Doctor Who_ Prime Time - Mike Tucker [10]
The robocabbie swivelled to look at him.
‘WHERE TO, SIR?’
‘The Channel 400 building please.’
The cab roared off into the air in a cloud of spray. Greg Ashby watched it vanish into the streams of airborne traffic.
‘Damn.’
He sprinted over to a shopfront and slumped against the glass. For a moment he considered hailing another hovercab and giving chase. He grinned. The idea of jumping into it and shouting ‘Follow that car!’ quite appealed.
He stuck his head out into the rain, letting the water splash on to his face, clearing his head. There was no way he was going to catch the Doctor now.
Suddenly his eyes snapped open.
The girl! The Doctor wouldn’t abandon the girl. He was bound to be back for her, his biograph confirmed that.
A huge grin spreading across his face, Greg began to saunter back towards the cafe.
Chapter Three
Albee Greeth had lived on Blinni-Gaar all his life. Never even visited another planet until three moons ago. His father had been a farmer, as had his grandfather and his great-grandfather. If he had searched he was sure that his entire family would have been farmers, right back to the First Harvest, but Albee had always had talents in other areas.
From his earliest memory he had been interested in music, in sound, without the slightest interest in crops or cereal processing. His father and brothers had tried to pressure him into joining the family business, he remembered that, but his mother had always stood by him, encouraged him, sending him to boretha lessons when he was old enough, buying him Blinnati classical opera for his event-days.
Now he was an accomplished boretha soloist and owned a successful chain of music shops, not just here on Blinni-Gaar but throughout the system. Last month he had even begun preparations to start his own record label. Not bad for a farmer’s son who no one thought had the business acumen to succeed.
His largest shop was here in Blinni Prime: the Albee Megastore. Here he had even negotiated a deal to sell vidcubes of Channel 400 programmes. He was due to have Roderik Saarl here-next month, gene-stamping copies of his latest release.
Albee puffed himself up, glowing with pride, then he glanced over at the doorway again.
The hooded figures had been lurking there for nearly an hour now. At first Albee had thought that they were just ducking out of the rain, but they seemed to have settled in more permanently than he would have liked.
He frowned. They were putting off customers. He peered around the shop. Usually a wet afternoon would have filled the premises to bursting point, but at the moment he had no more than a dozen people in the entire store.
He felt a sudden surge of panic. If any if these customers were Channel 400 people checking out his premises...
Albee was not a man prone to confrontation, but the next few days were important to him and the thought of these delinquents coming back on the day that Saarl was due made him bold.
Straightening his tie, he locked the till with the biochip in his wrist, strode across the store and stepped out into the rain.
He cleared his throat. ‘Excuse me.’
One of the hooded figures twitched its head in his direction, then turned back to the street. ‘
Albee frowned. He didn’t like being ignored. He another of the figures on the shoulder. ‘I said, excuse me.’
The next few seconds were a blur. The breath was punched from his body and suddenly Albee found himself pinned against the wall of his shop. Sharp claws bit into his shoulder and a cowled face suddenly loomed close to his own.
Albee’s breath caught in his throat as the light from the shop window illuminated the face under the cowl. Savage vulpine features leant in close. Gleaming eyes blazing with malice glared at him from under a pitted, sloping brow. The creature’s mouth slowly opened revealing rows of viciously pointed teeth
Albee tried to make some sound but his throat was dry.
The creature peered at him, its eyes narrowing. Albee got the distinct impression it was trying to decide what he tasted like. A purple