Part 19 (1/2)

'Can't we trust one another?'

'All right,' she said after a moment. 'But you still have to walk in front.'

Simon took his eyes off her. When she didn't immediately try to kill him, he relaxed even further. 'I think we're around the back of the house,' he said. 'If there's a doorbell, it'll be around the front.'

He moved off, watching his feet this time, trying to convince himself she wasn't eyeing his bhunti and smirking. Or possibly trying to convince himself that she was.

Simon and the woman, whose name was Genevieve, spent ten minutes ripping vines out of wood and plaster before the door was clear enough for a person to pa.s.s through it. One particularly stubborn clump of foliage pulled loose to reveal the doorbell.

They looked at each other. Simon shrugged and pressed it.

They listened. Nothing. No one had been home for a very long time, probably centuries. Inside they might find a few clues, a few remnants, the sort of stuff that was recovered on archaeological digs. That was if they didn't fall through a rotting floor or get their foot stuck in a disintegrating stair.

144.

Without thinking, Simon pressed the b.u.t.ton again. Faint but clearly audible, there was a tinkling sound from somewhere inside the house.

They looked at each other. Genevieve had her hand on the doork.n.o.b when someone opened the door.

'Good afternoon,' said the old man. The very old man. The oldest man Simon had ever seen. He sat in a plastic wheelchair with wide arms, hovering an inch off the floor, a blanket with a checked design covering his lap and legs.

A kitten was asleep on the blanket. The man stroked it with a gnarled hand. He had fine white hair and a billion wrinkles.

Simon realized he was rudely standing there in astonishment.

'Er,' he said. 'Good afternoon.'

'Do come in,' said the man. 'If you've come all this way you'll want a cup of tea. I have some organically grown lapsang souchong which is just ready for use. I grow it myself in the back garden.'

'Where?' Simon asked, stupidly. He realized Genevieve was looking past the old man, into the hallway. Which was warm, and dry, a Persian rug covering polished floorboards, tiny real books lining wooden shelves. He could see the pair of them in a mirror at the other end, looking gormless.

'That would be delightful,' said Genevieve. 'You're very kind.'

'Not at all,' said the old man. 'Doctor Smith. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance.'

'We don't get many visitors from outside,' said the Doctor, leading the way into the lounge. 'Except for the occasional party of Ice Warriors.'

'Ice Warriors?' Simon had never heard of them.

'Martians,' said the Doctor. 'They like to fly down every so often and stage a victory parade. Everyone lines up and waves flags and shouts ”hurrah” that sort of thing. Absolutely pointless, of course, but they seem to enjoy it. And technically, they do own the planet.'

The lounge was full of ancient furniture, all of it in perfect repair. There was a mantelpiece with a bronze Buddha and a bowl of apples. The Doctor hovered over to the fireplace, turning 145 so he would face his visitors as they sat on the sofa. A gla.s.s of wine stood on a round wooden table beside him.

'The Martians own Earth?' said Simon. Genevieve put a hand on his arm as she sat down. After a moment he sat next to her. A cat rubbed itself against his legs, startling him.

The wrinkles around the Doctor's eyes multiplied as he smiled.

'I do wish you'd close your mouth, young man. Sitting there with your mouth open makes you look like a fish.' Simon obliged. 'Of course the Martians own Earth, we surrendered in 2010, or rather I surrendered on Earth's behalf. Thoroughly decent chaps, the Ice Warriors, once you get to know them.'

The Doctor picked up his winegla.s.s, sipped once and put it down. 'We came to a quite amicable agreement, technology transfers, that sort of thing. There was a joint effort to revivify Mars. They went out to conquer the stars and the human race stayed here and had a good time. Worked out rather well, even if I do say so myself.'

'What about the Empire?' said Genevieve.

'The Martians look after all that sort of thing, fighting off the Daleks and the Rutans and organizing all the paperwork. The Earth hasn't been invaded in centuries.'

'But it's ruled by the Martians,' insisted Genevieve.

'Oh, human beings and Earth Reptiles take care of their own affairs. Isn't that right, Takmar?'

Genevieve and Simon spun, but there was no one standing behind the sofa. The Doctor went on, 'This little world would be far worse off without their expertise. A little ecology, a little technology.' He nodded to his invisible scaly friend. 'Some planets set aside areas as nature reserves, but Earth is a nature reserve. Earthlings quietly integrated into its ecology, living and working side by side.'

'It sounds very restful,' said Genevieve. She'd obviously decided to humour the old man, hoping he'd drop some useful information into the conversation. 'Utopian.'

'I'm very pleased with it,' said the Doctor.

Simon asked, 'Don't you get bored?'

'The thing about war, young man,' said the Doctor, 'is that the initial excitement of being terrified out of your wits while trying 146 to kill other people who are terrified out of their wits eventually wears off. War is not only h.e.l.l, it's utterly tedious. There comes a time when it becomes so tedious you look for something else to do with your time. Tea, for example. Come and take a look at the kitchen.'

'Yes, please,' said Genevieve.

Simon followed Genevieve as she followed the Doctor into the kitchen. The wheelchair murmured as it moved over carpet and wood. Simon had the annoying impression that she was dealing with the situation better than he was. Maybe she just gave the impression of dealing with it. She reminded him of women from sims about the Court, people who were like ducks smooth and effortless on the surface, paddling like mad underneath. He thought of the Firefly. Whoever this woman was, penniless ex-student terrorist she wasn't.

The kitchen was full of gadgets, every centimetre of counter s.p.a.ce taken up with streamlined equipment or chuffing, clockwork-and-steam devices. Simon puzzled out the beer brewer and the breadmaker, and an Earth Reptile version of a Tisanesmade, with big b.u.t.tons for operation by claw.

The Doctor tapped the arm of his wheelchair. A small control panel unfolded outward, and he used it to adjust the height of the chair until he could comfortably reach the Tisanesmade. He opened an old gla.s.s jar and shovelled fresh leaves into a hatch in the side of the machine. The kitten, its sleep disturbed, yawned pinkly and hopped down.

'Yes,' he continued, 'the human race eventually got bored with killing, and got on with the sorts of things it's much better at.

Cooking, for example.'

'Cooking?' prompted Genevieve. The Tisanesmade was making odd noises, as though bits had been added to its insides and hadn't quite meshed.

'Oh yes. People from all over the galaxy visit Earth for the cuisine. That and the fresh air and interesting native lifestyle.'

'So we're a backwater, then?' said Simon. 'A dot on the map where people come for their holidays.'

'Ecotourism,' said Genevieve.

147.

'A far more rewarding occupation than going about blowing up other people's planets, don't you agree?' The Tisanesmade made a chuffing noise as though it was about to explode, then pinged.

The Doctor lifted a panel. Inside were three steaming cups of organic tea, a little jug of synthetic cream and a bowl of sugar lumps. 'From fresh leaves to brewed tea in under three minutes.

Go right ahead.'

Simon put three lumps of sugar into his tea and took a hesitant sip. It was superb. He gave Genevieve a small smile, and she reached into the machine for her cup.

'There,' said the Doctor. 'Not bad for someone who doesn't exist, eh?'