Part 8 (2/2)

Peter dipped into his pocket and produced the sliding bolt and socket he had kicked off the outside. 'If I had a screwdriver, I could put it on the inside.'

The Doctor poked around the inside pocket of his jacket and produced three screwdrivers of varying sizes, one of which was absolutely too long to have fitted inside any jacket comfortably, but all three students had given up trying to apply the laws of physics to either the Doctor or his coat pockets. Peter selected the smallest and began making a hole in the wooden door.

'Alien races?' prompted Simon. 'You were saying?'

The Doctor was rummaging through the tape-recorders and wiring that the students had brought with them. 'Later, Simon, later. We need to get this room Ex-ed up as soon as possible. We may need protection and this could be our best defence.'

'Protection? From what, Peter's old ghost?'

75.'Oh no, far worse than some silly osmic projection. No, I'm talking about whatever Kerbe and his mistress have cooked up.'

'Not ghosts then?'

'Not ghosts. Definitely.'

'Then why do we need an Ex-Area? It's only good for ghosts,' Carfrae asked.

'Nonsense. Any atmospheric seclusion area can be a great defence. You'll see.' He smiled at Carfrae as if he thought he had rea.s.sured her.

He hadn't. 'I should've joined the TA,' she said.

'We're getting near the village, Ben,' said Polly, pointing at a red phone box.

'Took the long way though, didn't we, d.u.c.h.ess,' he replied.

'Oh, do stop moaning, Ben Jackson. The walk will do you good. Get some of that fat off you.'

'Fat? Fat? What fat exactly, Pol? I've hardly had a drop of beer since signing on with the Doc. And TARDIS food rations aren't exactly covered in chocolate.' He stopped suddenly. 'Cor, I don't half fancy a Mars Bar. D'you think they still do them in 1994?'

Polly shrugged. 'I really don't know, Ben. And to be honest, I don't care. Besides which, we're not exactly carrying much cash. How much have you got on you?'

Ben dug deeply into his pocket. Two and six plus a threepenny bit. You?'

'Nothing. And anyway, Britain is decimal now; remember what we learned at the South Pole. Our idea of money belongs in a museum.'

'Like us, really.'

'I'm sorry?'

'Look at us, Pol. Rejects from the London night-life, circa circa 1966. Thirty years on, our clothes probably look really silly. 1966. Thirty years on, our clothes probably look really silly.

We're ana . . . anarch . . .'

'Anachronistic?'

76.'Yeah. I mean, we've really got to be careful what we say and do.'

Polly nodded. 'You know what's really frightening?

Suppose we find out something about ourselves. Suppose one of us becomes famous and dies in a car crash. I mean, it'd be in the papers. Imagine if we went through the local library's back copies of The Times The Times and found our own obituary.' and found our own obituary.'

'At least that'd tell us something important.'

'What?'

Ben smiled. 'That at some time the Doc got us home.'

'Yes but think, Ben. If we were coming back just to die, would you want the Doctor to try and get us back? I don't think I would.'

Ben stopped walking. 'What would happen if we did find out we'd died in, say, 1982? OK, so we say ta-ta to the Doctor now, in the future when we're still alive. Problem solved.'

Polly was appalled. 'But what about your mother? My Uncle Charles? We could hardly just turn up on their doorstep and say, ”Sorry I missed my funeral, but here I am again, looking like I did in the mid-sixties.” They'd have a heart attack or some seizure or other.'

'I think we need that Mars Bar.' Ben began walking into the village. 'Or a double scotch.'

Silently, staring at her feet, Polly followed him. 'I'm sorry,' she said after a moment.

'What for, d.u.c.h.ess?'

'Oh. I don't know. Spoiling your hopes. Being pessimistic.

Realistic I suppose.' Polly touched his hand. 'I want to go home just as much as you do, Ben, but I don't think 1994 is right for either of us. Just in case. You're right. We'd be too anachronistic.'

Ben nodded. 'One bit of good news though.'

'What?'

'These trousers I borrowed from the TARDIS wardrobe.

Like the old s.h.i.+p herself, the pockets are bigger on the inside than out. I've just found what I presume is a twenty-77 pound note. It's dated 1993. 'Ere, doesn't the Queen look old!'

Polly flicked it over. 'Faraday. Yucky purple though. Hey, Ben, twenty pounds - d'you think it's still a fortune?'

'Nah, d.u.c.h.ess. Probably wouldn't buy you a hot dog now.

Shall we find out?'

'Hot dog? Oh, Ben, I'm starving. Let's see what's available.'

Ben agreed but held her back for a second. 'Difficult as I know it is for you, Polly, I think this is important. Best not get talking to too many of the locals. We've no idea how easy it is to give ourselves away. They might talk about a football match and I mention a team that no longer exists.

Or you might want to talk about that fas.h.i.+on woman, whatever she's called, and her stuff might be old hat now.'

'OK, Ben. I get the picture. Let's just see, shall we?'

They wandered into the street, pa.s.sing without a glance the vandalized red telephone box and involuntarily held their breath as a policeman wandered in front of them, but he did not give them more than a cursory glance.

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