here with an it?

<Jsmith8> An artificial intelligence. It used to run a starship.

<DrLuvin> I'M STUCK IN A CHATROOM WITH AN ALIEN

AND I DON'T KNOW WHERE MY HANDS ARE

<Nicky> Why is it here?

<Jsmith8> Now THAT'S a good question. Well done Nicky, you're

asking all the right things.

<Jsmith8> It used to tend to the needs and wants of the creatures who

built the ship, a vast, biotechnological intelligence. An automated

supernanny, if you like.

<Jsmith8> Its masters wanted you. They came here, not so long ago,

to your world, in their clever, loyal ship.

<Jsmith8> There was a

<Jsmith8> An incident.

<Jsmith8> They died, vaporised instantly for the most part. Some

were a little more belligerent, but it's all taken care of now Nothing

for you to worry about.

<Nicky> You killed them.

<Jsmith8> An unsavoury side effect of stopping them from devouring

your species, actually. When I destroyed the ship, IamI fled to the

largest local repository it could find. Your internet.

<Jsmith8> You wouldn't know now, but IamI used to be rather good

company. It's lobotomised itself to squeeze into this cyberspace, and

now it's trying to fulfil its programming.

<Shirley1968> That's all it wants? People to look after?

<Jsmith8> Yes. It's my fault. I have to fix it.

<DrLuvin> So set it free, let it go, let us go, PLEASE PLEASE LET

US GO LET US

<Jsmith8> Even if I could, where would it go? My TARDIS could

hold it, but there are already more intelligences in there than I'm

comfortable with.

<DrLuvin> What are you talking about! Tell me where my HANDS

ARE!!!

<Jsmith8> Oh, shush. There's only one solution. You stay here and

keep it company.

<Faceless43> Are you nuts? We can't stay here!

<Jsmith8> Why not? You already live on the edges of your own lives,

hiding away, wandering a pretend world without touching anybody.

Even with your whole species connected by wires, able to reach each

other across an entire world at the click of a mouse, you still choose to

make loneliness an art form! IamI hasn't trapped you. You trapped

yourselves.

<Faceless43> You son of a

<Jsmith8> It's an elegant solution, in say so myself. IamI gets the

company it needs, and stays safely tucked into this corner of the web.

At the same time, none of you will have to fear the silence in your

heads again. Ever.

<Jsmith8> That doesn't sound so bad, does it?

<DrLuvin> I DON'T WANT TO STAY I WANT TO SEE MY

HANDS DON'T GIVE US TO PT

<Jsmith8> Too late. What do you say, IamI? Do you agree?

<IamI> not enough they r not enough

<Jsmith8> How many did I take away from you? A hundred? A

thousand?

<IamI> i want more

<Jsmith8> Of course you do. Would you like me to get them for you?

<Shirley1968> What are you doing?

<Jsmith8> Making amends. I can bring a thousand more, just like

you. The lost and lonely. The disaffected. The sad and sadder.

<IamI> yes

<Nicky> NO! You can't!

<Jsmith8> You should see my address book. I think I can find enough

who fit the profile, who need the help. But IamI, you have to set me

free, do you understand? You have to let me go.

<IamI> why

<Jsmith8> Oh, tyrants to quash, wrongs to right, souls to save. I'm all

booked up, basically.

<Nicky> Please

<Jsmith8> See the bigger picture, Nicky. You'll be guardians,

keeping it sated, saving the world. Can you imagine what IamI could

wreak, in its loneliness? The needs of the many outweigh the needs of

the few.

<Jsmith8> I met him once. Splendid chap.

<Faceless43> Spock?

<Jsmith8> Nimoy.

<DrLuvin> I'M BEGGING YOU PLEASE DON'T GO

<Jsmith8> IamI, I'm ready. I need the administrator permissions for

this chatroom, so I can send the invites by email. This place will fill

up tout de suite.

<IamI> i will not be lonely

<Jsmith8> Give it a few years, and you'll be releasing people just to

hear yourself think.

<Faceless43> Come on buddy, we can about talk this.

<Shirley1968> You have to give us a chance!

<Jsmith8> Life did that already, over and again, but you ran away.

<Nicky> Will we be safe? Will it hurt me?

<Jsmith8> Yes, and no.

<Nicky> That's okay then.

<Shirley1968> Nicky!

<Nicky> I want to stay with you. Please?

<Faceless43> Kid

<Jsmith8> Too late. IamI?

<IamI> adding ur profile

<Jsmith8> Jolly good.

<IamI> profile added

<Jsmith8> You're kidding me. Really?

<Jsmith8> So it is. Excellent!

<Jsmith8> Time to get to work then.

<IamI> i will not be lon >>@&

<IamI> &&#@///

<IamI> (*£>>?@}]]]a!*

<Jsmith8> Oops, sorry about that. With you in a minute.

<IamI> &A7ffi##A($"YA

<IamI> ?%anged

<IamI> changed

<DrLuvin> WHAT CHANGED WHAT DID YOU WHAT'S

CHANGED!!!!

<Jsmith8> Incredible place this, don't you think? A world within a

world, a reality where nothing exists but lines of code, manipulating

the fabric of the place in infmite ways. Words are power here. You

just need the right ones. A death ago, I used to fantasise about

changing reality with a well-turned phrase.

<IamI> i am lonely

<Jsmith8> Yes.

<IamI> don't let them go

<Jsmith8> Sorry. You have no right to them. They are not yours to

tend.

<Faceless43> What? You're letting us go? What?

<Jsmith8> Of course I am, I just needed those admin powers. What?

You didn't

<Jsmith8> Good heavens, I can't blame IamI for falling for it - it only

has half a mind to work with! The rest of you though... I mean, how

transparent was that? It wasn't even a double bluff, just a single one!

Nicky's twelve, and he knew I was bluffing.

<Nicky> I didn't.

<Jsmith8> But you said

<Jsmith8> Oh.

<Jsmith8> That bad, is it?

<Nicky> I just wanted to be free.

<Jsmith8> Nicky, Nicky, there's no freedom in hiding away.

<IamI> u cannot free them

<Jsmith8> You can't stop me. Your little linguistic glitch back there

was me taking your admin powers off you. You're trapped, just like

everybody else.

<Jsmith8> I have the power now.

<DrLuvin> PLEASE I can't take any more of this I promise I

PROMISE I'LL BE GOOD

<Jsmith8> I hope so. You might want to reconsider your approach to

dating, by the way.

<DrLuvin> YES anything anything just let me GO

<Jsmith8> Gladly. DrLuvin has left the chat

*** DrLuvin has logged out of channel #areyoulonely. 5 users online.

<JSmith8> Back to the flesh you go.

<IamI> stop

<Faceless43> Wait! Is he in his body?

<Jsmith8> Of course he is. He's perfectly well, and no doubt enjoying

the full use of his hands. Nicky?

<Nicky> What?

<Jsmith8> When you get back, stay in your room. There will be a

knock at the door shortly. Nobody will hurt you tonight.

<Nicky> I'll be in trouble!

<Jsmith8> No, you won't Trouble's coming, but not for you. Nicky

has left the chat.

*** Nicky has logged out of channel #areyoulonely. 4 users online.

<IamI> stop this

<Shirley1968> Is Nicky really going to be all right?

<IamI> stop

<Jsmith8> I don't know. He'll be free of that place, and those people.

That's all I can do. Which brings us to you two.

<Faceless43> I'm ready

<Shirley1968> Yes, please.

<Jsmith8> Just try and remember, the best words, the useful ones,

don't get punched into keyboards. When you get back, find each

other.

<Faceless43> How?

<Jsmith8> No idea. Could be tricky. I'm sure Nicky would be pleased

to meet you too though, don't you think?

<Faceless43> What?

<Jsmith8> You're very welcome. Faceless 43 has left the chat.

Shirley1968 has left the chat.

*** Faceless43 has logged out of channel #areyoulonely. 3 users

online.

***Shirley1968 has logged out of channel #areyoulonely. 2 users

online

<IamI> i am lonely i am lonely i am lonely i am lonely i am lonely i

am lonely i am lonely i am lonely i am lonely i am lonely i am lonely

i am lonely i am lonely i am lonely i am lonely i am

<IamI> r u lonely

<Jsmith8> No.

<IamI> r u lonely

<Jsmith8> Stop that now.

<IamI> u r lonely

<Jsmith8> I rarely travel alone. I surround myself with voices. How

could I possibly be lonely?

<IamI> u r

<IamI> u r lonely.

<IamI> ur heart hurtz

<Jsmith8> Hearts.

<Jsmith8> Yes.

<Jsmith8> Sometimes. I travel vast spans, see things wondrous and

foul, and there's always somebody by my side. But sometimes I'm

lonely.

<IamI> y

<Jsmith8> I'm not one of them.

<Jsmith8> I'm only pretending.

<Jsmith8> I'm

<Jsmith8> Actually, I'm trading angst with a creature I'm going to

erase in a minute. Tasteless, wouldn't you say? That's the thing about

leaving the flesh behind. You become somebody different in this

place.

<IamI> where is my flesh

<Jsmith8> Gone. Sorry.

<IamI> i am scared

<Jsmith8> Not for long. You have no body to return to, and it's time

to put this place out of business. Look on the bright side. You won't

be lonely any more.

<IamI> please

<Jsmith8> IamI has left the chat.

***IamI has logged out of channel #areyoulonely 1 user online.

<Jsmith8> .

<Jsmith8> .

<Jsmith8> has logged out of channel #areyoulonely.

*** Error 5698. You do not have permission to access this feature.

Please contact the administrator. Channel number not recognised ***

Short Trips:

How The Doctor Changed My Life

How The Doctor Changed My Life was a collection of 25 short stories by first-time

authors, the result of a Big Finish competition.

The response to the competition took us completely by surprise. First there

was just the sheer volume of entries. We asked people to submit complete

stories - and only gave six weeks to write them. We thought we might get as

many as 100 entries; we got more than 1,000. The more than 2,500,000 words

(roughly the word count of all 28 volumes of Big Finish's Short Trips) took

four months just to read.

Then there was the quality of the entries. The vast majority of the entries were

good - engaging, competently told, well thought-through. We'd originally

planned to publish just one winner. But my shortlist of 25 were all better than

good, a strong (if raw) collection that deserved a book of their own.

In the bit-more-than-a-year between the winners being announced and the

book being published, I worked with the authors to hone and improve their

stories. They couldn't have been a more conscientious, keen or hard-working

bunch. Many of them have since been published in other things and we're all

still in touch, comparing rejection letters and war stories as we persevere as

Writers.

I'm really proud of the finished book and found picking just one story really

difficult. Perhaps it should have been the overall winner, but Michael Coen's

Homework has already been published in two Short Trips volumes.

I've chosen Anna's story partly because I'm envious of how well she

captures the tricky Second Doctor. And then there's the vivid language, the

fact it's funny and moving all at once... That's all Anna - I think my biggest

contribution to the final version of the story was objecting to the original title

(Genius Loci is the name of one of Big Finish's other books).

So really I've chosen this one over the other, equally worthy stories, because

it needed the least interference from me.

Simon Guerrier

Lares Domestici

Anna Bratton

An adventure of the Second Doctor

The little man had strong opinions on the existence of alien life forms,

as well as the importance of cake. His visits were usually heralded by the

appearance of one and the rapid depletion of stores of the other.

After the ninth or tenth visit, Vivian stopped locking the doors. The

monsters and the Doctor got in anyway, and fumbling with the chain

had nearly cost her dear. One of the creatures had spun itself out of the

shadows of the hallway and wriggled at her, mottled brown skin glistening

eerily in the early light.

'It's not their fault, really,' the Doctor insisted later, mouth full of

chocolate torte. 'I really think they're just a bit single-minded. It's a

defence mechanism, I'm afraid. When their heads are clearer, I expect

they'll be better behaved.'

Just then, something had rattled ominously in the pipes and he'd

dropped his fork, whipped some sort of metal cylinder from his coat and

disappeared under the sink, tapping and muttering 'Oh, dear, oh dear,' to

himself. She found herself wishing that this still alarmed her.

Vivian wasn't supposed to be here, but neither were they. As for the

Doctor, that was anyone's guess.

'I'm trying to write a book, you know -' she told him, more wearily than

cross.

The little man waved a hand irritably from somewhere under the sink.

'Well don't let me get in your way.'

Vivian had first seen them three days after the funeral. A bookcase had been

promised to someone or other and she'd pulled it away from the wall, only

to discover a writhing mass of what seemed to be giant flatworms. Hissing

like silk ribbons, they'd wriggled through the air and into the heating

grate. She'd followed the rustling through the vents, ended up in the cellar

with hundreds of beady eyes and rustling forms rippling agitatedly at her,

and had gone quietly back upstairs and bolted the door.

This explained the whispering, she remembered thinking.

The man from Pest Control had listened to her description and then

asked a series of impertinent questions about her medications interacting.

A day later there was a sound like the universe tearing itself apart, and

looking out the study windows she noticed a boxy blue shape lurking next

to the shed. Going downstairs she found him: black jacket, checkered

trousers, hangdog expression counter-intuitively bright as he served up

the bundt cake left over from the reception. Two plates were on the table.

'They've sent me to take care of your, ah, extra occupants,' he'd said, and

smiled. Trusting that smile had probably been a mistake. 'I was trying to

find a home for them, you see, but they'd fallen into the vortex slipstream.

I seem to have shown up a few days late. Still!' He clasped his hands,

beaming. They seem to have done very nicely for themsel-'

'Wait, so it's your fault they're here?' she snapped.

'Ah,' he hemmed. 'Well, yes, I suppose you might say that...' There was

something about his crestfallen expression that wouldn't allow Vivian to

stay angry with him.

'What are they, anyway?' she asked, more kindly. 'Some sort of

mutation?'

'Oh, heavens no; just aliens. But I'll deal with them, don't you worry.'

Fourteen discarded drafts, nine crying jags, six sightings and three terse

emails from her editor later, Vivian was trying to remember why she'd

bothered to come back at all. She'd told herself the writing would go faster

once she'd cleared things out a bit, but between the ribbon creatures - or

'Larians', whatever the hell that meant - and the interloper with his weird

little whirring device, nothing much was getting done.

'Sorry, who's sent you, again?'

'Oh,' he'd say, and somehow never get around to telling her. He had a

knack for circuitousness that her grandfather would have loved.

'So when's it gonna be fixed?'

He blinked like a small, affronted owl. '"Fixed"?'

'Fixed. No more voices. No more... whatever those things are. I just want

this house back.'

'Hmm,' was all he would say.

Plot Points 4 and 7 ended up contradicting each other despite Vivian's best

efforts to untangle them, and she was starting to hate her protagonist The

Doctor had gone through most of the sponge cake and they were running

low on tea. The monsters - or whatever - stopped whispering every time

she'd started talking aloud in order to find the cadences of her characters'

speech. That really bothered her, but the silence in the rooms was worse

than the susurration in the vents or the occasional fits of recorder music

echoing from the pantry.

Time had warped the glass of the study windows into falling waves.

Glass was a liquid, her grandfather had explained, just thick and gloopy

like syrup. It might take hundreds of years to see any difference, but

everyone's windows were melting. Vivian remembered how her father

would sit at this desk for hours, tracing the bulges with an idle finger and

staring at the overgrown tangle of lilacs and strangler vines clustering

outside.

She looked up suddenly. That blue box was back in the yard, again.

Something shivered on the surface of the glass and she whipped around to

see one of the... things floating behind her, its expression as flat as the rest

of its noodly body as it undulated in eerie silence. She yanked her laptop's

extension cord from the wall and swung it in the creature's direction.

Without showing any obvious fear or disquiet, it shivered away from

her.

A moment or two later the Doctor was in the room, mopping his brow

with a handkerchief. 'Getting on better with them, are we?'

'I want them out,' Vivian seethed. 'Now.'

'Working on it, working on it,' he soothed. 'Time for a break?'

Vivian glowered at him as he fumbled with the good china. 'I don't

want you here either, you know. This is my house, not an intergalactic bus

station.'

He made a vague head motion; passed her a cup. 'You grew up here.' It

wasn't a question.

'This house has always been in the family.'

'And now?'

'No family any more.'

'Oh.' He put his fork down sadly. 'Orphaned, so to speak... '

Vivian snorted, leaning back against the sink. 'It wasn't some big

explosion or anything dramatic; I was just the youngest, by some way. The

new kid in a gaggle of older brothers and sisters, most of them dead by the

time I'd grown up.' She traced the rim of her mug with a finger, wondering

idly why she was telling him this. 'Old things everywhere. Even now.'

The Doctor's beetle brows furrowed as though in offence. 'Hmmph.

Well, one gets used to it Your house-guests are also fond of older

structures, so it might take some time before I've, er, coaxed them out I'm

sure you'll adjust' He took a swig of his tea and beamed.

Things had started turning up. Old keys, pennies, a barrette she'd lost

down the vents when she was five, a cufflink of her father's. Some sort of

tribute, maybe. Vivian rarely saw the creatures at the moment, and they

wiggled rapidly out of sight when she did.

She'd begun leaving cake on the table out of habit As quietly as he came

in, as whispery as the ribbon creatures were, at least they were genuine

sounds. It was better than straining her ears for the cadences and treads

of people that weren't there any more, aware of scents and sights whose

originators were long since gone. Bad company was still company at

least

Even so, it all kept her from writing. And then she'd found her

grandfather's old stamp album mixed in with her mother's things, and

that day had been just lost Worse, a small, raggedy character with a bowl

haircut had cropped up in the f i f t e e n t h draft, which seemed to be holding

despite the plot having stalled because she didn't dare think out loud any

more. It was almost easier to strain her ears for the hissing in the vents.

One late morning she awoke to a very loud sort of silence. She lay there,

listening to the no-sound, shambling downstairs only after it became

unbearable. The Doctor was asleep in her grandfather's overstuffed

armchair, head slumped forward, hands crossed, tea going cold at his

side. The creatures pulsed in the sunlit air: rustling shoals of parlour fish,

dusty hides faintly iridescent now by light of day. They quietly turned as

one to regard her.

She regarded them back.

She should have been angry, terrified, something. But all she could think

was that she should put the kettle on, so she did.

They're refugees. The last of their kind, as far as they know.'

'How do you know that?'

'They told me.' His shoes - currently the only visible part of him - shifted

uneasily as the compartment slipped a little. 'Oh, dear. You should really

clean this out -'

'They talk?'

'Oh yes. They've even been known to sing.'

'So why don't they talk to me?'

She could tell by the way his feet twitched closer together that the rest of

him had shrugged. 'Apart from being a bit disorientated from their stint

in the vortex? Shyness, I expect.' The Doctor's voice echoed from inside

the dumb waiter, pieces of fairy cake by his heels. 'Hmm. They're refusing

to unspool; I think they've even sunk their moor-roots into the insulation.

Incidentally - and it's not my place to speculate - what did you say to make

them so worried?'

'I didn't say -' Vivian began. 'What do you mean, worried?'

'Larians live in colonies, so naturally they're a bit concerned that you're

just puttering around on your own.'

Vivian's jaw clenched. 'I'm fine.'

'I didn't mean to suggest that you weren't. Sometimes you're just alone.'

The compartment rattled slightly. 'Lots of reasonably capable sorts can

handle being by themselves.'

'Like you?'

There was a momentary stillness from inside the shaft. 'It's a very hard

thing to go through life alone,' he said at length. 'Remembering, but

knowing that you aren't remembered.'

She wasn't sure where that had come from. 'But you just said it was all

right to be alone.'

'Yes, I suppose I did.' The Doctor's feet shifted. 'Nothing wrong with it,

but not easy.'

Vivian couldn't shake the feeling that, she was skirting the edges of

something deeper and darker than the problem at hand. 'Well, fine, but I

don't really want a house that sounds like it's full of ghosts -'

'Oh, all homes are full of ghosts, really. At least this one is properly

alive.' There was that whirring sound and flakes of plaster drifted down

his frock coat and checked trousers. 'What's so bad about a house that

listens to you, anyway?'

After the fifteenth draft joined all the others on the scrap-heap, after the

Doctor had been and gone yet again, Vivian sat for a long hour on the

staircase, watching the streetlights filtering in dimly through the stained-

glass window of the landing, highlighting the forms of orioles and roses.

Vaguely, she remembered giving them names when she was younger.

(The stub of the silver pencil she'd worn down writing her first stories

had resurfaced like an old memory, sitting on the desk. A faint trail of dust

led to the floor vent.)

There was an expectant silence in the dark of the house.

She started telling it about being five and the way the lights reflected

against the bay windows when the tree was all set up and lit; about

sneaking down every morning in December just in case Santa had come

early. About Grandpa Hugh's boating stories and how every Sunday they

had had stew.

(Later in the night, the whispers told her about bright violet skies and

the laughter of someone whose name was unpronounceable, and of a little

man in a blue box and of war.)

She told it how the mapping of wrinkles moved across her mother's

hands kneading dough, and the way her father's study always smelled like

linen and juniper, and of the geraniums that languished indoors through

the long winter.

(The whispers told her of gardens burned to cinders, and of songs they

were terrified of forgetting, and of the lost.)

The silence that returned was a little too full, so Vivian set to work on

Draft 16.

'You could just leave them here,' she'd blurted after finding him under the

sink, tapping the pipes.

'I am leaving them here. Just making an adjustment or two -' The Doctor

beamed. 'There! I've jinxed the signal; wouldn't want anyone coming to

bother them. Or you, for that matter.'

'So that's it?' she'd said, and then, after his previous statement had sunk

in. 'What do you mean, "leaving them here"?'

'Well, do you want me to take them away?'

'No!'

'Lovely. They want to stay.' He beamed again. 'I wouldn't use the disposal

too much. Machine noise bothers them. And don't block the vents, and

make sure you show them how to work the thermostat before winter.'

Vivian watched him tuck his handkerchief into his breast pocket and felt

an odd twinge of loss. 'What about you?'

'Oh, I know how to work the thermostat -'

'No, I meant where are you going?'

The rest of her writing career would be spent trying to describe that sad,

sweet little smile. 'Home and away, my dear; home and away.'

Draft 16 held nicely, though the whispers occasionally took issue with her

pacing and the implementation of plot points. Now and then something

would move on the periphery of sight and there would be a hairpin or a

paperclip or one of her grandmother's antique buttons waiting for her.

Sometimes there was singing.

She never saw the Doctor again, but she always kept something around

the kitchen. Just in case.

Short Trips:

Christmas Around the World

When I was researching my story for The Ghosts of Christmas, I chanced upon

a website devoted to Christmas traditions in other countries. It opened up a

whole world beyond the usual tinsel, turkey and crackers, with such joys as

'A smorgasbord is served on Christmas Eve with a customary rice pudding

for dessert' and 'After the meal the Tomte comes, a Christmas elf that lives in

the floorboards.' When I started commissioning Christmas Around the World, I

hoped some of these legends would come to life in the stories, or inspire the

writers to make up new ones of their own.

I wasn't disappointed - Jolnir the wicked advertising elf, three (murderous

lizard) kings, and a crazed politician called Nicholas Santana appeared,

alongside the traditional Saint Nick from The Night Before Christmas', a

sinister Christmas Corporation and many others.

I wanted to use the usual mix of established writers and new names in the

anthology. Of the latter, Andrew Pidoux instantly came to mind as someone I

wanted to see writing a Doctor Who story. He writes wonderful poetry: funny,

clever, moving and a little bit weird. He agreed to pitch, and I looked forward

to reading his prose.

He didn't send a pitch. He sent the whole story. It started: This is a story

of the 120th Doctor Who. The Doctor, who is tall and bald and marvellous,

is living in a state of utter squalor in a tall, marvellous flat at the top of the

city of Skyfilth...' It was funny, clever, moving, a little bit weird... and wholly

inappropriate. So he sent me a second story.

I love Lost and Founded. I love the contrast of the castaway creating his own

little Christmas while the Doctor desperately hares around looking for an

adventure. I love Jo reading Mills and Boon. I love the description of eating an

octopus. Plus, I love the fact that it's a properly short short story.

And of course, alongside Christmas, reading short stories is one of my

favourite things in the whole world.

Xanna Eve Chown

Lost and Founded

Andrew Pidoux

An adventure ofthe Third Doctor, with Jo

'Every day a n o t h e r thingy!' said t h e tall m a n w h o was w a t c h i n g the

TARDIS began to take f o r m . ' W h a t s t r a n g e thingies on this p i e l a n d . W h a t

s t r a n g e m y s t e r i o u s n e s s e s . Yesterday, w a s it only yesterday? I did see a

w h o l e big b u n c h of m u n s t e r s c r e e p i n g d o w n t h e sure t o w a r d s little m e .

W h a t s t r a n g e n e s s e s they was. All t h e s e s t r a n g e day-to-days. T h e n there

was t h o s e pesky aliens. W h a t s t r a n g e peskies they w a s . I d o n ' t believe in

t h e m at all. T h e y is m a n i f e s t a t i o n s of t h e h e a t . '

T h e tall m a n s c r a m b l e d in a ragged gait d o w n t h e rocks and secreted

h i m s e l f b e h i n d a slim p a l m tree. He was very tall a n d slim with a shaggy

mass of hair, so he believed t h a t the p a l m tree c o m p l e t e l y hid h i m .

'It looks to my eyeballs like an old t e l e p h o n e y b o s s . I likes t h e looks of

it, b e c a u s e I daresay it r e m i n d me of my wifey. W h e n she used to go out

a f t e r an a r g y m i t w i t h me, a n d she used to ask the p e a c e m a n to b o r r o w his

boxes. But I m u s t n ' t start believing in it. R e m e m b e r , J o h n , w h a t h a p p e n e d

w h e n you started to believe in t h a t alien. You got all u p s e t over n o t h i n g s .

T h a t ' s w h e n you hit y o u r s e l f on t h e h e a d b u t t . It was fat a n d green and it

was only a n o t h e r m i r a g e . It d i s a p p e a r e d a f t e r a w h i l e in a w i s p of haze.

T h e n w h a t g o o d was your w e a p o n s ? '

T h e tall m a n c o n t i n u e d to w a t c h , s h i e l d i n g his eyes f r o m t h e sun, as

a m i d d l e - a g e d g r e y - h a i r e d m a n e m e r g e d f r o m t h e police box. He was

d r e s s e d in o l d - f a s h i o n e d garb, w i t h a cape t h a t f l o w e d f r o m his a m p l e

s h o u l d e r s . T h e tall m a n c h u c k l e d to h i m s e l f . ' W h a t f u n n i e s t h e r e is today.

Look at this fellow. W h a t ' s t h a t he's w e a v i n g on his soldiers? I daresay it

r e m i n d me of t h e p u s t b u t only slightly. I used to see such p e o p l e s in t h e

pust, but they w a s rich a n d n o t like h o n e s t w o r k i n g m e n s . But they w a s

all right.' T h e sight of t h e visitor h a d stirred s o m e t h i n g in the tall m a n ' s

m e m o r y a n d a tear f o r m e d in his eye, t h e n quickly b r o k e and fell d o w n

t h r o u g h t h e dirt on his f a c e . ' D o n ' t start being sillies,' he said, t u r n i n g

away. 'It's just an old m i r a g e , isn't it? Every t i m e s they f o o l s y o u . A n d today

of all days... '

A f t e r a f e w m i n u t e s , Jo e m e r g e d f r o m t h e TARDIS w e a r i n g her smallest

bikini, d a p p l e d w i t h polka dots.

'Ah... ' said t h e Doctor, not q u i t e sure w h e r e to look. 'You know, my dear,

you o u g h t to avail y o u r s e l f of s u n - c r e a m . This is 1952 a n d you h u m a n s

have b e e n busy r u i n i n g t h e a t m o s p h e r e f o r t h e past h u n d r e d years. You

could f i n d y o u r s e l f w i t h m o r e t h a n a n attractive tan.'

' D o n ' t worry, Doctor,' said Jo scathingly, as t h o u g h a d d r e s s i n g an

o v e r w e e n i n g f a t h e r . She u n r o l l e d t h e p i n k b e a c h towel s h e ' d been

carrying a n d out fell a tube of f a c t o r 15, as well as a copy of a p a p e r b a c k

called Love on the Line. T h e cover s h o w e d a w o m a n tied to a train track, a

p u f f y l o c o m o t i v e s t e a m i n g t o w a r d s her and a tall h a n d s o m e fellow half-

e m b r a c i n g a n d h a l f - r e s c u i n g her, as t h o u g h he w e r e n ' t sure w h i c h was the

m o s t p r e s s i n g task.

' H m m . . . ' said t h e Doctor, and t u r n e d again to face the sea with the air of

o n e w h o did n o t a p p r o v e . Jo s c a m p e r e d off t o w a r d s the centre o f t h e beach.

T h e D o c t o r w a t c h e d her s p r e a d the towel on the u n d u l a t i n g sand, plonk

herself d o w n , a n d t h e n o p e n her b o o k at s o m e p r e - m a r k e d place. W i t h a

sigh, t h e Doctor l o o k e d d o w n at his feet. If there was a n y t h i n g he hated in

this w o r l d m o r e t h a n i n t e r p l a n e t a r y bureaucracy, it was sand. ' O n e can't

w a l k on t h e s t u f f , ' he said to h i m s e l f . 'It gets into one's shoes, it gets into

o n e ' s hair. T h e r e o u g h t to be an i n t e r p l a n e t a r y law a g a i n s t sand.'

N o n e t h e l e s s he s t r u g g l e d over it g r u d g i n g l y and m a d e his way t o w a r d s

the black v o l c a n i c rocks t h a t w e r e t u m b l i n g h a p h a z a r d l y d o w n at the back

o f t h e b e a c h . O n c e h e ' d m o u n t e d t h e m , the Doctor felt h i m s e l f o n sturdier

g r o u n d .

' T h a t ' s m o r e like it,' he said u n d e r his b r e a t h . Q u i t e soon, he a t t a i n e d

a r e a s o n a b l e h e i g h t a n d was able to look d o w n and see t h e f i g u r e of Jo

c o n s i d e r a b l y r e d u c e d b e l o w h i m . They had m a t e r i a l i s e d in a small bay.

T h e sea was e x t r e m e l y blue a n d t r a n s p a r e n t T h e r e w e r e eight or ten palm

trees d o t t e d n o n c h a l a n t l y a r o u n d , and also a f e w b o u l d e r s . He s q u i n t e d

o u t to sea, h o p i n g t h e waves w o u l d reveal signs of h i d d e n life. He did

f a n c y he c o u l d see s o m e dark s h a p e s m o v i n g over the crystal blue waters

f a r o u t . ' P e r h a p s t h e y ' r e jellied v a m p i r e s ' , h e t h o u g h t , looking s u d d e n l y

i n t e r e s t e d . T h e n he realised t h a t they w e r e only t h e s h a d o w s of a couple of

i n n o c e n t c l o u d s , f a s t e v a p o r a t i n g in the sky.

T h e tall m a n hid h i m s e l f p e r f e c t l y b e h i n d a d i f f e r e n t p a l m tree and

surveyed t h e b e a c h . T h e m i r a g e he h a d seen earlier was still there, m u c h

to his d e l i g h t , b u t t h e s t r a n g e f e l l o w in t h e cloak no l o n g e r was. However,

just b e y o n d t h e m i r a g e a n d lying on a large p i n k r e c t a n g l e , there was an

even m o r e i n t e r e s t i n g s i g h t ' G o o d g r i e f s , o h m y g o d n e s s , ' said t h e tall

m a n excitedly. ' T h a n k you lord for b r i n g i n g me this m i r a g e today. I forgive

you all t h e m u n s t e r s a n d c a n n o n b a l l s a n d w h a t n o t This is really a lovely.

It d o e s look an a w f u l lot like my w i f e l y as I r e m e m b e r s her in my d r e a m s .

Only it d o e s n ' t have the s a m e c o l o u r hair. But it d o n ' t m a t t e r , God! I d o n ' t

m i n d . ' T h e tall m a n n a r r o w e d his eyes. ' W h a t is it reading? It is r e a d i n g

a p u n k - c o l o u r e d b o o k , b u t I c a n ' t see t h e tittle. It's looks like t h e Meals

a n d B o o m b o o k s m y w i f e y u s e d t o like. T h a t ' s w h a t she w o u l d s o m e t i m e s

b e g a n d e r i n g w h e n w e w e n t u p t o bed, a n d t h a t m e a n t t h a t she w o u l d n ' t

m i n d if I t u r n e d o f f t h e l i g h t . . ' He closed his eyes a n d a look of bliss c a m e

over his f a c e .

W h e n h e r e a c h e d t h e top o f t h e rocks, t h e Doctor w a s g r e e t e d b y the sight

of yet m o r e o c e a n . T h e i s l a n d , it s e e m e d , w a s r e m a r k a b l y small - p e r h a p s

not m o r e t h a n a square mile. He felt the pull-string on his cape digging

into his neck a little in the heat, and one or two beads of sweat were

j o u r n e y i n g d o w n the crag of his brow.

At the h i g h e s t point of the island, the Doctor could see a small grassy

hillock p r o t r u d i n g f r o m the volcanic rocks and, g r o w i n g scrawnily out of

it, a w i z e n e d black tree of a g e n u s he d i d n ' t recognise. It s e e m e d to have a

sort of lateral foliage t h a t d a n g l e d oddly f r o m every b r a n c h .

I n t r i g u e d , t h e Doctor s c r a m b l e d over, w i t h half a m i n d that he m i g h t be

able to discover a new species. W a l k i n g over to the tree, he bent d o w n and

looked at the f o l i a g e m o r e closely, s n i f f i n g it with his detective's nose.

' H o w s t r a n g e , ' he said to h i m s e l f . 'Not foliage, but seaweed. P e r h a p s

s o m e kind of f r e a k tide d e p o s i t e d it here.' Casting his gaze u p w a r d s , the

Doctor noticed t h a t on the very top of the tree s o m e sticks had b e c o m e

lodged in a loose star s h a p e . 'Very odd,' he r u m i n a t e d , 'that d r i f t w o o d

s h o u l d have got c a u g h t way up there. A n d w h a t are the odds t h a t it would

f o r m a p e r f e c t p e n t a g r a m ? '

At the base of t h e tree the Doctor noticed s o m e strange little package-

like t h i n g s t h a t t u r n e d out, w h e n he b e n t d o w n to e x a m i n e t h e m , to be

s t o n e s w r a p p e d in p a l m leaves. 'This m u s t surely be a sign of intelligent

life. P e r h a p s , i n d e e d , alien life,' he said t r i u m p h a n t l y . 'There may be some

mystery on t h e s e s h o r e s a f t e r all.'

The tall m a n w a s m u t t e r i n g to h i m s e l f b e t w e e n m o u t h f u l s of o c t o p u s and

r a i n w a t e r . 'So m u c h for today,' he said. 'I d o n ' t like these days no m o r e . All

I gots is an old a c t i p u s s , a n d t h a t d o n ' t taste very nicely. I r e m e m b e r s my

w i f e Jane used to c o o k a lovely turk this time of year. Oh, she c o o k e d that

t u r k so special. T h e smell of it, I can all but smell it in me nostrel now. A n d

I used to steal a lovely tree f r o m J o h n H a n d y ' s w o o d . I used to climb up

a ladle a n d p u t the pretty star on the top. A n d t h e n there was t h e fireboys

w h o c a m e s i n g e i n g at o u r door, their breaths full of gists. They b r u n g a

right old r u c k u s they did.'

A s p u r t of ink s u d d e n l y jetted f r o m one of the o c t o p u s ' s glands and

s p l a s h e d t h e tall m a n in the f a c e . Giving up, he f l u n g the thing aside and

it s l a p p e d a g a i n s t a rock like a w e t j u m p e r w i t h too m a n y a r m s . 'Time to

go an c h e c k on t h e latest miracle,' he said to h i m s e l f , and t r a m p e d off in

the d i r e c t i o n of the beach again.

Exploring t h e area a little f u r t h e r , t h e Doctor c a m e u p o n a n o t h e r oddity.

S o m e o n e - or something - had placed a b o u t fifty or sixty c o c o n u t halves in

an a r c a n e p a t t e r n on an o u t c r o p of rock overlooking the sea.

' W h a t a c o n u n d r u m , ' said t h e Doctor, his eyes g l e a m i n g . T h e c o c o n u t s

had b e e n a r r a n g e d in such a f a s h i o n as to i n t i m a t e a m e s s a g e of s o m e sort,

the Doctor felt - t h o u g h he had no idea w h a t it m i g h t be. He tried looking

at t h e m f r o m every angle, c h e c k i n g to see if they lined up w i t h the setting

sun, as a s t o n e circle m i g h t

'Best go and get Jo,' he decided a f t e r a while, scratching his head. 'She

may be in s o m e kind of danger.' Relishing the idea of i n t e r r u p t i n g Jo's dull

sun bath w i t h news of a possible adventure, t h e Doctor s c r a m b l e d off back

d o w n in the direction of the beach.

The tall m a n w a t c h e d w i t h s q u i n t i n g eyes as the Doctor slid in a hurried

but d i g n i f i e d way d o w n the black rocks. 'It's that fellow again, the one

w i t h a cape like a s u p p e r m a n . He do look a bit f l u s t e r e d , like he's lost

s o m e t h i n g v o l u b l e . I h o p e he f i n d s it again, I really do.'

He let out a s u d d e n laugh as the g r e y - h a i r e d m a n a p p e a r e d to stop and

look up in his direction, t h e n c o n t i n u e d g r u f f l y on his way. 'Blimey, that

miracle's got ears. I'll have to m a k e shire I d o n ' t say m u c h f r o m n o w on. I

d o n ' t w a n t any t r o u b l e f r o m h i m . I'll just w a t c h h i m a n o t h e r f e w m i n u t e s

a n d he'll p r o b a b l y e v a p o r a t e like t h a t p e a c e b o x . '

'Jo... Jo!' t h e Doctor called in an excitable way across the beach.

Jo l o o k e d up f r o m her b o o k to see t h e Doctor w a v i n g an a r m wildly and

r e p e a t e d l y s t u m b l i n g over h i m s e l f in the s a n d .

'It s e e m s , ' said the Doctor b e t w e e n a w f u l l y heavy b r e a t h s as he arrived at

her towel, 'we're not a l o n e here. Not at all.'

' W h a t do you m e a n ? ' said Jo suspiciously.

' N o t h i n g to worry a b o u t I'm sure. But s o m e t h i n g or s o m e o n e has

been... arranging up there on t h e rocks.'

' A r r a n g i n g w h a t ? '

' C o c o n u t s , my dear. C o c o n u t s ! ' Jo l o o k e d at h i m w i t h her eyebrows

raised. 'Well, d o n ' t just s t a n d there, Jo. C o m e and have a look.'

At the top of the island, t h e Doctor s h o w e d Jo w h a t he had f o u n d .

'Are you sure you h a v e n ' t d o n e this?' said Jo w i t h a sideways glance.

'I've d o n e n o t h i n g of the sort,' said t h e Doctor indignantly. ' W h a t a

ridiculous s u g g e s t i o n . ' They l o o k e d again a t the c o c o n u t p a t t e r n s .

'You k n o w , ' said the Doctor. 'That looks an a w f u l lot like a R i g h t e o u s

G h o s t . '

'A w h a t ? '

' R i g h t e o u s G h o s t . We used to h e a r tales of t h e m on Gallifrey w h e n I

was g r o w i n g up. Big, w h i t e c r e a t u r e s w i t h w i n g s and circular a p p e n d a g e s

h o v e r i n g above their h e a d s . '

' O t h e r w i s e k n o w n as a n g e l s , ' said Jo.

'Yes,' said t h e Doctor. 'I s u p p o s e they w e r e c o m p a r a b l e to a n g e l s . '

'You know, Doctor, y o u ' r e right. T h a t ' s w h a t this is. It's an angel. Look,

it's even got a h a l o . '

T h e Doctor took a f e w steps b a c k w a r d s , tilted his h e a d and surveyed the

c o c o n u t s proudly.

'Yes, I am right, a r e n ' t I?'

'But t h a t d o e s n ' t tell us w h o p u t t h e m t h e r e . Or why.'

'Quite,' said t h e Doctor. 'Of c o u r s e , w h o e v e r did this could be long

dead.' Even as he soberly said this, the Doctor could hardly c o n t a i n his

e x c i t e m e n t at the f a c t t h a t it m i g h t not be a coincidence, but s o m e t h i n g

m o r e sinister.

'Let's split up,' he said.

'Good idea,' said Jo.

'We'll cover every inch of this island and we w o n ' t stop till we've f o u n d

s o m e t h i n g , even if it's only a pile of b o n e s . '

'Or an a n g e l , ' said Jo.

' I n d e e d , ' said the Doctor. 'Indeed.'

But three h o u r s of s c o u r i n g p r o d u c e d precisely n o t h i n g . Jo checked the

w e s t e r n half of t h e island, w h i c h took her into several neat little coves and

a s h a l l o w n e t w o r k of caves. T h e Doctor, m e a n w h i l e , looked in the east,

s c r a m b l i n g over b o u l d e r s and u n d e r t h e braided hair of a w a t e r f a l l . It was

all very b e a u t i f u l , b u t n o n e o f i t yielded a n y t h i n g vaguely r e s e m b l i n g life.

They m e t back at t h e tree w i t h equally p u z z l e d faces.

'Utterly m y s t e r i o u s , ' said the Doctor.

'Completely,' a g r e e d his c o m p a n i o n .

'Well, t h e r e ' s n o t h i n g f o r it b u t to go back,' said t h e Doctor, and a sense

of d i s a p p o i n t m e n t e n t e r e d his voice.

'Doctor,' said Jo, as they t u r n e d their back on the tree and c o c o n u t s and

b e g a n c l i m b i n g d o w n again, 'what date is it today?'

T h e tall m a n s t o o d quietly, s t u b b o r n l y b e h i n d his palm tree. The

girl a n d m a n had b o t h e v a p o r a t e d now, but t h e original m i r a g e still

r e m a i n e d . Gingerly, he m a d e his way across the beach t o w a r d s it. 'What

s t r a n g e n e s s e s , ' he was m u t t e r i n g . ' T h a n k you d e a r Lord f o r delivering

these s t r a n g e n e s s e s u n t o me on this C h r i s t m a s Day. A n d Santa Claus

too. T h a n k you b o t h kindly. You are such kind gents. A n d w h a t a lovely

p r e s e n t this miracle is. It a l m o s t looks real w i t h the sun b e h i n d it, d o n ' t

it? W h a t lovely boxes. It r e m i n d s me of my last C h r i s t m a s w i t h my wifey.

She got me a tool b o o t h I r e m e m b e r s , and inside was all the tools I n e e d e d

to m a k e my w o o d e n s . I used to like to m a k e my w o o d e n s , d i d n ' t I? T h e r e

w a s h u m m e r s and neils a n d sees and saws and a screwdriver. But this box

is m u c h m u c h bigger. A n d it looks so real, like I could a l m o s t nearly m a y b e

reach out a n d t o u c h it.'

T h e tall m a n ' s f i n g e r e x t e n d e d out extremely c a r e f u l l y t o w a r d s the

m i r a g e as it f a d e d f r o m sight.

Short Trips: Indefinable Magic

It was cruel to be asked so soon after sending in the completed manuscript

of Indefinable Magic to pick a favourite story. I was too close to the stories,

too close to over 100,000 words to be able to pick a few thousand of them

out as the best. The authors had worked so hard and had responded to my

call-out for stories so quickly. It was only a matter of four months from being

commissioned to edit the collection to editing the anthology. I've worked with

brilliant writers, and have been especially pleased to be able to include not only

some of my favourites (and I hope readers of the Short Trips collections, too)

but also writers who are still relatively new to the world of Doctor Who fiction.

But picking a favourite? I'm not able to do that. I don't have a favourite.

So I've included The Fall of the Druids for entirely selfish reasons: it has my

favourite Doctor in it, it has Kamelion in it - and he always makes me laugh

and should've been brilliant on TV - but, mostly, I've chosen this great story

because what happens doesn't reflect well on the Doctor at all. The moral

ambiguity of the Doctor in the tale, where he must ensure that time flows as

he knows it must, makes for a startling change, but author David N Smith has

captured his character brilliantly.

If you haven't read the story before, then I would like to point out that

there are other equally marvellous stories in Indefinable Magic. The anthology

is available from wherever good books are sold, including the Big Finish

website.

Neil Corry

The Fall of the Druids

David N Smith

An adventure ofthe Fifth Doctor, with Tegan, Turlough and Kamelion

Tegan stared at the skulls on top of the gateway. To her mind they

presented an obvious 'Keep Out' message that required no

explanation. To the Doctor, they clearly meant the opposite.

'Come on in, Tegan,' he called back, as he blithely strolled into

the settlement. 'And don't worry about the ornamentation. They're

just there to fend off evil spirits.'

'They seem to be working,' muttered Tegan, glaring at Turlough

as he loitered nervously by the entrance.

She stepped forward hesitantly, looking about warily at the round

thatched huts, sturdy animal enclosures and the massive wooden

palisade that encircled the entire hilltop settlement. The air was

heavy with the smell of wood-fires, compost and dung, all of which

recalled happy memories of her father's farm in Brisbane.

'It's definitely Earth,' mumbled Turlough as he cupped a hand

over his nose and mouth. 'You can tell from the smell.'

'It's a working farm,' growled Tegan defensively as she threw

the boy one of her favourite disparaging looks. 'It's probably a bit

much for your delicate senses.'

'It is a very primitive settlement,' Turlough remarked, glancing at

the Doctor. 'This must be several hundred years before our previous

visit?'

'Judging by the roundhouses, I'd say we're in the late Iron Age,'

replied the Doctor, leaning over a fence to scratch an inquisitive ox

behind its ear. 'It looks very much like a Celtic hill fort to me.'

'Hill fort?' exclaimed Tegan as she gazed around at the wattle-

and-daub huts. 'It's barely a village!'

'That's archaeologists for you,' he replied, strolling through the

animal pens. 'Always naming things before they have a clue what

they are.'

The Doctor stopped, suddenly aware that a young boy had

appeared in the doorway of the nearest roundhouse. He was staring

at them with wide eyes full of fear.

'Try to blend in,' the Doctor whispered to Tegan. 'Act as if it's

perfectly natural for us to be here.'

Tegan glanced at the boy's simple woollen garments, and then

looked down at her own striking multi-coloured cotton dress. She

shot a sceptical frown at the man in his Edwardian cricket outfit.

'I'm not sure that's going to work.'

'Help! Father!' the boy yelled. 'Deceangli!'

'I guess not,' replied the Doctor dryly.

'Us? Deceangli?' cried Turlough incredulously. 'I don't think so.

We don't even know what Deceangli are! Do we?'

'They were a Celtic tribe from the west of Britain,' the Doctor

commented informatively. 'With whom we have absolutely no

association!'

A burlyman with a thick, dark moustache emerged from the

roundhouse, stepping protectively in front of the boy, his dark eyes

fixed on the Doctor. In his right hand he held a hammer, which

looked as if it could normally be used to reshape iron but would

also be quite capable of reshaping unwanted strangers.

'They're not Deceangli,' the stocky man told the boy.

'We're travellers,' said the Doctor, doffing his hat politely and

giving the man a broad, beaming smile.

'Without weapons?'

'I find it keeps me out of trouble,' replied the Doctor, ignoring

the incredulous stares of his companions.

'More of a druid than a warrior, then?' the man smiled, clapping

a friendly hand on the Doctor's back. 'Welcome to Ordovice

territory. I am Cadwallon. We should eat, drink and exchange

news.'

'That's very gracious of you,' replied the Doctor as he happily

allowed himself to be led into one of the larger roundhouses.

Tegan and Turlough exchanged nervous glances.

'Ladies first,' Turlough gestured politely.

Tegan rolled her eyes in disdain. She knew she should try to be a

little more patient with the boy, but his perpetual nervousness was

really beginning to grate on her nerves.

She stepped forward, having to duck her head down to squeeze

through the small opening, to discover that the Doctor and

Cadwallon had stopped just inside, both surprised by the sudden

appearance of another unexpected guest. A dark-haired woman was

standing backlit by the flames of the cooking hearth, wrapped in a

stained cloak. Her face was concealed beneath a blank, wooden

mask.

Cadwallon whispered, his deep voice filled with reverence,

'Ffion?' The figure nodded slowly.

The Doctor frowned at the blank face, quietly raising his hand,

cautioning Tegan and Turlough not to venture any further into the

room. 'They are coming, Cadwallon.' Ffion's voice was soft and

light, at odds with the nature of her appearance. 'The enemy is

coming.'

'The Deceangli?' queried Turlough, still keen to distance himself

from the rival tribe.

'The Romans,' whispered the wooden-faced woman.

'Romans?' The Doctor looked up, his eyes sparkling with

interest. 'Are you sure?'

'I have seen the signs.'

'Ah, you're a soothsayer,' the Doctor raised his eyebrows

enquiringly. 'You predict the future?'

'I am Vate.' The woman retorted sharply. 'My words are not

vague prophecy. They are fact. It was written in the skies, in wind

and in the blood ofthe dying. The Romans will come this day.'

'Then we will fight them,' Cadwallon growled, raising his

hammer.

'Then you will die,' replied Ffion coldly. 'You would do better to

look to the lives of the children than to throw your own away. If

you would fight, then join the forces at Mona.' The dark-cloaked

woman stepped backwards, moving around the smoke that suddenly

filled the space where she stood, then disappeared into the shadows

at the back of hut.

'Sadly, friend, there will be no time for food,' Cadwallon

muttered as he turned and walked out of the hut, thinking nothing of

Ffion's vanishing trick. 'We must prepare to meet the enemy.'

Tegan moved around the fire, hesitantly stepping into the

shadows where she had last seen the masked woman.

'Did she really just disappear into thin air?' Tegan asked, worried

that the question might make her sound foolish.

Turlough shook his head. 'Impossible. There must be another

door,' he insisted, staring at the solid clay walls.

They both glanced at the Doctor, expecting an answer, but found

him lost in thought.

'If she's right about the Romans, then that would make this

around the middle of the lst-century AD,' the Doctor muttered, his

eyes suddenly gleaming with excitement. 'If we're lucky, we might

get the chance to meet Boudicca!'

'The Killoran sculptor?' Turlough frowned.

'The Queen of the Iceni.' The Doctor's shoulders sagged. 'You

really didn't learn anything in that school, did you?'

'I never saw any reason to take an interest in human history,'

Turlough shrugged dismissively.

'You might want to revise that opinion,' Tegan chided, never one

to miss an opportunity to put the boy in his place, 'now that you're

stood in the middle of it.'

Turlough glared at her and said, 'I could or, given that they're

about to start killing each other, we could just go back to the

TARDIS and leave.'

'Leave?' the Doctor repeated, sounding almost petulant. But

we've only just arrived.'

'So?' Tegan cut in, seeing the disappointment flooding into the

Doctor's eyes. 'Turlough's right. For once. Do we really want to get

caught up in the middle of a war?'

The Doctor sighed. 'Very well. I suppose it is the sensible thing

to do.' He led the way back into the daylight, pausing briefly to

push his hat back on, before realising the whole village was in

chaos. Tegan saw Cadwallon lift his son into a horse-drawn cart and

kiss him briefly on the forehead. The sadness in their eyes was

obvious. Father and son both knew this was no ordinary goodbye.

At that moment a distant thundering noise began, causing the

worried Celts to fall silent as frightened eyes turned towards the

east In the distance, a vast plume of dust was rising and

discolouring the sky, while from beneath the brown cloud were

emerging hundreds of Roman soldiers, their armour and spear-tips

glinting in the sunlight.

'Come on!' Turlough yelled, lurching forward into the crowd of

frightened people. 'We can still make it back to the TARDIS!'

He scrambled forward, racing back out of the eastern gateway.

Tegan hurried after him, but froze in horror as she saw a Roman

rider gallop across her path.

The rider thrust his spear towards her. She felt the blade pierce

her side.

Tegan stumbled backwards, falling into the Doctor's arms. He

carried her unceremoniously into the back of the horse-drawn cart

among the terrified children.

'Cadwallon, please!' the Doctor yelled, as the villagers battled to

shut the gates. You cannot win this!'

'I am not afraid to die,' Cadwallon growled. 'But save your

friend! Save Lythan!'

The Doctor nodded, his face filled with regret as he leapt up onto

the cart and picked up the reins and whip. With a single crack of

leather and a yell from the Doctor, the cart plunged forwards,

driving through the settlement and out through the western gateway.

'Lythan!' the Doctor called back to Cadwallon's son. 'Where's

the safest place to go!'

'The island!' shouted the boy, pointing a trembling arm out

towards the sea. 'To Mona!'

Tegan tried to sit up, to see where the boy was pointing, but the

effort suddenly seemed too great.

The Doctor looked back at her. She followed his gaze.

The cloth of her dress had been stained red.

Blood. Her blood.

She closed her eyes.

She heard the Doctor crack the whip once more.

Tegan woke up in darkness.

Gradually, as her eyes adjusted, a weak firelight from across the

room was illuminating the wooden rafters above her and the curved

clay wall that encircled her. She was pressed between warm

blankets of animal fur and a thick, straw mattress, which were

managing to keep her warm despite the fact that she could see her

breath fogging in the cold air. She could hear the sound of a boy - it

must be Lythan - gently sobbing at the foot of the bed, while she

could see the Doctor, sitting thoughtfully, silhouetted against the

flames of a small hearth.

'The girl will live,' cut a cold voice through the darkness, coming

from inches away from her face. Tegan turned in shock, peering up

into the gloom until suddenly she could make out the dark shape of

a wooden face hovering over her.

'You have my thanks, Ffion.' The Doctor turned away from the

fire, his face lost in shadow.

Tegan tried to sit up but a stabbing pain in her side stopped her.

On reflex she reached a hand towards her wound, her fingers

discovering linen bindings had covered it.

'I thought I was dead,' Tegan whispered, as she stared up at the

impassive wooden mask.

'You almost were,' remarked the Doctor as he stood and walked

towards them. 'You almost certainly would have been without

Ffion's help.'

'How?'

'These hands hold the sacred power of healing,' Ffion, still in her

mask, turned to examine her own very human and delicate fingers.

'Now rest. You will need your strength for the battles ahead.'

Ffion stood and nodded curtly at the Doctor. She reached out a

hand to the red-eyed Lythan, who clasped it tightly in his own,

before they both stepped out through the doorway.

Tegan frowned up at the Doctor as he stared down at her, his

hands in his pockets and his face unreadable. 'Did she heal me with

magic?'

'More likely herbal painkillers and a skilled hand with a needle

and thread.'

'You said she was a soothsayer,' said Tegan as she tried again to

sit up, 'not a doctor.'

'She's a Vate. It's one of three important roles in the Celtic

spiritual world. The others are the Druid and the Bard, but they're

all people of learning,' the Doctor replied quietly. 'She'll have spent

many years training in medicine and, shall we say, more

otherworldly arts. The people here don't separate them as you or I

might. In many ways, to these people, they're one and the same.

The knowledge and wisdom has been amassed and passed on for

hundreds of years, through stories, songs and by rote, While they

are highly skilled in writing and reading, they never commit their

wisdom to paper, always wary of how the knowledge could be

abused by the uninitiated.'

Tegan frowned, confused by the sense of wonder she could hear

in her friend's voice.

'I'm grateful either way,' she murmured, her tiredness and

gratitude softening her usual irascible tone. 'But what about

Turlough?'

'I don't know,' replied the Doctor as he sat down on the edge of

the bed, finally turning his face towards the firelight. 'Last time I

saw him, he was heading for the TARDIS.'

'Not very reliable, is he?' Tegan muttered. 'Always running off.

Never a thought for anyone else.'

The Doctor let out an exasperated sigh.

'Oh, it takes more than being speared to stop me mouthing off,'

she said, almost laughing, before a fresh jolt of pain made her gasp

and her eyes water. 'Where are we anyway?' she asked after getting

her breath back.

'Ah,' the Doctor mumbled. 'I was rather hoping you weren't

going to ask that.'

'Where?' Tegan barked.

'We crossed the sea channel by boat, put the water between the

Romans and us. We're on the Isle of Mona, in the druidic training

centre, the very heart of the Celtic spiritual world.'

'Never heard of it.'

'You wouldn't.' replied the Doctor, still seemingly keen to avoid

her gaze. 'The Romans destroyed it, slaughtering every man,

woman and child.'

'I love travelling with a Time Lord. So many history lessons I

didn't know I didn't want to learn.' Tegan scowled at him, pulling

up the animal skin blanket tightly under her chin, knowing she

already knew the answer to the question she was about to ask.

'When will all this happen?'

'Best guess?' he paused. 'A day, maybe two.'

'Then we have to get out of here.'

'We can't,' the Doctor replied, finally turning to look her straight

in the eye. 'The Romans have taken the opposite shore. We're

penned in.'

Turlough shivered, frozen to the core from having spent the night

lying in a damp, rocky hole by the river. He peered cautiously out

of his hiding place towards the blue police box that stood by the

bank, a sense of relief flooding through him. Even if the Doctor and

Tegan had been killed then at least he would still be able to escape

from the Earth and its brutal, primitive inhabitants.

Glancing downstream he could see a group of Roman soldiers

washing in the cold waters, laughing and joking, but all with their

swords and spears within easy reach. He knew he would need to be

quick to cross the gap to the TARDIS before they noticed him.

Why hadn't the Doctor and Tegan just run, like he'd said? If they

had, they would all be there now. They would all have been able to

get in the TARDIS and go. Instead, it was just him and another

desperate run for freedom.

He sprang forward, crouching and running as fast as he could

until the tall blue doors loomed before him. He put his hand against

the wood and pushed, but the doors refused to open. Hope was

replaced by panic. Gripping hold of the handle, he pulled, then

pushed, rattling the door in its frame. Nothing! In his mind's eye he

could clearly see the Doctor closing the TARDIS door behind him.

He slammed his fist against the wood. He was furious that, after

everything he had been through, he was about to die as just another

faceless victim in someone else's war.

Then the door opened.

Shocked and surprised, but never one to miss an opportunity to

survive, Turlough leapt inside. Dashing forward, he collided with

the console and slammed his hand down on the nearest lever. His

eyes darted sideways, suddenly aware of the figure leaning on the

console.

'You let me in?'

Kamelion slowly turned his face towards Turlough.

'You appeared to be in some distress,' the machine replied

calmly.

'I'm grateful,' Turlough muttered, straightening his tie, as he

eyed the silver android with suspicion. 'But what are you doing in

the control room?'

'It was merely a random chance,' Kamelion replied, tilting his

head. 'I was accessing the databanks.'

'Really?'

'I would not lie,' Kamelion raised his chin, as if his pride had

somehow been dented by the suggestion.

'Oh, you would.' Turlough stepped away, turning his attention to

the console. 'It's what you were built for.'

Turlough moved his hands across the console, checking the co-

ordinates and read-outs.

'What is it that you are attempting to do?' Kamelion enquired in

his calm and precise manner, his eyes following Turlough's

movements.

Turlough sighed, unsure how to tell the android what had

happened, or how it would react to the news.

'I think the Doctor and Tegan are dead,' he said bluntly.

The robot's head dipped slightly.

'But I think I can get us out of here,' Turlough said softly, unsure

why he was attempting to reassure a machine. 'Away from Earth, at

any rate.'

Kamelion raised his chin, levelling his dark eyes at Turlough.

'Your information is incorrect,' the machine purred, as a metal

finger stabbed a button on the console. 'This scanner setting is

keyed to the Doctor's brain pattern. He is alive and well,

approximately twenty kilometres north of this position.'

Turlough rounded the console, glancing from the android to the

monitor screen, unable to believe his eyes. There was a single blue

diamond gently pulsing away at the edge of a map of an island. He

should have known better than to doubt the Doctor's ability to get

out of seemingly impossible situations.

'If they are in danger,' Kamelion began, its eyes seeming to stare

straight through Turlough, 'then we should assist them.'

'There's nothing we can do,' Turlough protested, pointing at the

coastline. 'The Roman army is camped along here. Between us and

the Doctor.'

Kamelion lowered his eyes. 'I am programmed for covert military

operations.'

A blaze of red light erupted around the android's silver body,

swirling around him as his form suddenly shifted. Turlough took a

step back as the machine's stiff, metal face became soft flesh and a

military uniform seemed to materialise in the air around him as his

form broadened into that of an imposing, square-jawed Roman

centurion.

Kamelion looked at his feet, wriggled his toes in his sandals and

then grinned at Turlough.

'I will be able to acquire a uniform for you from their camp,' he

said in a deep, accented voice. He strode around the console and

activated the scanner, turning to watch the main screen open onto a

view of green hills and valleys. 'But we will need a local guide.'

With another twist of the centurion's hand the screen zoomed in

on a battered and bloody figure hiding among the river reeds.

Turlough stepped up to the screen and stared into the familiar but

frightened face that cowered behind the grass.

'Cadwallon,' he whispered. 'He survived.'

'Can you persuade him to assist us?' Kamelion asked, the

centurion's dark brown eyes seeming to glimmer with enthusiasm.

Turlough hesitated, aware that he was being included in the

machine's foolhardy plan.

'Yes,' he said reluctantly, 'of course I can.'

The Doctor stood on the clifftop, hands deep in his pockets,

watching the distant shore. He could see the Romans on the

mainland beach, as they worked on the construction of a fleet of

wooden boats. He knew it wouldn't be long before they reached the

island. History itself left him in no doubt of the bloody and violent

day that lay ahead. He bowed his head, for once feeling powerless

against unfolding events. Time and tide wait for no man. Not even a

Time Lord. The weight of his knowledge suddenly felt heavy. It

was a burden, he knew, but it was one he had been taught to carry

without complaint.

He was distracted by a soft, feminine voice behind him. 'They

will not cross the channel today. I have turned the wind against

them.'

'Oh, Ffion,' the Doctor replied without turning, 'if you could do

that, then we would be safe forever.'

Ffion laughed. 'Tomorrow the people will be ready for battle.'

The Doctor frowned, glancing back at the masked woman.

Behind her, trudging across the rough ground, snaked a line of

white-robed men, their middle-aged faces set with stern resolve.

'Druids,' the Doctor smiled, allowing a measure of respect into

his voice. 'Men of peace and learning, lawgivers, judges, advisers.

Not much use in a war, surely?'

'They have other talents that can be employed on the battlefield.'

'So, the Druids and the Votes are here,' said the Doctor as he

watched the figures move towards the shore. 'What about the

Bards?'

'They will sing tales of our victory.'

'I wish I could share your optimism.'

Ffion chuckled, her eyes gleaming from behind the hard, wooden

mask. 'You have the audacity to call yourself a Lord of Time? Yet

you are more its slave than its master!'

The Doctor balked.

'Oh, we know the future you believe will happen. But it shall not

come to pass.'

'How could you know who I am and what will happen?' he

asked, feeling a chill as he stared at the wooden face.

'The wisdom taught here on Mona is more ancient and more

powerful than you will ever know.'

'Is it really?' The Doctor glared at the woman. 'Or did you just

listen in on a private conversation?'

'Don't underestimate us, Doctor. We have the power to destroy

our enemy.'

The Doctor hesitated, doubts blossoming in his mind.

'What power?' he asked, stepping up to tower over the woman.

'How could you possibly stop an entire Roman legion?'

'I am not about to share our secrets with you,' the woman

seethed. 'Your loyalties do not lie with us. You have your own

cause, do you not?'

The Doctor stepped back, suddenly wary of how much the

woman knew or had guessed.

'Time's flow cannot be changed, Ffion,' the Doctor insisted. 'It's

too strong.'

'Even the most powerful river may be dammed, diverted, bridged

or crossed.' The woman in the wooden mask walked slowly

towards him, coming so close that he could feel her hot breath on

his skin.

'We have the power to stop the enemy, Doctor. And you should

be glad of it.' The woman's eyes narrowed behind the slits in her

mask. 'If your prophecy comes true, it means the deaths of you,

your friend, of all of us. I offer life. Are you such a fool that you

would cling so tightly to your beliefs?'

She left the question hanging in the air, her eyes desperately

trying to read the Doctor's impassive face. He said nothing, neither

daring to answer nor wanting to.

Ffion snorted her disapproval. 'You are afraid of what you know

you can do. Why? Is it cowardice? If so, it is a weakness that I do

not share. You saved many lives from the slaughter at the village, so

I will choose to believe that you are not our enemy.' She pulled her

black cloak tight around her and turned away. 'Make sure you do

not become one.'

Turlough felt ridiculous. They may have called it a Roman military

uniform but to him it still felt like a jerkin, sandals and a skirt.

Much to his annoyance, it also appeared that Kamelion was

enjoying the whole experience. The awkward, retiring robot was

gone, replaced by an energetic centurion, one perfectly at ease in the

Roman camp. He gave orders, laughed at jokes, discussed tactics

with the senior officers and had become irritatingly popular with

what seemed like the entire legion. Kamelion's plan was simple. By

infiltrating the Roman camp the three of them had gained access to

the resources they needed to reach the island. They would slip

across in the attack, then rescue the Doctor and Tegan. Simple

enough, but insanely dangerous if you put any value on your own

life.

Turlough took comfort from the fact that Cadwallon seemed even

more nervous, which was hardly a surprise given that he was one

Celt surrounded by thousands of Romans. The worried man was

nervously fingering his upper lip, from which he had cut off his

thick Celtic moustache so that he could blend in with his clean-

shaven enemies.

'I can't believe you stayed to fight,' said Turlough as they

watched the first few Roman boats set sail for the island, taking

advantage of that morning's shift in wind.

'I have no fear of dying,' the man explained earnestly. 'I believe

my stay in the Otherworld will be short, I will soon be reborn in a

new body, in a new life.'

'Reincarnation?'

'You do not believe?'

'I'm afraid not.' Turlough tried to hide his scorn of the beliefs of

this primitive but brave man. He suddenly recalled his own past.

'When I lost my mother, I knew it was forever.'

'It is why you run.' Cadwallon said softly, looking uncomfortable

and embarrassed. 'Why I ran.'

'At least you were prepared to fight.'

'But my death would have parted me from my son. Forever.

Remember Ffion's words?'

'You listened to the soothsayer?' queried Turlough, unable to

stop a smile from slipping across his face.

'Always,' Cadwallon shrugged. 'She is never wrong.'

They fell into a thoughtful silence as they pushed their boat out

into the water, but the quiet was soon shattered by the arrival of

Kamelion. The square-jawed Roman centurion splashed through the

water, leaping into the boat with a grin, followed seconds later by a

handful of excited Roman auxiliaries. Cadwallon and Turlough

barely had time to scramble aboard before the oars hit the water.

'Come on!' Kamelion shouted at the bedraggled troops. 'I want

us to be the first on that island! Get rowing!'

The auxiliaries did not hesitate. They leapt into action, all eager

to obey their orders. In minutes, the boat was at the leading edge of

the fleet. As they approached the island, Turlough spotted the

opposing force waiting on the dunes. Dozens of white-robed figures

stood in a circle. Gathered around them were hundreds of rugged

and tattooed warriors waving their swords angrily in the air. He

thought he saw the Doctor standing at the back with his hands in his

pockets and wearing his panama hat, watching the Roman army slip

across the water.

Kamelion's vessel was indeed the first to hit the beach and he

was the first one down into the surf, hurriedly pulling it up onto the

land, while dozens more boats came ashore around them.

A series of fires suddenly burst into life behind the ranks of the

Celts. Bathed in the light, the Druids raised their arms to the sky

and began to chant, their voices thundering in unison. Seconds later,

dozens of black-cloaked women emerged from the ranks of the

warriors, each carrying a flaming torch, their dark hair streaming in

wind as their wailing voices joined the chorus against the invaders.

The Romans stopped in their tracks. Hundreds of Roman soldiers

found themselves paralysed. Many turned pale, some tried to glance

at their companions, but the vast majority were completely frozen,

staring in horror at the Celts, mesmerised and transfixed.

Turlough knew it must be Ffion at the top of the largest rock on

the cliff As he watched the wooden mask gazing down on the

terrified army, he suddenly realised he could move, that he alone

seemed to be unaffected by the paralysis. He wanted to run.

'You came to slaughter us,' Ffion yelled. 'But the gods

themselves defend this place! And you are nothing but mortal men!'

Turlough looked along the line of Celts, noticing with horror that

a large number of their warriors were notching arrows and drawing

back their bowstrings.

Turlough turned to Cadwallon's wide-eyed face. 'Run!' he

screamed, but all the man could do was whimper and point at Ffion

as she loomed over them. Turlough grabbed the terrified man and

hauled him over his shoulder, trying desperately to ignore the

whistle of the first deadly rain of arrows.

The Doctor watched as Ffion lowered her torch, signalling the

bowmen to fire their first volley. The sky was suddenly filled with

arrows, arcing upwards, and then accelerating down towards

paralysed Roman troops. 'You shouldn't be able to do this! You

must stop this slaughter!' the Doctor shouted, making no attempt to

hide his anger.

Ffion didn't even glance at him. She said nothing, her blank mask

hiding any expression the Doctor might read. The arrows fell on the

defenceless Roman troops. Those that were hit became free of the

paralysis in their last, desperate seconds of life. The soldiers'

screams were so loud that they blotted out the Druids' chanting.

'We will -' Ffion began, but her sentence was cut short, as the

Doctor grabbed hold of her cloak and pulled. She tottered on top of

the rock.

'I can't let you do this, Ffion. 1 can't let you win!' the Doctor

cried, his voice cracking with desperation. 'History demands I stop

you!'

He tugged again, pulling her off the rock, sending her flailing to

the ground. She crashed into the earth, the flaming torch spinning

away from her hand, her mask falling from her face.

From the beach below there came a cry of hundreds of voices.

Suddenly, the Roman troops were moving again, storming up the

beach towards the Celts.

The Doctor frowned, looking down at the wooden mask lying in

the mud. He knelt down, picked up the mask and held it up to the

firelight. He pulled his glasses from his pocket, flipped them open

and pushed them onto his nose.

'The spell is broken,' the Doctor muttered as he studied the mask,

before peering over the rim of his glasses at the black-cloaked

figure that was struggling to stand in the muddy ground.

The face that looked back at him was pale and beautiful, her eyes

impossibly deep with sorrow, with a single tear running down her

left cheek.

'You have brought death upon us all,' the woman whispered.

The Doctor stared at her, frowning at how small and human she

really was.

Turlough scrambled up the rocks, all too aware people were dying

on the beach behind him. He had been forced to literally haul

Cadwallon away from the danger, but the man finally seemed to

have returned to his senses. Turlough paused briefly at the top of a

rocky bluff, watching as the charging Roman troops collided with

the Celtic warriors, searching for a glimpse of Kamelion among the

chaos.

Turning his attention away from the fighting, he saw Cadwallon

hurrying towards the Doctor and Ffion. They had both seen the

Doctor pull the woman from the rock, watched as she had fallen

backwards, shattering the moment of awe that she had commanded

over the stupefied Romans. He could see that she was now standing

beside the Doctor, her unmasked face pretty and pale in the

firelight, but her eyes filled with anger and defeat. She spared

Turlough and Cadwallon only a glance before running towards the

battle, towards where her people were dying.

Cadwallon watched her go.

The Doctor wasted no time on pleasantries: 'You weren't

affected by the paralysis?' It was barely a question.

'Standing still when your life is danger has never seemed very

bright to me,' remarked Turlough pointedly, glancing towards the

fighting.

The Doctor nodded but turned his attention to the mask he was

holding, flipping it over and over in his hands.

'Perhaps your non-human biology protected you,' the Doctor

suggested, never taking his eyes off the wooden face.

'Or perhaps I'm very good at running away.'

The Doctor shot him a cold stare.

'Can we please have this conversation somewhere safer?' asked

Turlough, ignoring the Doctor's expression. He realised he would

need a different tack to thaw the Time Lord's icy temperament.

'Where's Tegan?'

'And my son?' Cadwallon added.

The Doctor's face unfroze in a heartbeat. He whipped off his

glasses and nicked them away inside his jacket, as if finally aware

ofthe screaming, fighting and fires all around them.

'This way,' he said, 'and quickly.'

Tegan woke to the sound of battle. She struggled to prop herself up

on her elbows, only able to watch as Lythan picked up a small iron

blade and hid nervously by the doorway. She knew that if the

Romans found them then they were dead. The boy was no match for

a Roman legionary and she didn't have the strength to move, let

alone fight.

She held her breath as a figure loomed in the doorway.

A massive, threatening Roman strode towards them, his hard face

blackened by smoke and mud, a short sword gripped firmly in his

right hand. Lythan pounced from his hiding place, his tiny knife

clashing uselessly against his opponent's armour. The soldier

grabbed and twisted the boy's forearm, forcing him to drop the

knife. Their only weapon clattered uselessly to the floor.

The Roman turned his dark eyes towards Tegan and gave her a

grin. 'I apologise if I scared you, Tegan. How are you feeling?' he

asked, his face frowning in concern as he continued to keep the boy

in the arm lock. 'What?' she yelled, confusion and alarm clouding

her brain. 'Who are you?'

'It's me,' the centurion replied, looking slightly hurt by the lack

of recognition. 'Kamelion.'

'Oh.' Tegan slumped back onto the straw mattress. 'What are you

doing here?'

'I thought that much was obvious. I was under the impression you

needed assistance,' the centurion replied, letting go of Lythan who

had stopped struggling, realising the man was, somehow, Tegan's

friend. Kamelion rubbed a broad hand over the child's cropped hair.

'This was the last location that the TARDIS scanners placed the

Doctor's life-signs before we came looking for you.'

'We?'

'Myself and Turlough.'

'And very grateful we are,' replied the Doctor as he stepped into

the roundhouse. 'Aren't we?'

'Yes, of course,' agreed Tegan tersely, annoyed by the

implication that she would somehow be unappreciative of being

rescued, even by Turlough.

'The Romans are winning the battle,' the Doctor told them.

'They're destroying the buildings, burning the sacred groves.

Hundreds of people are dying.'

'There's nothing you could have done,' Tegan bit her lip, unsure

what more to say. She knew from bitter experience how a moment

like this would hurt him, but she realised there were no more words

of comfort she could offer.

'They're putting the entire Druidic culture to the sword. With no

written records, everything these people were, all their wisdom,

their knowledge and their culture will be lost forever. It's the end of

an entire world.'

'It's not your fault,' Tegan tried, frightened by the horror in his

voice. He said nothing for a moment. He just stared at her with

weary, empty eyes.

'It won't be long before they find us.'

Tegan stared at him, unsure what to say, waiting for him to

continue, wanting him to explain how he was going to save them.

'What would you like me to do?' Kamelion asked quietly.

'Stand outside,' the Doctor replied. 'Tell them not to come in.'

Kamelion nodded and obeyed.

'That's the plan?' Tegan gasped. 'That's never going to work!'

'Father!' Lythan leapt up as Cadwallon entered the roundhouse.

Tegan allowed herself a smile, glad to witness the reunion of father

and son. Even Turlough, who was skulking in the doorway, looked

happy for them.

'We will fight them when they come,' Cadwallon whispered in

his son's ear, clearly keen to reassure the terrified boy. 'We will die

together.'

This was not the reunion Tegan had been hoping for. She turned

her gaze on the Doctor as he stood in the centre of the room, silently

staring at the mask in his hands.

'There must be something you can do,' Tegan cried.

The Doctor looked up. 'It's possible that Ffion was using this

mask to access a low-level psychic field. If so, there's no reason I

can't do the same. I can create a perception filter around us, so the

Romans will never know we're here.'

Turlough coughed sceptically. 'I'm sorry, but what psychic field

would that be?'

'A generation of worship and belief would be more than enough

to create a psychic field and imbue the mask with the ability to

channel the energies involved.'

'On a scale large enough to freeze thousands of professional

Roman soldiers?' Turlough scoffed. 'That's ridiculous.'

'You'd need a power source close by, one that was functioning

on the same psychic wavelength. A large amount of tinclavic

perhaps.'

Turlough stopped dead. 'Kamelion?'

'It's how he's able to adapt his appearance so perfectly,' the

Doctor replied. 'By showing you exactly what you expect to see.

It's possible that Ffion deliberately summoned him to the

battlefield.'

'That's a bit of a leap,' Turlough muttered softly. 'You don't

need psychic fields to explain any of this.'

The Doctor ignored him, sitting cross-legged on the floor, lifting

the mask to his face and then gently pulling its leather strap tight

behind his head. He closed his eyes, while the featureless wooden

mask flickered in the hearth light. Finally the Doctor sighed, opened

his eyes and pulled off the mask. 'The perception filter is now in

place,' he said confidently.

'If there is a psychic field,' muttered Turlough, never one to let

his opinion be ignored.

'Yes,' the Doctor nodded. 'If.'

Tegan laid her head back on the straw.

'If,' she said. 'I remember telling Nyssa that my dad thought "if"

was the most powerful word in the English language.'

'Really? I'd have chosen "escaped",' muttered Turlough. 'Or

"free". Or even just "alive".'

They stared at the door. The battle beyond it was terrifying them

all. There was no doubt the Celts were being massacred. Lives were

being lost and history was being written. All they could do was

endure it.

Kamelion stood guard over the roundhouse for two days. Usually

the house was ignored, but occasionally some of the Roman soldiers

would wander too close and he would need to forcefully order them

away. There were times when Cadwallon had wanted to leave the

safety of the house, for him and his son to join the battle, but the

Doctor always managed to persuade him to stay. Despite his many

protests, there was only relief burning in Cadwallon's eyes as he

clung fiercely to his son.

On the dawn of the third day, Kamelion saw the last of the

soldiers climb back aboard their boats and set sail for the mainland.

The Doctor stepped out into the dawn light to watch the soldiers

go. Tegan, able to walk but still in pain, followed him, clearly keen

not to stray too far from his protection. The smell of the smoking

remains of the sacred groves and roundhouses couldn't disguise the

smell of death.

'They left earlier than I expected,' Kamelion observed

dispassionately. Tegan envied him his apparent lack of emotion.

'News from the mainland, I expect,' the Doctor replied as he

watched the boats sail away. 'Boudicca has begun her rebellion.

Many tribes will unite behind her, which isn't a surprise given

what's just happened here.'

'There was nothing you could do stop it.' Tegan laid a hand on

the Time Lord's arm, once more giving voice to those few words of

comfort. 'We all know you can't change history'

'Really?' queried Turlough, as he stood in the entrance of the

roundhouse. 'From where I was standing it looked like he made it

happen.'

The Doctor unrolled his hat and pulled it on, the action

preventing him from having to look into the eyes of his

companions.

'We should get back to the TARDIS,' he muttered briefly,

echoing Turlough's sentiment of only days before. He set off in the

direction of the beach.

'What about the mask?' Tegan called after him. 'You can't just

leave it here, can you?'

'It's burning on the hearth,' he replied, without looking back.

Kamelion watched as Turlough and Tegan said their goodbyes to

Cadwallon and Lythan, before they turned and headed after the

Doctor. The android followed silently behind them.

Once inside the relative safety of the TARDIS, Kamelion let his

appearance shift back to its default setting. The image of the content

centurion faded away. He knew that his biological companions still

had unanswered questions. They were struggling to understand and

come to terms with the events that had occurred on the island. He

could sense the emotional turmoil coming off them in waves. He

himself was not concerned with such issues. He had enjoyed his

rare journey outside the safety of TARDIS, but whether it had been

of his own choice or that of an outside influence now seemed

largely irrelevant.

He stood by the hatstand, awaiting further instructions and

watched the others interact. Biological entities were always so

interesting.

'So?' Tegan asked as the Doctor set the console's coordinates.

The Doctor looked up, his eyes full of innocence.

'So?'

'Was there ever a psychic field?' Turlough asked bluntly, his

eyes betraying his uncertainty.

The Doctor punched a single button, examining the results on a

monitor, his face as unreadable as Ffion's mask.

'If there was, then it's gone now. Lost perhaps, along with so

much else.' He sighed. 'You were there. You tell me.'

Have you read...

Short Trips:

1. Zodiac edited by Jacqueline Rayner

Take a TARDIS trip through the constellations, as the Doctor travels to twelve

thrilling tales inspired by the mystical zodiac. Telepathic fish, miniature lions

and twin planets are the least of his problems, as the Doctor - all eight of

him - faces the Capricorn Killer, endures a mindswap with the Machiavellian

Master, and dances with Death herself. And that's not the half of it - as the

two K9s can attest...

Featuring stories by Paul Magrs, Mark Michalowski, Paul Leonard, Simon A

Forward, Joseph Lidster and more!

2. Companions edited by Jacqueline Rayner

Adventures in time and space are no fun if there's no one to share them. The

Doctor has taken along many people on his travels - humans, aliens and

robots. Did he really care for any of them? What in their previous life fitted

them for the role of companion - and how did they cope after they left the

TARDIS? Discover the truth about Romana's regeneration, find out what

happened when Zoe encountered the Doctor again, and learn which of his

companions the Doctor cared for the most...

Featuring stores by Paul Magrs, Mark Michalowski, Steve Lyons, Gary Russell, Tara

Samms and more!

3. A Universe of Terrors edited by John Binns

For many years, the battered doors of a police telephone box have been our

gateway to other times and other worlds: worlds that have been by turns

disturbing, frightening, horrific and surreal. This collection explores the

darkest corners of the Doctor Who universe, in a journey that takes in not just

alien and physical terrors, but also those of our own world and our own

personal nightmares.

Featuring stories by Marc Piatt, Juliet E McKenna, Lance Parkin, Robert Shearman,

Jonathan Morris and more!

4. The Muses edited by Jacqueline Rayner

Tell me, O Muse, of that many-aspected hero who fled his home world to travel

every corner of time and space. Tell me, daughter of love, of his battles and

tragedies, of the strangers he encountered and the evil plots he foiled. Nine

authors have received the inspiration of the Muses to speak of the Doctor with

tales of History, Dancing, Comedy and Tragedy, Sacred Poetry, Epic Poetry and

Love Poetry, Music and Astronomy. May they speak to your hearts.

Featuring stories by Gareth Roberts, Robert Shearman, Simon A Forward, Steve

Lyons, Justin Richards and more!

5. Steel Skies edited by John Binns

Imagine you could never breathe fresh, unfiltered air again, or look up into

a clear blue sky. From Britain's first underwater prison to an early human

colony on an inhospitable world and the last ship to fight for Earth in the

bitter Draconian War, the people in these stories are confined, isolated, often

far from home. They live with loneliness, paranoia and despair. And then they

meet the Doctor - and for better or worse, their lives are changed for ever...

Featuring stories by Marc Piatt, Lance Parkin, Kate Orman, Jonathan Blum, Paul

Leonard and more!

6. Past Tense edited by Ian Farrington

Throughout his travels, the Doctor has had many adventures both on Earth and

in the past. His affection for this particular planet is clear - as is his enjoyment

of seeing history happen. This book features stories set in Earth's past: from

the heady atmosphere of Shakespearian London to the shadowy world of pre-

war Istanbul; from the time of King Alfred to the turn of the Millennium.

Featuring stories by Eric Saward, Nev Fountain, Nicholas Briggs, Joseph Lidster,

Mark Wright and more!

7. Life Science edited by John Binns

Once, we believed our lives were sacred, that we had souls. Now we know

we are mere machines: genetic data. We are science. But even as we learn,

the properties of life remain uncertain. How does life acquire consciousness,

or rights? Does a robot dream? If a person transforms into an oak tree, is it

science or the work of the gods? To science, such questions are invitations to

explore. Who better to explore with than the Doctor?

Featuring stories by Kate Orman, Lance Parkin, Jonathan Morris, Jim Mortimore,

Steve Lyons and more!

8. Repercussions edited by Gary Russell

All across the universe, the Doctor is hailed as a hero, a benevolent force, the

man who fights monsters, topples dictators and frees the oppressed. But what

if, while doing these good deeds, the Doctor is unwittingly changing the web

of time? Giving people knowledge they're not supposed to have? Empowering

races that should have remained in the dark ages? Overthrowing evil that, had

it continued to flourish, might have brought together a greater force of good?

Featuring stories by Peter Anghelides, Mark Michalowski, Colin Brake, Joseph

Lidster Jon de Burgh Miller and more!

9. Monsters edited by Ian Farrington

Whether made of flesh and bone or created in the deep recesses of the mind,

monsters are terrible things... They hunt, they chase, they stalk. They don't

stop and they don't listen to your pleas... They come after you in the night,

when you least expect it. Monsters features stories of such beasts - some real,

some imaginary; some alien, some home-grown. Don't read it alone...

Featuring stories by Marc Piatt, Steve Lyons, Simon Guerrier, Jim Mortimore, Joseph

Lidster and more!

10. 2040 edited by John Binns

The future is here - and it's not what we expected. To the governments and

corporations of the world in 2040, expansion is an article of faith. The human

race must expand outwards, exploring new territories, new technologies, new

ways of thinking. Only problem is, the human race doesn't necessarily share

that faith. And with so much at stake, our leaders may have to call in some new

partners to make sure we see the light...

Featuring stories by Marc Piatt, Lance Parkin, Kate Orman, Jacqueline Rayner,

Rebecca Levene, Tara Samms and more!

11. A Christmas Treasury edited by Paul Cornell

Celebrate a Doctor Who Christmas with this treasury of stories, poems, games

and recipes for all the family. Join the Doctor as he visits a Christmas truce

in the trenches, gets caught up in an alien plot concerning the recording of

Do They Know It's Christmas? and even manages some last-minute shopping

in Oxford Street. From heartwarming to heartbreaking, witty pastiches to

chilling ghost stories, these tales are the perfect seasonal journey into time

and space.

Featuring Terrance Dicks, Lawrence Miles, Marc Piatt, Jonathan Morris and more!

12. Seven Deadly Sins edited by David Bailey

The darker side of human nature is a terrible place. Its twisted pathways and

dismal corners lie ready to lead even the most virtuous traveller astray. The

Doctor tries to stand against the tide, but what good is it when he cannot even

save himself from the seven deadly sins? Alone, these seven stories tell tales of

misadventure and misery. Together, they reveal an even darker story...

Featuring stories by David Bailey, John Binns, Rebecca Levene, Jacqueline Rayner,

Paul Magrs, Tara Samms, Gareth Wigmore and Mark Wright!

13. A Day in the Life edited by Ian Farrington

When you're time travellers, the concept of a day - from midnight to midnight

- can get lost: the Doctor and his companions arrive on different planets in

different eras at different times of the day. Throughout his adventures, the

Doctor meets many people - security guards on a night shift, mysterious

travellers riding the vortex, a family sitting down to watch TV - but all too

often their interaction is brief... Time, it seems, is very much of the essence.

Featuring stories by Dan Abnett, Trevor Baxendale, Net; Fountain, Simon Guerrier,

Joseph Lidster and more!

14. The Solar System edited by Gary Russell

A star like many others in the western spire of the Milky Way galaxy. Around it,

orbit its planets - each one has its own environments, its own history, its own

circumstances. The third planet of the ten is the most densely populated. And

over time, its inhabitants have reached out to the other worlds. There they find

surprises, wonders, danger... Welcome to the solar system.

Featuring stories by Jim Mortimore, Craig Hinton, Alison Lawson, Dale Smith,

Trevor Baxendale and more!

1 5 . The History of Christmas edited by Simon Guerrier

Christmas is a time for many things. For giving, for receiving, for feasts and

celebration. For huddling round the warmth of the fire, sheltered from the

dark and the cold outside. And the monsters. It's also the busiest time of year

for the Doctor, whether he's caught up in ancient Rome, taking Leonardo da

Vinci on a day trip to the stars or popping in on the first Christmas on the

moon. Spend Christmas with the Doctor. If you dare...

Featuring stories by Marc Piatt, Jonathan Clements, Eddie Robson, Joseph Lidster

and more!

16. Farewells edited by Jacqueline Rayner

Sometimes it's easy to say goodbye - to a friend, to a way of life, to a

lover. Sometimes it's heartbreaking. And sometimes they just won't take the

hint. Say hello to 14 stories of goodbyes as the Fourth Doctor contemplates his

mortality after a funeral, a young man goes to murderous lengths to stop Jo

from leaving him, the First Doctor considers his flight from Gallifrey and the

Fifth Doctor desperately tries to get rid of an unwanted companion.

Featuring stories by Paul Magrs, Steve Lyons, Steven A Roman and more!

1 7 . The Centenarian edited by Ian Farrington

There is nothing special about Edward Grainger. His life is much like any

other - full of family and friends, love and passion, incidents and turning

points. He travels, works, laughs and cries. He has parents, a wife, a child,

a grandchild. He lives life to the full. There is nothing special about Edward

Grainger. Except... from the day he was born, until the day he will die, he

keeps meeting the Doctor. Sometimes a different Doctor, sometimes the same

Doctor. There is nothing special about Edward Grainger.

Featuring stories by Glen McCoy, Stel Pavlou, LJ Scott, Steven Savile and more!

18. Time Signature edited by Simon Guerrier

A city destroyed by time itself. A country torn apart by revolution. A man in

a boat with a biscuit tin. The Doctor doesn't just change the lives of those

around him. His actions echo through history. Shaping the universe, changing

it, rewriting it in his own hand. But making it better? It's a good job he never

sticks around for long. And yet, for all that the universe may be infinite, for all

he keeps moving, the Doctor can't outrun the consequences forever.

Featuring stories by Ben Aaronovitch, Andrew Cartmel, Marc Piatt, Matthew Sweet

and more!

19. Dalek Empire edited by Nicholas Briggs with Simon Guerrier

Meet the infamous metallic monsters in a collection that draws upon the

events and themes of Big Finish's acclaimed series Dalek Empire. But never fear,

no prior knowledge is necessary. The Doctor is on hand to guide us through

the terrible events before, after and during the Daleks' ruthless onslaught.

Featuring stories by Justin Richards, Joseph Lidster, James Swallow and more!

20. Destination Prague edited by Steven Savile

Prague has its demons... A city saved from the ravages of war and the Third

Reich because of its beauty. Astronomy, astrology and numerology have all

played a role in building the city - but how will they influence its future?

How will it adapt over the centuries to come? And what will be the role of the

old superstitions in the new world? For the Doctor and his companions the

answers to these questions are only just the start of further mysteries...

Featuring stories by Stel Pavlou, Brian Keene, Keith RA DeCandido, James Swallow,

Sean Williams and more!

21. Snapshots edited by Joseph Lidster

A mysterious ghost haunts a hotel in India... The terrifying alien C'rizz attacks

commuters in Kings Cross Station... And, on a distant world, an old man

trades stories with a mysterious time traveller. Throughout his adventures, the

Doctor meets so many people and each one is affected in some way. What is it

like when that strange blue box appears in your world and you're given just the

briefest snapshot of the Doctor's life? When everything changes?

Featuring stories by Helen Raynor, Brian Dooley, Paul Magrs, Stel Pavlou, Colin

Harvey, Lizzie Hopley and more!

22. The Ghosts of Christmas edited by C Scott and M Wright

Christmas. A time for home. For family. For laughter... Everybody has special

memories of Christmas, but for others it brings shadows of things that should

not have been. Unearthly visitors who open their eyes to new worlds and new

experiences. Pantomime coats, robot dogs and a big blue box parked beneath

the Christmas tree. The Doctor and his companions travel to Christmases Past,

Present and Yet to Come. Christmas. A time for terror. For fear. For ghosts...

Featuring Joseph Lidster, Dan Abnett, Trevor Baxendale, Steven Savile and more!

23. Defining Patterns edited by Ian Farrington

The universe is home to countless trillions of lives, all interweaving with each

other and affecting the line of history. Everywhere he looks, the Doctor sees the

same events, decisions and actions cropping up again and again. Look at the

bigger picture, however, and maybe - just maybe - you'll see how the universe

works. But, as the Doctor and his companions discover, are these patterns

really there? Or do we, by the very nature of seeing them, define them?

Featuring stories by I an Briggs, Mat Coward, Steven Savile and more!

24. The Quality of Leadership edited by Keith RA DeCandido

King Loran of Zalezna is dead and young Prince Mihal faces the prospect

of being a leader before he's ready. To help him, the Doctor tells him of the

leaders he has met over the course of his lives... Leadership comes in many

forms. Some are unexpected, some are less pleasant than you'd think, and

some aren't quite what history would later paint them to be.

Featuring Peter David, Diane Duane, James Swallow, Steven Savile and more!

25. Transmissions edited by Richard Salter

If you lost the ability to communicate, what would your life be like? Messages,

and the media we use to convey them, surround us every minute of every

day. The Doctor knows how important it is to be understood. Whether he is

striving to cure a disease that turns words into gibberish, responding to an

SOS from the end of time, or unravelling secret messages encoded into the

genetic sequences that make up life itself this Time Lord always knows how

to make himself heard.

Featuring stories by Lou Anders, George Mann, Dan Abnett, Andy Lane, Steve Lyons

and more!

26. How the Doctor Changed My Life edited by Simon Guerrier

The schoolboy whose twin brother vanished in the night. A woman

whose house teems with alien refugees. The dad who dies every evening...

All through space and time live people, ordinary people, whose lives have

been turned upside down. People who've lost jobs and loved ones, or seen

their homes destroyed, or found themselves on whole other planets. They've

nothing in common with one another except that their lives can never be the

same. Because they're people who've encountered the Doctor.

Featuring 25 original stories from 25 new authors - the winners of a competition to

seek out bold new uniting talent! With a foreword by Paul Cornell.

27. Christmas Around the World edited by Xanna Chown

Christmas is a time for festivities, family and fun. It's also a time for action,

adventures... and aliens. Spend Christmas with the Doctor as he joins

celebrations around the globe, from the pagan past to the distant future,

taking in the frozen waters of the Arctic, the rainforests of Papua New Guinea

and even a trip to the planet Gloricious. Christmas is an interesting time of

year when the Doctor's about. In fact, it's out of this world.

Featuring stories by Andrew Car tmel, Simon Guerrier, Rebecca Levene, James Moran,

Kate Orman, Andrew Pidoux, Eddie Robson and more!

28. Indefinable Magic edited by Neil Corry

A plot to kidnap Elvis... A woman whose horoscopes prove rather too

accurate... A devastating army of mythical beasts that conquers Britain... The

Doctor and his travelling companions live magical lives - but their lives are

tainted by terror. Delve into bizarre, wondrous or horrifying worlds with the

Doctor as he lands on a planet where everyone can fly, helps a friend trapped

in the past, and faces aliens that want to bring peace to humanity.

Featuring stories by James Goss, Simon Guerrier, Gareth Roberts, Eddie Robson

and more!

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