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He leaned over Martha and stroked her forehead with the backs of his fingers. She flinched, her body arched up from the bed, and then collapsed back.

‘What medication have you given her?’ he asked Sam without looking up.

‘Antipyretics to bring her fever down and some broad-spectrum an-tibiotics to help counter any infection.’ He didn’t sound hopeful.

The Doctor leaned back and looked up at the display above Martha’s bed. For a few moments, he scanned it, taking in all the readings.

There was something he was missing, he felt sure of it. Something not quite right. . .

‘It’s not an infection,’ he said suddenly, more to himself than to Sam.

‘It’s not?’

He shook his head.

‘It’s an allergic reaction – look at those readings. What are her histamine levels?’

Sam fumbled about with the clipboard for a moment.

‘You’re right,’ he said, almost disbelievingly. ‘And it’s on a massive scale!’

‘She’s close to anaphylactic shock – we need adrenaline or epinephrine or whatever you’re calling it these days.’

‘I’m on it.’

Sam rushed off to get the drug whilst the Doctor continued to calm Martha down.

‘Don’t you worry, Martha Jones,’ he whispered. ‘We’re going to pull you through this. And then we’re going to Tiffany’s for that breakfast I promised you. And you know how seriously I take promises.’

He tried to sound positive, knowing that somewhere under the fever Martha would be hearing his words. She seemed to relax for a few moments and her eyes opened blearily. There was no sign of her brown irises, just black holes sunk into the dull green of her corneas.

‘Martha,’ whispered the Doctor, ‘can you hear me?’

She gave a little, moan and stared at him with those cold, alien eyes.

‘Too dry,’ she murmured.

‘What is?’ ‘Too dry,’ she repeated, as if she hadn’t heard him. ‘Must go back. . .

back to the water. . . Must go. . . ’

She closed her eyes and sank back into the damp pillow.

‘Why?’ urged the Doctor. ‘Why have you got to go?’

But Martha didn’t answer. She just moaned quietly, flexing her wrists against the straps.

‘Here we are,’ said Sam suddenly, gently elbowing the Doctor out of the way. In his hand he held a syringe. The Doctor could only hope that, although the adrenaline might reduce Martha’s body’s response to whatever was inside her, it wouldn’t get rid of it.

‘It might take a while to kick in,’ Sam said, stepping back from the bed.

The Doctor nodded and squeezed Martha’s hand, his eyes scanning the monitor. But even as he watched, he could see that the adrenaline was working. Martha’s breathing became less laboured, less painful.

He watched her for a few minutes. There was nothing more he could do for her now that the drug was starting to work – but there was something he had to find out.

‘Take care of her,’ he said to Sam. ‘let me know when she comes round.’

And with a last look back at his friend, the Doctor headed for the zoo lab.

Unfortunately, before he could get down to the work of examining the new otter, the Doctor discovered that he had another problem to deal with.

Making his way across the square, he saw an officious little figure come bustling out of the Council building towards him. He really didn’t have time for Pallister.

But Pallister was not in the mood to be ignored.

‘Doctor!’ he called across the square. The Doctor pretended he hadn’t seen or heard him, and carried on walking. But Pallister sped up.

‘Doctor,’ he said from too close for the Doctor to carry on his act.

He spun round and smiled brightly. It often disarmed people, he thought – although one look at Pallister’s grim face suggested that this wasn’t going to be one of those occasions.

‘Ahh,’ he said. ‘Mr Lassiter.’

‘Pallister,’ the man corrected him, and the Doctor saw the angry twitch of a muscle at the corner of the Chief Councillor’s mouth.

‘How can I help you? I’m rather busy at the moment.’

‘There’s a Council meeting this evening,’ Pallister said, clasping his hands together. ‘I’d like to know what