Part Two:  Recovery

This room is not a formal office; it lacks the usual heavy desk and pair of cold uncompromising chairs.  Instead, it has a warm fragrant brown leather couch and matching armchairs with foot stools tastefully arranged around an elegant Persian carpet.  There are file cabinets cleverly disguised as end tables and a small wooden writing desk with rounded corners.  Except for a gilt framed mirror above the desk, the decorations do not include anything fragile or purely ornamental.
The sole occupant of this room is a man whose beard has a sprinkling of silver at the temple and jaw.  Even alone, he has an expression of careful neutrality, his eyes shielded by grey tinted glasses.  At a knock on the door, he looks up from the file he is reading.
"Come in."  He closes the file, placing it on the table beside his chair as the door opens to admit two men.  The shorter man wears a medium blue uniform with a ring of keys and a small pager attached to his black belt.  He follows the taller man into the room, exchanges nods with the original occupant and then leaves, closing the door.
The taller man stands in the centre of the room, hands in his trouser pockets, looking around him curiously.  His features, while arranged in the expected fashion, are slightly exaggerated and seem distorted, out of proportion.  Seeing the mirror, he strides to it and inspects his reflection with interest.
"I'm glad you could visit me today."  The neutral expression has a neutral voice to match, carefully modulated to sound pleasant, without threat.
"I wasn't given much choice in the matter."  The tall man turns and flashes a disconcerting smile.  There are too many teeth in his jaw.  "But an occasional change of scenery never hurts, eh?"
"Do you know why you are here?"
"No, but I imagine you'll tell me in a minute."  Taking a last look in the mirror he turns to the couch.  "Mind if I sit down?"  He sprawls on the couch without waiting for an answer, one booted foot hooking the foot stool from the chair beside, pulling it close enough to stretch his long legs across it.  The original occupant makes a note of this before continuing.
"Do you remember coming here?"  He takes a file from the ones on the table at his elbow and opens it, finds a report, scans it and looks up, waiting for a reply.
"I was brought here from a hospital.  I believe I was being treated for a concussion, but I don't remember how I got there."
"What do you remember?"  The bearded man reaches for his pencil, preparing to take notes.
"It would be easier if I had a starting point; a place, a year, a location in Space and Time from which to remember things."  The tall man looks off into the distance for a moment then returns to the conversation.  "Events seem to be random in my memory, a jumble.  I can construct a continuity, lining up similar circumstances, assemble a sequence by sorting images, but they do not tie together to create a whole."  He shakes his head.  "It seems as though there are pieces missing."
The pencil scratches briefly before the bearded one addresses the tall man again.
"It's a good sign that you remember things, even if they make no sense to you now.  Sometimes amnesia cures itself - like a row of dominos falling - once we touch the right memories.  Perhaps we can reconstruct your memory together."  He leans back in his chair, giving the impression of relaxed attention.  "Tell me, what is the earliest memory you can find from your childhood."
"I remember arriving at the Academy.  I was uncomfortable, unaccustomed to adult clothing, but relieved to be out of my mother's clutches.  I'd been enrolled early because of her, so I was somewhat younger than my classmates."
"Tell me about your mother."  Eagerness smoothed to appear innocuous.
"I can't imagine it's worth the effort.  I only lived in her household for thirty years.  I was at the Academy for over a hundred and fifty.  I got an extended education, you might say.  As I recall, I did quite well in Thermodynamics and Political Theory.  I was working on an advanced research project when the Greater Coup put my mother out of the Hierarchy.  They took quite a few years off her life.  It was considered a stiff sentence for the time."  There is silence, one man reflecting, the other recording.
"Do you expect me to believe you are nearly 200 years old?"  The careful neutrality is washed with disbelief.
"Certainly not!  I was older than that when I arrived here on Earth."  A sudden look of concern.  "This is Earth, isn't it?"
"Yes.  Where else did you think it could be?"
"Good old Terra Firma."  There is a pause.  The tall man stretches, clasps his hands behind his head, elbows spread wide as he arches his back.  Furniture creaks as the two men shift their positions.  With another toothy smile, the tall man speaks.
"You haven't told me why I'm here, yet.  I presume you checked my references."
"We did."  Greybeard opens the file.  "The United Nations official was reluctant to discuss the Intelligence Task Force with our staff.  He did admit that it was disbanded some time ago, its personnel reassigned."  He looks at the tall man, "Your description did not match any on file in the U.N. computers.  Further, the piece of equipment you mentioned was unknown to them.  Now,"  The voice is no longer neutral but stern, reproving, "it's time to tell me the truth."
"Truth?  The Truth!"  The tall man is becoming agitated.  "The Truth is that if my TARDIS is lost then I'm up a creek without a paddle or even a boat!"  He rises and begins to pace, his long legs cross the room in three steps and he turns sharply, three steps and a turn, three steps and a turn.  The other occupant of the room watches, makes a note and waits.  The tall man stops abruptly.
"I had things in my pockets.  Tools and the like.  Where are they?"
"There were some personal affects sent over from the hospital.  They are being kept safe for you."  The bearded man's voice is placating.  "What exactly is a TARDIS?  If we knew what we were looking for, it would be easier to find.  Could it be among the things from your pockets?"
"Last time I remember, it still looked like a London police box - the chameleon circuit had been stuck in that setting for a while.  I might have been working on it, fixed it, even."   His face lights with inspiration, he snaps his fingers.  "The hospital!  Someone found me and brought me to the hospital.  Who was it?  Where was I found?"
The other man refers again to his files.  "According to this report, you were found wandering dazed and muttering nonsense at a construction site in Totters Lane, taken to the hospital and then brought here.  You had no identification, no driver's license, credit cards or chequebook."  He looks up.  "One of the reasons you came to us is that you were unable to tell us your name."
"Doctor."  The tall man is smiling again.
"Yes?"
"I am called Doctor.  That's my name."
"Doctor is a title, not a name."  The bearded man has no neutrality about this point.  "Where did you take your degree?"
"Which one?  Not that it's relevant here."  The tall man fairly jiggles with impatience. "I'll need my tools and things, I really must be going."
"We cannot let you do that, just yet."  The bearded man gestures toward the couch. "Please sit down."
The tall man remains standing, hands in pockets, poised for flight, then abruptly, returns to the mirror and looks into it.
"Why?  I told you my name, I've answered your questions.  Don't you believe me?"
"You have told me nothing to believe or disbelieve.  You are educated, you remember being called Doctor.  This is a good start.  What we need to do now is find more pieces to your puzzle so that we can begin to build your memory and life from them."  Greybeard speaks to the tall man's back.  "I am curious about this TARDIS you speak of - can you tell me more about it, how it works?"
"Do you have someone watching back there, or is it a camera?"  The tone is conversational.  "A camera, at least, so you can review these friendly little visits from your inmates."
"It's just a mirror like any other."
"It's not, you know."  The tall man waves and smiles.  "I can see someone moving behind it."  He turns to face the original occupant of the room, sees him busy making notes.
"Time And Relative Dimension In Space."
"??"
"That's the acronym.  A TARDIS moves without regard to Space or Time, doesn't quite exist in this dimension - except as a projection or interface, so to speak."  The tall man wanders back to the couch and drops his long frame on it.
"Are you saying that this TARDIS of yours isn't real?"  The bearded man has a glint in his eye, his pencil poised.
"Of course it's real, man!  Interstitial Mechanics and Transdimensional Physics both prove that on the algebraic levels.  The Windows of Maceron allow, mathematically, for a manifestation dwelling outside the Space Time Continuum to project through what might be perceived as holes in a grid, into this reality.  I can show you..."  He pats his pockets for a pen or paper, anxious to demonstrate his point.  His search is unsuccessful.
"Outside the Space Time Continuum?  Where is it then?"
"To you, the Space Time Continuum contains everything because you perceive your existence as a series of separate moments connected by the thread of your consciousness.  Only a few of your mystics and philosophers have looked beyond those strings of beads you call Universe to see a larger Cosmos."  The tall man speaks with the authority of one who knows his subject well; he warms with enthusiasm.  "Time experiences a shape you cannot begin to comprehend in less than ten thousand years!  The oldest of us may only conceive of an edge or curve, before he dies finally and gives up his knowledge to the MATRIX."  He leans into his subject.  "Imagine, a memory bank filled with the minds and lives of scholars who have lived a dozen lifetimes!"
"And where is this memory bank located?"  There is a small sarcasm in this voice.
"The PanOpticon in the Citadel."  The tall man cocks his head, wary at the tone, "It's a bit of a trip from here, so I doubt you'll have heard of it."
"How do you know about it?  Have you been there?"  The question is a challenge.
"Been there?  Been in it.  Thought I would get a chance to touch into the vast Mind that must be there, but I found it being used as a battle ground, a trap laid to destroy me."
The neutrality of the original occupant is gone.  He has drawn a conclusion, the pencil scratches its outlines through the pause that follows.
"Does this happen often - people attempting to destroy you?"
"No.  That's specific to the Master.  I don't think I've seen him lately."  The tall man is sitting forward, not at ease.  He investigates empty pockets again without satisfaction, his gaze flicks from place to place.  "Of course there are Daleks.  And Cybermen.  Sontarans.  You haven't met any of that lot yet, have you?  No?"  A playful smile flashes across his face and vanishes into sincerity.  "You will."
"Let's get back to the MATRIX.  I'm intrigued with this Mind you say is there.  Is it plotting against you?"
"If anything, it has such a broad experience after all these generations, that it perceives the shape of Time before it happens, plots included.  The High Council receives regular reports from the MATRIX regarding these perceptions."
"The High Council?"
The tall man meets the bearded man, eye to eye.
"You think I'm insane.  What, paranoia?  Delusions?"
Silence, even the pencil has stopped.  The graying beard covers a carefully molded expression offering no answers.
"You wouldn't have the courage or imagination to believe what I say is true."  The edge of contempt can be heard.
The voice of reason speaks, not quite patronising.
"Would you believe it, if our positions were reversed?"
"My experience is somewhat broader than yours.  I would withhold judgement, pending investigation."  He stands again and stalks back to the mirror, studying his face once more.  "I've no doubt you view every shipwrecked sailor as a fugitive, every variation, a flaw."
"Is that how you see yourself?  A shipwrecked sailor?"
"I don't see myself the madman that you apparently do, but I have the advantage of knowing where I've been, and you don't."
"So, tell me where you've been."
"It's not as simple as that."  The face reflected in the mirror is sad.  Eyes, not quite the right shape, close, denying the image there.  "I'm a rebel, a Renegade, I've championed liberty and defied convention.  I was exiled, then used as a tool to achieve their ends and forced, at their hands, to break the First Law of Time."   Turning away from the mirror, he opens his eyes.  Sorrow speaks in them.  "To meet myself in Time... to know what I will become... remembering my future in bits and snatches... the foundations of consensual reality have been shattered for me, scattered like a broken string of beads."  He notices a chair and sits, heavy, folding inward, speaking slowly.
"It is increasingly difficult to put them back in order."
There is silence.  The pencil scratches, stops and the bearded man clears his throat but the tall man remains withdrawn.
The silence is broken by a knock on the door and greybeard rises to open it.  A military man enters; he is in late middle age, mustached, uniformed, precise.  Taking no notice, the tall man sits wrapped in his thoughts.
"You've been watching, Brigadier?"  The bearded man nodding at the mirror.  "An interesting case.  He displays a peculiar set of delusions."
"They are not delusions, sir.  I know this man, and I believe he is everything he says he is."  The Brigadier approaches the seated figure.  There is pity on his face.  "I'll take him with me.  Where are his belongings?"
"This man is a psychopath, potentially dangerous to himself and society.  Who knows what his paranoia will lead him to do!  I can't possibly release him without further evaluation and therapy."
"I have an order here," The Brigadier's voice is cold business as he reaches into his jacket.  "Giving me custody of this patient.  Bring me his belongings."  A folded paper is presented to the bearded man, who takes and inspects it with poorly concealed resentment.
"Lethbridge-Stewart?  Good to see you, old chap!"  The tall man rouses and greets the Brigadier with cheerful pleasure.
"I see you've changed again, Doctor.  I wish you wouldn't do that.  It causes no end of trouble."
"So it does.  So it does.  Do you know where my TARDIS is, by any chance?  I can't seem to remember where I left it."
The bearded man follows them out of the room and down the hall.  He is sputtering objections, but they ignore him.
"I'm sure it will turn up, Doctor.  It always does.  I'll put some men on it."
"What's this about disbanding U.N.I.T.?  I thought you'd retired."
"Economic shakedown.  They called it restructuring.  In the end, they gave the operation another name but left it intact.  It's called the Department of Extraterrestrial and Alien Development, now.  Hired me back to reorganise it, you know.  You still have a job, the lab's been remodeled.  Ah!  Here is the office..."
Their voices fade as they turn a corner, cross a threshold, the bearded man still protesting behind them.

An overcast afternoon does not offer much illumination through the bank of windows in the long laboratory wall and pools of yellow beneath lamps seem warm in the grey light.  Working quietly at a computer array in one corner, the Doctor looks up briefly when a grey haired military man enters, then returns to the task at hand.
"Well, that about wraps up the lot."  Brigadier-General Lethbridge-Stewart checks a list on the clipboard he carries.  "Twenty-nine of them come and gone and it's not three o'clock yet."
"Twenty-eight."  The Doctor's attention is on the video display in front of him.  "Fourteen Army nurses, five airline attendants, an assortment of clerks and house maids - and a sumo wrestler.  She was the most interesting one today by far."  He taps at the keyboard and coloured shapes on the screen begin to rotate, pyramids and spheres spinning within each other.  Grinning with broad satisfaction, he turns to his associate.
"Pity her husband doesn't want her to travel.  Tell me, Brigadier, do you really think this is necessary?  You and I and those twenty-eight people have wasted a Thursday because you think I need a nursemaid."
"An Assistant.  And it won't be wasted for three of us if you accept one the applicants to take care of the paper work and follow you around with identification so you don't get carted off to Bedlam again."
"But why this way, with applicants and references?  I've generally found companions in my own way, before."  The Doctor is almost petulant.
"Because, Doctor, we've got funding for an Assistant and this is the way to hire Assistants.  If we don't do it according to Regulations, we lose the funding, which also pays for new high speed computers and your living quarters, upstairs."
"Ah.  Funding.  In that case, we are earning our pay.  Carry on, Brigadier."  He turns back to his computer.
"Where has the last one got to?"  The Brigadier inspects his list more closely.  "Twenty-nine checked in at the front gate.  I think I'll have a look around and see where she's gone astray."  He nods at the tall man's back and exits into the hall through a door opposite the windows.
The Doctor works on at his island of light in the dusk, screen display changing to cubes turning inside of tetrahedrons.  The clicking door latch is unheard over the sound of an actively used keyboard; a mid sized young woman with a shoulder length disarray of auburn hair enters.  She watches quietly as the cubes expand and become spheres enclosing the tetrahedrons.  The Doctor begins to play with spin and rotation, adding more shapes and changing the colours of each layer.  With the seventh shape, a red and grey box appears on the screen containing the message that there are fatal errors in sector b106.
"Fratz!"  He pecks at keys and cannot change the screen.  The woman clears her throat and smiles when the Doctor swings around at the unexpected sound.
"I think you've overloaded the buffer."  She offers. "A simple boot should solve the problem."
"A boot?"  He looks at her sensible shoes and takes a protective position in front of the oversized monitor.
"Like this."  Extending one hand, she reaches around him and deftly presses three keys on the keyboard.  The screen blinks and the system starts up again with a beep.
"You might want to clear the high memory of TSR's before you start into something that complex.  What do you call three dimensional figures that enclose other figures?  Like eggs or chocolate covered cherries?"
"You have no word for it, the concept is too common."  He responds absently, pulling up a programme to start the shapes dancing as before.  She watches over his shoulder while he adds layers and inserts figures in the centre until the grey and red box appears again with its message about fatal errors.  The Doctor's face is a map of frustration.
"It's a machine."  She is slightly amused.  "Even if you've got a ProAce9000 Math Driver onboard, it has a limited nature.  You can expand your capacity by networking, but if you want infinity, you'll need to talk to God."  This time when he turns to look, he studies her thoughtfully.
"You're here for the job?"
She looks over her shoulder at the door and down at the envelope in her hand with some surprise.
"Have I found the right building, this time?  Then I guess I'm here about a job."  She offers the envelope.  He takes it, removes the papers and scans them briefly.
"Research librarian?  Why didn't you complete your degree in cultural anthropology?"
"When we got married, my husband was still in school, so I went to work in the library while he completed his internship and residency then set up a practice.  Last year, after my husband changed his mind about being married to me, I came to over London to study comparative ritual with Dr. Franz Schaffberg.  He died two months ago."  Her recitation has the polish of frequent practice and any emotions she may feel are carefully filtered out.
"Where did you learn about computers?"  He flips through the pages of her resume.
"Using them.  I had a modified Pent until last week, and I've worked on Hexes."
"Where's your Pent?"  He drops the papers on the desk beside him.
"Punks broke down my door, took what they could carry, trashed most of the rest."  Her anger is not masked.  His face darkens in sympathetic response and he turns back to his computer.
"Are you willing to travel?"  Tapping at the keyboard does not remove the error message from the screen.  She reaches around him again and indicates the three keys required to boot the system.  He presses them, the screen blinks and runs through the startup sequence with a beep.
"If it's part of the job."  She bites her lower lip, apprehensive.  "I've only got a student visa and a temporary work permit."
"You'll be employed by the United Nations, they'll take care of the rubber stamps on your papers."  Facing her abruptly, the Doctor takes her shoulders and focuses his gaze deep into her eyes.  Her face goes blank for a moment before she shakes it off.
"What - are you doing?"  Annoyed, she steps back, away from his hands.
"Testing your susceptibility to hypnosis."  The Doctor displays a disconcerting number of teeth when he smiles fully.
"And your conclusion?'  Her hazel eyes flash with sparks of anger.
"You are a sensitive - and independent enough that you are not susceptible.  You are also telepathic to some degree, which is good.  I can train that."
"If I take the job."
"Why wouldn't you?"
"I'm not sure I want to work in a security zone."
"If you mean the Brig's lot, they're not so bad.  They live by Rules that are Never Broken.  Bent double perhaps, but Never Broken.  The Brigadier knows how to talk with the People who Provide Funding, which counts for something.  Have you ever worked with a Dex?"
"A Dex?  They're still experimental."   Hesitant.
"Here"  He steps aside and she approaches the computer station.  "It's got that ProAce9000 you mentioned and a type III HyperionSlik introversion chip."
"Type III?  Does it wait for a command when you boot up, or does it start working on its own projects?"  They smile together at the joke before she turns to the computer, calls up a screen and studies it.
"How soon can you start?  Your first task will be to find my TARDIS."
"TARDIS?  I haven't said I'll take the job."
"The Brigadier will fill you in on the details."
"But..."
"What details?"  Lethbridge-Stewart enters through the open door.
"I've found my Assistant.  She'll be moving into the apartment upstairs as soon as the TARDIS is located.  For security reasons."  She does not miss the significance of his inflection and her look becomes thoughtful.
"Excuse me."  She interrupts the Brigadier's sputtering something about the apartment.  "If I take this position, I'll need references from you, just as you have mine."
"That's impossible for reasons of security."  Lethbridge-Stewart's objections shift from living quarters to records without missing a beat.
"For reasons of MY security, it is necessary that I know more about the people I'll be living and traveling with.  Besides, if I have clearance to do the job, I should be cleared to speak with someone who has experience at it."
"She's got you there, Brigadier."  The Doctor's mouth twitches as he suppresses a smile.  "I'm sure you'll find someone for her to talk to.  What about Miss Smith, is she still around?"  He hands the resume to Lethbridge-Stewart and turns back to the computer screen.  "I'll need her by Monday, but tomorrow will be soon enough."
"Miss, ah, Ms..."
"Claire Banning, sir."
"My office is this way, Ms Banning.  We'll need some information for the forms, have you photographed for your identification and ..."  The Brigadier escorts her out of the lab.
"Don't forget to tell her what a TARDIS is."  The Doctor calls over his shoulder, but they are out of sight.

Prisms hanging in the tall lab windows catch late morning sun and send rainbows arcing across papers scattered on the work table in the centre of the room.  Claire Banning shakes her head over the bright paisley patterned notebook she is studying and turns a page with a sigh.
"I never should have taken this job."
"You shouldn't have asked for references."  The man at the computer offers without turning around.
"My mother always warned me to be careful about what I asked for,"  Her smile is rueful, "Just in case I got it.  So, now I get to read the Brigadier's memoirs, and an assortment of diaries by Josephine Grant.  The Brig typed his, mercifully, but this Josephine doesn't spell and has song lyrics, blank verse and psychedelic doodles thrown in to complicate her legibility.  Both of them go on for volumes about things I'm not sure I can believe happened."
"Push the limits of your imagination."  He turns a friendly look at her.
"This pushes the limits of reality, Doctor.  Are you actually all of these men?"  An open folder holds photographs of several faces.  He steps over and looks at the images, picks one, inspects it briefly and drops it with a grimace.
"I've worn all these faces, but not concurrently - except on limited occasions."  He rubs his forehead, as though formulating the right words.  "I will probably wear this face for more than two hundred years, as you perceive time."
"Two hundred years?  But the Brigadier has seen - how many?  Six of you?"  Her disbelief is no secret.  "And he is normal, human, not hundreds of years old."
"Five, I think.  The time I've spent here is not parallel to the Brig's experience, but tangential."  He notices the photographs again and shuffles them back into the folder, out of sight.  "I explained about regeneration?"
"You tried to explain, at least.  Is that why they named this department U.N.D.E.A.D.?"  Her voice is dry.  The Doctor chuckles and winks at her.
"Don't tell the Brig, it would disappoint him.  He thinks he's Developing Extraterrestrials and Aliens for the United Nations."
"I'd never guess it to look at him, but he genuinely believes he is dealing with aliens - or an alien."  She shakes her head.  "Everything here reads like a B-grade television series and I keep expecting monster robots to appear out of nowhere, zapping us all with laser weapons."
"You'll get used to it."  He is smiling and its effect is to electrify the room.  "You might even get to like it.  Any luck finding the TARDIS?"
"There have been no responses from the classified ads that the Brigadier ran in the papers, but I think I might have a lead.  Look at this."   She brings out a magazine article on interior decoration.  A full page color photograph shows a blue police call box being used as a privacy alcove for the telephone in an apartment full of antiques.  Another photo shows a similar box used to define the connecting doorway when a larger room had been divided into two.  He stares at them for a moment.
"This couldn't be done with my..."
"There is a market for them as memorabilia, since they were taken off the streets."   She overrides his objections.  "I've made calls to antique merchants and junk yards and found several for sale at outrageous prices.  Shall we go look at them, see if one is yours?"
"How long have you had this information, Claire?"  He begins to shut down his computer.
"I saw the magazine yesterday at lunch, and spent the afternoon researching it."
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?"  The computer beeps at his impatience, and he drums his fingers beside the keyboard while he waits for the system to cycle off.
"You handed me that pile of notebooks and told me to read."
The final screen blinks into view and the Doctor slaps the power switch.  "We may need a chequebook, so we'd best take the Brigadier."  He grabs his hat and coat, heading out the door.  Claire remains behind, sorting papers on the table.  A moment later the Doctor returns.
"Come on!"  Picking up her purse and jacket, he shoves them at her, "Let's go find that TARDIS."
She has time to grab the magazine with a list clipped to the cover before he pulls her out of the lab and into the corridor.
 

"This place had better not be as expensive as the last ones."  Brigadier-General Lethbridge-Stewart is parking his car beneath the shabby sign of Bainford and Son, Antiques and Collectables.  "I'm not sure the budget can withstand that much of a shock."
"It's not as though you've needed to spend any money yet, sir."  Claire retorts with a grin.  "Since we haven't found what we're looking for."
"He browses as though he's about to buy the business."  The Doctor grumbles.  "We're wasting time."  His door is open before the engine stops and he goes into the shop as Claire and the Brigadier get out of the car.
 

"They're not really antiques, most of them."  The old man inside is apologetic when he finally appears from a small room on one side of the dusty shop.  He brushes his hands together while he explains, "They are more accurately called collectables, and are my son's department.  He's not here, at the moment.  Excuse me, but that is an antique and quite fragile."  He takes a vase from the Brigadier's hands to replace it on a shelf then rushes over to rescue an ancient book, crumbling in the hands of the Doctor. "I'm terribly sorry, do be careful with that."
"I spoke to someone yesterday who told me you had one available."  Claire's voice has a prickle of annoyance at the edge of it.  "Could we see it, please."
"Oh dear me, I don't know.  You must mean the one in the yard out back.  I have nothing to do with that part of the business."   He nervously shows the way through his cluttered shop to a back door, latched, locked and barred redundantly.  After a great display of jingling keys and rattling chains, the door is opened to reveal a paved yard behind the building.  The Doctor and Brigadier leave off investigating the contents of an elephant foot umbrella stand to follow him out.
The shop seems orderly by comparison to the yard.  In the far corner, surrounded by boxes of discards, supporting twisted window frames, rusting street signs and a neon display with missing tubes, is a battered blue police call box.  The old proprietor continues with his explanations while the Doctor moves trash away from the doors and fumbles a key out of his pocket.
"I'm not sure this one's for sale - he hasn't restored it yet, but I know he intended to.  I think the lock was broken or jammed and he couldn't get it open.  These things have to be in reasonably good condition to have any value, so he didn't drill or..."  The old man stops, amazed, as the Doctor opens the door and slips into the blue box.  At the top of it, the light begins to glow.
"Doctor?"  Shouting, the Brigadier starts across the yard toward the police box, slowed by the heaps resident there. "Not again, Doctor!  Don't you dare!  Doctor!  Come back!"   He stops, unheard or ignored as a rhythmic wail cuts through all questions or demands and the police box disappears from the yard of Bainford and Son, Antiques and Collectables.  At his feet, signs and rubbish fall with a crash across the space once occupied by the TARDIS.  Open mouthed and blinking, Claire stands astonished, believing, while the proprietor falls silent in a moment when no apologies are necessary on his part.
"Will twenty pounds be sufficient?"  Lethbridge-Stewart stiffens dismay with resolve.  Finding his wallet, he presses a pair of bills into the old man's surprised hand.  "I'll require a receipt, of course."  Without a backward glance, he leads the way back into the shop as though nothing unusual has happened.

For him, at least, this is true.