'I remember something similar.' Bridgeman suddenly clenched his fists. 'That's it - the money in the coin box. I remember it just melted, dripped away. And there was a light. Warm, like yours.'

Did you get the feeling of going up? You know, like in a lift that goes horribly quickly. Like the one in Sydney's Centrepoint Tower . . . oh, well, you wouldn't know that, would you.'

'No, but I know the feeling you mean. And yes, I-I did feel that. It's all coming back now and ... What's wrong?'

'Nicholas. Turn around slowly. They're behind you.'

Professor Bridgeman twisted round and stared. Into the faces of two scantily clothed Aboriginals - a female pushing a male around in a primitive wooden cart. The man suddenly let out a shriek of malevolent laughter and was promptly cuffed around the ear by the woman.

'I . . . I know you . . .' Bridgeman tried to reach out to them but instead his fingers touched what he guessed was 97 Simms's invisible wall. 'About one point five volts,' he muttered to no one in particular. 'But I know them. In the village . . .'

'Aboriginals? In a c.u.mbrian village?' Simms was doubtful.

'No. Not like this then. In Victorian gear. But the faces are unmistakable . . .'

The crippled man suddenly lunged forward in his cart, his hand brushing Bridgeman's shoulder, obviously unimpaired by the electrical forcefield. 'Hiya, Nickie! I'm your worst nightmare!' With a shriek of laughter he rocked back and rolled on his side, curling up like a foetus in the cart and fell fast asleep.

The woman looked down at her charge and then at the two men. 'He's very tired. Forgive him.'

'W-who are you?' Bridgeman tried to reach out again but the voltage pushed his hand back involuntarily.

The woman slowly shook her head and looked at the man in the cart. 'Your past. Your present. Perhaps your future.'

In the cart, the crippled man's right eye popped open and he stuck his tongue out. 'And the death of all humanity. And there's nothing you can do about it. Unless you've a flea collar handy!'

Whatever the meaning of that, it sent him into spasms of laughter, followed by a hacking cough. Tutting to herself, the woman turned the cart away and suddenly seemed to shimmer, as if caught in a heat haze. Bridgeman tried to refocus his eyes but it was no good. For a moment she seemed to grow taller, wearing her long black dress and the man was back in a wooden wheelchair, wearing the blue velvet smoking jacket and pyjama bottoms Bridgeman had seen him in back at the village phone box.

'Dent!' Bridgeman called. 'Mrs Wilding, come back.

Where are we?'

But they had vanished. With a sigh he turned to Simms.

Who had also vanished.

98.

Polly opened her eyes. It was s.p.a.ce, dark with white streaks of light stabbing out around her. She had been here before but she could not remember when. Or had she?

Something told her this was someone else's dream - that she was just a visitor, a guest inside someone else's memories.

Something reminded her of that time at the fairground, when Uncle Charles had taken her into the old gypsy tent.

Not a real gypsy, of course,' he had said knowingly, and like all ten year olds, Polly believed him because rich uncles knew everything. 'No, just some local woman dressed in a silly skirt.'

But Uncle Charles might have been wrong. The gypsy woman had looked at Polly's hand, muttered something about a long life and then produced a pack of cards. To ten-year-old Polly, they looked very pretty but strange. There were no aces or threes or clubs or hearts. Instead, colourful pictures showing young girls with wands, looking like fairies. And a tower with lightning which frightened her a bit. And the colourful man tied upside-down, hanging from a tree. She asked Polly to cut the pack and afterwards she dealt some cards out. Polly did not understand for one moment what the point was but all she remembered afterwards was being warned away from a tall, dark stranger.

Years later she would laugh when her friends suggested playing with a pack of tarot cards - the cliched idea of her dangerous tall, dark stranger stopped her taking the cards seriously.

Now, as she floated around inside someone else's dream (or whatever it was), the warning seemed suddenly unsettling. For some reason she thought that she might actually meet this tall, dark stranger. And then she realized she already had - on a flight of steps in a house invaded by unbelievable Cat-People. The man, curled up in fear, he had been tall and dark and something primal told her this was him. The gypsy's fear.

99.It's your dream, isn't it?' Polly breathed for a reason she could not fathom.

'Yes,' said a voice. Warm, soothing and delicious. The sort of voice you could curl up with on a sofa and feel safe.

The sort of voice you could trust, give over to, be at peace with. Polly relaxed. 'That's better,' said the voice. 'No one or nothing is going to hurt you. Trust me, please. Trust me and I'll help you.'

The streaks of white light began to shimmer, coalesce into a shape - the vague outline of the TARDIS. 'Is this your home?' asked the voice.

Polly tried to shake her head but did not have the energy.

She was too relaxed. 'Yes . . . well, no, not really. I travel in it. My real home is London.'

'Where is the Doctor? Is he in c.u.mbria with you?'

'Yes,' Polly answered. 'But how d'you know . . . ?'

'That's not important. I need you, your strength and power to help me help him. You saw the Cat-People, didn't you?'

'Yes! Yes, I did.' Polly began to tense up again. 'And you?

It was you on the stairs, wasn't it?'

'Sort of, yes. Now, relax again or I can't hold you here.

Can't help you escape from the Cat-People.'

'Sorry.' Polly breathed deeply. 'Are they here? In c.u.mbria?'

'Yes, they are now. I hoped I would get here first but I made a mistake. I didn't realize how far she would go to escape.'

Polly frowned. 'Who?'

'Thorgarsuunela. We were trapped here together. She's brought the Cat-People here in exchange for free pa.s.sage away from Earth.'

'What do they want?'

'No more questions. I'm going to try to bring you back to reality. I needed to talk to you like this while your friend isn't around. Ben, is it? His mind is too closed.'

Polly suddenly remembered the clifftop. The coat, Ben pulling at it, getting near the cliff. . . stumbling near the edge . . .

100.Polly opened her mouth to scream into the darkness - 'Ben!' Polly screeched.

Ben was windmilling with his arms, comically trying to fly like they did in the cartoons. Suddenly there was someone grabbing Ben's wrist and casually lifting him back on to the cliff edge. As his wrist was released, Ben dropped to the ground, panting, tears of fear and frustration on his cheeks. He was wheezing. 'Oh G.o.d, oh G.o.d, oh G.o.d -'

'You're safe. Both of you,' said a safe, warm, soothing, trustworthy voice.

Polly looked straight into the piercing blue eyes of her tall, dark stranger.

More people pa.s.s through Heathrow Airport in one twenty-four-hour period than any other installation in Europe. Either as a final destination or as a stopover, Heathrow sees more pa.s.sengers and flight crews than anywhere else clogging up the bars, cafes, restaurants, shops and, of course, pa.s.sport controls.

'Air MidEast announce the arrival of Flight ME 423 from Baghdad. Would all pa.s.sengers from Flight 423 a.s.semble at carousel 8 for their baggage and then pa.s.s through Pa.s.sport Control. Holders of UK and EC pa.s.sports to gates 8 to 10, non-EC pa.s.sports to gates 1 to 7. Thank you.'

'Excuse me, can I get a flight to Manchester from here?'

Pa.s.sport Control Attendant Philip Jay looked up from his booth and smiled at the attractive, middle-aged blonde facing him. Helping her would make a change from grumpy OAPs who had lost their zimmers en route from France or postnatally depressed young mothers with six kids and a husband playing the slot machines. She might even - 'I said, can you help me?'

Jay coughed, mentally cataloguing this one in his cold 'n'

frigid section. 'Yes, madam. You could get a plane to Manchester but it would actually be quicker to take the tube to Euston and catch a train. Our next scheduled flight to Manchester -' his hands flicked over his database keyboard 101 (and he wondered if she noticed the lack of wedding ring on his finger), 'is at 20.05 from Terminal One.'

The blonde stared at him. Wistfully? Helplessly? 'Well, what time is it now?'

Aggressively. Oh well, he had tried. 'A quarter past one, madam. The day is dragging a bit.'

The woman shifted the weight of her shoulder bag. 'That's because your rather pathetic little world has been held in stasis for the last eight hours. I've been stuck on your plane twice as long as I should have been. I ought to have remembered that he'd done that.'

Jay refiled her. b.l.o.o.d.y loony. Leave well alone. Call security? Nah, no need. 'Right, madam. The Underground is -'

'I know where the Underground is, mollusc. I've only been away for a couple of thousand years! What day is this?'

Mollusc. That was a new one. He would look that one up in the dictionary tonight. Jay nodded towards a digital calendar suspended above the entrance to the customs area.

All the other pa.s.sengers had gone through, followed by the other support staff. Trust him to be left alone with a bimbo two sandwiches short of a picnic!

'Tenth of June, madam.'

'Excellent. I must get to the Grange by tonight. I have a Doctor's appointment.'

One last try, he just could not stop himself. 'I'm off duty in an hour. Can I offer you a lift somewhere, Ms. . . ?'

'Thorsuun. My name is Thorsuun. And no, I don't think you can do anything for me. I, however, much as I loathe your ridiculous world and its rather dreary populace, will do it a favour.'

Philip Jay smiled. Ms Thorsuun gave out a long, low wolf-whistle, turned on her heel and strode away into customs. Into the green area, naturally. A woman like that would have nothing to hide. Nothing to - Philip Jay suddenly coughed and hunched up in his seat.

He felt extraordinarily tired for no good reason. He shook 102 his head; the lights seemed to have dimmed. He glanced down at his desk; his hands. . . they were not his hands.

They were thin, wrinkled, covered with liver spots. They seemed to be shrinking as he watched. He felt short of breath, his head itched, his eyes burned. His chest, his heart.

. . his - If at that moment one of his mates had popped back into pa.s.sport control they would have been amazed to see a very old, thin man slumped in Philip Jay's seat, wearing his uniform. However, as it was three minutes before anyone ventured out of customs, all they found was his uniform crumpled on his seat, and a pile of dust on the floor.

Charlie Coates was humping a heavy black plastic bin-liner up the path away from the Gatehouse and towards the back of the Grange when Thorsuun and the Doctor were led out of the front door.

'Who's that?' The Doctor pointed at Coates.

'Charles Coates. One of the more reliable thugs that Kerbe employed.' Thorsuun was fuming. How had she let the Cat-People treat her like this? All her plans, all her deals, were they going to be thrown away like so much ...

kitty-litter?

The Doctor gently tapped her shoulder. 'They're all the same, you know.'

'Who are?'

's.p.a.ce mercenaries. You can never trust them.'

'Thank you, sweetheart. I can trust you I suppose?'

The Doctor laughed quietly. 'Oh no, Thorsuun. Never do that. We're on opposing teams. Whatever your plans, whatever Aysha's plans, Earth is caught in the middle. And my loyalties have to lie there.'

'With this lump of rock? Why?'

The Doctor pointed at Coates. 'Look at him. While the basic physiology is sound, internally and mentally, the humans need protection. They can't fend for themselves against alien aggressors. They can barely fend for themselves. Right now they're fighting each other in the 103 former Soviet Union, in Bosnia, in Rwanda, in Northern Ireland. All over the place. Sometimes they'll find peace but for every war they end, two more will start up. And it'll take more than these Cat-People to unite them. In the meantime, someone has to champion their cause.'

'Oh, you're so good, Doctor. They should canonize you.'

'Better that than despising you. As a Euterpian, you must have been here many years. Your people vanished a very long time ago. You must have seen civilizations here rise and fall.'

'All of them, Doctor. We were here at the beginning.'

The Doctor nodded. 'I see. How many of you?'

'Five.'

The Doctor stopped suddenly until a shove from Chosan meant he had to keep walking down the path towards Coates, still struggling with the heavy black bin-liner. 'Just five? Where are the others?'

'Don't know. Atimkos and I set off about forty thousand years ago to lay the beacons. We never saw the others again, but we heard the . . . rumours.'

The Doctor stuffed his hands in his pockets, and felt the red book in there. 'Of course. Ghosts. A fellow Euterpian trying to contact you could easily be mistaken for a ghost.

What made you latch on to Bridgeman's group?'

Thorsuun pointed back at the Grange. 'There's a large library in there, Doctor. Somewhere within it are some of our books. I can sense them. Messages left by one, maybe more of the others.'

'And where's your chum, Atimkos? Why isn't he helping you?'

'He doesn't know about the books. And,' she waved back at Chosan, 'he wouldn't approve of them.'

'I like him already.'

'Don't be smug, Doctor, it doesn't become you.'

They had reached the struggling Coates. 'Miss Thorsuun.'

He touched his cap which promptly fell off. The Doctor bent forward and picked it up.

104.

'So you'll use them to get away from here. Where will you go?'