BBC - Cult - Interviews - Chapter FiveBBC Cult - Printer Friendly Version
Chapter Five - New Dog, New Danger
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New Dog, New Danger
Now it was the Doctor's turn to express his outrage and astonishment at K9's 
news. In all their travels together Romana had never before seen the combination 
of alarm, amusement and anger that spread across his face as she told him of 
recent developments. His own announcements - that the war situation appeared to 
have been resolved, at least temporarily had merited his most casual of manners. 
'He's what?' 
'Put himself up for election,' she repeated. 
'Well, he can put himself back down straight away.' His eyes roved about the 
room until he saw his dog. 'K9, is there fluff in your circuits?' 
'Negative, Master. My fluff defences are fully functional.' 
'To be fair, he was acting out of concern for you,' said Romana. 
K9 swivelled himself to face her, turning his back pointedly on the screen. 
'Negative, Mistress. I have no concern for the Doctor Master and was merely 
following programming.' 
The Doctor rolled his eyes. 'All right, all right, K9. There's no need to take 
umbrage. I'm touched.' K9 gave a gracious beep of forgiveness. 'But you're still 
going to have to withdraw. You can't go around getting yourself involved in 
other people's business wherever we land.' 
K9 refrained from making the obvious reply. 'Not possible, Master. Withdrawal 
from constitutional privilege before voting day is classified as a criminal 
offence, punishable by a hefty fine and a period of imprisonment not less than 
forty days.' 
'Nonsense,' said the Doctor. 'I'm going to put my foot down about this one, K9, 
and you know I don't often do that.' 
K9 gave another beep, this time of confusion. 'When in perambulatory mode you 
put a foot down three times per second, Master.' 

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Romana held up the data disk containing the planet's history, which she had been 
skimming through before the Doctor's call. 'He's right, Doctor. We'll have to go 
ahead. They're preparing a shuttle to take us to Metralubit.' She tried to keep 
the note of enthusiasm from her voice. Her initial doubts about K9's plan had 
been replaced by a sense of anticipation. At the Academy she had studied 
socio-psychology of underdeveloped societies as one of her core subjects, and it 
would be fun to see the wheels of such a system turning for real. It might even 
make a good topic for her postgraduate thesis. She dismissed the thought, as she 
dismissed all thoughts of returning home nowadays, aware that the Doctor had put 
on the face that suggested to the outside world he was having a magnificent 
idea. 'Doctor?'
'Do you know, I can see how we could turn this to our advantage,' he said. 
'Yes?' Romana prompted. 
The Doctor hunched forward and put a finger to his lips (as if, thought Romana, 
this would make any difference on an open radio channel). 
'I've noticed some very odd things about this war, or whatever it is,' he said. 
'And some even odder things about the people fighting it.' 
Romana nodded. 'The technological discrepancies.' 
'The what?' He scratched his head. 'Oh yes, those. But what I'm more curious 
about is the Chelonian presence. One, why should they take such interest in what 
is, after all, not much more than a big mud pie?' He paused, seemingly lost in 
thought. 
'Two?' 
'How's your intergalactic history?' 
'Better than yours,' said Romana. 'But it doesn't stretch this far. Nobody's 
does. Study of the later Humanian era was forbidden by the Academy. We're 
outside the Gallifreyan noosphere.' She referred to the statutes laid down by 
the Time Lords that decreed that nobody should have too much knowledge - or any 
knowledge at all, if possible - of conditions beyond the vortex's boundary 
parameters. The reasons for this decree had been lost over the thousands of 
years of Gallifreyan civilization, and, like most things there, went 
unquestioned. 

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The Doctor nodded. 'Fair enough. But it's not what I expected to find out here. 
Chelonians and humans, and those only very little altered from those that were 
hanging about Mutter's Spiral ages, and I do mean ages, ago.'
'There's always Clarik's Theorem,' pointed out Romana. 
'Stuff Clarik's Theorem,' said the Doctor. 'No. There's something strange going 
on here, Romana. And you'll be in a good position to find out what. Do a little 
digging around on Metralubit, while the dog's busy losing his deposit.' 
'No deposit is required in this electoral system, Master,' said K9. 
The Doctor looked off-screen as somebody, a Chelonian by the sound of him, 
called his name. 'I'm going to have to go. I'm on someone else's communicator.' 
He raised a finger, and suddenly his expression became more serious. 'Keep your 
wits about you, both of you.' The screen fizzled and his image faded. 
As it did, a thought struck Romana. 'Damn. I forgot to tell him about Stokes.' 
A crackle came from the post's internal communication system, and Cadinot's 
voice came from a speaker by the door. 'Will Mr K9 and Miss Romana please make 
their way to the shuttle bay immediately.' 
'That's our call.' Romana smiled at K9, who motored forward with indecent 
eagerness, obviously desperate to make his mark. Something itched at her cheek 
and she reached up instinctively to brush it away, catching a glimpse of a small 
black shape buzzing away. 'We must remember to bring some fly killer back with 
us.' 
'Insects are harmless, Mistress,' said K9 as he shot out of the door. 
Romana dabbed at her cheek, and her finger picked up a tiny spot, no more than a 
pinprick of blood. She rubbed it away between her fingers and followed K9, 
thinking no more about it. 




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Gallifrey!
The word echoed through the Darkness, repeated over and over by its many 
compartments. The shock and excitement caused several of the incubating units to 
crack open prematurely, spewing jelly-meal in all directions. Efficient as ever, 
a row of elongated prostheses, tubes of dried blood, swung out and sucked up the 
waste for reuse. 
An atavistic chill skittered through the Onemind, and another self-conversation 
began. But Gallifrey is gone, said one part. As they say, it is forbidden. 
They spoke of time travel, said another. 
In fact, to the Darkness, the word Gallifrey was synonymous with the concept of 
time travel. It well remembered its attempts to sneak into the wastes of the 
vortex, all of them thwarted by the defences erected by those miserable, 
thin-blooded, infertile, self-crowned gods, the Time Lords. 
The Darkness assessed the data provided by its foreguard, who had pricked the 
female alien. Chemical equations danced around the Onemind. This blood was cold, 
from a slow-pumping creature, and contained tiny cleansing organisms not found 
in the humans of this system. It had come from an augmented, enhanced being, and 
in the message core of each cell were written very special codes. Unique codes. 
They are Time Lords, the Doctor and the female. 
The Darkness started to search its memory for more information. 




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In the Strat Room the departing shuttle showed up on the main screen as a single 
signal trace, lifting effortlessly through Barclow's grimy speckled atmosphere. 
Dolne watched sadly as it disappeared, remembering how Rabley had stepped out 
from it. 'There they go,' he said. 'Poor old Rabley. I wonder how he'd have felt 
about his replacement.' He turned to Viddeas, who stood at his side, a report 
clutched tightly in his hand. 'Eh, Captain?'
'Sorry, Admiral. I was thinking.' Indeed, Viddeas's head was tilted at an odd 
angle, as if he was lost in a daydream. Thankfully, his open aggression had 
lessened, at least for the moment. 
Now the tension in the post had returned to its normal levels, Dolne was feeling 
more charitable to his colleague. He lowered his voice. 'Come on, man, take a 
rest period. You've been on duty for nearly forty-eight hours solid.' He reached 
up and put a finn hand on Viddeas's shoulder, then lifted it again immediately. 
'Good God!' Instinctively he stepped away. 
'What is it, sir?' asked Viddeas. 
Dolne felt the urge to wipe his hand, as if it was contaminated. Touching 
Viddeas had been like gently tapping an iron bar. 'You're as stiff as a board.' 
He gestured to the door. 'Go on. I order you. Bed.' Viddeas, still looking 
dazed, stumbled towards the exit. Dolne followed him and went on, in a whisper, 
'I didn't want to have to mention it again, but I have to. You're ponging very 
badly. And it's getting worse. You'll lose the respect of the staff. And now 
things are going normally again there's no excuse. Take that bath!' 
'Yes, Admiral.' Viddeas, formerly so vigorous and straight-backed, slouched out. 

Dolne shook his head after him. 'All the life seems to have gone out of him,' he 
mused to himself. Then he snapped his fingers and turned to his team. 'Cadinot. 
News?' 
'Mr K9's shuttle is through the atmosphere safely, sir.' 
'Good, good. No more nastiness, I hope?' 
'The east sat's responding very well. All cells clear at present, sir.' 

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'Super.' Dolne suddenly felt profoundly tired. Every time he blinked a deep dark 
seemed to descend. A nap was needed. 'What a day. I think I'll nip to my 
quarters for a quick lie-down and wait for this Doctor fellow. He looks quite 
crazy, doesn't he? What fun. Call me when he arrives.' He slipped out, hoping 
that nobody would think of a reason to call him back. Then a thought struck him, 
brought into light by the drop of sweat that cascaded down his nose, and he 
lingered a moment. Oh, I don't suppose there's any sign of Bleisch?'
'Afraid not, sir,' said Cadinot. 'I'll keep calling.' 
'Good-oh,' said Dolne, and left, almost happy with the world again. 



Romana let her head fall back and stared from the porthole of the shuttle as it 
passed through the upper reaches of Barclow's atmosphere, watching as the grey 
expanses of the war zone were obscured by encroaching layers of dark blueness. 
The craft was small but luxurious, and the lounge contained two rows of leather 
seats, a com-screen and a food machine. They turned slowly, leaving Barclow 
behind and nudging into space, and Romana craned her neck for a view of the 
starscape. 
'Query your sighing, Mistress,' asked K9. 
Romana sat up. 'I didn't know I was.' She looked over at where he sat, the 
straps of his seat's restraint buckled tightly over his mid-section, and caught 
the thoughts passing through her mind. 'I was just thinking about the Doctor. He 
always has to be so elusive, hinting at things. If he was more direct, we could 
-' She was interrupted by a loud clatter. Shutters slid down on the lounge's 
four portholes. 'Why do that, I wonder?' 
'Suggest automatic sequence to protect human eyesight from solar rays,' said K9. 
'Shuttle is on programmed flight.' 
Romana looked anxiously ahead at the door to the forward cabin. 'There should be 
a pilot.' Their escort had merely ushered them into the lounge and slammed the 
entry hatch shut. 

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'A mere precaution. Computer guidance systems are infallible,' said K9. He 
added, 'Generally.'
'You would say that.' She turned to him. 'What are you thinking?' 
His eyescreen flashed eagerly. 'I am preparing for my new role, Mistress. I have 
contacted the Metralubitan administrators and ordered the provision of campaign 
materials.' 
'Contacted them how?' asked Romana. 
K9 made a series of chirping whistles. 'The Femdroids, as they are known, 
communicate using pseudo-frequencies.' 
'Just like you.' Romana frowned. 'It's a very uncommon system. Fortunate.' 
K9 didn't appear to be listening. 'There is much wastefulness and financial 
mismanagement perpetrated on Metralubit. I shall pledge a more efficient 
economic strategy based on increasing state interest in industry, without losing 
sight of the electorate's dislike of swingeing tax increases. Revenue will be 
raised by levying higher rates on the mega-profitable monopoly supply companies 
such as the Water Conglomerate and the Oxygen Bureau. This measure is both 
populist and politically credible.' 
Romana covered a yawn. 'You're going to have to change your presentation.' 
'Mistress?' 
She shrugged. 'Well, in a level-four pseudo-democracy rhetoric must be addressed 
more succinctly to be sociologically effective.' She stopped herself 'What am I 
saying?' 
'You are saying that my syntax is too rigid and my delivery emotionless and 
formal. Academic formulae of economics are not readily comprehensible. I shall 
work to rectify this problem.' As he spoke, K9's tail was wagging. 

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There was another loud noise, this time a metallic-sounding bang from the side 
of the lounge. The shuttle shuddered, and both passengers were jolted from side 
to side.
Romana recovered herself. 'What was that?' 
'Likely a meteorite,' K9 suggested. 'Small and harmless.' 
She unstrapped herself and made her way across the still-vibrating lounge to the 
door of the cabin. 'I thought computer guidance was infallible.' 
'The organic pilot should have corrected the error,' K9 called after her. 
Romana knocked on the cabin door. There was no answer, so she grabbed the handle 
and tugged it open. Inside was a small compartment crammed with highly complex 
instrumentation and, in the perennial traditions of aircraft design, a set of 
manual controls and a joystick. The shutters were also down in here, noted 
Romana, as she advanced, calling, 'Hello! Is everything all right? Pilot?' The 
compartment seemed to be empty. 
She heard a faint, high-pitched noise coming from behind the door, and whipped 
around to see a familiar figure splayed in the corner into which he had been 
thrown, his legs and arms stuck out at distressing angles, his central bulk 
twisted in a different direction from his head. 
Stokes managed to raise a finger. 'I don't suppose you have any idea of how to 
fly one of these?' 



General Jafrid had decided that, in light of the earlier incident with the 
saucer, it was best to send the Doctor across the zone in one of the division's 
armoured ground vehicles. He had also agreed, after some petitioning, that his 
escort should be Seskwa. The First Pilot continued to view the Doctor with 
suspicion, a view the Doctor was finding increasingly irksome as the tank 
trundled through the wastelands. His disposition was not aided by the design of 
the tank, which was uncomfortable for a humanoid: he was forced to crouch with 
his knees tucked up to his chin in order to keep an eye on the glowing forward 
screen - the only source of light in the vehicle - and maintain a watching brief 
on Seskwa. The Chelonian had snubbed all his attempts at conversation, and was 
staring ahead, his watery yellow eyes almost crossed. The tank was automated, 
and did not require his close attention. 

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The Doctor decided to have a last try at winning Seskwa over. 'I'd say you were 
daydreaming, if I didn't know that Chelonians don't daydream.'
Seskwa shot him a dismissive look. 'What do you know about us?' 
The Doctor tapped the middle of his own forehead. 'The old tin plate blocks all 
unnecessary unconscious thoughts. Some have said it's what makes you such rigid 
characters.' 
'We dream,' said Seskwa. 'At our rest times. At any other time it is wasteful. 
Humans are a good example of that.' 
The Doctor dug in his pockets. 'I've run out of jelly babies.' He pulled out a 
string bag filled with chocolate money of various denominations. 'Coin?' Seskwa 
did not dignify the offer with a reply. 'No? Never mind.' The Doctor unwrapped a 
silver tenpence. 'I must have given my last jelly baby to Romana. Have to stock 
up.' As he spoke he fixed a gold coin, the largest of them all, to the end of 
one of the lengths of string and began to swing it. He glanced at one of the 
readouts beneath the forward screen. 'Good driving. We should soon be there.' 
Seskwa shuffled, and exhaled a blast of foul-smelling air. The Doctor wasn't 
sure if that was an insult or just one of those things Chelonians did. Seskwa 
was certainly smellier than most. 'I have nothing to say.' 
The Doctor chomped on his chocolate. 'Why not just assume I'm telling the truth? 
It would save such a lot of bother.' The gold coin continued to spin, the rhythm 
beguiling, and he waited for Seskwa to respond to the first stage of mesmerism. 
He made his voice match the spin in its metre. 'I can see why you're angry. It's 
a dull life for a soldier. All this patrolling, and deploying, and marching 
about, and never a shot fired. For over a hundred years. You must have wondered 
what the point of it all was.' 
'I am trained not to question orders,' Seskwa said. 
'Still, you Chelonians are long-lived chaps.' The Doctor decided it was time to 
start digging for facts. 'You must have seen a fair bit of active service before 
you came out here.' 

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Seskwa reached out a front foot and cuffed the coin from the Doctor's grasp. 'Be 
silent.'
The Doctor decided to try another tack. 'This place is a textbook example of 
Chelonian psychology, you know. Your pride won't allow you just to walk away. 
It's very predictable.' He stopped himself as an awful fear ran through him. 
'Predictable?' He felt suddenly unsteady. 'Almost as if...' 
'What?' asked Seskwa. 
The Doctor brushed away a fly that was buzzing around his face and replied, 'Oh, 
just an unfounded fear. At least I hope it's unfounded. If it turns out later on 
to be one of those unfounded fears that become founded later on I'll be 
worried.' 
'What is this trickery in your words?' Seskwa turned to stare at him, and the 
Doctor caught a glint of real hatred in his eyes. 
'Nothing,' he said. 'Keep your eyes on the road.' 



All of K9's remote control systems were functional, and Romana had lifted him 
down to help pilot the shuttle. The real pilot, Stokes had revealed, was back on 
Barclow locked in a cupboard - an unfortunate necessity, as he had to leave 
Barclow at all costs. Rashly, he had assumed that with computer guidance the 
flight would be easy. 
Unfortunately, K9's ego had been further swelled by his role in negotiating a 
Fastspace jump, liaising with the voice of Metralubit's air traffic control, and 
bringing them in safely. 'Boosters closed down,' he said as the shuttle, its 
shutters still down, reached firm ground. 'Rear fins retracted. Equilibrium 
stabilized. A perfect landing, Mistress.' 
Stokes turned to Romana. 'Is there anything he can't do? It makes one feel so 
conscious of one's own organic, foible-filled condition.' 
Before Romana could reply a loud hissing came from outside, and she felt the 
craft turning on the landing pad. 'What's that?' 
'Decompression,' said Stokes. He picked up a grey duffel bag from beneath the 
pilot's chair and swung it over his shoulder. 'They're very keen on safety 
checks and so forth. It's a clean, efficient place, Metralubit. A veritable 
paradise. I can't think of any reason why anybody wouldn't want to live here.' 

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'So you said.' Remembering the Doctor's earlier instruction, she asked, 'When 
was it settled?'
Stokes waved his fingers fussily. 'Ooh, thousands of years back. It'd make a 
fascinating study for some archaeologist. They've had umpteen wars, and some 
great civilizations before this one. Most of them were wiped out in internecine 
conflicts. I forget the exact details. But it's a big place, and populous. There 
must be a good few million in Metron City alone.' The shuttle stopped turning 
and the shutters were raised. 'There, you see. Oh, it's good to be back.' 
Romana blinked, impressed by the view. The shuttle had come to rest in a small 
bay that was on the side of a large building, and through the entry port she 
saw, laid out before her as if in a picture postcard, a glittering white city of 
towers and glass spires. It was dazzlingly clean, and the citizens who walked or 
skimmed about looked well fed and purposeful. 'It doesn't look very mismanaged 
to me,' she told K9. 
'These are the richer areas visible from the Parliament Dome, Mistress,' he 
replied. 'The social inequalities are less noticeable here.' A light under the 
flight controls winked. 'Incoming message.' 
A moment later a small screen next to the winking light flickered on. A woman's 
face appeared, and although reduced to tiny size it retained an air of great 
dignity and standing. 'Welcome, Mr K9, Miss Romana,' said the woman in 
mellifluous tones. 'I am Senior Aide Galatea. Please proceed into reception, 
where you will find a lift ready to take you to your campaign headquarters. We 
shall meet there shortly. I look forward to this. Thank you.' The screen flicked 
off. 
Stokes smacked his lips together. 'Ah, the lovely Galatea.' 
Romana had taken an instant dislike to the face on the screen. 'She's a 
Femdroid?' 
Stokes started to unlock the cabin's entry hatch. 'Yes. They're just robotic 
servitors like any others in the city. Knocked together to relieve civil admin 
of the more humdrum tasks of state.' 
'And styled to resemble attractive women,' said Romana. 'Why?' 

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'The records I have studied indicate this shape was found to increase the 
attention span and efficiency of the predominantly male and heterosexually 
orientated work- force in the dome,' said K9.
Romana sniffed and followed Stokes. 'It's one way of dealing with a problem, I 
suppose.' 
Stokes chuckled and pointed a finger at her annoyingly. 'I detect an ideological 
objection. Or is it jealousy? There aren't often any other girls around to 
compete with, are there, I'll bet?' 
She suppressed an urge to kick him. 'Don't be so pompous. Come on, K9.' 
He whistled to get her attention. 'Lift, Mistress.' 
Romana noticed the high door jamb of the cabin and bent down to pick him up. 
'Sorry, K9, I didn't notice.' 



A full analysis of the blood specimen coloured itself in on one side of the 
Glute-screen. The Onememory flashed up the Darkness's only likely match in its 
records. It had pored through life-profiles of some of the sixty billion species 
used by the Darkness to feed upon in its long life and found only one similar. 
The specimens correlated almost exactly. 
If this is a Time Lord, said the Onemind, it must be a dissenter. 

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We have knowledge of such a dissenter, said the Onememory. Encountered many, 
many void-times ago



Romana's sense of satisfaction with the gracious, symmetrical architecture of 
Metron City was shattered when the door to the reception lounge whirred open and 
she came face to face with what appeared to be a massive bloodstain on the 
facing wall. 'Urgh. What's that?' 
Stokes peered about. The lounge was white and empty apart from the scattering of 
sofas, lit by the soft orange glow of wall lights and a large window that looked 
out over the city. 'What?' 
Romana pointed. 'That stain. Has somebody been killed?' 
'Stain?' Stokes moved forward protectively. 'That is one of my abstracts. I'd 
have thought you would recognize the fluidity of my brushwork.' 
Romana looked more closely and noticed the frame around the stain. She had 
forgotten Stoke's exuberant style. He was not entirely untalented, she 
reflected; it was just that what he chose to produce was always so unappealing. 
'I'm surprised they let you hang it here.' 
'Don't sneer.' He waved an arm over the city. 'Here I am appreciated. Samples of 
my work hang in the homes of every true discerning collector. My canvases have 
revolutionized the planet's visual arts; my sculptures are positioned in the 
most prestigious and fashionable greenspaces of the city. Look out there? See 
that?' Romana pretended to see what he was pointing at. 'One of mine. I am 
regarded as the greatest living artist on the planet. 
'I wondered why you liked the place so much.' 

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She became aware that K9 had slipped away from her side. He was engrossed in the 
examination of a communications device on the other side of the lounge, and had 
succeeded in activating the screen. It showed a large picture of a large man, 
twice as corpulent as Stokes, wearing a tunic that only just held his stomach in 
place. He was talking, and his voice had a smarmy, patronizing tone. '...which 
is why I decided we could wait no longer, on either battlefield of Barclow or at 
the ballot box here. I have done all I could, not only in these distressing 
times, but throughout the past fourteen years. And I would say to you: feel the 
improved quality of your life. The sacrifices were worth it. Together, as one 
planet, we've pulled through. And by keeping and strengthening that unity - that 
sense of our identity - it is within our power to resolve the present conflict 
on Barclow.' He frowned for emphasis. 'If the reptiles want blood, we shall not 
flinch. We shall give them blood. Their own. Our equipment is of the highest 
calibre. Our men are trained for all eventualities. Let us give them our 
support, and rejoice in our strength.'
So, thought Romana, this must be our opponent. 
'Generic rot with a twist of patriotism,' was her spoken verdict. 
K9 extended his eyestalk and there was a brief chitter of pseudo-frequency 
communication between him and a faraway source. 
The Premier went on. 'There are some who say that we should capitulate. Some who 
would, er, how should I phrase this?' He let his tongue flick between his teeth. 
'Who would roll over and let the Chelonians tickle their tummies. Is this what 
we want?' 
To Romana's surprise, K9 suddenly appeared on the screen next to the Premier, in 
tight close-up. 'Premier Harmock,' he said. 'I claim my right of response as 
codified in the statutes governing electoral broadcasts Para 3(a).' 
Harmock grimaced. 'Oh, it's you. Here he is, everybody. A fresh face, a new 
attitude, but still the same tired old dogma.' 
K9's eyescreen flashed an angry red. 'Your witticisms regarding my 
anthropomorphic modelling are an attempt to divert public attention from the 
hollowness of your policies. In your fourteen years in office unemployment 
levels have risen by sixteen per cent. Production is down by twenty-two per cent 
in the Bensonian settlements. Spending has been cut and revenues raised 
unfairly.' 

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Harmock looked a bit thrown by this. 'Listen to his soundbites. But where's the 
substance behind them, eh? I notice you remain very quiet on the subject of 
Barclow.'
'It is prudent to explore every opportunity for peace.' 
'While bombs and missiles rain down on our boys? I hardly think so.' 
'There are no boys on Barclow.' 
Harmock puffed himself up. 'The public are demanding action. I am prepared to 
guarantee it. Are you?' 
'The public do not appreciate the complexities of the situation. Intelligence 
levels among the manual labourers are low because of your policy of decreasing 
funds for public education.' 
The battle had commenced. 



Not far away, there was a small, rectangular room, decorated in the uniform 
bland whiteness of the Parliament Dome. It contained several items that would 
have been of extreme interest to an outsider, and especially so to informed 
outsiders like the Doctor and Romana. But no outsiders had ever seen it, nor 
were they likely to. 
At present it was occupied by Galatea, who stood facing a large screen that 
covered an entire wall, her hands on her hips, a satisfied smile playing about 
her sensuous lips. The faces of Harmock and K9, relayed on MNN, filled the 
screen. 'Most satisfactory,' she said. In this room she was markedly less 
officious in manner than she was outside. 'K9 is superior to Rabley in all 
respects. The scenario's effectiveness is all but guaranteed.' 
Liris was at her side. 'We must greet him and his mistress.' She touched her 
amulet and with a blue static fizz the image altered, taking in a view of the 
sparse reception lounge from above. 'I see Stokes is with them.' 
Galatea inclined her head. 'So he is.' 

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Liris bit her lip, wondering how to express herself. Galatea had a way of making 
her feel stupid. 'Should we impound him?'
'No. His retraining is solid.' 
'If he strays?' 
Galatea turned and smiled reassuringly. 'Do not worry, Liris. We can retrieve 
him, any time we wish.' She reached out and laid a hand on Liris's shoulder. 
'You are uneasy.' 
Liris suppressed a shudder. 'The arrival of more offworlders at this point is -' 
she lowered her voice instinctively '- strange.' 
Galatea turned away. 'Do not concern yourself. It is not for you to worry.' 
'Of course not.' Liris regarded her thoughtfully. It was part of her own 
programming to speculate and draw conclusions, a facility that was beyond the 
reach of the mass of Femdroids. That facility was speculating now, wondering if 
Galatea had somehow expected these strangers. 



Dolne was in his night things, a set of linen pyjamas that made a pleasant 
contrast to the heavy serge of his normal outfit (uniform!). The post's air was 
still thick and heavy and he had kicked off the duvet on his bed and was lying 
back on it, breathing deeply to relax himself and staring up at the softly 
glowing light fitting directly above his head. Staring into its misty orange 
depths was always a strangely soothing experience, and he felt himself drifting 
peacefully into sleep. As his hand reached out for the light switch he caught 
just a glimpse of his wife's holograph in the frame by the bed, and smiled. 
Wouldn't be long and he could retire, let Viddeas take over the show. Then they 
could move out of their city home and into the Bensonian sedements, perhaps 
start a farm on the proceeds of his pension. Vague dream images started to cloud 
his head and he let it slip into the folds of the well-plumped big pillow. 

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There was a knock at the door. He cursed and called out, 'Who is that?', 
unwilling to get up or turn the light on if possible.
'Viddeas, sir.' 
Dolne groaned. 'Is it important?' 'Yes.' 
Dolne got up, switched the light on, and padded across the carpet to the door. 
'Please don't tell me there's been any more -' 
He broke off as the door opened to reveal a hideous figure. Oudined in the light 
from the corridor beyond, Viddeas looked ghasdy, twisted. He smelt repulsive and 
the air around him was buzzing with flies. 'Viddeas, you look worse than ever. 
You need looking over.' 
Viddeas stepped into the room. 'No, sir. Please. Listen.' 
His head twitched grotesquely, and when he spoke again it was in a low, haunted 
voice. 'They're here, sir... again...' 
'What, the Chelonians?' Viddeas didn't answer, only dribbled. His eyes were 
turning purple, the colour of rotting meat. 'Eh? What do you mean?' 
'It is time...' Viddeas gurgled. He came closer, forcing Dolne back towards the 
bed. 'The Time of Void is over. Now, the Great Feasting...' 
Dolne stood aside and pointed to the bed. 'You just sit right down there. I'm 
going to go and fetch someone to give you a shot or two. You've been overdoing 
it.' 
Viddeas threw back his head and laughed harshly. 'Any treatment would be wasted 
on me.' He fiddled at his collar and pulled open the buttons at his neck. Dome 
almost screamed at what lay beneath. The skin of Viddeas's upper body had been 
eaten away, leaving a mass of raw flesh that was crawling with flies and coated 
in thin strands of a clinging, gluey substance. 'Yes, Admiral. I am dead. They 
have killed me.' 
'They?' Dolne gasped. 
'Don't you know them, Admiral?' He moved in close and opened his blue lips wide, 
revealing a rotting tongue and wobbling yellow teeth. 'Don't you remember them?' 


Page 18 
   




Page 19 
   

Dolne shook his head. 'I don't understand you.' He was moving instinctively for 
the alarm button on his com-unit.
Viddeas moved in suddenly, raising a hand as if to strike, the fingers outspread 
and clawlike. 
Dolne looked around for a weapon. His pistol was in the locked drawer in the 
comer, unloaded. Was there anything else? 
His eyes lighted on Jafrid's ceremonial dagger, which still lay across the top 
of his suitcase. Nimbly he sprang forward and snatched it up, hefted it, then 
turned and waved the great barbed blade at Viddeas. 'Stay away. I'm prepared to 
use this.' 
Viddeas sighed, and in a parody of his former hectoring manner said, 'I'm 
already dead, Dolne. It doesn't matter.' The flies around him started to move 
faster, surrounding his head, their buzzing increasing in its ferocity. 
Dolne wasn't sure exactly how the next thing happened. Suddenly the dagger was 
out of his hands and in Viddeas's. A moment later he was pushed back over his 
bed, and a moment after that the blade was moving in and out of his own chest. 
Oddly, each strike felt softer and softer. 
His senses started to fade out. Viddeas's odour dwindled away, the pain 
disappeared down a long tunnel, the room began to disappear forever. 
The last thing Dolne saw was the frame containing his wife's holograph now 
spattered with blood. Before he lost life completely he had the time to be 
puzzled by something. 
He had looked at the image only a minute before, when things seemed to be 
improving. Now, with the strange clarity of his dying senses, he saw the frame 
again. And it was empty. 




Page 20 
   

The tank rolled on through the war zone. The Doctor had abandoned his attempts 
to either befriend or to hypnotize Seskwa, and had settled instead for 
ruminating on the situation. If he could persuade the humans to turn off their 
battle computers - and their leader had looked a kindly old sort - he could get 
down to investigating the true menace. Unfortunately, things in his life were 
rarely that easy. Also, the odd sensation he had felt ever since opening the 
TARDIS doors was growing stronger. A powerful sense of wrongness, that he 
shouldn't be here at all, increased by the minute.
His musings were interrupted by a tickle at his cheek. He reached out and caught 
the fly in his cupped hands. 'These things get everywhere.' He opened his thumbs 
a fraction and peered inside. 'Nice to know they're still about. One of the most 
redoubtable, most successful life forms in the universe.' 
'It is only a fly,' said Seskwa. 'They get here from Metra, on the shuttles. 
After every landing. Along with many insects. Too small to evade the 
decontaminant detectors. But they flounder soon enough.' 
'This one looks very healthy.' The Doctor whispered to it, 'I wouldn't mind 
popping you under the micro-scope, old thing. If only to -' He broke off as a 
set of facts slotted together in his mind. Flies. The heat in the Chelonian 
base. The preservative. 'Seskwa. Stop this vehicle. Now.' 
'What? Why?' 
The Doctor opened his hands and let the fly go. 'Just do it. I'm having another 
one of my unfounded fears.' 
'You talk nonsense. We shall continue.' 
Another thought struck the Doctor. 'Wait a moment. How did it get in here? We're 
sealed in.' 
'It is not important,' said Seskwa, keeping his eyes on the way ahead. 

Page 21 
   

The Doctor's large, sensitive nose sniffed. He watched as the fly zipped beneath 
Seskwa's shell at the upper neck, where the thick leathery tissue appeared 
purple and freshly scarred, and gulped. Suddenly he felt very hot. 'Ah. Seskwa, 
I think you've got a problem. If we stop here now there might still be time.'
'We shall continue.' 
'I thought you were looking rather the worse for wear,' the Doctor went on. 
'Stop and we can talk things over.' 
Seskwa turned abruptly, bringing his fierce features inches from the Doctor's. 
'You are needed,' he said hoarsely. 'You are special. Your death will satisfy 
us.' He nodded to the forward screen. The vehicle was approaching a sheer drop. 
Automatic alarms chittered, sent warnings flashing. The drop was hazardous, the 
pit beyond many hundreds of feet deep. 
The Doctor lunged for the tank's manual controls. A moment later, so did Seskwa. 
And he was by far the stronger. 



The tank careered crazily from side to side, the massive rollers on its 
underside sending showers of grey sludge in all directions as it lurched across 
a muddy bank. Then it lost its grip on the ground, toppled over the edge of the 
drop, and plummeted into the darkness. 
There was silence for a few seconds. 
Then there was a colossal explosion, throwing out a golden glow for miles 
around. 


