Chiltern faced him expressionlessly. 'Repair the machine. It's the only way.'

'It may not be.'

'It is. Will you repair it?'

'Tell me what exactly is going on. Give me a chance to explore alternatives.'

'Will you repair the machine?'

'No,' said the Doctor.

'Sir,' said O'Keagh, 'I hear something down there.'

Chiltern was at his side. The Doctor exhaled angrily and drew as far back in the recess as he could. There was nothing more he could do to save either of them. 'Oh, stop...' he said hopelessly. 'You know know, Chiltern. You know you can't ' But they had gone.

The Doctor didn't want to hear. He particularly didn't want to just sit there and hear. But he was going to have to. He rested his palms flat beside him on the cold stones and waited. It didn't take long. There were shots. There was an ugly blurt of pain, probably from O'Keagh. Then there were screams. Long and horrible, and many of them. For a time, these had pauses between them, as if the screamer had momentarily broken away from his tormenter. But finally they became one continuous sound. The Doctor bent his head and pressed his hands over his ears. It didn't help, of course. Nothing would help. Help was not in this story.

After a while, the screams stopped. The Doctor lowered his hands. Now he was going to have to save himself. Funny how skilled he was at that. Not always so good with others, but damn good with himself. Teeth clenched, he turned his back to the gate and drew himself in, hands and feet tucked away, his coat pulled up so his hair couldn't be snagged. It wasn't going to get hold of him without opening the gate.

Then, for a long time, there was no sound. A palpable absence, the kind that presses against the eardrums. The Doctor waited, curled in his still little ball. He thought of many things. They were not thoughts he could have communicated, had anyone asked. Silences were in them, and hollow distance. He felt tears dry on his face the way they so lightly, lighter than any touch, just for an instant tightened the skin.

At last, almost with relief, he heard it. The awkward thudding step, the scraping rustle. What had it been doing? Gloating? Feeding? He bunched up tighter. His back felt horribly exposed. It was like one of those nightmares where he was being chased by something through a passage too narrow for him even to look over his shoulder, so he couldn't tell how near his pursuer was. Or had that actually happened to him? He smelled roses. Iron clanked on iron: it had the key.

Something groped at his back, felt for an arm or a leg, seeking purchase, wanting to hold him still while it opened the gate. The Doctor continued in his hedgehog impersonation. The something what was it anyway? lashed at him angrily a couple of times; he felt it drag across his back and heard his coat rip. Then it withdrew. The gate began to scrape back.

The Doctor rolled and lunged. He hit the gate and knocked it wide open, pinning the other against the wall. It yelled in rage. The Doctor slammed the gate at the wall again. And again. And again. Whatever he was hitting yielded and crunched crunched, a sound that set his teeth on edge. It was yelling in pain now. The Doctor kept pounding at it in sickening desperation, putting his whole body behind the blows. What was he hitting? How badly was he hurting it? Was he killing it? He didn't want to, but he wanted even less to be caught by it. When the cries finally stopped he gave the gate a couple of extra bangs for good measure, then sprinted up the steps.

He ran down the hall, dodged into the room where he'd met Chiltern, jerked open a window and jumped out, landing in a stone-flagged yard. A wide gate stood open to the moor. He dashed through it. Under a near-full moon, the heath before him was patched with pale light and black shadow, the distant tors like brooding giants. A few miles away, a little cluster of lights indicated a village. The Doctor turned towards them.

The road was hardly more than a wide cart track, and he soon left it. Running on the springy heath wasn't difficult, and the moonlight showed up patches of gorse or bracken in time for him to avoid them. But he didn't know how long he could continue at this speed. He wished he had a horse. Perhaps he should have tried to take one, but he suspected the dog would have been guarding the stables. He'd been keeping one ear open for the sound of the dog baying on his track, but so far there seemed to be no pursuit. He stopped, panting, at the top of a rise and turned to look back. The house was distant and dark. But there was something rising behind it he didn't like: clouds. The wind picked up, whipping his hair back. A storm was coming.

He took off again, down into a dell, where the shadows were longer and he began to stumble into patches of wet bracken that dragged soggily at his legs. All he needed now was to find himself in a mire. But he was going uphill again, towards dryer ground. The wind bore a sweet, wild smell; a patch of heather must be nearby. As he crested the hill, the Doctor saw the lights of the village again, brighter now. He stopped, panting, catching his breath, and looked back. The storm clouds covered half the sky. As he watched, lightning glowed inside them, and in a few seconds he heard a muted rumble of thunder.

And then, in the silence that followed, another sound.

'Oh no,' he breathed. He turned and started down the hill, slipping and sliding in his haste. The sound echoed across the moor, deep and savage. Mr Holmes, it was the baying of a gigantic hound. No, that wasn't exactly the quote. He reached flat ground and began to run. The exact quote was... what was it now? The howling of a gigantic hound? No. The He splashed suddenly into a cold stream. Uck! Wait yes! A stream! He hopped out, yanked off his shoes, and plunged back into the water. Upstream or down? Up was towards the village, the way he'd be expected to go. The dog would be directed that way first. So downstream it was. He could only hope he'd gain enough time to be able to double back.

The stream wasn't deep but it was stony and hard to move through quickly. The Doctor slipped continually, bruising his feet. When he came to a little tributary, he cut up it. This was steep, almost like a water stairway, and the stones were mossy. He climbed carefully, concentrating on each step and foothold, and was surprised when, pausing for breath, he straightened and brushed his head against a cluster of leaves.

He was at the edge of a grove of tiny oaks, growing twisted among a nest of boulders. Deformed by their stony ground and the fierce moor winds, the trees were bent, misshapen, dwarfed a fairy-tale forest. The Doctor climbed up among them, pulling himself along by the low-hanging branches. It was dark in the grove, but looking up he could see the paler sky beyond the black leaves and guessed that none of the trees topped ten feet.

He was still walking in the stream. With the aid of a particularly low branch, he climbed directly from the water into a tree. There. Now he had left no scent on the ground for at least half a mile. He could make his way through the treetops to the other end of the grove and start off again from there. With luck, he'd throw the dog off entirely.

He sat for a moment, feet dangling, breathing hard. Suddenly, something rustled at his side. The Doctor froze. Slowly he slid his eyes sideways to find that he was being stared at by a large owl. He grinned, almost laughed with relief. As if affronted, the owl blinked at him solemnly, puffing its feathers out. It was a solid, dignified-looking animal. A tawny owl, the Doctor thought, admiring it shyly the bird that cried in Shakespeare's plays. 'I'm not you tonight,' he said. 'Tonight, I'm prey.' The owl remained indifferent. Rightly so, thought the Doctor. We all have our problems. His revolve around mice, mine around dogs. Where, indeed, is the common ground? 'Nonetheless,' he said aloud, 'it's been a pleasure sharing this tree with you.' The owl spread its wings, dropped from the branch and glided out over the little stream. The Doctor watched it go. 'Good hunting,' he said softly.

He lodged his shoes in a crook of the tree, stuffed his wet socks in his pocket, and climbed up to where he could look over the moor. The clouds had blotted out more and more of the sky, though they hadn't yet reached the moon, which hung lower now, as if cringing from their advance, its radiance wan and sickly, the shadows it threw longer and deeper. The wind had taken on a bitter, almost metallic edge. The Doctor saw with dismay that his detour had indeed led him farther from the village. He searched some other, lonelier light a farmhouse or inn but saw nothing. Twisting around, he peered back the way he had come, finding the spot where he had entered the stream, where, with a nasty shock he saw something moving, casting rapidly back and forth at the edge of the water. The dog. And worse, much worse, there was someone on horseback, watching. The Doctor couldn't make this person out, except that he seemed to be swaddled in some sort of large cloak and wasn't... shaped... quite... right.

The Doctor shivered from the wind, he told himself. Stay or go? If he stayed, he could watch his pursuer, see which way he headed and use that knowledge to elude him. Unless the rider came this way. If he went to the other side of the grove and on to the moor there, he'd be fleeing into unknown territory in which, as far as he could see from here, there were no dwellings. Heads or tails? The Doctor decided to go with his instinct, and instinct told him to put as much distance as possible between himself and the figure on the horse.

He retrieved his shoes, tucked them under his arm, and made his way through the branches to the far end of the grove. On the ground, he put his damp shoes back on and then stood for a few seconds, wondering which way to go. He would have continued walking in the stream, but it had vanished underground. Best to head for high ground and search again for a farmhouse light.

He had to wade up through bracken, which made for slow going and soaked his trousers to his calves. The view from the top of the ridge proved disappointing: no lights, just spreading, desolate moor. Of course, most farmhouses probably wouldn't be burning a light all night. He might just as easily come on one by accident as not. In any case, there was nothing to do but keep going. The moor was empty, but it wasn't vast. Ten miles in any direction and he'd come to the settled edge.

The Doctor ran and walked alternately. An occasional rabbit shot across his path. Once, passing a stand of trees, he startled a badger which stared at him for a rigid, surprised instant before slipping Into the shadows. Several times he found himself suddenly among sheep, which trotted nervously aside as he ran by, then stopped and looked after him, chewing. If he'd come across any of the wild Dartmoor ponies he would have done his best to capture and mount one, but he never saw any.

More unavoidable bracken. A surprising and unpleasant encounter with a gorse bush. Heather, which smelled lovely as his stride crushed it, but was uneven and treacherous under his feet. All this time, the clouds crept up on the moon, and finally, as he stopped to rest near the foot of a tor, seized it. The light vanished as if swallowed, and the Doctor found himself blinking in total darkness. A spot of rain touched the back of his hand, another his face, then, with a brisk patter, the downpour began in earnest.

Almost simultaneously, he heard the dog.

Not now! Not now in the dark and the wet. Clumsily, the Doctor scrambled towards the tor. Seek high ground. Climb up the rocks. The dog couldn't get at him there. Maybe the rain would wash away his track. Water ran into his eyes and soaked his hair. Was he going towards the tor at all? Could he even climb it in the dark? A deep, baying bark broke out in the distance, and he began to run.

It was more jumping than running sliding, turning, dodging, barely keeping his feet on the uneven, invisible ground. He fell and rolled and sprang up and ran till he fell again. After one tumble, he rolled down a hill, and though he landed bruised he was grateful for the distance gained. Thunder began to rumble now, and lighting blazed and cracked. But all the brief flashes showed him was barren, endless moor. He had left the tor far behind.

But not the dog. Every time he heard it, it was closer. He was gasping for breath and his blood pounded in his ears and every step jarred him to the bone. How ironic if he ran off a cliff. Well, perhaps 'ironic' wasn't quite the word. What would the word be, he wondered, lungs aching. Not 'amusing,' though, admittedly, there was something amusing about it. And speaking of the right word he slid and stumbled down a rise, narrowly escaping twisting his ankle what was that quote? The something of a gigantic hound. Snarling? No. Barking? his foot hit a rock, he recovered, pounded on No. Yelping? Definitely nA triumphant howl broke out behind him.

Persistence. The Doctor frantically shrugged off his coat. The Doctor frantically shrugged off his coat. The persistence of a gigantic hound. The persistence of a gigantic hound. He spun around, throwing up the coat as the dog careened into him, and hit the ground with the animal in his arms, snarling and fighting the enveloping cloth. Rolling the furious bundle off him, the Doctor gained his feet one more time and staggered away. It was hopeless. The dog would be free in a matter of seconds. Lightning flashed. He glimpsed a grotesque shadow thrown in front of him, whirled in time to see the wild eyes of the charging horse then the night was pitch black and something, with impossible strength, seized his collar and heaved him across the saddle. He spun around, throwing up the coat as the dog careened into him, and hit the ground with the animal in his arms, snarling and fighting the enveloping cloth. Rolling the furious bundle off him, the Doctor gained his feet one more time and staggered away. It was hopeless. The dog would be free in a matter of seconds. Lightning flashed. He glimpsed a grotesque shadow thrown in front of him, whirled in time to see the wild eyes of the charging horse then the night was pitch black and something, with impossible strength, seized his collar and heaved him across the saddle.

The Doctor's breath slammed out of him. His captor wrenched his arm up behind his back to hold him in place, but he still rocked and slid wildly on the galloping horse. He tried to cry Slow down Slow down, but could only gasp. His arm was going to break, he could feel it. Why so fast? He was caught, there was no need, his arm, his arm was The horse reared and the Doctor, released, slid to the ground. He rolled away, dazed, throwing up a hand against the brilliant light that had startled the horse. Where had it come from? He turned his head, gaped stupidly at his shadow. The light was blinding at this close distance, too bright, brighter than any light produced in this century, bright as The Doctor fell back, with a noise that could have been either a laugh or a groan. The horse and rider leaped into the darkness, and now he could hear, below the rain, the hum of an engine before its time, after its time, out of any time whatever he shielded his eyes and stared into the blazing searchlights, just glimpsing, beyond their glare, a brass railing, and the massive figure leaning on it.

The next minute, hands were lifting him and worried voices talking.

'Doctor...?' said Fitz.

'Are you all right?' said Anji. She pushed the Doctor's soaked, straggled hair back. His eyes were shut. She and Fitz stared anxiously at his white, rain-wet face. His lips moved, and they bent close to hear.

'Footprints,' the Doctor murmured. ' "Mr Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound."'

Chapter Eighteen.

In the courtyard of the thatch-roofed inn sat stone urns of flowers, still a little wet from the night's rain and almost sparkling in the clear sun. The whole white-walled village, and even the ancient grey church, seemed to have a new-washed gleam. The Angel-Maker didn't care. She sat on a bench in the high churchyard looking down at the thatched roofs and clean cobblestones, frowning.

She could just see a corner of the inn yard and the arm and shoulder of someone having tea out-ofdoors. She thought it was Fitz. The woman, Anji, would be with him. He He was still inside; she'd made sure of that when she couldn't find Sabbath. Fitz had said Sabbath had gone for a walk on the moor, and this sounded reasonable to her, but she was still uneasy and kept an eye on the inn in case was still inside; she'd made sure of that when she couldn't find Sabbath. Fitz had said Sabbath had gone for a walk on the moor, and this sounded reasonable to her, but she was still uneasy and kept an eye on the inn in case he he came out. came out.

Oh, he looked harmless enough. Last night, bruised and pale and drenched to the skin, he'd been weak as a drowned cat. He made her think of a cat, actually. Those strange slender cream-coloured ones wealthy people owned, with blue or fawn tips to their noses and tails and paws. Sly animals; you never knew what they were about. So even with him limp and wet as boiled greens, she'd not liked him being taken on board the ship. Not that she said anything, of course, but Sabbath had sensed her discomfort and assured her the Doctor had been aboard the Jonah Jonah many times and had done it no harm. many times and had done it no harm.

Not yet, was all she thought. Fortunately, they hadn't stayed on the ship. The Doctor had directed them to a house in the middle of the moor, a great empty place with two dead men in it. One of them was torn so badly that the Anji woman turned away, and even Sabbath had looked grave. He and the Doctor had spent a lot of time over the body, discussing its injuries and speculating how the man had died. The Angel-Maker had gone up and down all the dark staircases, just to be sure there was no one else in the house. In front of a gated recess beneath the cellar steps she had found scattered rose blossoms.

The Doctor and Sabbath had also spent a long time in one of the cellar rooms, the Doctor distraught because some machine was missing. He had described this to Sabbath, and then they had gone through the house together, taking particular trouble to examine all the papers in the library. By this time the sun was up, and Sabbath and she went into a nearby town she thought it was called Bovey Tracy to report finding the bodies to the police, while Fitz and Anji brought the Doctor to this little village inn where they had booked rooms the previous evening.

There had been much going to and fro all day, with interviews with the police, inquiring telegrams sent to London, and everyone making excursions to all the nearby railway stations to see whether a strange man had been seen. She presumed this was the same man she'd spied last night on the horse before it shied at the searchlights and sped away he'd had a queer shape to him under his cloak, and that distortion distortion rippled round him not as strong as the Doctor's, but strong. She'd told Sabbath and he'd seemed unsurprised. rippled round him not as strong as the Doctor's, but strong. She'd told Sabbath and he'd seemed unsurprised.

The Angel-Maker's eyes narrowed, and she stood up to see more dearly into the inn yard. That had been the sound of the door opening: was the Doctor up? But it was only the serving girl. Across the rooftops, a whistle sounded as the local train pulled in. The Angel-Maker ignored it, settling back on to the bench. Only one visitor to this village concerned her.

'So,' said Fitz, 'the dead man, Sebastian, was the original, if you like, and our Dr Chiltern, Nathaniel, the one who was at the seance, is one of the copies.'

'That seems to be it,' said Anji, spooning up the last of her fresh blackberries and cream.

'Only Nathaniel thought he was the original, and when Sebastian started babbling about a time machine, everyone thought he was mad and Nathaniel locked him up.'

'Yes.'

'And the fellow on the horse last night was another another of the copies.' of the copies.'

She might have shivered just a bit. 'Of a sort.'

'We both saw him. He looked looked like Chiltern, except for that bandage over his eye.' like Chiltern, except for that bandage over his eye.'

'The Doctor thinks he hurt him with the gate.'

'So there's two copies. Where's the other, what, five?'

She shook her head.

'And what's wrong with the one on the horse?' he said. 'Something off there.'

'To say the least,' she murmured. 'The Doctor's theory is that the settings were different when Chiltern tried the machine on himself than they were for Octave and the other man.'

'Yeah, but different how?'

'I'm not sure I really want to know.'

Fitz brooded over his teacup. 'Where is she, anyway?'

'Who?'

'Sabbath's little friend. The one who killed Octave and that other multiple bloke, the one the Doctor said she was put away for in the first place.'

'She's usually with him.'

'Better him than us.'

Anji said uneasily: 'Where is he he?'

Sabbath had in fact spent an entertaining afternoon at the murder scene, charming the police with his helpfulness and expertise as Mr G.K. Thursday, retired clergyman and amateur student of the fauna of Dartmoor and offering persuasive support of their theory that the ferocious dog they had shot earlier on the moor was the cause of these horrible and regrettable deaths. He was consequently in a good mood when, having strolled back to the village (a straight route, unlike the Doctor's the night before, was only a little over four miles), he passed in the street a couple walking from the railway station. The woman he didn't recognise, but the man he did. Intrigued, he followed them, and was not at all surprised when they entered the courtyard of the inn.

Fitz, who had been left alone when Anji went to see whether the Doctor were awake yet, reacted with considerably less composure. His jaw dropped and he sprang to his feet.

'Dr Chiltern!' His eye fell on the woman. 'Miss Jane! Erm, or is it...?'

She tossed her head. 'What do you think?' she said in a high, quavering voice.

'Oh,' said Fitz. 'Right. The other one.'

Chiltern was staring placidly and vaguely at the flowers. She sat him gently down at the tea table and shot a suspicious look at Sabbath who, with uncanny lack of notice considering his size, had slipped into the courtyard. 'Who's the big boy?'

'That's Sabbath,' said Fitz. 'This,' he said to the affronted-looking Sabbath, 'is Constance Jane's alter ego.'

'And who,' said Sabbath stiffly, 'is Constance Jane?'

'She's a bore,' said the woman. 'Never mind about her.'

'And this,' Fitz nodded towards Chiltern, who was now watching a rook walk along the top of the courtyard wall, 'is Dr Nathaniel Chiltern.'

'Dear me,' said Sabbath, his good mood returning, 'this is all rather complicated.'

'Not half,' said Fitz unhappily. 'What the hell are you doing here?' he asked the woman.

'Where's the Doctor?' Having peeled off her gloves, she removed her hat and laid it on the table. 'And you can order us some lemonade if they have any. I wired ahead for rooms.'

'How did you know where to come?' Fitz persisted, but she only sat down at the table and patted Chiltern's hand. Fitz gave up and went inside. Sabbath moved around to get a good look at Chiltern and the woman. She returned his scrutiny boldly.

'Sabbath. What kind of a name is that?'

'At least I have one,' Sabbath pointed out amiably. 'What is yours?'

She shrugged. 'Call me Millie.'

Sabbath smiled; he had rarely met a woman who seemed less like a Millie. He turned his attention to her companion. 'And how are you, sir?'

Chiltern didn't respond; he might not even have heard.

'He's distracted,' Millie said defensively.

'That's because he's not all there.'

She glanced at him fearfully. 'What do you know about that?'

'Things have been happening,' said Sabbath. 'His brother is dead.'

'What?' She stood up, her face working. 'When? How?'

'Murdered. Last night.'

'No,' she whispered. 'No!' she cried. She ran at Sabbath. He put up his hands, expecting her to pound on his chest, but instead she hit him in the stomach and ran into the inn, weeping. Annoyed rather than hurt, Sabbath looked again at Chiltern. If he'd heard the news about Sebastian's death, he wasn't showing it. His eyes were on the flowers again. Sabbath stared at him openly, amazed and not embarrassed to show it. If the Doctor's theory were correct, then what sat in front of him was only a fragment of a personality, but clothed in the flesh of a complete human being.

'Not right,' whispered the Angel-Maker at his elbow.

Sabbath nodded, not looking around. Her unheralded appearances never startled him. 'No,' he said. 'Not right at all. But quite extraordinary.'

After Millie had been calmed and given a glass of brandy, everyone crowded into the Doctor's room to hear her story. She and Anji sat on the bed, with Chiltern in the room's single chair. The other men stood: Sabbath in a corner with his hands clasped behind him, the Doctor leaning against a wall with his arms crossed, and Fitz sitting on the sill of the open window. The Angel-Maker declined to join the party.