' I. . . don't. . . know. . . I. . . don't. . . know. . . ' '

'Don't be stupid,' Tyran advised. 'This is on the first setting. I can take it up much, much further. It's your choice.'

' John. . . Smith. . . John. . . Smith. . . ' '

'Smith?'

' Doctor. . . John. . . Smith. . . Doctor. . . John. . . Smith. . . ' '

'Who do you work for?'

' I. . . work. . . for. . . no. . . one. . . I. . . work. . . for. . . no. . . one. . . ' '

'Who?' Tyran shrieked.

' No. . . one. . . No. . . one. . . ' '

He made an, adjustment to the probe. The Doctor screamed. Foley felt her grip on her rifle tighten. The other people in the room were standing there watching, expressions impa.s.sive, while the real Domecq looked on, fascinated.

She felt her teeth grinding and wondered how much more of this she could watch.

128.The multiple images of the face were growing bigger, as if they were moving into close-up, their edges merging. For a second the whole room went completely black as the images vanished, then instantly reappeared.

' Who sent you? Who sent you? ' '

Tyran was yelling now, his face red with fire and frustration.

' We. . . crashed. . . We. . . crashed. . . ' '

' Who sent you? Who sent you? ' '

' Travellers. . . Travellers. . . ' '

' Who? Who? ' '

' We're. . . travellers. . . We're. . . travellers. . . ' '

' Who do you work for? Who do you work for? ' '

' Innocents. . . Innocents. . . ' '

' You can't hold out for ever. Tell me your name. You can't hold out for ever. Tell me your name. ' '

' Smith. . . Smith. . . ' '

' Your Your real real name name.'

' No. . . name. . . No. . . name. . . ' '

' Name! Name! ' '

' I. . . am. . . the. . . Doctor. . . I. . . am. . . the. . . Doctor. . . ' '

By now the images on the walls were so close up that Foley could see only the eyes. They came closer. Closer. One eye. One huge eye a hundred times over, covering the walls and the ceiling. Again the image blacked momentarily. Tyran swiped the probe, slamming the Doctor under the chin. The walls blacked.

Came back. One huge eye that was blue and green both at the same time.

Closer still. Closer still ' Who are you? Who are you? ' '

The Doctor slumped forward in the seat, only the cuffs stopping him from tumbling on to the floor. Zach grasped his shoulder and yanked him back.

Tyran punched him in the gut and he collapsed with a roar. Zach dragged him up by the hair.

' . . . mystery. . . . . . mystery. . . ' '

' What? What? ' '

' . . . mystery. . . . . . mystery. . . ' '

The Doctor was breathing hard and fast. Tyran bent to hear what he was trying to say. Foley could just make out the words.

' . . . I. . . don't. . . know. . . . . . I. . . don't. . . know. . . ' '

The steady close-up was now focused on the pupil of the eye. The iris had gone and there was only empty black. A fathomless, frightening dark so deep that it made her skin crawl.

129.

The first few blows were always the worst. They could be a bit of a shock to the system, but it doesn't take long before the mental shutters slide down and you close your eyes and lock your brain to the pain. After that it's pretty much plain sailing, really.

The hologram call to Colonel Peron hadn't gone Fitz's way at all. It had strengthened Jorgan's argument that the 'spy' should be interrogated without delay. Ayla had stuck to her guns, standing up to Jorgan with such vigour that Fitz had thought she'd got away with it. But the lynch mob had turned nasty, and the tide of opinion was too much for her to repel. She'd done her best, bless her. But hey! hey! the best of the best just isn't good enough sometimes. the best of the best just isn't good enough sometimes.

She'd been forced to make a hasty retreat and leave him at their mercy.

Mercy! The questions tumbled over him in a barrage. Who the h.e.l.l was he? The questions tumbled over him in a barrage. Who the h.e.l.l was he?

Where the h.e.l.l did he come from? Who the h.e.l.l did he work for? What the h.e.l.l were his employers doing to the soil? Why the h.e.l.l. . . ? When the h.e.l.l. . . ?

Who the h.e.l.l. . . ?

Being dumped into the middle of the unknown, without cultural knowledge or ident.i.ty, without awareness of even the most rudimentary mores, was hard enough when you had time to absorb some information. Fitz normally prided himself on his natural flair for pretence. For fitting in most places where people had two arms, two eyes, pink skin et cetera. But waking up in the middle of an interrogation tends to put one at a slight disadvantage. The TARDIS often magically endowed its occupants with the ability to understand and speak the local idiom, but even then it couldn't possibly instil all the knowledge you needed not to make a complete a.r.s.e of yourself if you weren't ultra-careful.

So the questions came. But the answers didn't. At least, obviously, not the right ones.

He'd tried being vague, spouting stuff about the crash, about his loss of memory, about all this being an accidental incursion, but the more he spoke the more they punched. In a state of swift-approaching delirium, he'd even tried telling them the truth. And that was when they got really p.i.s.sed off with him.

Jorgan was sweating and slightly out of breath from his exertion. He stood in front of Fitz with his fists clenched, ready to start again. Fitz tried to bend forward, to raise his hands to protect his face or his stomach, but his arms were gripped tight from behind, presumably by one or more of the Neanderthals. It was getting harder to breathe, the pain erupting inside him every time he tried.

He could taste blood but he was pretty sure all his teeth were still in place. His nose was full of thick stuff that could have been anything, so he was forced to 130hiss through his clenched teeth.

He found Jorgan's frizzy face only half an inch in front of his nose. So close he could smell the stench of his hairy breath.

'It's simple enough,' Jorgan said quietly. 'Just start talking and you stop hurting. Savvy?'

'I told you,' Fitz gargled. 'I'm not a spy. We crash-landed.'

Eyes glinting, Jorgan smiled sweetly in his face. Fitz saw the fists clench, draw back, closed his eyes, waited for the damage It didn't arrive. He opened his eyes to find Jorgan's face still immediately in front of his own, but this time it was drained of all humour, stock-still, and the eyes were hard right. Fitz's arms were steadily released, and through the haze of pain he saw Ayla standing beside Jorgan with a dumpy handgun held to his head.

'No sudden, violent moves,' she said.

'Don't be stupid,' Jorgan growled.

Ayla shook her head. 'This man's in no fit state to tell you anything, Ra.s.sel.'

'He'll talk when we've got him softened up.'

'Don't you think you've done enough?'

'We're only just starting.'

'No, Ra.s.sel. You're just stopping. Come on, Fitz.'

He tried to stand, but slumped to the floor like a jelly. She helped him up, somehow managing to keep the gun on Jorgan, and slowly they limped to the door. As they were about to leave, Ayla paused, flourishing the gun for them all to see.

'Anybody tries to follow, they get flared.'

And then they were moving, every step a small eternal agony that pulsed through his legs and his chest and his poor, pummelled head. The canvas swept past him, a series of fluttering ghost shapes that seemed to be waving him over. He was leaning heavily on her, but Ayla moved quickly and expertly with him hanging on her shoulder. The idea struck him that she must have had some fire-brigade training.

Then he was sitting back on the bunk in sickbay, Ayla forcing the gun into his hand while she started hooking him up to the med unit. Switching the machine on, she fretted over the readings, making adjustments to the settings before she finally took the gun back.

He felt drunk again, the room swaying slightly, the sensation not helped at all by the shimmering shadows caused by the flapping canvas walls. The storm was intensifying, wailing in the night.

131.

His head was raised and he discovered Ayla's dazzling eyes peering into his.

She looked anxious but hopeful, he thought, as well as incredibly beautiful.

'Why are you doing this?' he asked.

The eyes were bloodshot, the surrounding tissue tender and obviously sore. He was drowsy, but probably not too badly injured to run.

'I know you're not a spy,' she told him.

'You don't know anything about me,' he said, his words not slurred at all.

That told her his brain was functioning normally. Taking another look at the readouts on the med unit, she was satisfied that the damage was mostly superficial. Jorgan must have been holding back, hoping for some information before he had his real fun. The internal bleeding hadn't restarted, but there was a possibility that it still could do.

'Before I got this geo-engineering post I worked for PlanetScape on Gildus Prime. Military surgeon. I had the job of patching up the poor souls who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time when things went pear-shaped.'

Even for one who'd just taken a beating, Fitz was looking particularly blank.

'You don't know what Gildus Prime is, do you?'

He shook his head and she laughed.

'I don't know who or what you are, Fitz, my friend, but you sure as h.e.l.l ain't no spy. Industrial espionage isn't for you, let me tell you that for nuthin'. Don't ever make the mistake of going for a job, will you?'

He shook his head dumbly while she searched the unit drawer for a tube of res-gel.

'I did forty years for PlanetScape.'

Fitz appeared shocked, but she ignored the reaction.

'You get to know who are the spies and who are the victims of misfortune.

Course, those on the blunt end, people like Jorgan who get the job of finding the truth, they don't know. . . What are you gawking at?'

'You don't look. . . ' he began, then stumbled over his words. 'I mean. . . you don't look. . . the military type.'

'That's why I left PlanetScape. That's why I retrained for a new career. The military experience is useful wherever you go, and of course the medicare credentials are useful. WorldCorp saw they could get two jobs done here for the price of one. Medicare's a bit of a non-job, to be honest. It's all med units these days. Not much of a challenge. Not much variety. Plug 'em in and let 'em cook.'

132.She began to apply the gel around his eyes and mouth, dabbing it with her fingertips into the small lesions.

'I wanted to be out on my own. That's what attracted me to this post. Thousands of miles of uncharted territory, and me alone with the sun coming up over an alien horizon. I always thought I'd buy me a plot and maybe help set up an avian reintroduction programme. Settle down somewhere with kids that I can show an open sky with birds wheeling around in it. Can you imagine that?'

He was nodding his head wistfully.

Throwing the gel back and closing the drawer, she frowned at the readings.

It wasn't good. Not at all. But he didn't have time to hang about. She switched off the machine and removed the cables, delving into her pocket for her keys, which she presented him.

'D'you think you can manage to walk on your own?'

He appeared shocked at the question, staring at the keys as if she'd offered him a poison chalice. 'Walk where?'

'Take my bug and get away.'

'Where to?'

'I don't know. Back to the city. See if you can find your friends, if they're still alive.'

'Still alive?' Now his eyes were full of panic. 'What d'you mean?'

She watched him with pity, amazed at his navete. His genuine, honest, complete and utter navete.

'They'll be sending troops,' she told him.

'Troops?' It was a yelp as if she'd kicked him unexpectedly on the shin.