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Oh, the Doctor was without doubt the most inspiring and intellectual person (she couldn't say 'man' because that implied human origins, and she knew that to be wrong) she was ever likely to meet. He was also the most insufferable. And he needed Liz as an assistant about as much as he needed a bullet through the head.

Hmmm. Sometimes that analogy had a certain appeal...

'Are you in some sort of pain, Doctor?' asked the Brigadier, popping his head round the door of the UNIT laboratory, an unaccustomed broad grin on his face.

The singing stopped abruptly. Liz wanted to point out, as brusquely as she dared, that her employer had just said exactly the wrong thing. She did not get the chance. Instead, the Doctor stopped what he was doing with a sigh. Liz was none too sure exactly what he was doing, but it looked complicated and tedious, and she had decided ten minutes earlier not to enquire - the Doctor could be very patronizing when he was irritable. And he was frequently irritable.

'Did you say something, Brigadier, or were you just releasing some of that pent-up hot air you keep in your breeches?'

The Brigadier crossed the lab, pointing with his favourite swagger-stick at the shell of the TARDIS, which was standing in the corner. 'Can't upset me today, Doctor. I've got my happy head on.'

The Doctor picked up his tools and turned back to the bench at which he was working. 'Oh, good.'

Liz decided some tact was called for. 'And why's that?'

The Brigadier turned to her and smiled. 'Because, Miss Shaw, today our C19 paymaster Sir John Sudbury is due here to tell us exactly how much money we're getting in this coming financial year.' He perched on the edge of a bench and leant forward conspiratorially. 'If we're really lucky, I might get a new captain out of it. Quite impressed with young Yates - fine officer material. Might even give you a pay rise.'

Liz laughed. 'Oh come on, I doubt the money gods are that kind.'

The Brigadier shrugged. 'Maybe not.' He nodded towards the Doctor, who was working feverishly as he quickly moved his equipment round, a soldering iron in one hand.

'And what exactly is he up to?'

Liz shook her head. 'I don't know. I came in this morning and he was seated exactly where I'd left him last night. I don't think he's slept a wink.'

The Doctor swivelled round, the hot soldering iron pointing at them like some kind of alien weapon. 'My dear Liz, sleep, as a wise man once said, is for tortoises. And if you must know, Lethbridge-Stewart, I'm actually obeying your orders for once.' He got up, placed the soldering iron on its rest and let his jeweller's eye-glass drop into his hand. 'As usual, the two of you have been so absorbed in chit-chat that you've failed to notice an important omission from this lab.' He had crossed the room and was standing face to face with the Brigadier. Taking the military officer's swagger-stick, he twirled it like a magician's wand and tapped the side of his head. 'Worked it out yet?'

Liz stared around for a moment and gasped. 'That TARDIS console. It's gone!'

The Doctor smiled at her. 'Well done, Liz. Top of the class.' He shot a look back at the Brigadier. 'At least someone round here can use their eyes.'

The Brigadier shrugged. 'So where is it?'

'Back in the TARDIS?' ventured Liz.

'Right again.'

'Pah,' snorted the Brigadier. 'How'd you get something that big through those tiny doors?' He pointed at the TARDIS as the Doctor leant against it.

'Elementary, my dear Alistair, quite elementary, you asked me to try and get the TARDIS working. Well, the console is back in there and I'm currently trying to restore functions to the dematerialization circuit. Satisfied?' He walked back to the bench, took off his smoking jacket and laid it over a stool. 'Now, I have work to do.' He gave the Brigadier a last look. 'Goodbye, Brigadier.'

The Brigadier stood. 'Yes, well... I suppose I've got to make sure everything's ready for Sir John and old Scobie.'

Liz smiled. She had a soft spot for Major-General Scobie. 'When's the general going to be here?'

The Brigadier looked at his watch. 'Sergeant Benton's collecting him from his home about now. Will you join us for lunch? Cold buffet, I'm afraid, but the best I can offer.'

Liz nodded. 'I'd be delighted.' She threw a look at the Doctor's back. 'That's if there's nothing for me to do here?'

Without looking up the Doctor grunted something about idle hands, finger buffets and military officers admiring pretty legs.

'I'll take that as a "no" then, shall I?' She turned back to the Brigadier. 'Twelve thirty?'

'On the nose, Miss Shaw, on the nose.' He gave a last look at the TARDIS. 'Through those doors? Pah. One day I'm going in there to see exactly what he's spending UNIT funds on.' Picking up his swagger-stick and flicking it under his arm, the Brigadier marched out.

Liz crossed to one of the lab's huge arched windows and stared down onto the canal below. It had stopped raining and the sun was just breaking through the clouds. A colourful narrow-boat was navigating the lock, a tan shire horse waiting on the towpath, given a brief respite from providing the barge's horse-power. The morning seemed to be getting better. Liz smiled; she liked sunny days.

Behind her a low moan went up. Or singing, depending on whose definition one accepted:

'Raindrops keep falling on my head...'

Liz threw a clipboard at him and stormed out of the lab.

---

Daylight. Can't be done in daylight.

Night. It has to be night, or someone might see, might try - no, will try - and stop me. Can't let that happen.

So cold. Why is it so cold? The sun is up. Bright sun but it seems... further away? No, must be an illusion. But the sky. Look at the sky. A haze. Dust and dirt between us and the blue sky.

Air is dirty. This world is polluted. Probably irreversibly. Why couldn't they look after it better?

Ridiculous fools. Pathetic idiotic primitives. Cretinous apes!

Once upon a time Jossey O'Grahame had been an actor. Once upon a time he had been Justin Grayson, star of stage, screen and radio. He had been there in the golden days of Ealing comedies, Lime Grove dramas and Riverside support features. He'd worked with Guinness, Richardson and Olivier in films during the fifties. He'd had to shoot a young Johnny Mills in 'Policeman's Lot', marry Jane Wyman in 'The Game's Up' and assault Trevithick in 'They Came from the Depths'. The sixties had been good to him, radio and television making the most of his talents.

'There's no higher responsibility than great potential,' his agent had once said. But then there'd been that scandal with the silly young model - he couldn't possibly think of her as an actress after he'd worked with the likes of Dora, Ashcroft and Neagle - in that aborted comedy film about the power crisis, 'Carry on Digging'. He'd been thrown off the Pinewood lot, his contract and reputation in tatters, and the production company had sued him for compensation over the scrapping of the film. And all because the little tart had written a stupid letter and taken too many sleeping pills.

The papers had proved to be fair-weather friends. Their coverage of the story had been relentless and unforgiving.

Eventually Jossey had 'retired' to the south coast and had spent eighteen months touring the holiday camps, bingo halls and small clubs, re-hashing old Galton and Simpson comedy material until finally he couldn't take it any more, and his bank manager couldn't take any more of him. He was bankrupted, washed up for good.

So here he was, living in the cheapest bed-and-breakfast he could find, leeching off charity and the public purse. With no future, every day became the same. He spent his few waking hours watching the waves spray against the rocks at the foot of the local lovers' leap, clutching a bottle of cheap whisky, and wondering over and over again whether he should take the plunge himself.

As he stared once again at the endless ebb and flow below, and listened to the screeching of the seagulls as they circled over the small town below the cliff, Jossey knew that he lacked the courage to jump. Besides, this place was a lovers' leap, and no one had ever loved him, nor him them, so what was the point? He tugged his worn overcoat around his thin frame; it was cold for late March, and the wind across the cliff-top was brisk and bitter. The half-empty bottle of whisky glinted at him, and he took another dram to keep out the cold, keep his spirits up. Something would happen to change all this, he was sure. His brief moment in the public eye wasn't over yet. One day, his name would be in the papers again.

There was a strange hissing sound. Had it been there a while, and he hadn't noticed it? It crossed his mind that there must be a car or motorbike parked behind him on the cliff-top, and one of the tyres had sprung a leak. Hefting himself around, he was intrigued to see nothing. No car, no bike, nothing hissing. The wind whipped through the thin grass around his bench, but this was a different sort of noise.

'Who's there?' he muttered.

No reply. He peered down towards the edge of the cliff Nothing. Maybe it was something to do with the old cottage a few hundred feet away, the one the hippies had taken over for midsummer a few years ago, when they released those pretty doves. Love, peace and harmony. Ha. No chance -

There it was again. Not really a hissing. It was more regular this time, like breathing. Perhaps someone else up from the town, then, come for a drink and a chat. The breathing of someone with a bronchial infection, too much smoking and drinking. He should know.

'Larry? Larry, is that you? Stop mucking about, would you?'

Then he saw it. And wanted to scream, but couldn't. All he could manage was a whimper as something caught all the noises in his throat and held them back. His eyes tried to take it in, tell his brain that it wasn't real. He gripped the bottle of whisky tighter, and something old and forgotten crawled into his mind.

---

Devilback! Run, run for my life. The Devilback is after me, they're all after me, yelling and screeching. Hissing and spitting, I can hear them... A net. I'm in a net, dragged backwards. Screaming. Mother. Father. Help me. No! No, don't let them touch me... don't let them take me back to the pen! I can't stand the pen. Left in the sun for days, no food or water, with my fur getting drier and mangier as the insects crawl all over it, in my eyes, ears and mouth. Can't get clean enough. No family. No friends. Just the growling of the Devilbacks. Must struggle, must get away from them must scream...

Jossey O'Grahame saw the vision of half-remembered terror bend towards him, wobbling its... its head?

PAIN! Overwhelming pain and heat swept over him as he felt his skin contract suddenly, growing too tight for his body. His mouth dried up, stalling a scream in his throat. His eyes hurt. His ears wanted to pop. The bottle in his hand grew hot suddenly, the whisky inside bubbling and steaming. He tried to let it drop but his hand seemed to be melted to it. With a frightening calmness, he knew that the pain in his chest meant that his heart had stopped working. He saw the face of his mother smiling. The bottle shattered, shredding his hand, spilling its boiling contents over his smouldering coat. He didn't notice.

And for a final flickering moment, Jossey knew for certain he'd never play Lear.

---

No! It can't be dead.

Only wanted to stop it making that awful noise apes always made. This one had that look in its eye - millions of years later and still they fear us. An adult, this one, surely, so why did it try to make a noise? Young hatchlings, yes, but adults? Pathetic creatures. Maybe Baal is right, the best way to deal with vermin is to destroy. But Sula doesn't agree, says we need their DNA to help us. Who's right?

Curse Sula. Curse Baal, too - he wants a hatchling, he should get it himself. Instead, this ape sees things it shouldn't and dies. The Apes always mourned their dead, so there will probably be a family of them here soon. Their telepathy is basic, mostly instinctive and empathic, but functional.

Nothing yet. Strange. Still, better hide. Yes, shelter - there.

I sense nothing alive in it. Safe. Now to wait until nightfall.

Liz's day was getting better.

First off, she'd gone hunting for some spares for the electron microscope she was trying to improve. If there was one thing she'd learned from working with the Doctor over the last few months, it was how to cannibalize various 'primitive' scientific devices and rebuild, modify and generally improve them.

Mister Campbell, the stores-manager, had been more than happy to delve into his darkest drawers and cupboards to find what she wanted and load it all into a cardboard box for her.

'Always willing to help a fellow inmate,' he laughed.

Liz smiled back, thanked him for his time and left with her box, trying to ignore the slight crawling of her skin that she always felt when talking to the Scotsman. His predilection for what he thought to be harmless flirting with the few female UNIT officers and staff was renowned throughout the building. Carol Bell had been the first to warn her about Campbell's 'charms'.

'He's all right if you just grit your teeth and smile. Anything more than that and he'll take it the wrong way.'

Maisie Hawke, UNIT's chief radio operator, had concurred. 'There's so few of us that he's starved for attention. We tried complaining to Jimmy Munro once but he said he couldn't do anything about it.'

That, Liz decided, was typical of Captain Munro,, who was now back in the regular army. Nice enough chap, but never one for confrontations or discipline.

It was on the way back from the stores that she'd thudded into a new young private, Boyle, who'd offered to take her box up to the lab.

'It's on the second floor,' she explained. 'Can you find it?'

Boyle had saluted in the way that all newcomers to UNIT did - a combination of eagerness to please anyone who might be an officer even if they weren't in uniform, and pleasure at seeing a young woman about the place and marched off with the box, muttering that he couldn't wait to introduce himself to the Doctor, about whom he'd heard so much.