"And does that include killing him?" she murmured.

Braxiatel glanced across to where Vicki was sitting, and frowned.

"Killing him?"

"Someone tried to poison Galileo in a tavern. He told us.

"I didn't leave any orders that he be killed." His voice rose. "That would have meant a completely unwarranted interference in the affairs of this planet. My people tend to frown on that sort of thing."

"Well if you didn't try to kill him," Vicki mused as the crater walls rose above them, hiding the horizon, and clouds of lunar dust rose in their turn to hide the walls of the crater, "then who did?"

"A boat?" The old fisherman smiled and shook his head. "What do you want a boat for?"

Galileo glanced across at Shakespeare. The Englishman was gazing morosely along the broad quayside of the Riva Degli Schiavoni towards where a crowd of his fellow countrymen were standing beside another small fishing boat - one of the many that lined the quayside at this time in the afternoon. Galileo watched them too for a few minutes but, in their heavy black clothes, they looked too much like dowdy birds for his liking. He found his gaze wandering away from them and towards the golden domes of the Church of St Mary of Health that lay in the Dorsoduro district, just across the mouth of the Grand Ca.n.a.l. Beyond the corner of the island of La Giudecca the lagoon stretched away, and he winced at the bright shards of sunlight that were glancing off the water and into his eyes. His head ached with old wine, and he was beginning to bitterly regret being talked into letting Steven represent him to the Doge. He should have been there himself! His golden tongue would have charmed the Doge's purse into disgorging a huge amount of gold for the secret of the spygla.s.s.

Then again, he had to admit to a burning curiosity over what lay on this fabled island. If its inhabitants could construct devices that could carry them through the air as a coach could carry men along a road, then Galileo wished very much to talk to them. Perhaps it was was for the best after all. Steven was an adequate pupil - Galileo had tutored him in exactly what to say. It was no different from a master painter - t.i.tian, for instance - employing an a.s.sistant to fill in the colours while the master concentrated on the details. for the best after all. Steven was an adequate pupil - Galileo had tutored him in exactly what to say. It was no different from a master painter - t.i.tian, for instance - employing an a.s.sistant to fill in the colours while the master concentrated on the details.

"I do not intend entering into a debate with you about my requirement for transport," the Doctor snapped. "I merely wish to hire a boat. Are you in the market for such services or not?"

"Well," the fisherman replied, "that would depend upon what terms." His face was as creased and worn as an old leather jerkin, and his eyes were screwed up against the sunlight. He reached down and picked up a small squid from the pile at his feet.

"On what terms?" the Doctor repeated. "My good man, we will pay whatever the current market price is for the hire of a boat, and not a penny more."

Galileo caught Shakespeare's eye and shrugged. The Doctor was forceful, that much was undeniable, but the Venetians couldn't be hurried or badgered or argued with. They did things in their own time and in their own way, and their way was always the best way.

"Ah," the fisherman sighed, turning the squid over in his hands and examining it, "but the market price depends on so many factors - what you want to do, where you are going, what religious festivals are occurring... "

"What do religious festivals have to do with it?" the Doctor snapped.

The fisherman smiled, revealing a mouth devoid of all but a single tooth. "For instance, today is the festival of St Martin the Lame, and by time-honoured custom the prices for the hire of a boat are doubled after noon on this day."

The Doctor seemed about to explode with indignation, so Galileo caught hold of his elbow and moved him a few steps away.

"Doctor, let me negotiate - I am used to dealing with Venetians."

"Nonsense," the Doctor expostulated, "I am quite able to fix an adequate price, and I'll have you know that I am used to dealing with Venusians Venusians. I'm not senile, you know."

"Indeed, Doctor, but..." Galileo paused and took a deep breath.

"Can I ask why we are not using the boat in which you and I sailed to fetch your telescope?"

"Oh, completely unsuitable," the Doctor said. "You remember how unstable it was when we were attacked. Why, one good heave and the whole thing might turn over. No, if the three of us are going in search of Laputa then we need something a lot safer than my dinghy."

"Your what?" "My never mind, young man. If you're going to fix a price with this ruffian, hadn't you better get on with it, hmm?"

Galileo opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again.

He'd argued with some of the greatest debaters in Europe in his time, but there was something about the Doctor's peremptory manner that brooked no argument.

He was about to turn back to the fisherman when he noticed that Shakespeare was staring rather fixedly at the group of Englishmen who were now moving towards them.

"Friends of yours?" he asked.

"I travelled with them on the boat that brought us here,"

Shakespeare said quietly. "They seemed healthy enough then, although they kept themselves to themselves. But look at them now."

The fear in Shakespeare's voice brought Galileo up short, as if he had just been caught in a sudden shower of cold rain. The Doctor too picked up on Shakespeare's tone and peered at the dowdy Englishmen as they pa.s.sed by, talking animatedly amongst themselves. For a moment Galileo saw nothing untoward - their clothes were unfashionable and much patched, true, and their faces were pale and lined, but apart from No. Those faces. Pale they might be, but there were patches of red on them. He had thought for a moment that they were wearing rouge on their cheeks, but the patches were too irregular for that, and some of them had blisters in their centres. One of the women raised a hand to scratch at one of the blisters, and a shiver ran through Galileo as he saw a weeping red sore upon the back of her hand.

"G.o.d's truth!" he whispered, aghast, as the Englishmen pa.s.sed by.

"They have the plague!"

"No," the Doctor said quietly, but with firm authority. "Those wounds have nothing to do with the plague. Those are radiation sores."

CHAPTER TWELVE.

"Well," Steven muttered to himself as he stood in a small niche on the stairs that led up to the Doge's chambers, "here goes nothing."

His voice was lost amid the muted roar of conversation from the crowd bustling up and down the great marble steps and along the wooden corridors. The huge portraits around the wall gazed down on him with unreadable expressions. His palms were moist, his stomach was fluttering, and his muscles felt so weak that he kept expecting the telescope tucked beneath his arm to fall and smash on the steps. He hadn't felt this nervous since he had ridden his ship down in flames, surrounded by Krayt fighters, watching the indicator lights on the control board explode one by one, hearing the grinding noise as the rocket engines tore loose from their mountings.

Glancing around to ensure that none of the courtiers, pet.i.tioners and general hangers-on were paying him any attention, he casually slid his fingers down his tunic to his belt. For a moment he couldn't locate the small metal device that the Doctor had given him. His fingers scrabbled around the leather strap, frantically searching for the d.a.m.ned thing. If it had fallen off he might just as well find a nice little set of rooms overlooking a ca.n.a.l and settle down, because the Doctor would never let him back on the TARDIS again. Not if he screwed up Galileo's big presentation.

His little finger touched cold metal. Sighing with relief, he closed his hand over the device, feeling the raised stud beneath his palm.

The thing must have slid around the belt when he brushed against someone in the crowd.

Well, he'd have to go through with it now.

Before he could change his mind, he closed his eyes and pressed the stud. When he opened them again, nothing had changed. The corridor still looked the same. The people still looked the same.

He raised his right hand and looked at it. Well, that didn't look the same. It was thicker, the fingers longer, and the veins that snaked across its back were more knotted and purple. It was Galileo's hand, projected from the image that the Doctor had scanned into the device earlier on. Steven raised his left hand and touched his right hand with his left forefinger. It felt the same as it always had, but then, he supposed that it would. After all, it was just a hologram. His hand was still underneath the image, like a face beneath a mask. The only giveaway was the fact that the image of his forefinger disappeared into the image of his right hand by a few millimetres before he could actually feel them touch, because his fingers were shorter than Galileo's.

He was wasting time. Taking a deep breath, Steven tucked the telescope tighter under his arm and walked firmly up the stairs.

The quicker he did this, the sooner he'd be out.

The vibrant green of the island stood out against the blue sea like an emerald against velvet. Vicki watched its approach wide-eyed, her breath held.

"This is a beautiful place," she whispered.

"I know," Braxiatel murmured, glancing up from the controls. "I can see why the Doctor prefers Earth to anywhere else."

It had never occurred to Vicki before, but Braxiatel was right. The Doctor did seem to spend an awful lot of time on or near Earth. "I suppose you're right, but with all of time and all of s.p.a.ce to wander through, why choose Earth?"

Braxiatel shrugged. "There are lots of reasons why your race are of interest to our race. Your curiosity, your ability to apply yourself to any problem or situation, your sheer persistence and adaptability, your -" He paused, and smiled slightly. "Well, there are things that I'm afraid I can't actually tell you about your past, and your future. Suffice it to say that we feel for humanity as a father might feel towards a rather wayward daughter."

Vicki felt her heart thud slightly harder in her chest. No matter how often she thought she would get used to it, the pain attached to the memories surprised her. She watched the approaching landing pad, trying to wipe her mind clean of the grief, but the p.r.i.c.kle of approaching tears in her eyes made her turn her head away from Braxiatel.

"I've hurt your feelings," Braxiatel said softly. "I'm sorry." He removed his half-moon gla.s.ses and began to polish them with a small cloth that he took from his pocket. "Please accept my apologies," he said, not looking at her. "I have an unfortunate habit of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time."

"No," Vicki protested, and stifled a sob, "please - it's not your fault.

It's just..." She took a deep breath and tried to calm her churning stomach. "My father died. He was killed in an explosion on the planet Dido. That's where the Doctor found me. I still dream about him sometimes, but you weren't to know."

As the skiff settled gently upon the landing pad, Braxiatel reached out to pat her hand. "I apologize anyway," he said. "Now, let's try and find the Doctor and tell him you're all right, shall we?"

Vicki nodded. "Can you - do you mind if I follow on in a moment? I want to collect my thoughts."

Braxiatel nodded. "Of course," he said quietly. I'll be in the main hall when you're ready, and we can go and find the Doctor."

"Your explanation is as subtle and as illuminating as ever, Signor Galileo," the Doge said in his dry, quiet voice.

Behind him loomed a vast painting of scantily dressed ladies and plump lions. "To think, that such a simple device, so cheap and so easy to construct, could do all that you claim. It is truly a marvel."

Around him, the Doge's advisers nodded wisely. They were wearing black and, in the shadows of the Hall of the Ante-College, their heads seemed to float in mid-air. The nods of agreement rippled outward to the Council of Ten, then to the Sages of the Order who commanded the great Venetian navy. At least, that was who Steven thought they were. Galileo had been a little the worse for wear when he explained the set-up to Steven, and some of the details had been a little confused.

One of the men that surrounded the Doge - a tall man with a thin face and a great beak of a nose - glared down at Steven. Beneath the hologram, Steven felt patches of sweat-sodden cloth shift clammily against his skin. Had the man penetrated the disguise?

"Your... your Serenity is most gracious," Steven said, bowing so low that the telescope under his arm poked up above his head.

Although the Doge's tone had been calm and measured, there was something about his words that Steven didn't like. What had he said? "So cheap and so easy to make." Galileo had warned Steven not to underestimate the Doge's business ac.u.men. He was implying that Galileo's telescope was hardly a discovery at all - just a tool like a screwdriver that could be built by anybody at all. And if he continued along that route, Galileo wouldn't get any money at all. "This spygla.s.s is, as you say, simple and easy to construct from materials which are easily available," Steven blurted, "but so are the works of... of any writer of antiquity that you care to name.

Words are available to anyone, and paper is common, but it takes genius to create a work of literature. In the same way, it takes genius to think of a spygla.s.s, even though a fool may buy all the parts."

The Doge nodded, and another ripple of agreement spread through the crowd around his throne. "Of course," he continued, "you will be aware from your friend, Friar Sarpi, that a Flemish gentleman has lately been importuning this Senate to buy an instrument similar to the one that you possess. He has asked one thousand florins for it. We are intrigued by the idea, but with the device itself I was barely able to make out the details of the paintings at the far end of this room."

One of his advisers immediately pointed over Steven's shoulder.

Turning, Steven could make out a large canvas that seemed to consist of blue sky, white clouds and pink cherubs with trumpets.

Another trap. The Doge was simultaneously warning Steven that Galileo was not the only man with a telescope, that he wasn't terribly impressed with the telescope that he had had seen and that price was a definite issue. Galileo had warned Steven about this. seen and that price was a definite issue. Galileo had warned Steven about this.

"Your Serene Highness," Steven began, "this adventurer adventurer-" which was the description that Galileo had spat out earlier"- possesses an inferior model which can make objects appear to be only one third of their actual distance away, and as such is little more than a toy. My spygla.s.s, by contrast, makes things appear to be one tenth tenth of their actual distance away, and is fit for a range of... er ... of their actual distance away, and is fit for a range of... er ...

military applications, for instance."

"Military applications?" The Doge leaned forward, suddenly interested. His advisers, the Council of Ten and the Sages of the Order all leaned forward as well.

"Indeed." Steven's mouth was dry, and he had to suck hard on his cheeks to provide enough saliva to continue. "With this spygla.s.s, a watcher in the tower in the square outside -" whatever it was called, he thought desperately "- could see an invading fleet as it came over the horizon, rather than when it was almost on top of you."

The Doge nodded. "Indeed, an invention to rival the military compa.s.s that you designed. I would see this spygla.s.s demonstrated on ships rather than paintings. Let us remove ourselves to -" he smiled slightly "- the tower in the square outside, which we Venetians refer to as the bell-tower of St Mark's. There we will test your claims against the fishing boats as they return for the night."

Steven breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed to be working.

And then he caught sight of the hawk-nosed Councillor glaring down at him, and his mouth went dry again.

The mist had closed in around them like the gauze backcloths of the Globe Theatre, and Shakespeare found himself thinking that he would have to have words with Burbage about the way he portrayed stormy seas on stage. Those billowing sheets, streaked with green and blue, that Burbage thought looked like waves were too dramatic. Far too dramatic. The waves here in the lagoon were more like the gently rolling hills of Stratford-upon-Avon, but the way they made the tiny boat pitch and toss was almost beyond credibility. Waves the size of Burbage's would have overturned the boat before they'd even got out of sight of land.

He glanced along the deck of the boat, and was annoyed to see the Doctor standing by the mast, his white hair billowing in the wind like a miniature of the billowing sail above his head, looking for all the world as if he were enjoying himself. Shakespeare was sick to his stomach. After all, he'd only just stepped off the boat from England, and he had been looking forward to a few days standing on dry land. Venice wasn't exactly dry land, of course, but it was an acceptable subst.i.tute.

A gull flew close overhead, and Shakespeare cursed at it.

"What was that?" Galileo shouted from his position by the tiller.

"Nothing of import," Shakespeare shouted back.

"Coming into port? But we've barely been out half an hour."

Galileo's beard bristled angrily. "If that's a slur on my navigation, I'll have your liver and lights Master Shake-Shaft!"

"What I said was -" Shakespeare sighed. "Oh, never mind. It's not worth going to war over."

"Having a bit of trouble making yourself understood?" the Doctor asked, glancing over his shoulder with a superior smile on his face.

"I confess, Doctor, that I do not understand why I am here."

Shakespeare scowled as best he could, but it turned into a clownish grimace as a spray of sea water hit him in the face.

"I thought I had made it all perfectly clear," the Doctor said. "We are seeking the island of Laputa, where I believe my companion to be held."

"That's all very well," Shakespeare snapped, "but it doesn't explain what I I am doing here, especially while Kit Marlowe is wandering around Venice. I have a mission to fulfil for my Monarch." am doing here, especially while Kit Marlowe is wandering around Venice. I have a mission to fulfil for my Monarch."

The Doctor ran his thumbs under his lapels and c.o.c.ked his head to one side. "If, as you explained, you have been instructed to seek the representatives of some foreign empire and do business with them, then I suspect that you may find them on Laputa. Although -"

and he chuckled "- you may discover that they are from an empire that does not lie on any of the standard trade routes."

Shakespeare was about to reply when something loomed up out of the mist ahead: a sketchy shape, a darker shadow against the grey veils, like a piece of scenery forgotten and unlit behind a backcloth. "What is that?" he cried as it became clearer - a fabulous, fantastic city of cloud-capped towers, gorgeous palaces, solemn temples, great globes and slender spires, paths that hung in mid-air and stairways that moved by themselves, like Jacob's ladder. "Is it... is it heaven?"

"No, it's Laputa," the Doctor said with satisfaction. "Mister Galileo, prepare to make land."

"Aye, Doctor," Galileo shouted from the stern of the boat. "But I warn you, we have company."

Shakespeare and the Doctor both turned to face Galileo. The bearded Venetian was pointing off to one side, to where a patch of mist had been cleaved by the bows of another boat. And beside it, another. And beyond that, a third. Figures moved on their decks, clad in stark black cloth. Shakespeare strained his eyes. Perhaps it was the mist, but they looked like corpses, freshly animated, staring blindly ahead. The wind whipped the sea-spray into their faces, but they didn't blink, or wipe their eyes. And as the wind carried their boats closer, Shakespeare was unsurprised to see the weeping sores that covered their exposed skin.

The bell tower was set on the edge of the crowded market-place that was St Mark's Square, a few hundred yards from the edge of the lagoon. Stalls selling foods, sweets, trinkets and pets were gathered around its base like ducklings around their mother. As he emerged from the Doge's palace, Steven breathed in the scented air, and the mingled scents of wood smoke, incense, cooked meat made him dizzy for a moment. Past the edge of the quay, the surface of the water was bright with momentary flickers of light as the sun caught the tops of the waves. The ornate prows of the gondolas that were tied to the wooden piers nodded one by one as the waves lifted them, like a row of penitent priests.

Steven sighed as he remembered arriving at one of those piers.

How long ago had it been? One day? Two? It seemed that when you were a time traveller, time lost all meaning to you. Events seemed to crowd together until your life was a succession of freeze-frames: run, hide, fight, run, hide, fight. He was tired. He wanted to stop, just for a while. Just for a rest.

The Doge's guards pushed past him and began clearing a path through the crowds of Venetians and foreign travellers. Two of them appeared to have acquired a horse from somewhere, and were leading it over. Steven gazed up the crumbling red brick of the bell tower. This was it. Make or break.