'And I said "never" did I?'

Fitz shrugged.

'Because,' the Doctor said, his mouth twitching as if he were trying not to smile at his own cleverness, 'that's absolutely right. Once something is scratched on to the tablets of history, you can never change it.' He leaned forward again. 'Usually,' he added. Before Fitz could react, he went on: 'I wanted to ask you a favour, actually.'

'Oh?'

'Mmm. It may not make a lot of sense, but it is important.' All hint of a smile was gone now. 'Very important.'

'Oh,' said Fitz. 'Right.' He flashed his best, devil*may*care grin. 'Got to save the universe again, have we? Well, I'm up for it.'

46: Time*Lag

The man's face was old, but his eyes were young. He was dressed in an anonymous charcoal*grey suit as he watched through the one*way plexigla.s.s screen. In the room beyond, one of the nurses approached Subject Alpha.

'Being a CIA mission, they were brought here,' the agent in charge of the facility said. His name was Anstruther. The man he was speaking to, the man in the suit, had no name. 'The plane they were flying doesn't exist.' Special Agent Anstruther sounded almost apologetic. 'The crew have never been anywhere near Chinese airs.p.a.ce. Certainly they never filed a flight plan over Siberia. Probably they have never met. I doubt they're even US citizens.'

The old man gestured at Anstruther to be quiet. 'I get the picture,' he murmured, intent on the scene behind the gla.s.s. 'And just to complete the sequence, I was never here. Got that?'

'Got it, sir.'

The room they were watching was secure airtight; screened; bio*level five secure. The nurse's voice was filtered through a speaker as she addressed Subject Alpha.

'I'm going to ask you some questions, if that's all right, Jenkins.

The old man's face was impa.s.sive as rock as he watched. And waited.

'Nine seconds. On average, sir,' Anstruther said quietly. There was no indication the man had heard him.

'Not again,' Jenkins said at last. 'Why all the questions? It was routine, I tell you. Nothing out of the ordinary, except a bit of low*level flying to avoid the Russian radar.' He turned towards the gla.s.s and stared at the two men watching. 'What the h.e.l.l's the problem here?'

'He can't see you,' Anstruther a.s.sured the older man.

There was the hint of a smile on the man's lips as he turned slightly his head, but not his eyes. They remained fixed on Jenkins. 'Of course he can't. I'm not here. Remember.'

'It's a standard test,' the nurse was saying. She sounded sympathetic. 'I'm sure we won't have to keep you and your crew here for much longer.' She did not pause for an answer. 'What is your name and rank?'

Jenkins was still staring at the gla.s.s. He made no move to answer gave no indication that he had heard. Two statues considering each other. Then, abruptly: 'Jenkins, Captain Andrew Jenkins. US Air Force, a.s.signed to Special Operations, Westing Base, Louisiana. You want my serial number, ma'am?' He paused, still stiffened to attention. 'Again?'

The old man nodded slowly. 'Nine point three.'

'Sir?'

'Seconds. Between her finishing the question and his starting to answer.'

Anstruther sighed. 'Nine point two on his last reaction test. Give him a couple of tenths for normal reaction.'

'And his crew?'

'All within a couple of points.'

Captain Jenkins was sitting now on the metal*frame bed at the side of the room. He had one leg crossed over the other so that it did not reach the floor. The nurse chopped him gently on the knee joint with the edge of her hand.

And nothing happened.

'Maybe he's faking it,' Anstruther said. 'h.e.l.l, maybe they're all faking it. Though G.o.d knows how.'

Jenkins's leg swung forwards. 'My reactions OK?' he asked with a smile. 'They're usually pretty good.'

The nurse was facing the screen, walking away from him. Her tone was light, amused. Her face was set. 'They're pretty good,' she agreed.

'I want to see him,' the old man said. 'Now.'

'Sir.'

'And the flight data. Radar trace from the AWACS, message tapes and log. Everything.'

Less than a minute later, the old man stood in front of Captain Jenkins in the secure room.

'Anstruther here says you're faking it.'

They waited nine seconds for the bemused answer. 'Faking what, sir?'

His old face wrinkled as he smiled. He did not answer. Instead he swung his arm back, then punched Jenkins violently in the face.

Jenkins stood absolutely still. Motionless. Frozen in time. Then suddenly he blinked and reached up, as if to try to block the blow that had already struck him. A split*second later, Captain Andrew Jenkins staggered backwards, clutching his face. A spume of blood erupted from his nose and he cried out in anger, surprise and pain.

'He's not faking it,' Control said. 'Get me that data now.' He turned on his heel before Jenkins could get to his feet. 'And I want to see the clock from the spy*plane. I want to know if that's lost nine point two seconds as well.'

'Anything else, sir?' Ansttuther asked as soon as they were outside the room. He was still shaken.

'Yes. I want to know where the time went.'

45: Pages Torn from Memory

It looked like an alien world. The brilliant white limestone of the circular building that stood in the centre of the paved courtyard; the curving gla.s.s roof over his head, connecting the smaller building to the main structure. Only the writing engraved into the curve of white stone gave away the actual location. It was in English.

The redesign of the Great Courtyard was somehow completely in keeping with the august building that surrounded it. Unexpected, but 'right'. The Doctor stood and looked at it in appreciation. It was closer to what he would expect to find on another world rather than in the British Museum.

He spent a moment glancing through the doors of the Reading Room, to check that although the outside had changed, and despite the British Library moving to a new building, it was still as he remembered it. It was. He could see the desk where he had sat for so many hours over the long years. Somewhere in his pocket was his card...

But he had other, more pressing matters today. So he turned, shrugged off his memories, and started across the courtyard.

There was always so much to see. Always something new to catch the eye. He smiled at happy people with cameras; nodded sagely at serious people with notebooks; wondered how many times he had trodden the same path before as he paused to examine jewellery from pre*revolutionary France. He tried to catch himself out, to take a different route every time.

He must have seen everything before, every exhibit. But, the Doctor reminded himself, context is everything. So if he saw the same things in a different order, they would present a different story.

The clocks were his favourite. There was a cl.u.s.ter of them; a small exhibition area where they ticked and tocked away to themselves, marking off eternity, oblivious to the damage they were doing to the cell structure of the people who looked at them, to the fabric of the building they were in. To themselves even, as with each incremental second they inched inexorably towards their own deaths.

One of the clocks was a ship. A sailing ship, all silver and gold. There was rigging, a figurehead, polished wooden decking, and of course a clock face. How long had it taken some craftsman to make that, he wondered. Some talented craftsman had laboured over it for years. Spending so much of his time making a clock there was irony for you. The Doctor smiled thinly as he realised what he was thinking. At least the craftsman had achieved something, a little of him lived on in his creation. And here he was, criticising the poor man as he watched the seconds pa.s.s him by. Just watching, observing, uninvolved. Far better to be out there, doing something, achieving... anything.

He clicked his tongue in time with the delicate second hand, and continued on his way.

The exhibition was in the Russian section. There were tea urns, and agricultural implements. All manner of pre*revolutionary Russian artefacts. Even a section of a railway carriage. He ignored them all, he was close now so close. Brushing past a board that gave terse notes about the Narodniki, he saw the display cabinet he was after, pushed up against a wall. Almost as if they were embarra.s.sed by it, had tried to hide it away.

A small sign above the cabinet gave brief notes: The British expedition to Siberia led by Hanson Galloway, 1894The Hanson Galloway expedition was seeking fossils and evidence of prehistoric life.These are the only pages known to survive from a journal kept by one of the exhibition team. They were found in the Siberian tundra area near Vaslovski. These are the only trace of the expedition ever discovered.

For a moment, as he stood staring at the yellowed, cracked pages beneath the gla.s.s, the Doctor was standing in a small bookshop off the Charing Cross Road. It was 1938 again, and he was staring at the yellowed, cracked pages of a leather*bound notebook. He could see himself, comparing the handwriting with that on the note he still kept in his pocket.

But this time he had no need to compare the two. He knew the writing did not match. Not even close. He also knew that Fitz had not written him the note, though he had no idea who had... But, staring again at the spidery, hurried pencil writing on the pages in the cabinet, he knew that Fitz had written these. His journal. The only trace...

Only the Doctor's eyes moved, flicking quickly over what could be read of the torn, stained pages.

'...no trace. All we found was a pebble, or stone. It was black, about the size of a golf ball. Weird, I know, but...'

There were parts ripped away, sections that were illegible, whole paragraphs where the pencil marks were smudged and blurred.

'...Since that first murder, we are none of us sleeping so well...'

All of what was readable was committed to memory. Odd phrases caught his attention for a moment, then his eyes moved on.

'...round black stone? Except it was fixed down. Part of the building, maybe? Or perhaps it was just incredibly heavy...'

He could hear the words in his mind, could imagine Fitz saying them, could see his be*stubbled, grinning face.

'...most terrifying things I have ever...'

'You going to the auction, then?'

Jolted out of his reverie, the Doctor turned. 'I beg your pardon?'

'The auction. You going?' His accent was American, and he was a big man. He stood taller than the Doctor and much broader. His face was lined but his smile was young and genuine. There was an edge of grey to his hair. 'I'm so sorry.' The man thrust his hand out and grabbed the Doctor's, pumping it up and down vigorously. 'Lionel Correll. That's like "corral" but with less "ah".'

The Doctor found he was grinning too. 'I see.'

'And you are?'

'Oh, I'm just the Doctor.'

'Doctor, eh?' Lionel Correll was staring down at the display case, his hands clasped behind his back as he leaned forward. 'Nothing "just" about that. An honourable profession.'

'I like to think so,' the Doctor admitted. 'You know about the expedition?' he asked as he stood beside the big American.

Correll shook his head. 'Just what I read in the papers. You going to the auction?' he asked again.

The Doctor frowned. 'What auction is that?'

Correll's large finger tapped on the gla.s.s, leaving a misted impression. 'This journal. Some mystery collector is selling the rest of it. Recently discovered, they say. You didn't know?'

'Really?' The Doctor's expression was fixed. 'No, I didn't know that.'

'Learn something new every day. If you're interested, it's at Gordon and Painswick. Next Tuesday afternoon. Maybe I'll see you there.'

'Maybe you will.' The Doctor nodded thoughtfully. He turned towards Correll. 'I thought you weren't interested.'

'Not specifically. But I'm always on the look out for a good investment. Stocks rise and fall, oil is too volatile and offsh.o.r.e is a mug's game. But the price of the past is always on the up.' Correll nodded at the cabinet. 'You seem interested though, and you look like an expert.' He smiled at the Doctor. 'I can tell. So, you think it'll be a good investment.'

The Doctor rubbed his chin. 'Ask me on Tuesday,' he said.

They shook hands again. 'I'll keep you a seat,' Correll said.

'You're very kind.'

'Not at all.' Correll smiled and nodded and turned to go. 'Three*thirty, it starts. See you there, Old Timer.'

The Doctor was already studying the pages in the cabinet once more; was already back in the bookshop off the Charing Cross Road in 1938; was once again holding the journal and staring intently at the ragged pages. 'Old Timer,' he murmured to himself. 'I wonder...'

44: Chronic Symptoms

The clock had been removed from the instrument panel. Now it stood alongside another, identical, clock on Anstruther's desk.

'The gap's down to six seconds,' Anstruther said, as much to break the silence as anything.

Control nodded. 'So I see. What about Jenkins and the others?'

'Same. Some variation, but basically they're all getting closer to what the boffins are calling "Time Zero".'