Elouise pulled her hair in front of her eyes. Arc squatted down, put a hand on her shoulder, then looked up at Jacob.

'Stop upsetting her!' she snapped. Her voice was edgy, annoyed. 'That's only your opinion. There are Stone Age peoples who did live in balance with the natural world. There are some still around now, like in New Guinea. And you don't know that we wiped out all those species. Some of them might have died out anyway.'

Suddenly Jacob's patience snapped. ' "Some of them might have died out anyway"? So what! We killed most of them. So you saved a few rabbits. But millions of living things die every second because of humans. You asked me what I'm going to do? OK, I'll tell you what I'm going to do.' He smiled at them, lowered his voice to a sinister hiss. 'I'm going to kill every last human on Earth. And there's nothing that any of you can do to stop me!'

There was dead silence. Then Arc laughed. 'I think we should just leave this guy to his fantasies and go do something useful.'

The two freshmen stood up, exchanged a glance with Mike.

'You think I'm crazy, don't you?' said Jacob, looking at Elouise.

'Not crazy, just... misinformed,' mumbled the young woman, blushing and looking away.

'OK,' said Jacob. He smiled, and looked around the little group. 'You were telling me what species you'd like to be.

Before you go, let me tell you what part of the ecosystem I am.' Elouise was still sitting down, with her hair pulled in front of her face. He leaned forward over her, deliberately intimidating. 'I am the sabre-toothed tiger,' he hissed. 'And I crush human skulls with my teeth.'

Elouise jumped up, took a step backward, then stumbled and fell down again, leaves and twigs crackling beneath her.

She gave a little gasp of pain.

Arc was on her feet. 'What the '

Jacob pulled his knife out, snicked open the blade, whipped it around just an inch short of the woman's belly.

'I am the great cave bear,' he said, 'and I disembowel humans with my claws!'

Jacob heard Mike moving behind him, jumped round, crouched down, made a stabbing motion towards the man, again letting the blow fall just short.

'I am the woolly rhinoceros, and I impale humans on my horn!'

He was beginning to enjoy this now. He swung the knife crudely in the direction of one of the freshmen, saw him jump with fear, then turn tail and run.

'I am the leopard, and I slash open human throats!' he yelled after him.

Mike was shouting, 'Just run! Get the hell out!'

And they were running, all five of them, scampering away like the upright chimpanzees they were. 'I am the wolf pack!'

howled Jacob after them. 'I am the lion! I am ' he began to laugh. ' the anaconda. I am the grizzly bear. I am ' He collapsed on to the leaf litter, giggling helplessly.

After a while the giggles subsided. He got up on to his knees, looked in the direction the Planet Firsters had gone.

Silence. They weren't hanging around; they weren't coming back.

Good.

'I am all your nightmares come true,' he muttered. 'I am Alpha and Omega, Destroyer of Worlds.' Then he started giggling again, rolling around helplessly on the ground until he was covered in the dead leaves.

After a while, a shadow fell over him.

'What happened?' asked a neutral, computer-generated voice.

Jacob looked up, saw the huge, familiar, somehow comforting shape of the alien. It was half-horse, half-ox, with strange, double-jointed, comfortingly non-human arms.

'They weren't suitable. You were right: they haven't got any power.' He giggled again. 'They haven't got any brains either.'

The alien's three-fingered hands clicked on the keyboard it carried around its neck.

'We will have to contact more powerful people, with greater capabilities,' it said after a while. 'We will have to take the risk of contacting your military.' A pause. More rapid clicking of fingers on the keyboard.

Jacob looked up, saw the branches of the beech trees dancing in the sun, far above him.

At last the alien's translator spoke. 'Obtain for me the address of the nearest command station for the organisation United Nations Intelligence Taskforce.'

CHAPTER 2.

'Issues,' said the Doctor suddenly.

Sam looked up from the twenty-third-century sperm-whale songline text that she was reading.

'What issues?' she asked. Save the Whale was the one that immediately sprang to mind, but with the Doctor it was just as likely to be Save the Brontosaurus. Or some obscure political problem on a tiny island on a planet whose galaxy you couldn't even see from Earth.

'Back issues,' said the Doctor, without looking up. ' Strand Strand magazine. Thirty-five to forty-seven, inclusive. Particularly number forty-two, where they printed the cover illustration in reverse by mistake. But there were only about a thousand of those.' magazine. Thirty-five to forty-seven, inclusive. Particularly number forty-two, where they printed the cover illustration in reverse by mistake. But there were only about a thousand of those.'

The Doctor was lying back in what seemed to have become his favourite chair. It was mounted on a swivel base, and its gently curving lines wouldn't have looked out of place in an office in the 1990s. But the pearly, almost organic appearance of the material placed it in a different century altogether. There was a gold-leaf crown embossed at the level of the sitter's head: the Doctor claimed that this meant the chair had been the throne of a pretender to the title of Earth Empress, sometime around the beginning of the fourth millennium. Sam knew nothing about fourth-millennium chairs, but rather suspected it was a fake. She was beginning to know the Doctor, and had worked out that more of his stuff was fake than he was generally prepared to admit. Those clothes, for instance: the nineteenth-century cut jacket, the wing-collared shirt, the tailored trousers. They seemed to be the Doctor's favourite garb: he claimed he'd picked them up on Savile Row in 1892, but Sam had seen the label on the jacket. Party Funtime of San Francisco, California, USA. They were fancy dress fancy dress, if you please.

Late twentieth century.

'Why do you need the back issues?' asked Sam at last, when it became obvious that he wasn't going to elaborate on his remark.

The Doctor didn't reply. He appeared to have forgotten what he was talking about, or even that he was talking at all. He was reading: not a Strand Strand magazine, which might have adequately explained the mention of back issues, but some kind of computerised book, triangular, propped up on the wooden side table beside his cup of tea rather like a crystal metronome. It bleeped from time to time, and, more bizarrely, whistled, like a steam train. Sometimes one whistle, sometimes two. The many clocks of the console room ticked in the background. magazine, which might have adequately explained the mention of back issues, but some kind of computerised book, triangular, propped up on the wooden side table beside his cup of tea rather like a crystal metronome. It bleeped from time to time, and, more bizarrely, whistled, like a steam train. Sometimes one whistle, sometimes two. The many clocks of the console room ticked in the background.

Sam looked around in the scatter of plastic, paper, electronics and old teacups on the floor around the Doctor's chair to see if she could spot the cover. After a moment she saw it discarded by his feet, looking rather like a large, triangular CD case. She walked over and picked it up.

' Galactic Compendium, YG 7008-7088 Galactic Compendium, YG 7008-7088', in small, neat lettering, printed over the stylised spiral of a galaxy. Sam wondered which dating system that was.

Then she wondered which galaxy.

The universe! All of time and space! She realised she would never, never never get used to it. No matter how many places she saw, there were always going to be more to see. And each one was different. You could spend a hundred lifetimes a thousand get used to it. No matter how many places she saw, there were always going to be more to see. And each one was different. You could spend a hundred lifetimes a thousand ' Angelus Angelus,' said the Doctor.

Sam looked at him. He hadn't looked up when he'd spoken. This was a game, right? But she was getting used to it, was beginning to grasp the rules. The thing was, not to show show that you didn't know what he was talking about. that you didn't know what he was talking about.

'Latin for "angel". So?' she tried. It might be the title of an article in one of the magazines he'd mentioned, but on the other hand it might be anything.

' " Nam et angelicam habent faciem, et tales angelorum in caelis decet esse coheredes Nam et angelicam habent faciem, et tales angelorum in caelis decet esse coheredes",' commented the Doctor obscurely. 'Gregory was just being funny of course. You see, Augustine fancied almost anything in a skirt.'

Sam looked down at her battered jeans. 'I'm safe then.'

'Not necessarily.' The Doctor looked up at last, seemed to focus on the songlines e-book that Sam was holding. 'Not so good in translation, of course.'

Sam grinned. This was one she could cope with. 'AA//WW-R-o//is()?' she said, careful to get all the clicks and whistles in the right place. 'No, I suppose not. But it's very beautiful.'

'Hmm. Yes. I meant the Venerable Bode. I think there was some kind of editorial problem. I'll have to speak to Oscar about it sometime. He knows everybody.'

Sam's mind raced, making connections. Strand Strand magazine had been at its height in the 1890s so Oscar was probably magazine had been at its height in the 1890s so Oscar was probably Right.

'At least he dressed better than you,' she said.

'Who?' The Doctor seemed genuinely confused.

'Oscar Wilde,' said Sam drily. 'He wouldn't have been seen dead in fancy dress.'

The Doctor looked down over his clothes and frowned. 'Oh, good. I thought for a moment you meant Bede. Now, these back issues. How would you like a visit to the January sales?'

Sam shrugged, refusing, absolutely refusing refusing, to be fazed by the Doctor's constant patter, with its obscure connections and improbable changes of direction.

'Which January?' she asked. As an afterthought, she added, 'Which planet?'

The Doctor got up and headed for the console. When he got there he looked over his shoulder and flashed her a smile.

'Guess.'

No good, thought Sam. I've been out-cooled again.

But I'll get him, one day. If it's the last thing I do.

Silence. Cold, damp air.

High, yellow-green reeds rising in front of her. Muddy water, slopping around her shoes. Cold water.

Very cold water. cold water.

Sam shivered. 'This is wrong, right?'

'Right.'

'So where are we?'

'No, no, no! I mean this is right. This is London, first of January 2108, the opening day of the winter sales. I've been here before, bought some wings. A long time ago.'

'Doctor, this is a swamp.'

The Doctor wrinkled his nose, looked around once more.

'Well, yes, it is, but ' He broke off, looked down at his shoes, which had almost disappeared into the grey, sucking mud.

'Oh no! Grace gave me those! I'll have to get some boots in Harrods, and put these in for micromolecular repair.'

Sam looked at her trainers, which were doing a slightly better job of keeping the swamp away from her feet. She wrapped her arms around her body and began shivering in earnest. The Doctor had said January sales, which probably implied winter, so she'd put a coat on, and a thick pullover, but nonetheless she was dressed for shopping, not survival training in the Great Bog of Forever.

She stepped back into the TARDIS. Each foot made a loud popping sound as she removed it from the mud.

The Doctor turned around and grabbed her arm. 'Something's wrong, Sam.'

Sam just looked at him, raised her eyebrows. Something was usually wrong. It was really a matter of scale. Sam had started to rate them in scores out of ten: for instance, (1) the Doctor had misdirected the TARDIS, (5) he'd landed them in the middle of a war zone, or (10) he'd accidentally destroyed the universe.

She looked into the Doctor's blue-green eyes, clocked the degree of worry on his face, and mentally assigned this one about 2.5 on the Jones-Richter scale.

Nothing to be concerned about.

'Get back inside!' ordered the Doctor.

'I am inside,' said Sam simply. 'You're not.'

The Doctor pulled his foot upward violently, left a shoe behind, then knelt down and tried to recover it.

Sam became aware of a buzzing sound. A machine? Probably. She leaned out to have a look; at the same moment the Doctor, still trying to extract his shoe from the mud, glanced up.

'Horses!' he said. 'Well, Tractites at any rate.' He stood up, began shouting out into the misty gloom. 'Hello! Could you possibly help us? We seem to have mislaid our planet.'

The buzzing sound got louder. Sam cautiously stepped out again, saw an illuminated platform approaching, skimming over the tops of the reeds. Two dappled grey-and-white horses stood on the platform.

No. As the Doctor had said, they weren't horses. Horselike beings, then. The heads looked similar, but there were four eyes, a large pair on the sides of the head, and a smaller pair, presently closed, on the snout where you might expect nostrils.

The 'ears' weren't ears, but short horns, brightly painted, slightly curved and tapering backward. Their bodies were heavier and squarer than any horse could ever be: more like a cow, or a medieval ox. They wore clothing across their backs and upper flanks: rich, tapestried clothing, in purple and green and saffron yellow. Arms emerged from the torso, improbably close to the head. They were long, strangely jointed, ending in three-fingered hands.

In short, they were thoroughly alien. What had the Doctor called these people? Tractites?

Wonderful!

She didn't think they were the slightest bit dangerous. They didn't have that alert, predatory look that weaponed cultures had. They didn't even seem worried by the fact that two aliens in a blue box had turned up out of the middle of nowhere and were asking for help.

The skimmer was landing now, just a few metres away on a small island. Sam could see that the Tractites were tethered to a central pillar. The pilot was steering with a wooden tiller attached to a post. The second alien just stood and gazed at the Doctor and Sam with its big eyes, its two wormlike tongues darting out to taste the air.

The Doctor was staggering through the mud towards the platform, waving his arms and making snorting noises. Sam followed, more cautiously. Now that she knew what to expect, she managed to find footholds of a sort, places where the mud was a little more solid between the channels.

Sam scrambled up on to the island, which was barely above the water line. The Doctor was now standing in front of the skimmer, balanced on one leg, with one mud-encrusted shoe in his hand. One of the Tractites peered down at him.

'How serious is the damage to your shuttle craft?' the alien was asking the Doctor. 'Can we help you repair it?'

'Oh, it's just a re-entry vehicle, really,' said the Doctor. 'I wouldn't bother with it. But where is this place? I mean, it's an interesting planet, quite beautiful, but I'm afraid it's not where we thought we were going at all.'