'If you care to think so, Doctor.'
'What else can I possibly think? Who else but the Agency would be unscrupulous enough to employ a condemned criminal like me to do their dirty work?'
The insult left Sardon completely unperturbed. 'You are free to draw your own conclusions, Doctor.'
'And what are these missions?'
'I should be happy to brief you on the first once you have assented to my general proposition.'
The Doctor considered for a moment. 'I think I can do that provided that you assent to certain conditions of mine.'
'Doctor, you are scarcely in a position to make terms '
'Oh, but I think I am,' interrupted the Doctor. 'You would never even have considered a scheme such as this unless you were desperate. That means you need me just as much as I need you. Possibly more.'
'There are others we can employ.'
'With my talents and qualifications? I doubt it.'
'You're very confident.'
'I'm a genius,' said the Doctor, simply.
It was Sardon's turn to consider. After a moment he said, 'And your conditions?'
'I risked my life and sacrificed my liberty to ensure that the kidnapped soldiers on the War Games planet were returned to their proper places and times. I should like to assure myself that this has been done.'
'You have the word of the High Council. Indeed, I can vouch for the fact that all the transfers were successfully carried out. I was one of those who supervised the whole operation, and I can give you my personal assurance...'
'Quite,' said the Doctor. 'I should very much prefer the evidence of my own eyes.'
'What exactly do you want?'
'To be returned to one of the Earth time zones in question a zone of my my choosing so that I can satisfy myself that all is well. Once I have done so then I'm at your service! choosing so that I can satisfy myself that all is well. Once I have done so then I'm at your service!
Refuse my request and the deal is off.'
Sardon gazed thoughtfully at him, trying to measure the strength of the Doctor's determination. Was he bluffing?
Sardon sensed he was not. There was a core of steel beneath that unassuming exterior.
Irritated, he considered abandoning the whole operation.
But the Doctor was right. At this crucial stage he would be difficult to replace. It was, after all, a case of setting a thief to catch a thief...
'Well?' said the Doctor. 'What do you say?'
Sardon had the authority to agree at once, but he decided to make the Doctor sweat a little longer. There was still a chance he might crack, abandon his demands and plead for his life. Sardon temporised.
'The decision is not mine to make, Doctor. I must consult with my colleagues. If they consent, I shall return to make the necessary arrangements.'
'And if they refuse?'
'Then you revert to your original status as a prisoner under sentence of death. Your fate will no longer be my concern.'
Sardon rose and moved towards the door. 'We shall meet again shortly, Doctor. Or not, as the case may be.'
It was the summer of 1794 and Napoleon Bonaparte, newly appointed General of Artillery to the Army of Italy, was striding through the sun-baked streets of Nice. He was an unimpressive figure, thin and short, his hair lank and uncared for, his uniform worn and shabby.
He crossed the Place Dominique, newly re-named Place d'egalite, looking up at the gang of workmen busily erecting a guillotine. A little crowd of soldiers stood around its base.
Some of them saluted him, some did not. Napoleon gave them one swift glance and marched on. They were typical of the soldiers he had to work with, the army that was to invade Italy. Shabby, half-starved, long unpaid, and, not unnaturally, on the verge of mutiny.
But he would make something of them. All his life he had faced difficulty and danger, always escaping death and achieving success. Something watched over him. Was he not, after all, a man of destiny?
On a sudden impulse he turned back. 'Soldiers!' he cried.
'Gather round!'
Sluggishly they obeyed, staring curiously at the shabby little general with the dark face and burning eyes. 'Soldiers!'
cried Napoleon again. 'You are naked, starving. The state owes you much it can give you nothing. I shall lead you into the most fertile plains on Earth. Rich provinces, great cities will be at your disposal. There you will find honour, glory and riches. Soldiers of Italy, will you be wanting in courage?'
There was an astonished silence, then a ragged cheer.
Satisfied with his experiment, Napoleon moved on. He would parade the whole army, regiment by regiment, and deliver the same speech. Of course, it still needed work...
He walked on past the port to his lodgings, several rooms in a fine house in the Rue Villefranche, in the east of town. As he entered the hall, a portly, grey-haired man came forward to greet him. This was the former Count Laurenti, owner of the house, a minor aristocrat whose new-found revolutionary enthusiasm, and co-operation with the revolutionary authorities, had, so far, kept his head on his shoulders.
'News from Paris, General Bonaparte,' said Laurenti excitedly. 'Citizen Robespierre has been executed!'
Napoleon froze for a moment, his eyes flashing. 'You are sure?'
'Positive. Arrested one day, beheaded the next. I had the news from Junot, your aide. He called here to tell you.'
Napoleon didn't speak.
'Perhaps the worst of the Terror is over with Robespierre gone,' whispered Laurenti. 'They will dismantle the guillotine, release the political prisoners.'
'Perhaps,' said Napoleon, and he went up the ornate marble staircase to his room. He flung open the window and stared out at the port. It nestled in a little cove and there were fishing boats drawn up on the beach. It reminded him a little of the Corsican coast of his childhood.
Robespierre, the great Robespierre, dead! Truly, the Revolution was devouring its children. The question was, who was next? Even in the Army, political influence was a necessity these days. In Paris, Napoleon had been one of Robespierre's proteges, and his rapid promotion had made him enemies. This could be their chance. There was nothing to be done, he decided. He turned away and sat at the table, plunging into the mass of paperwork that awaited him.
Some time later he was disturbed by angry voices from the front door. There were footsteps approaching his room, followed by a thunderous knocking at the door. 'Yes?'
The door opened to reveal two gendarmes, an agitated Laurenti behind them.
'Citizen-General Bonaparte,' said one of the gendarmes.
'You are under arrest!'
'On what charge?'
'Treason against the Republic. We have orders to take you to the prison at Fort Carre in Antibes.'
'This is abominable,' spluttered Laurenti. 'The Republic has no more loyal citizen than General Bonaparte. I shall organise a petition...'
Bonaparte held up his hand, silencing Laurenti's protests.
'You have a warrant?'
One of the gendarmes produced a document. 'Here, Citizen-General. Signed by Representative Saliceti.'
He handed over the document. Napoleon studied it.
It was just as he had feared. Saliceti had always hated him. Robespierre's disgrace and death meant that Napoleon's main source of political protection in Paris was no more. Saliceti had seized his opportunity, trumping up these charges of treason. They were false, of course but many a head had rolled because of faked charges. There was nothing like a revolution for conveniently disposing of your foes.
Napoleon decided to bide his time. Just as he had enemies, he had friends who would work for his release.
He handed back the warrant. 'Very well. I will come.'
The door to the Doctor's luxurious oubliette opened, revealing the ornately uniformed form of a captain of the Capitol Guard. Behind him in the wide corridor were a couple of guardsmen armed, the Doctor noticed, with staser-rifles.
Apparently it was to be execution after all.
The Doctor sighed and rose to his feet. 'I take it my request failed to meet with approval?' Before the captain could reply he went on, 'I don't call this much of a ceremony.
Couldn't you run to a full-scale firing squad? I was once a member of the High Council, you know. I might even have been in line for President! Surely I deserve a better send-off than this?'
Sardon appeared from behind the guards. 'Your request certainly failed to meet with approval, Doctor. Do you wish to withdraw your demands and accept your mission? It's your last chance to live.'
The Doctor's mind was racing. Was Sardon bluffing? On the whole, the Doctor thought he was. But should he bet his life on being right?
'You're lying,' he said. 'If my request had been refused, you wouldn't be here. Unless you have a morbid taste for executions, of course. So what are are you doing here?' you doing here?'
Sardon sighed. 'You win, Doctor though I wasn't exactly lying. Your request certainly wasn't approved of however, it was was granted. I am here to escort you to Temporal Dispatch.' granted. I am here to escort you to Temporal Dispatch.'
The Doctor waved towards the guards. 'Then why...?'
'You have proved to be a somewhat elusive character in the past. We don't want you to disappear en route, do we?'
'You think I'd try to escape?' said the Doctor indignantly.
'Nonsense, I never thought of such a thing! Where would I go?'
'To take refuge with some of your disreputable Shobogan friends, perhaps?'
The Doctor, who had been contemplating just such a plan, smiled wryly and said nothing.
'Come along, Doctor,' said Sardon. The Doctor came.
He was marched along endless Capitol corridors to a concealed lift, which carried the Doctor and his escort deep under ground. They emerged into an area humming with machinery and walked between banks of consoles to a high-ceilinged, bare chamber.
Two Time Lords were waiting, one ancient and emaciated, the other sleek and plump. A complex control console lined one wall, attended by a technician.
'My colleagues,' said Sardon. 'Gentlemen, this is the Doctor.'
'Let's get this nonsense over with,' said the ancient Time Lord querulously.
He nodded to the technician, who busied himself at the console controls.
'Extend your right arm, Doctor,' said the second Time Lord.
The Doctor obeyed. There was a tingling sensation in his right wrist and a silver bracelet formed around it. The Doctor examined it. 'What the devil is this?'
'That, Doctor, is a Time Ring,' said the ancient Time Lord.
'The technology, perhaps, is new to you.'
The Doctor tugged at the bracelet. There was, he noticed, no obvious point of closure. The thing appeared to have sealed itself.
'It cannot be removed,' said the sleek Time Lord. 'At least, not by you.'