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"Maybe if I bandage the wound, or put stitches in it, or something,"

Steven muttered, "it might help." Carefully he pulled at the tacky fabric of Marlowe's shirt, peeling it away from his body until the torn skin was revealed. He winced. Tomasso Nicolotti had twisted the blade viciously in Marlowe's stomach, turning a simple slash into a gaping hole through which he could see the taut membranes of Marlowe's guts and –

And a flash of red-slicked silver. Steven bent closer to look.

Gingerly he pushed at a fold of intestine with his forefinger, moving it out of the way. Behind it was a smooth metal object with patterns incised into its surface, part of a larger device apparently hidden within Marlowe's lower chest.

"Well, I guess you didn't escape from the aliens at that colony after all," he murmured. "They've put something inside you."

"If my body fascinates you that much," Marlowe whispered, his eyes still closed, "then I pray you undress me further."

"Don't you ever give up?" Steven snapped.

The ghost of a smile fluttered around Marlowe's lips. "Indulge the last wish of a dying man," he mouthed. "Kiss me, Steven."

"Well," Braxiatel said, clapping his hands together, "shall we repair to the refectory for drinks?" He collapsed the image field with a quick motion of his hand and, glancing over towards one of the Jamarians, he snapped his fingers. "Tzorogol! Take a party outside and bring the locals in. Try not to panic them. We'll need to do a full medical scan, so alert the infirmary. Oh, and you'd better split the group into three and keep them apart, just in case the Doctor is right."

"Yes, Braxiatel," the Jamarian said as Braxiatel looked away.

There was something about the tone of its voice that made him look back, an underlying sense of repressed anger and barely concealed hatred, but there was nothing on its face to suggest there was anything wrong.

Somewhere overhead, up in the cloud-enshrouded heights of the Great Hall, he could hear the distant sound of wings. Either one of the envoys in the Armageddon Convention was taking a comfort break or a pigeon had got in, and if it was a pigeon then he would have to have it removed before it defecated on the marble. There was always something going on that he had to deal with, and all he had to work with was the Jamarians. "Are you sure you can manage to remember those orders?" he asked Tzorogol, "or would you like me to repeat them for you?"

Tzorogol didn't answer for a moment. Its small, red eyes glared at Braxiatel with almost physical force. He had to keep reminding himself that it was part of the Jamarian's physiology: they couldn't help looking like that. It wasn't as if Jamarians meant to be threatening.

"Yes," Tzorogol barked finally, "I can remember. I can remember very well."

The flutter of wings suddenly intensified, and a great shadow fell over them all as Envoy Albrellian settled dramatically where the image field had been. He was carrying Vicki in his claws, and as soon as her feet touched the ground she ran to the Doctor's side.

Braxiatel was less concerned with their fond greetings than he was with the envoy's actions. "Albrellian," he snapped, "you've gone too far this time - kidnapping one of the Doctor's companions. Action will have to be taken."

"Too much action around here already going on there is,"

Albrellian said, glancing over at where Tzorogol still stood. "What your precious Jamarians are doing, know do you, Braxiatel? Our ships up on the moon gutting are they, the weapons out of them stripping are they! Stripping all the ships parked on the moon would not be surprised to learn I."

"They're what?" Braxiatel exploded. "But that's -"

"Absolutely true," Vicki said from the shelter of the Doctor's arm.

She gazed at Braxiatel sadly. "I'm sorry, but it's all absolutely true.

I saw it, and I heard them talking about it. Albrellian and I have just come back in a skiff." She shot the arthropod a nasty glance.

"Albrellian