Doctor Who: Shada Read Online Free PDF Page B

most ancient Time Lord academics and found them as sterile and dry as anywhere else in the Capitol. But now, as another bar on the fire glowed into life with the faintest sizzle of burning dust, Romana reflected that she felt almost as comfortable here as she did in the TARDIS.
    The Professor sipped at his tea and tapped the Doctor on the knee with his spoon. ‘Now then, Doctor, young fellow. What can I do for you?’
    The Doctor blinked in surprise, his knife halfway between butter-dish and cracker. ‘What can you do for me? Don’t you mean, what can I do for you ?’
    ‘I don’t think I do,’ said the Professor.
    ‘You sent for me,’ said the Doctor patiently.
    The Professor looked nonplussed. ‘Sent for you?’
    ‘I got your signal,’ said the Doctor.
    Chronotis frowned. ‘Signal? What signal?’
    ‘Romana,’ said the Doctor, ‘didn’t we pick up a signal from the Professor? Would we come and see him as soon as possible?’
    Romana nodded. ‘And we came straight away.’
    Chronotis shrugged. ‘I haven’t sent you a signal. But it’s very splendid to see you. Have another cracker.’
    The Doctor exchanged a worried glance with Romana.
    ‘Professor,’ he said, suddenly very grave, ‘if you didn’t send that signal – then who did?’

Chapter 6
     
    ALL WAS WELL in Wilkin’s world, but then it always was. Wilkin would simply not permit it to be any other way. He had found his place and purpose in life. The place was St Cedd’s, and the purpose was to maintain the order and calm established here centuries before, until the time came for him to hand over the task to an equally calm and ordered successor. Wilkin saw himself as a cog in the wheel of time, positioned here to ease the lives of those around him, and was a firm believer in the bit of the Bible that said ‘A soft answer turneth away wrath’, if not many of the other bits. But even he had his limits.
    The encounter with the Doctor-with-no-name and his charming companion had put him out not one jot. If people chose to wear ridiculously long multicoloured scarves and to turn up on occasions decades apart not looking any older, it was none of his business.
    But now, as he pinned another notice on the board and permitted himself just a tinge of inward pleasure at the thought of scrambled eggs on toast and the BBC’s Saturday serial in a few hours, he found himself bristling for the first time in years.
    A quite ludicrously dressed person was stomping – yes, that was the only word for it, stomping – through the entrance to the courtyard. Now obviously it was no business of Wilkin’s if people chose to attire themselves in long silver capes and wide-brimmed silver hats, and went about carrying old carpet bags, that was their own affair.
    But this fellow had none of the Doctor’s affability or charm, and Wilkin was quite sure he had never seen him before.
    He was in his early thirties, and might have been handsome – his features were symmetrically pleasing and he had full, sensual lips – were it not for two things. Firstly, there was the jagged scar that ran across the right side of his face, so that actually it wasn’t symmetrical at all. And secondly, those full, sensual lips were curled arrogantly in a permanent disdainful sneer. All sneers were disdainful, Wilkin admitted to himself, but this one conveyed unfathomably deep levels of coldness and condescension.
    ‘You!’ the stranger barked.
    Wilkin shot back his own best look of coldness and condescension, which was pretty good but couldn’t really compete. He then turned back sniffily to the notice board.
    ‘You! Gatekeeper!’ the stranger barked again.
    Wilkin looked about the otherwise empty courtyard with exaggerated politeness. ‘Were you addressing me?’
    ‘I want Chronotis,’ said the stranger.
    Wilkin winced at the lack of formality. ‘Professor Chronotis?’
    ‘Where is he?’ the stranger demanded.
    Wilkin wanted this rotter out. ‘He will not want to be