'What?'

'I was going through the post-action reports, and found this, from Reno.' He handed Mandell a datapad. Mandell scanned it.

'Theft,' Mandell murmured aloud. 'Intruders on the Rock...

alarms... street bounty placed by Cronan... Bounty?'

Mandell gritted his teeth, and maintained a straight face.

He really ought to cut down on his caffeine intake, he thought. 'Why is it that the path of my life must be littered with landmines as well as pet turds?' Whom the gods would destroy, he reflected, they first assigned employees from the local government end of the gene pool.

'Wei, people think it's easy being a diabolical mastermind,'

he grumbled. 'You see it in the newscasts every night: the self-opinionated moaning about corruption, just because they can't get any, and they're jealous of it...'

'Yes, Mandell lo lo.'

'Somebody should tell them that it also means you never get a good night's sleep, and your blood pressure gives your doctor nightmares.' He rubbed his eyes to try to get some life back into his head. 'All right... Pull Cronan in for debriefing.

And Wei, do not not let the police talk to him under any circumstances.' let the police talk to him under any circumstances.'

He sure as hell didn't want Kala finding out what he was doing as part of his job. Nobody on the Thor Facility knew about the vraxoin... but Mandell did. He had always assumed the knowledge would be useful should he ever need Cronan to do anything for him. The security work Kala would understand, but there were some associations he'd had to make which she would take exception to. He'd much rather kill Cronan than risk losing her, and that sort of revelation about him would hurt her so much... Mandell wasn't bothered about hurting people generally, but his wife and their unborn child were the sole exceptions. He wouldn't let anything hurt them.

'There's one other thing. The Doctor wants a meet. The old furniture factory in Methuselah Town at eight.'

Mandell blinked, but then shrugged. He'd expected something like this, and it wouldn't hurt to reaffirm his terms and conditions. 'All right, have my flier ready for me then.'

Jack was curious to meet this Mandell; he sounded like a right bastard, and Jack kind of liked that. Not much, but enough to take some satisfaction from besting him. They might even be kindred spirits; Jack had always had a thing for villainy. He always wanted to be a lovable scoundrel.

Failing that, he'd settle for being a rich one.

Liang, Glitz and Dibber were watching with Ensen rifles from a hidden spot, while Frobisher had concealed himself somewhere in the crew room. Nobody else knew where. By this time the Doctor had thought their fellow conspirators should be aware that Frobisher wasn't a full-time aquatic avian. Somehow, they hadn't been too surprised.

The Doctor had also told Glitz that he had been cured of the poison all along. Frobisher had been against that, while Glitz was armed, but the Doctor hadn't wanted to risk Niccolo unnerving Glitz further by referring to it if they should meet.

Monty sat in the ship's flight deck, ready to take off at a moment's notice. Only the Doctor, Jack and Chat would deal directly with Mandell. Jack wasn't sure why, but felt reasonably confident anyway.

A smooth black flier touched down outside the ship.

Mandell, Wei, and several immaculately dressed bodyguards emerged.

The trio met him at the airlock. 'I'd prefer to speak alone,'

the Doctor said.

Mandell canted his head. 'There are three of you. Wei and one guard should come in with me.'

The Doctor nodded, and led them inside. They all took seats In the comfortable crew room. 'Drink?' Chat offered, handing Mandell a glass. Mandell took it, and winced. The glass was chipped, and scored his hand. 'Dammit!'

'Sorry,' Chat apologised. 'This ship isn't exactly new...' She handed him another glass.

'Doesn't matter,' Mandell said dismissively. 'What did you want to see me for?'

'Firstly to pull the police back,' the Doctor told him. 'You seem to have a problem with the right hand not knowing what the left is doing.'

'I'll see what can be done, but you must understand that our part in this is strictly unofficial.'

Jack grinned sourly; he could guess what that meant.

'I also want to know how aware you were that certain members of your Thor Facility's staff are synthesising vraxoin.'

'None of us knew that,' Mandell answered, a little too quickly for Jack's liking. He was enough of a good liar to recognise the ability in others. This Niccolo Mandell was a smooth piece of work, and no mistake. 'The scientist in question is currently being hunted by both SID and the local police force. The stock of vraxoin has been destroyed, of course.'

The Doctor nodded slowly. 'As you say... Then I only have one last question: exactly where on Elchur do we take this cylinder once we have it? You'll excuse me if I'm too cynical to hand it to you.'

Mandell shook his head, smiling. 'Perfectly understandable.

We're setting up a meeting with the Veltrochni on Elchur near the old town. You can check that with them, if you have the means. If you prefer to hand the cylinder directly to their Ambassador, that's fine by me.'

'That is exactly what I intend to do,' the Doctor promised.

'That's all my concerns. We'll let you know when we're on our way.'

'The frequency on which to contact us is in the datapad.'

'Indeed. I wish I could say it's been a pleasure, but...'

'But it's been business,' Mandell said understandingly.

'Don't worry, I'm not offended.'

The Doctor showed the three SID men out.

Frobisher hadn't been impressed by Mandell's answers either. He shifted from being a floor panel back into penguin form, as the Doctor and the others came back in. Jack stuck his head through into the flight deck. 'Monty, get us out of here. Take us back to the Cafe Terrestriale. It should be safe once Mandell pulls the cops off our backs.'

'Just a minute.' The Doctor approached Frobisher.

'I want you to follow Mandell, and keep an eye on him. I think it'd be best if you did some of your shapeshifting jiggery-pokery.'

Shapeshifting could get tiring, and if there was an easier way to do something, Frobisher would rather be counted in to that. 'Aw, do I have to?'

'There aren't too many penguins on this planet, and we don't want to be conspicuous. Unless you have a nostalgic attraction to hanging around police stations.'

'Inconspicuous?' Frobisher eyed the Doctor's garb beadily.

He brightened. 'What if I wore a rubber glove on my head?

Nobody would recognise me.'

The Doctor paused in thought, but then shook his head.

'All the marigolds I've got are still in the TARDIS, and that's out of our reach. Shapeshifting it is. And, Frobisher, do try to think of something inconspicuous,' he implored.

Cronan got home understandably late. The cops had already been, leaving warning tape around his apartment door.

Cronan was glad for that small mercy - if they'd already been, he wouldn't have to worry about them showing up later.

Someone tutted from a chair in the midst of his wrecked living room. Clothes and belongings had been strewn everywhere by searchers, and Barrand was sitting in the middle of it all.

'You nearly gave me a coronary,' Cronan moaned. 'I thought you were a cop.'

'You may wish I was. Mr Zimmerman is not pleased that you got yourself caught. He doesn't like the idea that you might rat on us. He wants to talk to you.'

Losing made Cronan sulky and rebellious, like many people who never really grew up. 'Maybe I don't want to talk to him.'

Barrand produced a gun, aimed loosely but imperturbably at Cronan's torso. 'As I said, Mr Zimmerman wishes to speak with you.'

Cronan swallowed, both fearful and angry. He'd show them somehow, he was determined, but first he had to stay in one piece, and show respect. 'All right, all right, put him on.'

Barrand touched a control on his wristband, and held it out to Cronan. 'Take this.'

The gun suggested to Cronan that this was an order, not an offer. Reluctantly, he took the wristband, and the room immediately faded around him. Cronan nearly yelped, as he found himself suddenly alone. He couldn't feel the floor under his feet, and had no idea whether he was standing, lying or floating. He couldn't see either; there was neither brightness or darkness, just blindness.

Someone was with him, though; he could hear them moving around. 'Mr Cronan,' the cultured voice said icily. 'I am so glad you have deigned to join us.'

Cronan tried to turn to face the direction of the voice, but wasn't sure whether he actually moved or not. 'Who are you?'

'I am a business partner, Mr Cronan. One who does not like it when little men interfere with ongoing business.'

'Hey, I'm the one who was interfered with!'

'Yes, your stupidity did rather get in the way. I am talking about your bounty.'

'The bounty? What? On that bastard who -'

'Yes,' Zimmerman snapped. 'I have already invested a great deal in seeing to him. I will notify my people that you will also be paying them. If you interfere again, I will have you removed. From now on you will follow Barrand's instructions to collect the body.'

Frobisher adjusted the set of his tuxedo as he stepped from the cab, and paused to pay the driver. He had kept the penguin colour scheme, as it was something he was proud of; he wore it like a badge of office. This time, though, it was stretched out into a six-foot frame in a suit and tie, with , white shirt. He adopted a rather dashing clean-cut face, with blue-grey eyes under straight brows, and let some of his new trimmed hair fall in a little comma over his right eye. That seemed appropriate somehow.

A sardonic expression was placed neatly on his tanned face. Once the cab had disappeared into the night, Frobisher slipped quietly behind a parked flier, out of sight of the security cameras. There, he compressed himself into the shape of a small bat, and fluttered up the outside of the SID building, looking for Niccolo Mandell.

Mandell's office was on the top floor, naturally, and the windows were sealed so tightly that it was impossible to hear through them. This was frustrating, as Mandell was talking to someone over a communications link. Finding no way to squeeze through and eavesdrop, Frobisher transformed back into a bat for the trip to find the Doctor. He'd try the Cafe Terrestriale first.

Glitz had found the most comfortable seat in Jack's Cafe.

Actually, it was just one of many seats around the room that doubled as a club from the Victorian era of Ancient England, but it felt sufficiently comfortable to him. It even smelled of real leather. It had been a long day, and his feet hurt. It was never very easy being the sort of person who was alternately either sneaking around or on the run.

The others had all gone off on their allotted tasks, sent out to pick up bits and pieces that the Doctor wanted, while he had locked himself in the Nosferatu Nosferatu to plan something or other. Glitz wasn't so sure about that; a right bunch of schemers the Time Lords were, and usually nothing good came of it. to plan something or other. Glitz wasn't so sure about that; a right bunch of schemers the Time Lords were, and usually nothing good came of it.

He settled for wondering what Chat had meant by the remark that she worried about him. She obviously didn't think he was a screed like Dibber... The alternative seemed to so fantastical as to be impossible. Could it be that she was actually attracted to him? Half of Glitz was afraid to think that, lest it prove untrue and let him down. The other half was more open-minded. Stranger things had happened, he reminded himself. After all, had he not got notorious charm when it came to females of a certain age?

Chat wasn't of that age, though, and his charm for the rest of the gender was rather less notorious. He was supposed to chase them, not the other way around. He didn't even know how to be be an object of affection. an object of affection.

In low orbit, Sha'ol and Karthakh's gunship was still circling Vandor Prime. If anyone could have tracked it, they would have found that it was keeping pace with the Thor asteroid, but far further out in orbit.

Inside, Karthakh was sleeping in one of the two small cabins. The Doctor's TARDIS was in the other. Sha'ol sat in the helm alcove of the gunship, trusting the automatics to handle the current flight. Disengaged from immediate action, his thoughts could travel along well-worn paths.

He had heard tales from many cultures, of orphaned offspring raised in the wild by other creatures, as if they were members of that other species. The orphans were more fortunate than him, he thought. They would never know what they were missing from their lives. Sha'ol had no such blissful ignorance. His eyes could turn inward, recalling the memories of generations past as if they were his own.

On these long journeys, he could relive the lives and times of ancestors he had never met. He hadn't lived through those times in which the galaxy had changed, but remembered having done so. Though he doubted Karthakh realised it, Sha'ol had perfectly clear memories of the destruction of his people.

Vibrant energy slicing deeply into planetary crusts and triggering massive quakes and volcanic eruptions. Searing heat shaving off long slivers of terullian from the hulls of Stormblades. Damaged Tzun ships collapsing in upon themselves as their graviton generators went critical.