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  ‘It’s October,’ said the Doctor, a little shamefaced.

  Romana blinked in surprise. ‘I thought you said we’d be arriving in May Week?’

  ‘I did,’ said the Doctor. ‘May Week is in June.’

  ‘I’m confused,’ said Romana.

  ‘So was the TARDIS,’ admitted the Doctor.

  Romana decided to make the best of it. ‘Oh, I do love the autumn,’ she said, trying not to sound too critical. ‘All the leaves, the colours…’

  The Doctor harrumphed. ‘Yes. Well, at least with something as simple as a punt nothing can possibly go wrong. No coordinates. No relative dimensional stabilisers. Nothing!’ He lunged down yet again. ‘Just the water, the punt, a strong pair of hands and the pole!’

  The words were barely out of his mouth when the pole jammed solidly into another muddy patch with a loud squelch. The Doctor tried manfully to retrieve it as the punt shot forward but was finally forced to abandon it or join it in the River Cam.

  Romana looked sadly at the retreating pole as they sailed on.

  The Doctor slumped down into the punt. ‘Er… I think it’s about time for us to go and see if the Professor is back in his rooms. Ask me how.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘For every reaction,’ said the Doctor with one of his sudden toothy grins, ‘there is an opposite – and equally difficult – action!’

  He rattled in the bottom of the punt and snatched up a long-handled wooden paddle, deployed for just such an emergency, swung it into the water and started to paddle furiously towards the bank.

  The punt passed under another bridge. Romana was glad there was only one paddle. She’d had quite enough paddling during their adventure on the third moon of Delta Magna, when—

  Suddenly her thoughts were interrupted. This interruption was not just in the normal sense, of something distracting her. It felt as if something had literally barged into her mind and cut off her train of thought.

  It was a thin, distorted babble of inhuman voices. Lost souls in torment, crying out in terror and confusion. The words were indistinguishable but the anguish was unmistakable, and tugged at her hearts.

  The punt swept out from under the bridge. Romana blinked, and the voices were gone. It had all happened in a second.

  The Doctor’s expression was similarly disturbed, and he had stopped mid-paddle, looking around in surprise. Romana caught at his arm. ‘Did you just hear voices?’

  The Doctor nodded solemnly, just as the sun passed under a cloud, sending a chill autumn wind along the river. ‘Yes – a sort of thin, distorted babble of inhuman voices.’

  ‘Then what was it?’ asked Romana.

  The Doctor shrugged. ‘Probably nothing,’ he said very unconvincingly.

  ‘Doctor, please, let’s go in,’ urged Romana.

  The Doctor nodded and resumed paddling ferociously towards the shore.

  If the Doctor or Romana had looked up rather than just around at this point, much of what follows may have turned out quite differently. But as it happened, they did not. And so they did not see the man on the bridge.

  Skagra looked down, making his first detailed survey of this planet of primitives. He enjoyed looking down on people.

  He still wore the functional white coveralls of the Think Tank, but had added a long, shining silver cape and a wide-brimmed shining silver hat, the better to go unnoticed and unremarked upon on this remote and uncivilised world. He had been pleased to see, on his journey on foot into this small conurbation known as Cambridge, that he had been correct in this decision. Several of the primitives had even shouted words of social greeting to him as he passed through the streets, using untranslatable colloquialisms such as ‘Oi, Disco Tex, where are the Sex-o-lettes?’ and ‘Get her!’ and ‘Hello, honky-tonk!’ Yes, he was obviously passing for a native amongst these cattle.

  This planet really was almost distressingly backward. The few pathetic satellites winking in its orbit stood as a measure of that. Its people travelled in ground cars with exhaust pipes that belched smoke, or on laughably basic self-propelled contraptions consisting of two wheels and very little else. Skagra had passed a trading post that trumpeted low-resolution magnetic videotape recording equipment as the height of invention and sophistication, suggesting that the primitives would never have to miss Coronation Street, whatever that was, ever again. Their economy seemed to consist of shoving dirty pieces of paper with the head of a great matriarch printed crudely on one side at each other. The Matriarch wore a crown, suggesting a type-B monarchy, which was presumably something to do with this important street where coronations were so regularly performed.

  There was also this strange, slow and wasteful mode of transport along the waterway in small wooden craft. He had just seen a primitive male make an incredible hash of this simple, if pointless, task.

  All things considered, Skagra decided Earth rated as a 2 out of 10 planet, bad but not quite the worst he’d ever seen, and it gained half a point for its breathable atmosphere and another half a point for its tolerably close sun.

  In fact it was the perfect place to hide away in, just as his target had done. Somewhere in this quadrant of the city, the so-called ‘university quarter’, was what he had come for. He was approaching it circumspectly, still not quite convinced that anybody could be so stupid as to possess what he desired, yet put up no security systems to protect either it, or himself.

  The leather handles of a large carpet bag were clutched tightly in one of his hands. Inside the bag was the sphere, the babble of its voices undetectable by the non-telepathic primitives of this planet. The sphere buzzed and hummed angrily, rubbing against Skagra’s leg like a pet demanding to be fed.

  ‘Soon,’ he told it curtly. ‘Very soon.’

  Chapter 4

  CHRIS WAS VERY glad to be back in his lab. He threw his satchel down on a bench and just stood breathing calmly for a moment, reassured by his spectrograph, his carbon-dating machine, his X-ray machine, and even his Bunsen burner. He looked the longest at his neat, almost bare bookshelf. These were all things he could understand.

  He looked out of the window into the little garden which the laboratories surrounded. The sunshine was fading now and it was starting to feel a lot more like October. A solitary magpie hopped about on the lawn. Chris gulped and then reminded himself that he was a rational, scientific person surrounded by rational scientific things.

  Whenever he felt irrational and unscientific like this, Chris reminded himself of the pure, simple and almost inexpressible beauty of Euler’s Identity: eiπ + 1 = 0. You just couldn’t argue with Euler, however many mad professors and police boxes you’d bumped into.

  He checked his watch. It was just after two, so Clare had probably had lunch and was back in her rooms. Operation Keightley, aka The Chris Parsons Project, could now swing into phase two.

  He flipped open his satchel and took out the books. He was irritated to discover that among the relevant ones was that other one, the strange one, the one he’d picked off the wrong shelf, the one with the odd not-quite-Celtic scrolly symbol on the front. He was about to put it down when –

  He was back at home again, the cricket and buzzing bees and mum’s voice coming from the kitchen –

  Chris blinked – and put down the book. Odd.

  He picked it up again –

  He was back at home again, the cricket and buzzing bees and mum’s voice coming from the kitchen –

  – and then he blinked, and was back in the lab. That had been very strange. This book seemed to have the irritating habit of making you imagine things very vividly, things that weren’t actually happening.

  He shook himself. Of course it didn’t. Books didn’t do that sort of thing. Well they could, but not that vividly and you tended to have to be reading them. You didn’t expect to feel the terror of Jane Eyre locked in the red room just by touching the spine of the Penguin paperback.

  No, it was quite ridiculous. Books sat on shelves and waited to be read, that was
all they did, the same way that solitary magpies signified nothing but an almost total lack of magpies.

  He looked down at the book again, and again he saw the rows and rows of arcane symbols scrawled across its pages. But this time there was something else, and that something else was the most ridiculous something of all.

  He could swear that as he looked at the book, the book was somehow looking back at him.

  Chapter 5

  THE DOCTOR LED Romana through the gates and into the impressive forecourt of St Cedd’s College. He pointed his paddle demonstratively around the buildings.

  ‘Here we are! St Cedd’s College, Cambridge. Founded in the year something or other, by… someone someone someone in honour of… someone someone someone whose name escapes me completely.’

  ‘St Cedd?’ suggested Romana.

  ‘Do you know,’ said the Doctor, turning to look at her and apparently very impressed, ‘I think you’re very probably right. You should be a historian.’

  Romana smiled. ‘I am a historian,’ she said proudly, keeping to herself the thought that really, considering her relationship with the Doctor, she sometimes wondered if she should be a nursemaid.

  A short, bespectacled man in a bowler hat and an immaculate suit and tie was pinning a notice on one of the boards that stood outside a smaller building set just inside the main entrance. Romana supposed he was some kind of official, a gatekeeper perhaps.

  To her surprise the Doctor bounded over to the little man and whispered loudly in his ear, ‘Good afternoon, Wilkin.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Doctor,’ said Wilkin casually, pressing the drawing pin firmly but neatly in its place, without turning around and without turning a hair.

  Romana was pleased to see the Doctor slightly deflated by this smooth response. She loved it when he was out-eccentricked.

  ‘Wilkin!’ the Doctor gasped. ‘You remember me?’

  Wilkin turned from the noticeboard, smiling imperturbably up at the Doctor. ‘Of course, sir. You took an honorary degree here in 1960.’

  The Doctor grinned and nodded. ‘So I did! How kind of you to remember me after all these years!’

  ‘That’s my job, sir,’ Wilkin said smoothly.

  ‘And you do it splendidly. Now, then—’

  Wilkin interrupted him. ‘Professor Chronotis, sir? He returned to his room forty-two minutes ago.’

  The Doctor took a step back in amazement. Romana suppressed a smirk.

  Then the Doctor leaned in close to Wilkin. ‘How did you know I wanted to speak to Professor Chronotis?’

  ‘That’s who you asked to see when you were here in 1964, 1960 and 1955, sir,’ Wilkin replied.

  ‘Did I really?’ marvelled the Doctor.

  ‘Though not, as I recall, in such charming company,’ said Wilkin, giving a little bow to Romana.

  Romana extended a hand and introduced herself. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ she said brightly, and with a nod to the perplexed Doctor, added, ‘Nicely done.’

  The Doctor’s eyes narrowed for a moment. He stepped back in and put a conspiratorial arm around Wilkin. ‘I was also here in 1958,’ he said grandly.

  For the first time the tiniest crease of a frown appeared on Wilkin’s brow. ‘Were you, sir?’

  ‘Yes,’ the Doctor nodded, shooting Romana a triumphant look before adding mysteriously, ‘but in a different body.’

  Wilkin smiled his blandest smile. ‘Indeed, sir.’

  ‘Come along, Doctor,’ called Romana. She was still thinking of the voices they had heard down at the river. If there was trouble coming, and there probably was, the sooner they cracked on the better.

  ‘Nice to see you again, Wilkin, bye-bye,’ said the Doctor, and breezed off. Then he had a sudden thought and turned around to hand Wilkin the paddle. Wilkin’s hand was already outstretched to take it.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said.

  At least the Doctor knew when he was beaten, thought Romana, as he strode off into the university, this time without a backward glance.

  Soon they were standing at the door of Room P-14. Before the Doctor had a chance to knock, a scratchy voice called from inside, ‘Come in!’

  But this time, instead of being taken aback, the Doctor smiled broadly and ushered Romana through the vestibule and into the room. Romana was pleased to be back. There was a time when she’d have squirmed at the muddle and mess, all the books strewn around the place, but now she found the odour of decaying aldehydes and tea leaves strangely reassuring.

  The room was empty – or rather it was full, but empty of the Professor. The Doctor nodded towards the kitchen and whispered to her, ‘He’ll ask us if we want tea.’

  ‘Tea?’ called the scratchy voice from the kitchen.

  ‘Yes please,’ called the Doctor. ‘Two cups!’

  ‘Milk?’ called the voice.

  ‘Yes please,’ called the Doctor.

  ‘One lump or two?’

  ‘Two please,’ called the Doctor, winking at Romana. ‘And two sugars.’

  Romana wasn’t sure what to make of that remark, but it caused the Professor to hurry out from the kitchen, a tray with three teacups in his hands, and a broad smile across his face. He seemed like such a nice old man. Immediately she liked him.

  The Professor set down his tray and came forward to shake the Doctor enthusiastically by the hand, his eyes alight with welcome for his old, old friend. ‘Ah, Doctor! How splendid to see you again!’

  ‘And you, Professor!’ said the Doctor. ‘This is Romana.’

  The Professor beamed and shook her warmly by the hand. ‘Ah, delighted, delighted. I’ve heard so much about you, young lady.’

  The Doctor looked surprised. ‘Have you?’

  ‘Well not yet but I’m sure I will have done.’ He looked momentarily confused and put a hand to his forehead. ‘Do excuse me. When Time Lords get to my age they tend to get their tenses muddled up.’ He hustled them to a sofa that could just about be distinguished under heaps of books and, after clearing a few away to create a little space, they sat down.

  The Professor placed their cups of tea on the wonky table and then a thought seemed to strike him. ‘Oh, would you have liked some biscuits too?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t have said no,’ said the Doctor.

  The Professor headed back to the kitchen. ‘Crackers?’

  The Doctor grinned broadly. ‘Oh, sometimes, sometimes.’

  As the Professor fussed around in the kitchen and the Doctor flicked idly through the nearest stack of books, Romana reflected on the incongruity of her surroundings. Until the distress signal had been picked up by the TARDIS, causing the Doctor to drop everything – literally – bypass the Randomiser and head for Earth at what passed for top speed, she had never heard of Professor Chronotis. The Doctor had explained how Chronotis, as was the custom for very elderly Time Lords of great service, in the declining centuries following their twelfth and final regeneration, had been offered the opportunity to retire somewhere out in the wide universe by the High Council of Gallifrey. It was a custom that dated back millions of years into the Time Lords’ own history, and very few had ever accepted the offer. But Chronotis had jumped at the chance, packed his bags for Earth and set himself up as a professor at Cambridge.

  ‘Three hundred years,’ Romana marvelled as the Professor handed her a refill.

  ‘Yes, my dear,’ said Chronotis a little proudly.

  ‘In the same set of rooms?’

  Chronotis nodded. ‘Ever since I retired from Gallifrey.’

  Romana was puzzled. The life expectancy of a human was far shorter than that of a Time Lord, even a very elderly one. ‘Didn’t anybody notice?’

  ‘Oh yes, of course they did,’ said the Professor airily. ‘But that’s one of the delights of the older Cambridge colleges. Everyone is so very… discreet.’

  He lowered himself onto a stack of atlases, stood up again, swept the books noisily to the floor with surprising strength, and plonked himself down into the armchair they
had been occupying. He leant over and turned up the dial on a battered electric fire. The October afternoon was beginning to lose its warmth.

  As part of her studies at the Academy, Romana had visited the chambers of the most ancient Time Lord academics and found them as sterile and dry as anywhere else in the Capitol. But now, as another bar on the fire glowed into life with the faintest sizzle of burning dust, Romana reflected that she felt almost as comfortable here as she did in the TARDIS.

  The Professor sipped at his tea and tapped the Doctor on the knee with his spoon. ‘Now then, Doctor, young fellow. What can I do for you?’

  The Doctor blinked in surprise, his knife halfway between butter-dish and cracker. ‘What can you do for me? Don’t you mean, what can I do for you?’

  ‘I don’t think I do,’ said the Professor.

  ‘You sent for me,’ said the Doctor patiently.

  The Professor looked nonplussed. ‘Sent for you?’

  ‘I got your signal,’ said the Doctor.

  Chronotis frowned. ‘Signal? What signal?’

  ‘Romana,’ said the Doctor, ‘didn’t we pick up a signal from the Professor? Would we come and see him as soon as possible?’

  Romana nodded. ‘And we came straight away.’

  Chronotis shrugged. ‘I haven’t sent you a signal. But it’s very splendid to see you. Have another cracker.’

  The Doctor exchanged a worried glance with Romana.

  ‘Professor,’ he said, suddenly very grave, ‘if you didn’t send that signal – then who did?’

  Chapter 6

  ALL WAS WELL in Wilkin’s world, but then it always was. Wilkin would simply not permit it to be any other way. He had found his place and purpose in life. The place was St Cedd’s, and the purpose was to maintain the order and calm established here centuries before, until the time came for him to hand over the task to an equally calm and ordered successor. Wilkin saw himself as a cog in the wheel of time, positioned here to ease the lives of those around him, and was a firm believer in the bit of the Bible that said ‘A soft answer turneth away wrath’, if not many of the other bits. But even he had his limits.