but he couldn’t move.
A small knot of men clustered round an instrument in the centre of the room. One of them was taking measurements. He called out, ‘The intruder is in the North Section. He is static, at two hundred and seventy degrees from the detector.’
A wave of adrenalin swept through the tramp. They must be on to him! Not that he was doing any harm. Besides, he had more right than they had to be there. He had squatter’s rights. He’d staked a claim the day before. But now the blood was back in his veins, and he was determined to run.
He hurried back to the side door. Unaccountably it wouldn’t budge. He sweated to pull it open, but something held it rigid. He knew there was a second door in the warehouse. It meant crossing part of the store room, but there was nothing else for it. He saw the little group of men advancing on him, and made a dash for it. He got halfway across the room, but it was hopeless. He tried to control his voice, but it shook as he called out, ‘Look. if you’re the Law, I’m clean. Stands to reason, I have to be – I’ve just come out... a couple of weeks ago... You’ve got nothing on me!’
The group of men had stopped. They didn’t appear to understand what he was telling them.
‘Well, if you ain’t the Law, it’s all right with me. Live and let live, I say. I don’t give a cuss what you’re doing here. None of my business... I’ll just move on.. find another place to doss.’ He gave a brave wave of the hand. "Night, all,’ he called.
‘Cover the door,’ ordered Brett.
The group fanned out in a half-circle, moving slowly but relentlessly. The outcome was never in doubt. ‘What kind of a welcome is this?’ pleaded the tramp. ‘When a bloke’s just out of jug... They won’t get a word out of me.’ He turned to Brett. ‘I promise you, guv.’
He was panic-stricken. He tried to back off. He was up against the wall..
‘What’s this then? A ruddy madhouse? What’s going on? What are you, anyhow?’
No one bothered to reply.
‘Keep off. Get your ‘ands off... Get back... Get away from me!’ The last was little more than a shriek. The knot of men surrounded him as he shook the handle of the door. He was out of vision as far as the central computer was concerned. The eye-line was obscured, but the noise abruptly diminished – the wail of the alarm stopped dead – the baleful revolving lights faded and a soft glow filled the room. The group dispersed. It was as though nothing had happened.
Everyone was studiously back at work.
‘Repeat,’ said Brett, ‘I repeat... Prototype to be completed by dawn..’
Breakfast with Sir Charles Summer was an opportunity for the Doctor to catch up with the news of the day. Passing through so many Time Zones made it difficult to pinpoint just exactly what period of Time – historically – one was in. His mind adjusted automatically, but he felt more at ease when he’d glanced through the newspapers for the last few weeks.
It was a rare occasion for the Doctor to have breakfast at all, much less a full English breakfast. It took his digestive system a day or two to adjust to the differences between planets and centuries.
But he had to admit that he had enjoyed his kippers, poached eggs, toast, marmalade, and endless cups of tea. The process came to a full stop as he flipped through the pages of one of the later editions of the morning paper.
‘Good gracious!’ said the Doctor.
‘What is it, Doctor?’ asked Sir Charles.
His guest laid the paper on the table before them. ‘Look at that,’ said the Doctor.
Sir Charles frowned over the item. ‘It appears a tramp has been found dead not far from Covent Garden.’
‘Precisely,’ said the Doctor. ‘Found in a gutter at three o’clock.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘I can’t remember exactly what the time was when we last saw him.’
‘You know the man?’ Sir Charles raised his eyebrows.
‘We met last night for the first time,’ said the Doctor.
A small knot of men clustered round an instrument in the centre of the room. One of them was taking measurements. He called out, ‘The intruder is in the North Section. He is static, at two hundred and seventy degrees from the detector.’
A wave of adrenalin swept through the tramp. They must be on to him! Not that he was doing any harm. Besides, he had more right than they had to be there. He had squatter’s rights. He’d staked a claim the day before. But now the blood was back in his veins, and he was determined to run.
He hurried back to the side door. Unaccountably it wouldn’t budge. He sweated to pull it open, but something held it rigid. He knew there was a second door in the warehouse. It meant crossing part of the store room, but there was nothing else for it. He saw the little group of men advancing on him, and made a dash for it. He got halfway across the room, but it was hopeless. He tried to control his voice, but it shook as he called out, ‘Look. if you’re the Law, I’m clean. Stands to reason, I have to be – I’ve just come out... a couple of weeks ago... You’ve got nothing on me!’
The group of men had stopped. They didn’t appear to understand what he was telling them.
‘Well, if you ain’t the Law, it’s all right with me. Live and let live, I say. I don’t give a cuss what you’re doing here. None of my business... I’ll just move on.. find another place to doss.’ He gave a brave wave of the hand. "Night, all,’ he called.
‘Cover the door,’ ordered Brett.
The group fanned out in a half-circle, moving slowly but relentlessly. The outcome was never in doubt. ‘What kind of a welcome is this?’ pleaded the tramp. ‘When a bloke’s just out of jug... They won’t get a word out of me.’ He turned to Brett. ‘I promise you, guv.’
He was panic-stricken. He tried to back off. He was up against the wall..
‘What’s this then? A ruddy madhouse? What’s going on? What are you, anyhow?’
No one bothered to reply.
‘Keep off. Get your ‘ands off... Get back... Get away from me!’ The last was little more than a shriek. The knot of men surrounded him as he shook the handle of the door. He was out of vision as far as the central computer was concerned. The eye-line was obscured, but the noise abruptly diminished – the wail of the alarm stopped dead – the baleful revolving lights faded and a soft glow filled the room. The group dispersed. It was as though nothing had happened.
Everyone was studiously back at work.
‘Repeat,’ said Brett, ‘I repeat... Prototype to be completed by dawn..’
Breakfast with Sir Charles Summer was an opportunity for the Doctor to catch up with the news of the day. Passing through so many Time Zones made it difficult to pinpoint just exactly what period of Time – historically – one was in. His mind adjusted automatically, but he felt more at ease when he’d glanced through the newspapers for the last few weeks.
It was a rare occasion for the Doctor to have breakfast at all, much less a full English breakfast. It took his digestive system a day or two to adjust to the differences between planets and centuries.
But he had to admit that he had enjoyed his kippers, poached eggs, toast, marmalade, and endless cups of tea. The process came to a full stop as he flipped through the pages of one of the later editions of the morning paper.
‘Good gracious!’ said the Doctor.
‘What is it, Doctor?’ asked Sir Charles.
His guest laid the paper on the table before them. ‘Look at that,’ said the Doctor.
Sir Charles frowned over the item. ‘It appears a tramp has been found dead not far from Covent Garden.’
‘Precisely,’ said the Doctor. ‘Found in a gutter at three o’clock.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘I can’t remember exactly what the time was when we last saw him.’
‘You know the man?’ Sir Charles raised his eyebrows.
‘We met last night for the first time,’ said the Doctor.
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