At first, nothing seemed to happen, then suddenly the twins'

expressions went quite blank as though their personalities had been drained from them. Edgeworth ordered the twins to show him their hands. This they did in a pa.s.sive, unquestioning way. He then asked them where they were, and as hard as they tried, they couldn't remember.

Edgeworth smiled. The drug had worked perfectly. The twins were without conscious memory. When he got them back to the freighter, he would loosen the drug's control, but until then, it was safer that they remained zombie-like.

Edgeworth pulled back the sleeve of his smock and exposed a bracelet. He fiddled with it for a second then ordered the twins to grip his hands. This they did, and a second later the trio dematerialised, leaving a fine powdery deposit on the bedroom floor.

Outside, the ginger torn stood guard over his territory. He knew what had happened. He had sensed the freighter pull out of orbit and set a course for one of the bleakest areas in the universe. He knew all this, but would tell no-one.

The front door of twenty-five Lydall Street was closed with a loud slam. Standing in the hall was Professor Archie Sylvest. He was very drunk. The Voxnic had flowed like a cascading waterfall, but it had not been in the company of computer programmer Vestal Smith. It had been with a less satisfying companion - her husband.

In an attempt to placate him, Archie had persuaded Mr Smith to accompany him to his favourite Voxnic bar and discuss the reasons why he desired so much deep understanding from his wife. It had required what seemed like a lake of Voxnic to convince him that his relationship was platonic, innocent and perfectly reasonable.

Archie had no idea whether Mr Smith had believed him, but with the additional comfort of a hundred thousand dollar World Federation currency note, the Neanderthal husband of Vestal Smith had seemed happy to stagger off into the night, his dignity and pride supposedly restored.

Archie lurched along the top landing towards his hateful children's bedroom. It made him feel better when he realised that Nimo had yet to return home. At least she wouldn't see him drunk again or be able to ask him why he looked so pale and why the sleeve of his coat was torn.

Swaying slightly, Archie stood before the door of the twin's room.

He wasn't certain whether he should go in as he was far from well enough to cope with their antics.

It was at that moment he noticed the smell.

Cautiously he pushed open the bedroom door. He'd been right. He had smelt zanium. Archie entered the room and called for his children. There was no reply. He then checked their beds - they were empty and unslept in.

Archie began to panic. He bent down and, like an Indian tracker, picked up a little zanium on the tips of his fingers and sniffed it.

Any doubt as to what had happened faded from his mind. Zanium was caused by only one thing: the function of a matter transporter.

When a solid body dematerialises, tiny trace elements in the atmosphere called nistron carbonise and fall like very fine, grey snow.

The Voxnic-fuddled mind of Archie began to clear. How had the intruders got in? he thought. The house was protected.

Archie staggered out of the bedroom and half-fell, half-stumbled down the stairs and into the sitting room. Standing like some ornament in a sc.r.a.p yard was the babysitter android - it had been deactivated, something the manufacturers had maintained was impossible.

He then staggered along to the cellar. As with the android, the house protection unit had also been deactivated.

Sylvest sat on the steps of the cellar. In Archie's mind there was no doubt that the twins had been kidnapped. And such was the planning, effort and technology required, he was also convinced it was the work of an alien force. He would have to inform the authorities. Whereas the emotional ties with his hateful children were fragile, there were other considerations to bear in mind. He might not mourne their death, but he might live to regret their work on some scheme inspired by evil for he was convinced they had been kidnapped to this end.

Slowly he shuffled to the nearest transmitter unit. A moment later he was talking to the head of the Intergalactic Task Force.

In the console room aboard the TARDIS, things were again quiet.

The Doctor stared at a dial on the control board in front of him. He wasn't certain why he was doing this, as he was none too certain what the dial was telling him. The one thing that was clear to him was that something unpleasant had occurred. The look of hate and mistrust on Peri's face told the whole universe that simple fact.

The Time Lord smiled weakly at his companion. He was desperate for a response, some crumb of information that might help him remember what had occurred. For all that was in his mind was a void, a black impenetrable void. So the Doctor did the obvious thing: he asked.

Peri's response was like a dam bursting. At first he couldn't believe what he was being told, but the pa.s.sion, feeling and fear of the telling soon changed his mind.

The words continued to pour from Peri's mouth until the Doctor could stand it no longer. But it was too late. He could no longer hide behind his ignorance. The black, protective void that had shielded his mind had been ripped away, like a band aid covering a particularly nasty sore. He now remembered everything and he hated himself for it.

The Doctor clamped his hands to the side of his head and screamed and screamed and screamed. Peri thought the Doctor was having another fit and picked up the mirror in case he again became violent. But instead he turned on the console and started to set switches, twist k.n.o.bs and pull levers. A new fear entered Peri's head. She wondered if the Doctor still knew how to operate the time-machine. Worse still, she remembered that the Doctor had once said the TARDIS had a self-destruct device and feared he might operate it by mistake.

'Please be careful.'

'Careful? Careful! I tried to kill you! I am a living peril!' Each sentence built in volume until he was shouting, his voice thick with emotion. 'I do not know how to ask your forgiveness,' he wailed.

'You're forgiven, Doc. Just don't destroy the TARDIS by mistake.'

The Doctor was no longer listening. Once more he was at work, this time making fine adjustments to the coordinates he had set.

'The universe is at risk with me in this state,' he muttered. 'I must cleanse my mind ...' He paused dramatically, like a Victorian actor.

Peri braced herself, ready for anything. 'Self-abnegation,' was the cry from the Doctor. He looked around, as though waiting for a burst of applause from the stalls. 'Self-abnegation in some h.e.l.lish wilderness!' Each word rolled and thundered around the console room. 'Ten days - ten years - a thousand! Of what account is time to me?'

Poor Peri gave up. She couldn't keep pace with the Doctor's changing mood. She now wished he had killed her. At least that would have been quick. 'A thousand years?' she enquired. 'Aren't you forgetting? I'm from Earth. Our allotted span is about seventy years, and I've already had twenty of them.'

The Doctor looked haughtily at his companion. 'I was speaking figuratively. It shouldn't come to that.'

'Look, Doc, I really do forgive you. I now understand what you're going through. You're not in control of yourself. All you need is rest. A short holiday.'

'I need a hermitage.' He hadn't heard a word Peri had said. 'Some utterly comfortless place where we can suffer together.'

'Hang on.' For Peri this wasn't good news. 'Why should / be made to suffer. It was you who tried to kill me. I am the innocent party here.'

'Who in this life is ever purely innocent?' The Victorian actor had gone. In his place was an old Testament prophet, determined to see no-one have a good time. The Doctor's voice had also dropped a full octave for this role. If it hadn't been so frightening, Peri would have found it all rather impressive.

'You have been chosen,' the Doctor boomed, jabbing a rigid index finger at Peri, 'to minister to my needs... They will be very simple... But nothing must be allowed to interfere with my period of contemplation.'

'This isn't fair!' Peri was now on the verge of tears. 'And who is supposed to have appointed me your servant?'

'Providence!'

'Look, Doctor, you're in a crazy state of mind. If you want to go anywhere, go to your home planet. They can help you there.' Then even more desperately she added, 'I don't think you realise how mentally unstuck you've become.'

'I have already spoken!'

Then if you want somewhere really desolate, I suggest you try the Bronx or downtown New York.

Because while you're enjoying a thousand years of desolation, at least I'll be able to get a train home!'

The Doctor didn't hear the sarcasm. Already he seemed to have entered a trance-like state. 'I have decided on my place of hermitage,' he mutterd. 'It is in the far corner of the Baxus Major galaxy.'

As he spoke he struck the main control on the console and the TARDIS started to lurch and judder towards its destination.

Such was the unexpected movement, Peri was thrown to the floor.

'Why are you doing this?' she screamed. 'Where are you taking me?' The Doctor gazed down at the prostrate Earth woman, indifferent to her confusion and anguish.

'We, my child, are going to t.i.tan Three... That is where I shall repent... In the most desolate place in the universe.'

Peri buried her head in her hands and silently wept. She could only hope the Doctor would have a period of rationality. When he did, she would demand to be taken back to Earth. As far as she was concerned, he could travel the universe alone pretending to be whoever or whatever he wanted. But she no longer wanted to stay and be his terrified audience.

But until the Doctor did take a turn for the better, all she could do was wait... And it was the waiting that terrified Peri most of all.

4.

MESTOR THE MAGNIFICENT.

A shabby bulk carrier ploughed its way slowly through the empty wastes of s.p.a.ce. At first sight there seemed nothing special about the ship. Perhaps it was a little shabbier than the majority of commercial freighters which travelled the s.p.a.ce lanes to Baxus Major. It was possible, if you were familiar with the XV cla.s.s of balk carriers, that you might have queried an irregular line of holes along one side of its hull. But then, on the other hand, you might have dismissed it as meteorite damage. After all, the freighter did look very neglected, as though no-one really cared.

And that was what you were supposed to think. For the reality was that balk carrier XV 773 was a highly efficient battle cruiser.

Seated on the bridge of the ship was Professor Edgeworth. He now looked tired and drawn, his Father Christmas joviality gone. For a moment he sat watching the flickering lights of the flight computer. Even as a child, Edgeworth had found comfort in watching flashing lights. At times he wished he were a child again.

Professor Bernard Edgeworth didn't really exist as a person. The name was real as was the man who used it, but the person who used it also told lies. Edgeworth's real name was Azmael, and, like the Doctor, was a renegade Time Lord who had tired of life on Gallifrey and decided to make his fortune elsewhere. But unlike the Doctor, the High Council had not so readily accepted Azmael's departure. He was far too knowledgeable and important to be allowed to wander freely about the universe. Too many enemies were waiting to steal his skill, experience and knowledge.

So the High Council had decided to kill him. That was their first mistake.

Of course, they had the order of execution dressed up. In his absence he had been found guilty of all sorts of invented crimes, the evidence against him being about as credible as the integrity of the paid witnesses who presented it.

So, for the first and last time in the history of Gallifrey an execution squad had been despatched. It hadn't proved difficult to find Azmael as he wasn't really hiding. He just wanted to be left in peace. But the second mistake the High Council had made was the choice of a.s.sa.s.sins - Seedle warriors.

There is no such thing as a pleasant Seedle warrior. They are all brutal psychopaths who take enormous pleasure in killing.

Azmael's execution squad was no exception. Arriving on Vitrol Minor, where Azmael was living, the so-called warriors set about eliminating the populace, justifying the genocide as the elimination of witnesses to the destruction of a Time Lord. For the warriors, it was like being on holiday. They had three days of glorious, blood-drenched fun. It wasn't until the fourth day that they noticed their real quarry had escaped.

Azmael immediately returned to Gallifrey and started proceedings to indict the Lord President and High Council. Being professional politicians, they believed they could survive any accusation made by him, but they had too easily forgotten the atrocity committed.

On Gallifrey there is only one inviolate law - Time Lords are forbidden to directly interfere with life forms on other planets.

With the entire population of Vitrol Minor slaughtered, the High Council would require ma.s.sive bribes to buy their innocence.

But buy it they did.

Slowly evidence came to light showing that Azmael had himself employed the Seedle warriors to destroy the populace of Vitrol Minor. His motive was supposedly to gain the mineral rights of the planet. The fact there wasn't a useful gram of any known mineral to be found on the planet seemed to disturb no-one.

Except Azmael, of course.

He was very angry. He knew the High Council would wriggle out of the charges. In fact, he was so angry they could escape judgement that he took a laser rifle and gunned them down in their own council chamber.

It saddened Azmael that he had been forced to adopt the ultimate sanction, but at the end of the day it is sometimes the only method to deal with corrupt politicians.

To some people this is known as revolution. To others it must always remain murder. Poor Azmael was so disgusted with what he had been forced to do that he publicly declared himself an outcast and departed from Gallifrey.

The new High Council, who were just as cynical as the old one, but less corrupt, declared Azmael a hero. After all he had done them a favour. They had been waiting many regenerations for their chance of power. He had made it possible. But the first act of the new council was to set up a committee to learn how Azmael had so easily entered the Council Chamber with a laser rifle. Although they had approved of his magnificent cleansing of a corruption, they weren't over-keen that he, or any other fanatic, should succeed so easily again.

After many years of travel, Azmael arrived at a planet called Jaconda. To him it was the most beautiful place he had ever seen.

It was green and its handsome birdlike inhabitants enjoyed an easy carefree way of life which he readily adopted. Likewise, the Jacondans accepted him and soon he was their elected President.

But the fairy tale didn't last.

Lurking in the history of Jaconda was a legendary race of gastropods known as Sectoms. These were not the small, aggravating creatures of the domestic garden, but slugs the size of men who were capable of devouring forests, destroying meadows and reducing to desert once fertile land. Not only did they support a ma.s.sive appet.i.te, but also a brain and cunning equal to any intelligence in the universe.

Where these creatures had come from was a mystery. Why they had come to Jaconda and conquered the planet, only to disappear again, was another conundrum. As the legends and myths grew about the Sectoms, people began to wonder whether they had ever existed.

That was a mistake ...

One night, not long after Azmael had become President, a terrible thunder storm had occurred. The rain had poured down destroying the harvest, while the lightning, much like a Seedle warrior, had attacked anything that took its fancy.

Deep in an ancient forest, a huge beautiful mustock tree had become one of its victims. In life, the tree had been positioned precariously on the edge of a steep bank and its sudden, violent demise had sent it crashing down the slope in such a way that its thick, stubby branches had ripped open the surface of the ground to reveal hundreds of round leathery objects.

The rain had continued to batter the scarred soil, at the same time washing, caressing, cleansing the rubber shapes. When the rain stopped, the Jacondan sun took over and gently warmed the spheres. A few days later, strange noises could be heard from within the sh.e.l.ls. The objects were eggs. And they were about to hatch!

It was some months before Jaconda knew of its fate. One morning it awoke to find an army of gastropods led by a hideous shape calling himself Mestor the Magnificent. Jacondan weapons had proved ineffectual against their slimy targets, so to save life Azmael had ordered his adopted people to surrender.

As though making up for the thousands of years the eggs had lain unnourished in the ground, the gastropods had embarked on a feast so gargantuan that it all but destroyed most of the planet's vegetation. What had been a beautiful, living, green paradise was reduced to a scorched lifeless rock. It was now a matter of time before everyone, including the gastropods, died of starvation!

Azmael turned away from the computer lights - they no longer pleased him. Neither did the fact that he was the slave of Mestor.

The expediency of bowing to his will was one thing, but the thought of spending the rest of his days satisfying the needs of a psychotic wind-bag was more than he could bear.