'But she can't leave Sam,' she said, hoping that the Doctor would contradict her. It was all too good to be true.

'That's what she told me.' He smiled conspiratorially.

'It's all so stupid,' Paula said, and giggled.

'It doesn't matter what you you think,' the Doctor chided gently. 'It's Cheryl's feelings that count.' think,' the Doctor chided gently. 'It's Cheryl's feelings that count.'

'I know how Sam is going to feel,' she said wistfully.

'Don't,' said the Doctor, and shook his head. Paula searched his eyes for an answer. 'Be stupid!' he encouraged, and smiled. stupid!' he encouraged, and smiled.

'You're right.' She smiled back. 'It's Cheryl's decision. I can't argue with that.'

'And are you still going down in the starsuit?'

She remembered the smoothness of Cheryl's skin, the fullness of her lips. 'I might not be,' she said.

He got up, startling her. There was something about his presence that made her feel calm and peaceful.

'Coming back?' she asked, as he raised his hat.

He nodded, and left.

'You see,' Bernice said triumphantly. 'Same words, different meanings. The Doctor could be innocent!'

'I know,' Bishop said. 'I've run fifteen variations of that conversation, and every one has come up with different motivations for the Doctor. Either the software is playing up, or your friend is the most complex character I have ever had the pleasure of arresting.'

'In that case '

The floor shook with a distant explosion. Klaxons began to wail.

'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l! What was that?'

'The Conference Room.' Bishop's voice was so calm Bernice wanted to scream.

'Oh Christ. The Doctor!'

Bernice left the office at a dead run. By the time she reached the Conference Room, the air was filled with the smell of burning, more even than the atmosphere recyclers could deal with. The corridor was filled with people, some wielding fire extinguishers, others rushing medkits through the smoke. Bernice pushed her way through the confused ma.s.s of people, looking for Miles or Piper. Neither was in plain sight. The Russian botanist a.n.u.shkia Smyslov seemed to be in charge, directing people to clear twisted metal beams from the corridor and check the Base's integrity with air*pressure sensors.

'Doctor Smyslov, what's happened? Have you seen the Doctor? He was in the Conference Room.'

The big Russian shook her head with a marked lack of sympathy. 'Sensors have confirmed the Conference Room is open to s.p.a.ce. Unless your friend can breathe vacuum, he's dead.' She pushed past Bernice. 'Now if you'll excuse me, I do have a job to do.'

Chapter Eleven.

Miles Engado faced west along the bay and watched the sun sinking past the village into a golden haze of spray. Soon it would be time for the ceremony to begin: for him to walk into the darkened woods and connect his mind to that of the Whale. To pray for the great creature's cooperation in tomorrow's activity.

The season of the hunt had come again to the people of the North Water.

He walked along the beach, past rows of low cedar huts, his bare feet kicking at the surf which swept in from the north, enjoying the cool water and the tickling sensation of sand being swept between his toes and around his ankles. Other men of the village were beaching their canoes even as he watched, pulling ash.o.r.e the dead seals which would ultimately become floats to slow the Whale in the hunt. Children combed the sh.o.r.eline for strong sh.e.l.ls which the women would sharpen and affix to spears twice the height of a man. The spears would serve to fish and hunt with, as well as defend the village against competing tribes.

Miles offered up a silent prayer as he walked. He was lucky to have been born in this particular tribe. The ocean provided a bountiful supply of fresh food and, together with the forests inland, provided all the raw materials necessary to reap the harvest, as well as jealously guard it.

Miles thought back to his first season as a hunter. He remembered the heat of the sun on his back, and the way the cold water cleaved at the touch of the canoe, as it was propelled forward in search of prey by the hunters. He remembered squinting eagerly to catch sight of the basking seals, content and sleepy in the afternoon sunshine, and pointing with excitement when he did. The other men in the canoe had laughed at his impatience and berated him for pointing. Everyone knew that to point at the seals was taboo. Miles had hung his head in shame. He'd had no wish to wake the seals and drive them away. His friend Okawi had signalled to the other canoes by gently shaking his thumb in the direction of the sleeping animals. Paddles had dipped silently into the water; the canoes sped closer, but the seals had awoken suddenly, and swum away.

Just three seals had been killed that day, when more than twenty were needed; and only one cleanly, by a single spear*thrust from Okawi. Later, Miles had carved the dead seals' faces on the two killing clubs to honour the animals' sacrifice. He had never shown impatience or eagerness again.

Miles smiled. He had been little more than a boy then. Now he was a man, Chief of his village. It was his responsibility to convince the Whale to cooperate in the hunt, so the people of the village might be fed and clothed for another season. He watched as the women of the village his new wife, Beruna, among them rushed down to the waterline in their reed skirts. There they would gut the seals and render their oil, which they would later store in the stomachs and bladders of sea lions.

Moving closer, Miles watched as strips of blubber were placed along with heated stones into canoes filled with water. The oil floated to the surface and was skimmed away to be used later as a food dip.

He moved slowly along the beach. Preparations for the hunt seemed to be going well. Okawi had prepared the hunting canoes and was now praying over their steep sides.

Beruna glared as he walked past to join Okawi, her hands full of seal blubber, a bone knife beside her on the sand. He knew she was angry with him for allowing their daughter to join the hunt, traditionally something only a select few men were allowed the honour of, but she would see his way soon enough. Paula had proved to him she was as able a fisherwoman as any of the men. And he was Chief, after all. Perhaps it was time for tradition to change just a little. He smiled back at Beruna, trying to silently communicate how proud he was, of both her and Paula, but her eyes fell angrily to her work.

Miles looked up. The topmost edge of the sun was about to dip beyond the North Water. The sky was cloudless and glowing. Tomorrow the hunt would begin. Even now Miles could feel the great Whale approaching, a.s.sured of its destiny, its place in the scheme of life.

It was time to pray.

Leaving Okawi and Beruna, Miles turned away from the village and padded silently across the beach to the tree line.

Beyond the first line of trees the forest was shrouded in darkness. Only the topmost branches were still gilded by daylight, the illuminated areas shrinking as the sun dropped below the misty horizon. Miles stepped across the threshold and into a different world. The thunder of the surf became a muted whisper, driven into silence by the rustling of branches and the innumerable calls of night animals, bats and insects. His feet, still speckled with sand, moved confidently through the undergrowth. He made no sound: he was one with the land.

Above him, the trees became black silhouettes against a midnight blue sky. Stars shone thinly. Miles walked on into the night, to a special place, a secret place, that only he knew. His praying pool. There he slipped soundlessly into the cold black water and remained submerged, except for his face, floating easily as the night deepened.

As he swam he dreamed the Whale calm, asking the great creature politely for its cooperation in garnering that which his village needed. He remembered the words of his grandfather, so many years ago: 'The Whale always gives our people something. The Whale always helps someone who needs him. When you are in the forest, take water at every creek. Blow it and start praying while spraying mist from your mouth. In this way will you grow closer to the Whale. In this way will it do what you ask of it.'

In his mind the Whale drifted closer through the piebald darkness, and sang: I have come to see how your house is. Is it prepared for large crowds?

At the touch of these words, Miles felt calmness leave him. He knew doubt. 'Large crowds?' His grandfather had never mentioned these words. No Whale in previous seasons had sung these words. 'Is your house prepared for large crowds?'

Disturbed, Miles swam slowly to the edge of the pool and climbed out of the water. He stood shivering in the cold air, no longer one with the land, his eyes dim and sightless, his ears blocked to the night sounds, and tried to think.

His house?

Miles moved back through the forest, back towards the beach. Fires loomed in the night, driving back the darkness. He moved to his hut. Beruna. She was wise. She would know what his vision meant. He stooped to enter the hut and paused.

There were sounds coming from inside. His wife. And another.

Another!

Angrily, Miles stepped into the hut. Beruna stood to face him, blocking his view into the hut.

'You should not be here. You should be praying to the Whale. Without prayers, the Whale will not cooperate in the hunt and the village will starve for lack of food and oil to trade.'

'I!' Miles felt a fury boil up within him. 'I should not be here? What, then, of this other, skulking in the shadows like a crab?' Miles moved to pull his wife aside. Before he could touch her, the concealed figure rose. should not be here? What, then, of this other, skulking in the shadows like a crab?' Miles moved to pull his wife aside. Before he could touch her, the concealed figure rose.

'I am no crab, Miles Engado,' said Okawi. 'As you are no Chief, any longer. Any man who allows his daughter to hunt with warriors does not deserve to lead the tribe.'

'We will see this tested tomorrow, in the hunt.' Miles turned and left the hut.

The pursuit began as the sun rose across the bay. Strong, silent paddling brought three canoes close to the great Whale. The canoes were loaded with sealskin floats. Miles stood at one prow, Okawi at another. Cedar harpoons were clutched in their hands, anch.o.r.ed to the floats by long coils of rope made from cedar bark. The water was choppy. Hatred showed in Miles's face. Jealousy glittered in Okawi's eyes. The hunters paddling each canoe were terrified. This was not the way a hunt should be. Each remembered all too clearly Okawi's parting words before they had pushed each canoe clear of the beach: 'Beruna will not lie still in her hut for you this day, and so the Whale will thrash about. She will not face inland, and so the Whale will not swim ash.o.r.e. Today she is mine. Today you will catch no Whale, and I will be Chief.'

And of course there was Paula, gripping her harpoon in the third canoe.

Miles had remained silent as they had paddled out into the water, though his heart was full of anger and grief. At first sight of the Whale, he had gripped the harpoon tightly, perhaps wishing it was Okawi's neck. Fear was in him. Fear, and betrayal. Yet the Whale must be caught or else the village would know hardship and death.

Ahead, the Whale breached the surface and blew. A fountain of stinking salt.w.a.ter erupted into the air. Great flukes slapped the ocean with a sound like thunder. Spray drenched the canoes. Miles signalled, and the hunters drove on.

As if sensing their approach, the Whale turned and headed away from sh.o.r.e. Okawi stood in his canoe and yelled triumphantly. 'I am right, Miles Engado! I am right!'

Miles called to the hunters to increase their speed. The canoes shot forward, Paula's drawing level with the Whale's head. Miles watched as she levelled her harpoon and drew back her arm. With a triumphant yell, she hurled the harpoon. It sank into the Whale's glistening skin just behind its head. The animal thrashed with the sudden pain, and sounded with a great gout of water tinged with blood. Once again its flukes slapped the water, and this time the effect was disastrous. A huge wave swamped the canoes, overturning them and tipping the hunters into the foaming water. Miles found himself in the water, tangled in coils of rope, battered by sealskin floats.

Paula was floating nearby, blood trickling from a rope burn across her shoulders. Unable to free himself from the tangle of ropes and floats, Miles swam laboriously across to his daughter. Just as he reached her, the Whale surged upwards again and Miles was caught by the wave. He could only watch helplessly as Paula was hurled headfirst into the canoe floating nearby. There was a sickening crunch, and he lost sight of her in the swell.

He tried to yell instructions, but water smashed into his face, filling his mouth and nose, suffocating and blinding him.

Then the rope tightened around his body, and he felt something pulling him beneath the surface.

The Whale.

He was caught on the harpoon rope.

Water rushed past his face, growing swiftly darker and colder as he was pulled down. He tugged uselessly at the ropes, but could not free himself. His knife was gone, swept away in the confusion. His chest burned savagely as the ropes bit into his skin. There was a sudden sharp pain in his ears. He opened his mouth to scream his anger and pain, and the water rushed in, eager to silence him. His limbs became heavier, until the effort needed to move them was simply too much. It grew cold and dark as a winter night, and there was no Beruna to hold him, and no daughter to comfort him, only the rope's cruel embrace, and the Whale's anger.

His last sensation was of pressure waves rippling against his body.

The Whale was...

...screaming as he lurched from his bed, his hands groping for his throat, his chest heaving convulsively as he fought for air. He fell to the floor, tangled in a single sheet, thrashing in panic. The Whale! Okawi! His wife was... She was...

Miles became quite still.

His ancestral village and its myths were three hundred years in the past, and the clear, blue waters of the bay were a sludge of industrial effluent through which thrashed the occasional blinded seabird. His unfaithful wife was nine years dead. Only Paula was left to him now.

His face fell and he began to sob as he came fully awake and remembered that even that was no longer true.

Bernice scrambled madly through the twisted wreckage as a.n.u.shkia Smyslov lost herself in the chaos, shouting orders. Tears were driven from her eyes by the smoke. She pushed past Julie Ndobe, grabbing a medkit from the woman's hands, and running further into the smoke, only to fetch up hard against a metal barrier.

'No!' Uselessly, she hammered on the pressure door. 'Somebody help me get the door open!'

A hand fell on her shoulder. Bernice spun, grabbing for the body at the end of the arm, not caring who it was. 'You've got to help me! We can get him out. He has a respiratory bypa.s.s system, we can '

'Bernice, it's too late.' Teal Green grabbed her shoulders and shook her hard. 'He's gone. Gone.'

Bernice gazed stupidly at the engineer. 'Bulls.h.i.t! He's alive alive!'

'No.'

'Christ. Oh, Christ.' Bernice pulled away from Teal. 'I've got to get this sorted out.'

'Where are you going?'

'Bishop had the whole place monitored. I'm going to find out how this happened and who's responsible.'

Bernice rushed off into the smoke. Teal moved worriedly after her.

Piper O'Rourke stepped out of the murk behind them, wearing a concerned expression. She turned on her heel and vanished into the murk.

Bishop tried to block the sound of the explosion from his ears, but couldn't. He tried to imagine what the inside of the Conference Room would look like now, and found he all too easily could.

He sighed, and reached for his tea.

It had all been so simple until now.

As a child he had lain in bed long into the night, plotting his escape from an alcoholic father and a mother who managed not to see the bruises and the tears. He studied in every spare moment he could find, not because he wanted to but because, in the absence of parents who would pay, he needed to win a scholarship even to get to school. He got it. And he fought every moment of his time at school to keep it. With no family money or family privilege to protect him, he was easy meat, so he learned how to protect himself. He learned how to talk his way out of trouble and, when that didn't work, how to cripple an opponent in the shortest possible time. He went from school to college, and he graduated top of his cla.s.s. A still, small voice inside him murmured 'this is all too easy', but offers flooded in from the combines, the multinationals, the companies who had profited from the rape of the Earth, and who were now taking their ecological molestation into s.p.a.ce. He had got himself noticed. But something inside him, some long*ago echo of a boy beaten into insensibility if he cried, said, no, money isn't everything, satisfaction isn't everything, what about justice?

It was a small man in long, black robes who turned Bishop's life around. He had engaged Bishop in conversation on the travel belts one day, displaying an uncanny knowledge not only of Bishop's life, but also of his innermost thoughts. Bishop had known what was happening: the Guild of Adjudicators was famed and feared in equal measure amongst the Earth colonies. Unconstrained by authority, independent of financial influence, they dispensed their own uncompromising brand of justice across the galaxy. Their indirect recruiting methods were legendary.

Bishop didn't take much persuading.

After five years intensive training on the secluded world of Ponten VI a curious mixture of legal precedent and target practice Bishop was allowed out in the field as squire to a more experienced Adjudicator. He found that he enjoyed the work. More than that, he was good at it. He moved up through the system rapidly enough to make his mark without looking flashy. Perhaps, on every promotion, a little voice inside his head muttered, 'Who are you kidding? You can't possibly do this job,' but his cases were always brought to a conclusion in the minimum time and, more importantly, with the minimum expense. He was dedicated. His social life didn't suffer, because he didn't have a social life. Sometimes, in the long reaches of the night, the philosophical difference between what was right and what was just bothered him, but a cup of tea and a good night's sleep usually solved that problem.

He never thought about his family.

Eventually, more as a matter of course than as a reward, he was made an Adjudicator; judge, jury and executioner, all rolled into one. He deserved it, there was no doubt about that, but still something inside him whispered, 'You're heading for a fall.'

From the messy consequences of the Kroagnon affair to the vraxoin raids off Azure, from the Macra case to the Vega debacle, Bishop's record was immaculate. Not one failure, not one incorrect prosecution, not a hint of doubt anywhere.

Until now.

Bishop listened to the rolling echoes of the explosion which had destroyed the Conference Room die away deep within the base. He reached for his tea.

'I made a fresh pot,' said a soft voice at his elbow.

'You, Doctor, might very well have destroyed my career.'