Doctor Who_ Interference_ Book Two - Lawrence Miles [97]
‘What about all the others?’ asked Sarah. ‘They’re all priests as well?’
‘Mmm,’ said I.M. Foreman, in a noncommittal kind of way.
‘So where are you heading?’
‘Outward. Following the spiral of this galaxy. Taking in as much as we can on the way. We started on Gallifrey, which is about as close to galactic centre as you can get. This is as far as we’ve come.’
If the Doctor had looked surprised before, now he seemed entirely lost for words. ‘But this planet’s on the edge of the galaxy,’ he pointed out.
‘I know,’ I.M. Foreman agreed. ‘Long trip.’
There was silence then, apart from the tick-tock‐tick-tock of the invisible clock. The Doctor started pacing the floor, somehow not treading on any of the assembled bric-a‐brac as he went. Meanwhile, Sarah found herself wondering what might be happening outside. How many of the locals might be getting themselves killed out there.
Didn’t the Doctor care? Or was she failing to see the bigger picture here?
In the end, the Doctor stopped in his tracks, and faced I.M. Foreman again. All the indignation, all the snootiness, had been sucked out of his face by now. He looked earnest. Serious.
‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why do it? Why come all this way?’
‘You’re a renegade, too,’ the blind man said. ‘Why do you do it?’
Sarah found herself turning her head to and fro to follow the conversation. It was like watching a special eccentric scientists’ day at Wimbledon. ‘There are times when a little intervention is necessary,’ the Doctor declared.
I.M. Foreman nodded. ‘Well, then. We’re agreed on something. We’re essentially doing the same job.’
‘You’re running a travelling show,’ the Doctor protested.
‘So I am. What’s the matter? You don’t think that’s a worthwhile occupation?’
The Doctor didn’t reply. His face was saying no in big fat wrinkly letters, though.
I.M. Foreman stood, and for a moment Sarah thought he was going to reach for another bottle of time, but it turned out that he just wanted a good stretch. Standing there in his own home, with his funny clothes and his funny props, he seemed almost human. ‘You know the way the order works,’ he said. ‘You know what we believe in. No direct action. Remember the story about the goose in the bottle.’
Sarah had no idea what that was supposed to mean, but the Doctor clearly got the point. He lowered his eyes.
‘We demonstrate,’ I.M. Foreman continued. ‘We show our audiences how far they can go. What one species is capable of. We let them see things they always thought were impossible, or unlikely, or just plain ridiculous, and we let them work out the rest for themselves. They never forget what they see in the travelling show. And that makes them stronger. Stronger human beings, or stronger Kalekani, or stronger Martians.’ Sarah saw the corners of his mouth twitch. ‘Mars was always my favourite planet. Never been sure why.’
‘There’s a time for direct action,’ said the Doctor, keeping his voice as low as Sarah had ever heard it.
But I.M. Foreman just shrugged. ‘Possibly. It’s not my place to say. It’s not my job to fight people’s wars for them. All the show does is remind people of their potential. The rest is up to them. It’s the way of the order.’
‘Yes,’ muttered the Doctor. ‘Yes, it was. I remember.’
‘Besides, it’s the kind of interference the High Council never notices,’ I.M. Foreman concluded. He stretched again as he said it, very nearly knocking over two bookshelves and a stuffed beaver in the process. ‘The Time Lords only look for the big things. Explosions. Invasions. Signs of large-scale intervention. Meanwhile, we specialise in changing the little things. Saving souls one at a time. Well, one audience at a time.’
‘But there’s a problem, isn’t there?