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The lounge was full of ancient furniture, all of it in perfect repair. There was a mantelpiece with a bronze Buddha and a bowl of apples. The Doctor hovered over to the fireplace, turning 145

so he would face his visitors as they sat on the sofa. A glass of wine stood on a round wooden table beside him.

‘The Martians own Earth?’ said Simon. Genevieve put a hand on his arm as she sat down. After a moment he sat next to her. A cat rubbed itself against his legs, startling him.

The wrinkles around the Doctor’s eyes multiplied as he smiled.

‘I do wish you’d close your mouth, young man. Sitting there with your mouth open makes you look like a fish.’ Simon obliged. ‘Of course the Martians own Earth, we surrendered in 2010, or rather I surrendered on Earth’s behalf. Thoroughly decent chaps, the Ice Warriors, once you get to know them.’

The Doctor picked up his wineglass, sipped once and put it down. ‘We came to a quite amicable agreement, technology transfers, that sort of thing. There was a joint effort to revivify Mars. They went out to conquer the stars and the human race stayed here and had a good time. Worked out rather well, even if I do say so myself.’

‘What about the Empire?’ said Genevieve.

‘The Martians look after all that sort of thing, fighting off the Daleks and the Rutans and organizing all the paperwork. The Earth hasn’t been invaded in centuries.’

‘But it’s ruled by the Martians,’ insisted Genevieve.

‘Oh, human beings and Earth Reptiles take care of their own affairs. Isn’t that right, Takmar?’

Genevieve and Simon spun, but there was no one standing behind the sofa. The Doctor went on, ‘This little world would be far worse off without their expertise. A little ecology, a little technology.’ He nodded to his invisible scaly friend. ‘Some planets set aside areas as nature reserves, but Earth is a nature reserve. Earthlings quietly integrated into its ecology, living and working side by side.’

‘It sounds very restful,’ said Genevieve. She’d obviously decided to humour the old man, hoping he’d drop some useful information into the conversation. ‘Utopian.’

‘I’m very pleased with it,’ said the Doctor.

Simon asked, ‘Don’t you get bored?’

‘The thing about war, young man,’ said the Doctor, ‘is that the initial excitement of being terrified out of your wits while trying 146

to kill other people who are terrified out of their wits eventually wears off. War is not only hell, it’s utterly tedious. There comes a time when it becomes so tedious you look for something else to do with your time. Tea, for example. Come and take a look at the kitchen.’

‘Yes, please,’ said Genevieve.

Simon followed Genevieve as she followed the Doctor into the kitchen. The wheelchair murmured as it moved over carpet and wood. Simon had the annoying impression that she was dealing with the situation better than he was. Maybe she just gave the impression of dealing with it. She reminded him of women from sims about the Court, people who were like ducks – smooth and effortless on the surface, paddling like mad underneath. He thought of the Firefly. Whoever this woman was, penniless ex-student terrorist she wasn’t.

The kitchen was full of gadgets, every centimetre of counter space taken up with streamlined equipment or chuffing, clockwork-and-steam devices. Simon puzzled out the beer brewer and the breadmaker, and an Earth Reptile version of a Tisanesmade, with big buttons for operation by claw.

The Doctor tapped the arm of his wheelchair. A small control panel unfolded outward, and he used it to adjust the height of the chair until he could comfortably reach the Tisanesmade. He opened an old glass jar and shovelled fresh leaves into a hatch in the side of the machine. The kitten, its sleep disturbed, yawned pinkly and hopped down.

‘Yes,’ he continued, ‘the human race eventually got bored with killing, and got on with the sorts of things it’s much better at.

Cooking, for example.’

‘Cooking?’ prompted Genevieve. The Tisanesmade was making odd noises, as though