DOCTOR WHO.

THE TWIN DILEMMA.

by ERIC SAWARD.

1.

HOME TIME.

The house stood on Lydall Street. It was part of a beautifully preserved Georgian terrace, its graceful facade as pleasing today as when it was first built in 1810, some five hundred years earlier. In fact, Lydall Street was the only Georgian terrace left standing in the metropolis. It was also the only street with houses built of brick. To the people who lived in the flameproof, plastic buildings of the city, Lydall Street had enormous charm, an incredible sense of history and a tactile quality missing from their own mirror-smooth, vinyl environment.

The reality of living there was, of course, quite different. The houses were draughty, uncomfortable and cost a fortune to maintain. Although it was an honour to be allowed to occupy such a dwelling, it was also vital that you were rich. Some people said it was better if you were mad. The truth was, of course, it was better if you were both.

The family who occupied number twenty-five possessed the above qualifications in great abundance. But they also possessed a much greater and more precious gift - genius. The Sylvest family, for it was they who occupied number twenty-five, were all gifted mathematicians.

Professor Archie Sylvest was a tall man with a grey, matted thatch of hair that wouldn't lie neatly however much it was combed. His face was florid and his waist thick from drinking too much Voxnic (a delicious alcoholic beverage made from fermented vision seeds). As it was again chic to be fat, and, as Voxnic was this season's most fashionable drink, Archie was able to pat his paunch with considerable pride as he ordered yet another round.

In fact, Archie should have been totally happy. His wife, Nimo, was a stimulating companion. He loved his work at the University.

Wallowed in the company of his students. Revelled in the respect shown by his fellow lecturers. Loved drinking too much Voxnic with computer programmer Vestal Smith, a person of deep warmth, deep personal understanding and even deeper blue eyes.

In fact, Archie would have been totally happy if it hadn't been for one thing: he was frightened to go home.

For there were his twin sons.

Romulus and Remus Sylvest were twelve year old identical twins.

Such was their precise mirror image of each other, even their parents were occasionally confused. This gave the twins enormous pleasure and they would go out of their way to create even further embarra.s.sment. The trouble was, they didn't know when to stop and they would go on and on and on. Their insistence verged on the psychotic. For a while Archie and Nimo wondered what the blending of their genes had created, but slowly, painfully, the truth emerged - the twins, like themselves, were gifted mathematicians.

Unfortunately the genetic mix that had provided the twins with their talent did not cover other areas of their intellectual development. In many ways they were dumb. And when it came to emotional maturation, it had required several psychologists and a battery of complex tests to establish the evidence that there had been any. The truth was that their genius had done little to enhance them as human beings. Instead their gift sat on them like some congenital malformation, distorting the shape and symmetry of their personality. But unlike a club foot or a hunchback, which could be surgically corrected, their disfigurement had proved incurable. They would forever remain immature mischief-makers with the mathematical ability to destroy the universe.

Archie knew this and it terrified him. Nimo knew it too, and, like her husband, she had turned her back on the problem hoping it would go away. Archie coped by trying to swamp his responsibility in a sea of Voxnic in the company of computer programmer Vestal Smith. Nimo consumed her time a little more productively in the acc.u.mulation of academic degrees. But even she was beginning to wonder whether embarking on a fifth Ph.D was really a worthwhile way for a grown-up person to spend their time.

The house was quiet. Archie stared at the reflection of his tired face in the bathroom mirror and wondered whether there were any poisons that would defy the pathologist's skill. He found it therapeutic, while combing his hair, to plan the demise of his children. When Archie had first mentioned his macabre preoccupation to his psychiatrist, he had expected cries of outrage and despair, along with a prescription to raise his dose of Mestobam to five hundred milligrams per hour. But instead, the a.n.a.lyst had sighed, switched on an ancient recording of a Bartok string quartet, lit a cigarette and said, somewhat bored, 'Infanticide is a very common fantasy amongst the intelligentsia. In fact,' he continued, pausing only to fill his lungs with smoke, 'I only become worried when a patient doesn't harbour the desire to murder a close relation.'

Archie had felt horrified by this news. The thought that most of his friends and colleagues stalked the metropolis with murder in their hearts was one thing, but the revelation that his fantasy was ordinary induced a mental relapse requiring many months of deep and intensive a.n.a.lysis. It wasn't until a full year later that Archie felt able to return to the thoughts of murdering his children. This had been prompted by remarks his psychiatrist had made one dank winter morning, when Archie was feeling smugly at peace with the world.

'You know, Sylvest, your psyche has become lopsided,' the doctor had said, reaching for yet another of his specially made cigarettes.

'Your problem is that you lack feelings of guilt, anguish, turmoil.'

He paused for a moment and blew a smoke ring. Archie watched, impressed by the psychiatrist's skill.

'You are too calm. Someone of your intellectual ability requires a damper, a neurosis, to complement the creative side of their personality.'

Archie had looked puzzled. He had spent a fortune having himself straightened out. Now the man who had helped him achieve his cheerful, contented disposition, was telling him he was too happy.

What does the fool mean! Archie pondered, undecided whether to sue the doctor for malpractice, or simply punch him on the nose.

But before he could make up his mind, the psychiatrist had said, 'Your life is too cosy. You are far too gifted to spend your days regurgitating tried and tested facts to your students. Too dynamic to waste your evenings in front of the viddy-screen.' The doctor leant forward and stared directly into Archie's eyes. 'You are a theoretical mathematician. It is time you went back to your proper work!'

Poor Archie gazed at the tiny, ruptured blood vessels in the corneas of his accuser's eyes and knew that what had just been said was true. His feeling of well-being was a lie. Original thought had become alien to him. He had grown lazy, undisciplined. Archie's face sagged as feelings of guilt began to course through him once more.

'Feeling guilty isn't enough!' The doctor's voice stabbed at him.

'You once told me you hated your children.' Archie nodded. 'Then do something about it! Negative neurosis eats at the very being of a person. Everyone hates their children, wife, mother or father for one reason or another. To want them dead is not enough. You must do something about it!'

The words echoed inside Archie's head as he wondered whether his a.n.a.lyst wasn't moonlighting for Murder Incorporated.

'Well...' said Archie, somewhat stiffly, 'you prescribe that I should kill my children?'

'No ...' The psychiatrist slouched back in his chair. 'I want you to think positively about killing them. Imagining them dead isn't enough. In your mind, you must work out a way of committing the perfect murder.'

'And then?'

'And then you will have power over your fantasy. When that occurs, you will be able to control it. Turn it to work positively for you. You understand?'

Archie didn't.

'I know that you love your children, but you are also jealous of them. That's why you want them dead. But if in your mind you can also kill them, then you will have turned a negative neurosis into a positive one. By seeing your fantasy for what it is, you will come to understand your jealousy.'

Archie thought for a moment. 'But should I find a way of committing the perfect murder, and then decide to carry it out, what will happen?'

The psychiatrist smiled. 'If your crime is perfect, then no-one will know. But should you have made a mistake, then you will go to prison for the rest of your natural life... And I will lose a very lucrative client.'

Archie involuntarily reached for one of the doctor's cigarettes, lit it, then coughed. Although he hadn't understood what the a.n.a.lyst had said, it would give him a great deal to think about.

'You may go now,' said the doctor dismissively. '1 will see you the same time on Thursday.'

In front of his bathroom mirror, Archie continued to idly comb his hair. The conversation with his psychiatrist had taken place some months earlier. He still didn't fully understand what had been said and neither had he worked out a way of committing the perfect murder. Although his guilt had returned with a vengeance, and he still hated the twins, he had at least started to work again, which gave him a certain satisfaction. All in all, life had become much as it was a year ago, except for one thing: he had developed a taste for specially made cigarettes.

As usual, Archie's hair remained impervious to the activity of the comb and he gave up. Instead he set to work on a large blackhead he had been cultivating. As his stubby fingers pummelled and ma.s.saged the blocked pore, his concentration was interrupted by the bang of the front door. Nimo had gone out without saying goodbye to the twins. Archie knew this would cause offence and now dreaded to say goodnight to them himself.

The offending pore liberated, Archie slipped on his best evening jacket and glanced at himself in the mirror. Pleased with what he saw, he then made his way along the hall towards the twins'

bedroom. Downstairs he could hear the gentle whirr of well-oiled machinery - the android babysitter had arrived. Archie smiled. He knew the twins hated androids. Androids had no sense of their own importance and therefore were impossible to embarra.s.s. It will drive them wild with frustration! he thought.

As he approached the twin's room, he slowed his pace. His nerve was going. So it was with some trepidation he tapped on their bedroom door. Not waiting for them to reply, he pushed it open and entered.

Poor Archie wasn't very good at pretending. The smile that covered his face would have caused a cat to laugh. His mouth was twisted and strained and the muscles in his cheeks twitched with the effort of keeping his lips apart. The smile itself resembled a terrible razor slash, his red lips the open wound, the white teeth standing in for the exposed bone. 'Hallo, boys,' he said, attempting to maintain the smile. This made him sound like some tenth rate ventriloquist, the fixed smile preventing him from moving his lips and forming his words properly.

Romulus looked up from the book he was reading and cast an indifferent look at his father. 'You've been squeezing your blackheads,' he said at last. Archie's expression collapsed, his confidence shattered. 'I hope you've washed your hands. I don't want you touching me with bacteria-covered fingers.'

Archie opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. I want to kill them! he screamed - but he only shouted this inside his head. I want to tear them limb from limb! But out loud he muttered 'I've come to say goodnight.'

Neither one of his sons replied. Romulus returning to his book and Remus continuing to rummage in a large wooden toy box.

Archie tried to cheer himself up by telling the twins about the android babysitter, but they remained impa.s.sive. He then enquired what sort of day they had had and the twins related in minute, boring detail each tedious event. Archie then attempted to counter bore by telling them about the publisher's party he was about to attend, but omitted to say that afterwards he was having dinner with computer programmer Vestal Smith - when the Voxnic would flow like water and he would receive lots of the deep understanding she was so good at.

But then the inevitable happened, the question Archie had dreaded.

It was made doubly unpleasant as it came in the middle of thinking about Vestal Smith.

'Where's Mother?'

Archie locked his fantasy away in a large box marked 'private' and turned towards his hateful son.

'Er... well, Remus,' he muttered. Archie hated using the twin's names in case he got them wrong. 'Well... to be honest... er ... she's busy.'

'Does that mean she isn't talking to us?' Remus's tone was as pompous and as arrogant as a tax official having just discovered a double entry. 'Or has she already gone out without saying goodbye?'

Archie reluctantly nodded. The twins retorted with a scowl, then said together 'Abandoned again!' This speaking as one person always unnerved Archie. He was aware that identical twins sometimes possessed an uncanny rapport with each other and were often able to antic.i.p.ate what the other was about to say, but Romulus and Remus were able to bring a rather unpleasant edge to the way they used this talent.

'You we forgive. Father... but not Mother.' Their dual intonation was like a terrible threat.

'I wish you would be kinder to your mother.' Archie was surprised at how stern he sounded. He then became afraid when the two advanced towards him. Standing shoulder to shoulder they stared up into his face, their own countenance hard and unyielding.

'Why?' they said together. 'Because mother happened to give birth to us, does that automatically grant her a place in our affections?'

Archie wasn't certain if the question was meant to be rhetorical or not, as they didn't give him time to answer.

'Respect must be earnt, Father. Mother is a fool! You know that!

Do you wish us to respect a fool. You've always said the contrary.'

A fool'.' A fool! How can they think she's a fool, he screamed inside his head. A woman who has four Ph.Ds and more degrees than any other person this side of Vebus Twelve! A fool!

Romulus and Remus continued to stare up at their father. Archie wondered if they could hear every ranting thought in his head.

Well, I hope you can! But out loud he said somewhat stiffly, 'Your mother is who she is whether you think her a fool or not. It's no excuse for poor manners and lack of concern.'

Archie braced himself for a savage riposte, but instead the twins turned away. 'As you wish, Father,' they said as one voice and then crossed to their computer terminals.

Archie was puzzled. Why the sudden change of mood'.' Cautiously he looked around the room expecting the worse sort of danger. The twins never gave up without a struggle. As a rule they would fight to the last shred and tatter of their argument.

Once more Archie's paranoia took flight. Perhaps they've put a bomb in my personal transporter. Reprogrammed the android babysitter. At this very moment it's making its way silently up the stairs, its micro-circuitry throbbing with one command: KILL

ARCHIE SYLVEST!.

'Goodnight, Father.' The tone was one of dismissal, not farewell.

Archie's racing mind jerked to a halt. 'Oh ...' he said, sounding awkward and embarra.s.sed as though he'd been asked a question to which he should have known the answer. 'Right... Goodnight, boys.' There was no reply.

Archie closed the twins' bedroom door behind him. His demeanour was that of a reprimanded schoolboy leaving a headmaster's study.

He was angry with himself. They always made him feel like a fool, yet he was every inch their equal. Had he not been called the finest mathematician since Albert Einstein? When only twenty years old, had he not published his thesis, 'Pure Mathematics and its Relationship with the Square Root of Minus Three.' (Archie was the first person to calculate the square root of minus three, until then, a feat considered impossible.) Not only had it astounded the mathematical world, but his book had become a best seller. He had proven his ability. I am a legend in the world of mathematics. I dominate my subject like a colossus.' What have those hateful children done'.

' Nothing.'

Dejectedly Archie shuffled along the hall and down the stairs.

Although he was a champion, a genius. Emperor of the Parellelogram, he knew it was simply a matter of time before he was replaced on the winner's pedestal by the twins. The consumption of all the Voxnic in the world couldn't change that.

The twins were too gifted for it not to happen. The trouble was Archie was too proud for it not to hurt. His psychiatrist was right: he was jealous of his own children.

The front door of twenty-five Lydall Street swung open and the portly frame of the greatest mathematician since Albert Einstein stepped out. The evening air was cold and Archie gave an involuntary shudder as it embraced him. As he turned to close the door, a gruff, hairy voice said, 'Are you Professor Archie Sylvest?'

Smiling, Archie turned to face his questioner. The owner of the voice was even more Neanderthal than expected. Archie stared blankly at the man and wondered who he could be.

Suddenly something powerful and hairy settled on Archie's arm.

At first glance, it resembled an enormous tropical spider, but on closer examination it turned out to be a muscular hand. The grip tightened on Archie's podgy limb, causing him to flinch. 'I'm Reginald Smith,' the voice grunted, 'Vestal Smith's husband!'

As ink travels on blotting paper, so did a look of horror slowly spread across the mathematician's face. At the same moment he seemed to lose control of his jaw and his mouth dropped open to reveal a set of excellent teeth. Unless Archie could immediately get his hand on a knuckle duster, a large club or the experience of a dozen karate lessons he would soon require the extensive service of an orthodontist. But such rescue only comes in fantasies and the grip, now hardening on his arm, reminded him of the impending reality.

From any point of view, it had not been Archie's day.

2.

THE MALADJUSTED TIME LORD.

Deep in s.p.a.ce, aboard the Doctor's TARDIS, things weren't an awful lot better. Regeneration had taken place, the event that is both a blessing and a scourge of the Time Lords of Gallifrey.

When a Time Lord is in danger of dying, his body grown too old to go on working properly, or, as one reported case has it, for reasons of vanity, a Time Lord is able to change his physical shape. This is brought about by a ma.s.sive release of a hormone called lindos, which, at lightening speed, is transported around the body causing it cells to reform and realign themselves. Although much work has been done by genetic engineers on Gallifrey, the process still remains a random and, in some cases, rather an erratic one.

Some Time Lords are able to proceed through their allotted twelve regenerations with enormous grace and dignity, growing older and more handsome with each change of shape. Others leap about to a startling degree, finishing one regeneration a wise and n.o.ble elder, only to start the next a youthful, boastful braggart. This, needless to say, can cause enormous emotional and psychological upset. A good example of this was Councillor Verne.