Doctor Who_ Father Time - Lance Parkin [38]
The Prefect took a smaller pistol and a shoulder holster – the Deputy helped him strap it on, then passed him his greatcoat and gloves.
They each took a mindeater, in case they needed to extract further information from the populace.
The Prefect drew his knife, held it up.
‘Tonight,’ he vowed.
* * *
The Doctor tapped another combination into the door controls. Once again, it squawked back at him, but the door didn’t open.
‘How many potential combinations are there?’ Debbie asked.
He sighed. ‘I thought you were a teacher. Each digit can be one of ten, there are eight digits. Ten times ten times ten times ten times ten times ten times ten times ten. One hundred million combinations. Who knows? I may live long enough to try them all.’
Squawk.
‘You’ve really been alive for the whole twentieth century.’ Debbie didn’t doubt it any more. It seemed straightforward compared with the rest of her day.
Squawk.
‘Yes.’
‘That is so... incredible,’ Debbie told him. ‘Where were you when Kennedy died?’
‘Pardon?’
‘President Kennedy – 1963. I was eight, and it was snowing, and the radio was on.’
Squawk.
‘I didn’t know he was dead,’ the Doctor admitted. ‘I spent most of the sixties and seventies travelling.’
Debbie wasn’t sure whether he was joking. ‘So where were you on the twenty-eighth of May 1976?’
‘An odd date to pick.’
Squawk.
‘My wedding day,’ Debbie said. ‘It seemed like the best day of my life at the time. It seemed like everything was going to work out.’
The Doctor stopped what he was doing and grinned to himself. ‘I was in England. Spending some time with a... friend. A young widow named Claudia.’
Debbie looked away. ‘So, what do you know about yourself?’ she asked him, changing the subject, half hoping that the mindeater had shaken a few of his memories to the surface. ‘Before you woke up on that train? Anything at all?’
‘Nothing,’ the Doctor said, frowning as the door squawked at him again. ‘There was the police box... well, it didn’t look like a police box then, that’s a more recent development. I’ve really no idea what’s going on with that, but I wish it would hurry up. And there was a note.’
Squawk.
‘A note?’
‘Yes. Yellow paper, of a type common in this century. Handwritten, but not by me. “Meet me in St Louis’, February 8th 2001. Fitz.” If it was meant to be helpful it’s been more than a little counterproductive.’
Squawk.
‘Someone arranged to meet you, but gave you over a hundred years’ notice?’
‘Yes. Perhaps this Fitz thought it would take me a hundred years to work out what on Earth he was talking about. He may well be right. It’s already the nineteen eighties and I’m no nearer. A phone number would have been nice.’
‘How do you know it’s a “he”?’
‘I don’t. In fact, one graphologist I showed it to says it’s a woman’s handwriting.’
‘Isn’t there a place in America called –’
Squawk.
‘Yes,’ the Doctor said wearily. ‘In Missouri. I’ve been there. I’ve been there three times, in three different decades, looking for some hint. The note says “St Louis’” anyway. I’ve also looked for as many people called Fitz as I could. I’ve tried to work out the significance of the date February the eighth. Once fingerprinting had been developed I checked for fingerprints, but only found mine. I once spent two years trying to see if it was in code or there was some hidden meaning in there.’
Squawk.
‘You must have come to some conclusions.’
‘I’m trying not to. I don’t have enough evidence.’
Squawk.
‘But you must have some guesses.’
The Doctor didn’t tear himself away from the door control. ‘If Fitz put that note in my pocket, inviting me to meet him over a century later, then Fitz is obviously an immortal like me. A product of the same experiment, or bloodline, or evolutionary breakthrough or... well, I suppose, the same sort of alien.’
‘And Miranda is, too?’
Squawk.
‘Yes. She must be. Two hearts, a lower body temperature. Like me. She’s the only other person I’ve ever met like that. But she’s ageing at a normal rate, her parents, or at