"Another cave-in! What a great day I'm having!"
Like the rest of the Slough, most of Deet's original sewer system flooded after the earthquakes. During Danner's early days in the city, he had memorized most of what remained viable, a rat's warren of dank, twisty tunnels, no few of them dangerous in the extreme. Some had been old when Danner was truly young and these, unsurprisingly, were now in the worst shape.
Lifting the lamp, Danner glared at the unexpected barrier of earth and stone. This was taking much too long. They had been slogging around these tunnels for hours. He was already late for his appointment at Blalock's - which meant that his potential client was either rotting in the B.C. detention center by now, or cursing him from some dark alley.
"I don't suppose your magic thingie could fix this?"
The Doctor splashed up behind him and considered the problem. "Maybe, but I wouldn't want to risk it. The roof is too unstable."
Danner followed his companion's gaze and saw a deep fissure running through the tunnel overhead. "You're right. Backtrack."
"Maybe the loonies have given up?"
"Doc, loonies don't give up. That's their charm. They get an idea in their steamy little brains and never let it go. Believe me - they will sit there, waiting for us to come up, until they die of starvation or something else comes along to distract them. In the Slough, there isn't much that's going to do that. Don't worry about your machine. If they can't eat it, it's safe. And anyway, it's not like you could go anywhere if we did go back, is it? You need a diamond."
"True," sighed the Time Lord.
"Which is going to be almost as easy
to find in Old Town as a pretty girl." Danner added under his breath.
He turned around, pushing past the Doctor, and started back toward the junction.
"Come on. I can at least put you in touch with someone who has connections in City Center. They probably have diamonds there. Rich people like pretty rocks."
Diamonds. Time machines.
Why the hell was he buying any of this? Aliens with British
accents? The "wrong" future? Bah.
But he was buying it. There was something about the Doctor that made Danner want to believe him. It rode roughshod over decades of ingrained suspicion and mistrust. Maybe it was the man's obvious sincerity. Maybe it was his wide, ingenuous gaze and ready smile.
Maybe it was twenty-four hours without food or sleep.
Another wave of weakness made Danner's steps falter. He reached out to steady himself against the tunnel wall. His palm slid wildly across the slick, sloping surface, and it was the Doctor's firm hand that kept him on his feet.
"We should stop and rest," the Time Lord said, concerned. "Accelerated healing is all very well, but when I found you at first, I thought you were dead."
"I just need something eat. Your candy did the trick for a while, but even blackstones require fuel."
"You amaze me. Very well. Do you have any idea where we are?"
"Under the Fringe, by now, I'd guess - about a mile and a half from Old Town."
"The Fringe?"
"There's City Center, where the money
lives. Then we have Old Town, home of poor, ordinary Norms, and finally
the parts if Deet where nobody wants to be -- the scenic Slough, which
you've already seen, and the Fringe . . . " Danner kicked at a rat,
sending it squeaking off into the darkness." "Fifteen miles of urban
wasteland. Low property taxes and lots of room
to stretch."
Ahead, the tunnels split into three directions. The leftmost passage ultimately ended in a cave-in, too, but halfway along there had once been a narrow opening leading up into an old office building. If he remembered correctly.
It was still there. Feeling a little cheerier, Danner pointed it out to the Time Lord. The Doctor eyed the narrow crevice without confidence.
"The first part's the worst," the
blackstone reassured him.
"Once past that, it's easy."
"If you say so," the Doctor replied, unconvinced.
It was a tighter squeeze than the
blackstone remembered, but he quickly wriggled through the broken subfloor.
While the Doctor was squirming up after him, the blackstone held his
lamp aloft and had a look around.
A leviathan of a furnace dominated most of the basement, heating ducts reaching out in all directions. Old file cabinets leaned against the south wall, drawers pulled out by a long-dead looter, their contents in rotting heaps on the floor. There were broken bits of office furniture, cardboard file boxes gone to sludge. Cobwebs were thick in the rafters.
The service stair was still intact, although the bolts that held it in place were all but rusted away. Each step set the entire construction to wobbling and swaying in a very nerve-racking fashion. At the top, he motioned for the Doctor to wait, and set his ear against the fire door. Nothing. He pushed it, wincing at the hideous screech of rusted hinges.
Gray daylight filled an old lobby. Paneling leaned away from walls of concrete block, or lay on the floor. Papers, cans and bottles were strewn everywhere. There had been a long facade of windows in the building's heyday. All that remained was bent steel framing and shards of glass glittering on the pavement outside.
"From now on, Doctor, you'd better stick close and be ready to move. We're pretty close to Old Town."
The Time Lord nodded absently, stunned gaze traveling around the wreckage. Danner bent and rummaged through his pack. His broad-brimmed, felt hat was smashed down near the bottom. He took it out, knocked it back into shape and pulled it down over his forehead. Sliding his knife into his boot, he gave the gun against his ribs a pat. Then he stepped out into the street.
There was no sign of Norms. This portion of the Fringe was still too close to the Slough for their taste. Empty windows stared sightlessly from crumbling buildings lining the street. No movement anywhere. He turned and beckoned.
The Doctor came warily into the open. His hands were thrust into his pockets, shoulders hunched, face grim. The wind ruffled his red-gold hair. Absently, he flicked a lock of it out of his eyes, his gaze traveling slowly over the desolation. "Rassilon. What a mess!"
"Ah! A gift for understatement. Uh-oh!"
Weakness assailed Danner once again. His legs betrayed him and he crumpled to his knees on the sidewalk. It was getting worse.
"That's it, " The Doctor advanced on him purposefully. "You have some shelter around here, don't you?"
Danner nodded, waiting for the world to stop spinning. He was more than a little worried himself. It was true he had not eaten for over a day, but there had been plenty of times in his life when the intervals between meals had been much, much longer. "I'll be all right," he replied thickly. "Just need -- a minute."
The Doctor pulled him to his feet. The universe wobbled again at the sudden change of position. Danner stood perfectly still in the Time Lord's grasp until the debilitating moment passed.
"I'm OK now," he lied, pushing away, "let's go."
"You need food and rest." The Doctor did not move. "Where is this hidey-hole of yours?"
"I've got something I have to do first . . . "
"No, you don't. Which direction?"
Alternately coaxing and bullying, the Doctor got him moving. Danner's feet were heavy as lead and reality had a disconcerting way of fading in and out. He stopped resisting at last and, other than directing the Time Lord to the right or left, sank into a fog.
Suddenly they were in a familiar alley. Danner jerked out of his daze, shaken by the realization that he had been wandering through the Fringe like a drunken fool.
"Now where?" the Doctor asked.
"There . . . " he managed, "that window . . . "
"The one that's boarded up?"
"It's not really nailed shut. Just pull the left corner."
Parking him against the building, the Doctor went to investigate. There was another blank moment, then Danner was being shoved through the opening. His foot caught on the sill and he fell in an untidy heap on the dusty floor.
"Sorry," he heard. "Is this the place?"
Danner sat up. He pulled his knees to his chest and huddled there, head bowed, willing himself to stay alert.
"Attic," he eventually managed.
The stair loomed before them, much higher and steeper than it had been the day before. The Doctor resorted to hauling him bodily up the creaking steps. He was surprisingly strong.
"How far away is Old Town?"
"Maybe a quarter mile to the east. Wait. Gotta key."
He found it in his pocket and handed it over. The Doctor opened the door.
"Home sweet home," Danner mumbled. "Penthouse suite. Don't forget to lock up."
Not moving helped. Danner watched the Doctor as the Time Lord stood in the middle of the attic, looking around. In silence, the other man took in the dirty, bare mattress and ragged blanket, a broken chair, upended crates for tables, a small, much-valued collection of tattered books. For the first time in his memory Danner was acutely aware of the stark poverty in which he lived.
"I'm off to find some food," the Doctor said abruptly. "East, you say?"
"Wait -- don't . . . "
But the Time Lord was gone, footsteps echoing down the stairs and out of his hearing.
Pain tore at Danner's gut, doubling him over. He was dimly astonished. It certainly felt like starvation, as impossible as that was! Tottering over to his mattress, the blackstone collapsed upon it. Part of him clamored to get up and get out. The Doctor would not return. The Doctor would return with the cops. The Doctor . . .
And he was asleep.
* * *
There was a fat, padded envelope on the floor in front of Anna's apartment. Arms full of groceries and books, she opened her door and nudged the package in. Dropping her books on a nearby table, she kicked the door shut behind her.
Postdoctoral fellows were usually given living quarters just a step above the tiny cupboard allotted to graduate students. As a woman, however, Anna had yet to experience the delights of being crushed into such a box. Consortium administrators were unable to bring themselves completely back to the old days of male-female equality. Therefore, she and the eight other single University staff women enjoyed spacious rooms in a well-maintained building within shouting distance of the Security offices.
She went through her cluttered front room and into the kitchen to deposit her groceries. Yesterday's dinner dishes were still in the sink. Today's breakfast and lunch dishes were there as well, so they were in good company. She set her bag on the counter and had a look at the package. There was a note affixed to it:
"Anna. Dr. Masterson's asked you to bring these around ASAP. There's a car reserved. Max."
Frowning, she crumpled the note and tossed it into the waste basket. Why her? Ever since she had come to Igan, the Old Man had been breathing down her neck. She thought, at first, that his reasons were the usual ones - he male, she female. Lately, however, she found herself less certain that lust was the reason for his interest.
There was, of course, no question of ignoring this. For one thing, Max was her boss. For another, what the Old Man wanted, the Old Man got. She consulted the clock on the stove. Quarter past three - more than enough time to get out to the Observatory and back before dark. So much for a quiet afternoon with her data.
The clerk in Transportation was waiting for her. He handed over the keys with a scowl, not happy that she had avoided the usual tortuous bureaucracy. But, just as she jumped to obey the Old Man's wishes, so too did the lofty Transportation Department.
As promised, the jeep was in bay four. A mechanic in bay seven came shambling over to her, but went away muttering when she jingled the keys at him. She slid into the driver's seat and started the engine.
Once she was through the campus gates, Anna was overcome by a surge of exhilaration. The jeep was open and the wind whipping past the windshield was balmy. Tooling through Anor, she felt like a kid escaping school. As an anology, it was not entirely inappropriate.
Her route to the Observatory led straight through the old college town. Anor, nearly emptied by the plague and long ignored by the University, was experiencing a modest renaissance. In the past fifty years, Igan University's faculty and staff had begun to exceed the confines of campus.
The decision was finally made to move back into the old city and the Architecture Department enthusiastically set about renovating it. Now there were seven or eight square blocks of remodeled stores and apartments, with more being reclaimed all the time. There was even talk about running in electrical lines this year or the next.
Anna quickly left Anor behind, turning north onto the old eeway. Trees began to crowd in around the road. Originally there had been four wide lanes; now there was only one, so painstakingly maintained that the Old Man was quoted as saying it was in better shape now than it had been in the old days.
The drive was a lonely one. There had never been much out here; a few isolated farmhouses mostly, their fragments long since swallowed by the forest. One day, humanity would reclaim the land. The population figures compiled by Consortium field researchers suggested it would be sooner rather than later. In the meantime, however, Anna relished the peace and quiet.
She spotted a jeep heading toward her. She thought at first it was a Security patrol, but as they passed, she recognized one of the occupants from a faculty meeting - a geologist. He recognized her as well, raising a hand and hollering a greeting that was tossed away by the wind.
Ten miles on and she reached her turnoff. Part of an old sign still dangled on the fallen overpass. "N. Territ" it said. She steered the jeep onto the overgrown road, heading northwest.
The road here was in much poorer shape. Her jeep jounced and jolted over potholes and deep ruts. In places, the paving was gone altogether. The land began to rise in soft, forest- covered swells. To the west, clouds were gathering. Anna hoped the Old Man wasn't feeling chatty. Her jeep had no roof.
After another half hour of rough driving, she reached Observatory Drive. The narrow track was half hidden in dense greenery. It wound steeply up a hill, rounded a gradual curve, then ended in front of a building dominated by a massive dome. She stopped the jeep and got out, picking her way along a beaten earth path to the sidewalk. Badly eroded by age and the relentless assault of plant life, the walk had decomposed into small, graveling chunks that crunched under her shoes as she mounted the shallow steps to the front door.
Anna leaned back, looking to the left and right where boarded windows presented an unwelcoming face to the world. Seeing no movement, she pounded determinedly on the door.
At first, there was no response. She banged again. Nothing. Then, just as she was beginning to think she would have to turn around and go back, the door opened a crack.
"Go away!"
The door started to shut, but Anna was ready. She slid a foot neatly in to block it.
"Dr. Masterson! Professor! It's me - Anna Taylor! Let me in!"
The door opened again, wider this time. She found herself looking at a typically youthful blackstone with a straight fringe of light brown hair and a thin, intelligent face. He had an intricately faceted biocrystal and wore a pair of elderly (and considering that blackstone vision was perfect, completely unnecessary) pair of spectacles perched on his nose.
"Why, bless me," he cackled. "It's the famous Dr. Taylor!"
Great. He was in one of those moods.
"Professor - are you going to let me in or not?"
In answer, he disappeared. An instant later, the door was hauled open and she was face to face with the Old Man. Dressed in shabby trousers and a faded flannel shirt, he leaned against the door frame, clutching a load of files.
"So glad you could find the time to stop by. Where's the Doberman?"
"If you're referring to Ron . . . " she paused and grinned. "Not here."
"Getting bored with our charming lieutenant are we? What amazing good taste you're finally showing."
He turned and headed down the hall toward his inner sanctum, the main observatory chamber. On the way, he shed pieces of paper from his collection, papers that Anna resignedly plucked up as she followed.
Alan Masterson, Ph.D. many times over, had been one of the original Founders of the Consortium. Exactly what his function had been in those dark, early days, Anna had no idea. He never spoke of it.
He rarely left his beloved observatory anymore, preferring to issue royal summonses whenever something or someone caught his interest. Departmental retreats were always held at the observatory, although the Old Man did not always deign to attend them. He set foot outside only twice yearly to deliver his obligatory Emeritus lectures, and even then was reputed to bitch and moan about the declining intellectual abilities of his students.
Anna asked him once why he had decided to become an astronomer. He had responded, in a moment of rare candor, that in the days immediately following the plague, when the Founders had been in hiding, he had been so lonely and so scared, that the only way he could take his mind off it was by reading the most boring stuff he could find. In those days, this happened to be astronomy. As luck would have it, he actually got interested in the stuff. Having nothing but time and plenty of that, he had become an astronomer par excellence and was, to this day, still considered the ultimate authority on all things astronomical.
Rumor had it that the Old Man held degrees in a number of other disciplines. When asked, he tended to wildly contradict himself. For instance, he was reputed to have an M.D. degree or a doctorate in Swahili. But when asked about it again, flatly denied any such thing. She finally had put the question to Max.
"I have no idea what they're in," her boss admitted. "but he does have doctorates up the ass. He rebuilt the telescope from ground up, for one thing. What would you need for that? Physics? Mechanical engineering, electronic engineering? Anyway, if you really care, his degrees are matter of public record. Check it with the transcript office if you want. Or better yet, ask him yourself. He actually likes you."
Did he really like her, Anna wondered? She had her doubts. Every time they were in the same room together they inevitably came to verbal blows. More than once she would look his way and find him staring at her with an expression that made her flesh creep. A few of the faculty woman she had talked to thought he was very attractive, for a blackstone. She thought he was jerk, and quite possibly a psychotic jerk, at that.
"What is this stuff?" she asked, glancing at the paper on top of her growing pile - a photocopy of little white spots on a black background.
"UFOs," he replied blithely, kicking open a pair of swinging double doors. Anna hurried to catch up to him. They entered a cavernous room containing a mammoth optical telescope. "Flying saucers, mon petit. They're here, you know."
"Right."
Anna dumped the papers onto his desk, the surface of which had probably not seen the light of day for years. Crop circles, space aliens. The man was crazy.
"You got my package?"
She pushed the envelope at him. He then pretended not to see it.
"Damn it, Professor" she accused, dropping it onto the table. "You told Max to send me here just so you could give me hard time, didn't you?"
He grinned, unrepentant.
"You are a jerk."
There. She'd said it. He did not seem offended
"Hmm, maybe so. But since we're on the subject, I understand Sheridan's off to Deet."
Anna opened her mouth, then shut it again. It was no good asking how he knew about that. The Old Man knew everything.
"As a matter of fact, yes."
"Bet you geniuses are beside yourselves at the prospect of getting a first generation blackstone you can mess around with, eh?"
"What do you think? " She fired back, stung. "After all, our other first-gen has no apparent interest in solving the mysteries of the plague."
"What mystery? It's an alien infestation. No! Don't flame me, babe. Actually, I have something else I want to show you. Be right back."
He disappeared, leaving Anna with a sudden, unaccountable sense of apprehension.
"Calm down," she told herself. "He's just pushing your buttons."
A look around the chamber did not
suggest the serious scientist.
There was a table in the middle of the floor, miscellaneous
electronic parts strewn about on it. A soldering iron
was plugged into one of five generators providing electricity
to the observatory. One of them was for his personal
use, four were there to run the telescope. A bed had been
hauled in, squatting in rumpled splendor a few feet from the
stairs that led to the 'scope's viewing platform. An old armchair
at the foot of the bed served as a wardrobe. Leaning next
to a disassembled, antique motorcycle against a far wall was
a rusting bicycle. There were dishes of forgotten, half-eaten food
on or beside towering piles of books and journals. Some
of the books were so old they should have been in a museum
or, at least, the restricted-access room in the library.
That they were instead laying carelessly all over the
floor was silent, but eloquent testimony to the awe in
which Igan -- indeed, the entire
Consortium -- held the Old Man.
By far the most startling item in
the room, however, was a large
wooden screen set on another section of floor. Its surface
was completely covered by hundreds of papers, all with a
central theme: copies of ancient news stories about unidentified
flying objects and alien kidnaping, photographs of
blurry circles in wheat fields, flying pith helmets. A fat
middle-aged man stared earnestly out
of a picture bearing the caption
"Martians want my body to breed a super race!"
Scattered among all this nonsense were astronomical charts, computer printouts of radio data and handwritten notes. The latter bore such cryptic messages as "Ninth parallel, blip deviated nineteen point five degrees . . . confirm" or "direct correlation, possibly with Hawaiian data - IF I COULD FUCKING GET IT!"
Invaders From Outer Space were the Old Man's pet passion. He was firmly convinced that the entire world was shortly to be (no - correction - had been) attacked by them. According to Max, Masterson had been obsessed with this as long as anyone could remember. To absolutely nobody's surprise, he was unable or unwilling to cough up any proof of this wild claim. The Consortium, however, was perfectly happy to tolerate eccentricity for the sake of his formidable brains.
The Old Man returned at last, toting a large metal box. With a cavalier sweep of his arm, he removed everything from the table and set the box down with great care. From a chain around his neck, he took a key and unlocked it. She held her breath, half expecting something to leap out at her.
Inside the box was a ring. Curious, she reached for it, but strong, blunt fingers caught her wrist.
"Don't touch it."
"What is it? Other than a ring, of course?"
"That's the question, eh? You ever study gemology?"
"No . . . "
"Bzzt! Wrong answer!"
She stared blankly back at him, trying to ignore her growing trepidation. Finally, he sighed and plucked it out. The light caught the crude faceting and found a dark fire deep within it. Its ungainly bulk suggested a masculine conceit; the design around the stone was a simple geometric etching. The thing looked like it weighed a ton.
"Never mind. I can assure you, you will not be able to classify this stone."
"How interesting," she said carefully. "But what does this have to do with me? Are you proposing? If so, I insist on a diamond - two carats at the very least."
"Ha, ha."
He tilted the ring and crimson fire flashed in her eyes. At once, she could not move. Panic tore through her, but its adrenalin rush was not enough to get her limbs to bend, to force the cry from her lips that lodged her throat.
The Old Man's hand closed around the thing. She gasped and sagged forward, catching herself on the edge of the table. He did not seem to notice.
"There is a man - a self-styled prophet called Callifer - coming from the southeast," he said soberly, replacing the ring and locking the box. "And a woman called McAllister coming to meet him from the northwest. We're running out of time, mon petit."
"Professor, what was that . . .?"
"Alan. Call me Alan. Their plan is coming to fruition." Through the spectacles his eyes were intense. "You ready to tell me a story yet, Anna?"
"What are you talking about? What plan? What story? Who is this Callifer or McAllister or whoever?"
The hysterical edge in her voice was audible even to her. She made an effort at control, but the blackstone's quick, gleaming glance only elevated her anxiety.
"I'll tell you, poppet, but you have to come clean with me."
"I don't know what you're talking about! What kind of ring was that? Some First Age device?"
She was now certain he must hear her heart pounding.
"Cut it out. You know as well as I do that nothing like this existed." Alan tapped the box thoughtfully. "Supposedly it was taken from the body of a dead alien just before the Catastrophes."
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Prof - Alan . I've got a mountain of data to work through tonight . . . "
"Data that won't mean shit soon." He shook his head at the look on her face. "All right. Keep your little secrets for now, my lady. Go on home and crunch your numbers. But think about this. I've had nothing to do for a hundred years except connect dots. And your dots, Anna, make a very interesting picture. Oh, yes, and another thing . . . "
She had been sidling toward the door. He pinioned her with his gaze and she froze like a snake before a mongoose.
"Do something for me, will you?"
She nodded.
"The Regulatory Committee is meeting tomorrow. You're on it this semester, aren't you?"
She nodded again.
"Tell them to hold discussion on the first-gen until I get there."
"You're on the Committee?"
Anna had just received the new members' introductory packet, but could not remember seeing his name on the committee roster. He grinned at her confusion.
"Sweet thing," he drawled. "I'm on *all* the Committees."
* * *
The Doctor was being followed. Several blocks from Danner's garret he heard a rasp of boots on pavement. Making no effort to see who it was, the Time Lord maintained his unhurried stroll along abandoned streets. When, after several more minutes the hunter had yet to make his move, the Doctor felt free to turn his attention to his current predicament.
He was no longer concerned with repairing the TARDIS. That would come in its own time. Increasingly, the Doctor sensed a deliberate interference with his favorite little world. Viruses with a ninety-five percent mortality rate were rarely found outside the laboratory. In his experience, nature did not program for self-destruction. Nor had he ever heard of a virus that conveyed immortality and *enhanced* the physiology of its victims. He meant to get to the bottom of whatever was happening here.
Ahead, a building had collapsed into the street, forcing the Time Lord to detour through a nearby alley. When he came emerged from it a moment later, he heard the first sounds of human activity and walked a little faster.
"Ho!" came a shout to his right. "Stop right there!"
A man stepped from the gloom of a nearby door, his gun up, finger on the trigger. Having no wish to be shot again, the Doctor obeyed at once. He kept his empty hands open and in clear view as the man circled him, taking in the Time Lord's unorthodox dress with open suspicion.
"Good afternoon," the Doctor said cheerfully. "Could you possibly direct me to a good cafe or market?"
"Keep them hands up," came the sharp retort. "Mike! Get over here!"
From the opposite side of the street, a second man appeared, also armed. The Doctor noted absently that both weapons were crudely manufactured but entirely functional. Some skills, alas, survived better than others.
With his partner covering him, the
first man lowered his gun. He
strode straight up to the Doctor and, without warning, reached
over to plant his thumb firmly in the middle of the
Time Lord's forehead. Startled,
the Doctor took a step back, but
the man seemed reassured.
"He's normal."
Both guns were promptly lowered. In a much friendlier voice, the first man said: "You're a stranger here, I take it. Well you can't do better than Eddie's Bar in my book. Just go through that door there and it'll put you on Vernon. Turn right, go another three blocks and you're there."
"Thank you." The Doctor hesitated. "Why did you poke me?"
"Wha? To make sure you weren't a blackstone tryin' to sneak into the neighborhood." The man brandished his shotgun nonchalantly. "You probably ain't heard, but last night one of 'em went rogue and killed some cops. We don't want none of that around here."
"Certainly not!" murmured the Doctor. "Are you police?"
The man peered sharply at him. "Just concerned citizens. You City Center?" he asked. "You talk funny."
"Not me," the Doctor replied truthfully. "I've never been to City Center before. Right on Vernon, did you say?"
Leaving the two men to guard against the Blackstone Menace, the Doctor followed their directions, going deeper into Old Town. The difference between it and the Fringe was immediate and dramatic. Here, most buildings had been rebuilt or torn down to make way for new structures. The streets had been cleared of debris (mostly). Brightly colored awnings shaded a small sidewalk market. A dog barked furiously from the stoop of a brick townhouse. Bicycles, handcarts and the occasional carriage rattled past in increasing numbers. At the far end of the street, three horsemen in grey thundered through an intersection with supreme disregard for the pedestrians scurrying to safety. Where they the police? The Doctor walked on.
Commerce, law enforcement, pets - humans had not fallen quite so far as he feared. Much of what he saw reminded the Doctor of the early nineteenth century. To someone like Danner, born and raised in the late nineteen-hundreds, this level of technology must seem on a par with the stone age. The Doctor, however, had seen far worse regressions.
On the other hand, Danner was quite right about one thing. The Doctor had yet to see a woman.
He found Vernon at last. A single sign on a squat, brick building marked Eddies's Bar. The smells pouring from the open door were reasons for optimism and the Doctor stepped inside.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. Customers filled the smoky, windowless interior. All the tables were in use, their occupants well into an afternoon of serious drinking. Oil lamps provided what light there was. Ignoring curious looks, the Doctor threaded his way to the back where, behind a long counter, a man paused in the midst of polishing a heavy glass mug. He watched for a moment as the Time Lord searched in vain for an empty seat.
"What'll you have, bud?"
"Hello. Do you serve food here?"
The bartender jerked a thumb toward a chalkboard above his cash register where the day's offering was scrawled in atrocious handwriting.
"You got any money?"
The Doctor dug into his pockets and brought out a handful of coins. He offered them to the bartender, who frowned and poked at them curiously.
"This ain't money. Not that I've ever seen, leastways."
"It's all I have," the Doctor confessed. "Could we make a trade?"
"Like what?"
Several onlookers had shifted their stools closer and were watching the exchange with bleary interest. The Doctor returned to his pockets, coming up with his watch and yo-yo. The bartender's eyes lit on the former and widened.
"Is that real gold?"
"It is."
"I'd take that."
"What will you give me for it?"
"Half a fresh-baked chicken pie and a bottle of beer."
"For a genuine gold watch?" the Doctor scoffed. "Listen."
He opened the cover. The bartender's eyes lit up when he heard the jingling tune.
"Chicken pie, bread, fruit and a couple of pounds, er -- dollars," the Doctor said.
"Well . . . I don't know ..." The bartender pretended reluctance.
Two could play that game. The Doctor shrugged. Slipping the watch back into his pocket, he started to leave.
"Done, man!" The bartender said quickly. "Maury, get yer worthless butt off that stool and let this gentleman sit down. And don't give me no crap, either. This here's a payin' customer."
Maury slid from the stool, muttering under his breath, and stumbled off. The bartender turned around and shouted the order through the window behind him. The Doctor settled onto the stool.
"You from City Center?" the bartender asked.
"I'm a traveler." The Doctor accepted the beer the bartender drew from an antique tap. "Anything interesting going on in Deet these days?"
"Depends on what you call interesting."
"The gentleman who recommended your pub said there was blackstone trouble."
The bartender looked to the man seated next to the Doctor.
"You know anything about that, Lou?" To the Doctor, he explained; "Lou here cleans up down at the local station. If there's something going down, he's the one to know."
"There was something crazy on the river last night," Lou obliged. "Word is they almost grabbed the Nightwalker. Bunch o'cops got killed."
"Nightwalker?"
The bartender looked avariciously at the watch laying at the Doctor's elbow. "Where's that food?" he shouted toward the kitchens. To the Doctor, he explained: "There's some guy who has been sneaking slaves out of the city. Don't half tick off the Church, I can tell you. Shoulda figgered it was a blackstone behind it"
"They've tried for almost ten years to get 'im," agreed Lou. "Slips through the net everytime. That's one of the problems the Council wants the Horde to fix."
"Oh, right," jeered the bartender. "An outfit like the Horde ain't gonna waste its time on doing the Church's job. And the Council sure ain't gonna be payin' em all that money to chase down blackstones. If yer cop friends think there's any help from that end, they're nuts!"
"Oh, I dunno. If the Nightwalker can get in and out of the city that easy than it stands to reason that the Prophet could, too. You can bet the Horde'll be concerned."
"Prophet? The Doctor looked from one man to the other.
"Horde?"
"Where are you from," the bartender asked, "that you ain't heard of the Prophet, Scourge of God?"
"Or the Witchhorde," Lou added.
"Most recently? San Francisco." The Doctor sipped tentatively at the beer and found it surprisingly good.
"Where's that?"
"Quite far to the west."
"West? Well, that might explain it. The Prophet's from the South. He's a real nut case, that one. God gives him visions -- according to them that follow him. He claims Judgment Day is coming and that God told him to get rid of all the sinners."
"He sounds rather disagreeable."
"Yeah," Lou snickered, "disagreeable. That's what the Council thinks. The Prophet gets real mad at them that wants to bring back the First Age . . . which pretty much describes the Council these days. I'd make haste to get someone between me and Callifer, too."
"That's where the Horde comes in. You sure you've never heard of the Witchhorde?"
The Doctor shook his head.
"The Council's hired the Witchhorde to protect Deet. They say the Horde is the only force big enough and experienced enough to stand up to the Prophet's troops."
"Scourge of God," Lou reminded helpfully.
"You can't protect yourselves?"
"With what?" snorted the bartender. "The police? Militia? They're the only men allowed to carry arms in Deet and their officers come straight outta the Church. You can't blame the Council for not wantin' to rely on defenders who think the Prophet might be right."
"I could see where that would be unsettling," the Doctor agreed.
The food arrived, hot and delicious. The Doctor forced himself to set aside the lion's share for Danner, slipping it into his pockets when no one was looking. He put a few more questions to his companions as he ate, but did not learn much more. Finally, pockets bulging with food, two one-dollar coins jingling, he slid off the stool and started toward the street. Halfway through the room, he caught a glimpse of a new customer seated in the far corner. There was something about the man's bearing that set him apart. The Doctor was not surprised to see the stranger quickly shove his drink aside and stand up as he passed.
The stranger was no amateur at tracking. He blended easily with the other humans on the street, never approached too closely, even pretended to enter a shop at once point. The Doctor admired the man's skill as they left Old Town behind, but his blackstone friend needed sustenance. With considerably more speed than he had until now displayed, the Time Lord ducked into an alley, cut down a street and through an abandoned building. After a few more such dodges, he no longer saw any evidence of his pursuers. Whistling softly to himself, he headed back to the attic.