Doctor Who_ The Tomorrow Windows Part 30

'I think we are ready to commence, if you are,' Dittero said. 'I'll instruct the Zwees to summon everyone.'

Fitz decided he would use the auction as an opportunity to observe the other delegates. See if they did something which gave them away. It was vital he didn't draw attention to himself.

'Sold, for seventy-seven million Arcturan ultra-pods, to Mr Fitz Kreiner!'

Fitz felt as though he'd walked naked into somebody else's wedding. His skin flushed. His stomach twisted with vertigo.

How had he got here? That was the question that needed a very good answer. He had gone into the room with the intention of keeping a low profile.

He had taken the chair at the back, as Vors.h.a.gg had stomped over to the one closest to the projection screen and the Micron's two legionaries had placed their cushion on the table. He had not said a word as Dittero smarmed in accompanied by the floating Poozle. He had barely acknowledged Welwyn as he flounced into the room, turned round a chair and sat in it.

The bidding for Estebol started at one million ultra-pods, with Vors.h.a.gg.

Then Micron took it up to ten, then Poozle up to eleven. They alternated, Poozle shrieking out its bid in a high-pitched electric drone, Micron instructing one of his attendants to lift a single bronzed, manicured finger.

Fitz had expected the bidding to peak at about forty million the same as Valuensis but Poozle kept on upping the ante, and Micron's attendant kept on lifting his finger.

The room was stuffy. Fitz nodded to a Zwee, who refilled his gla.s.s with mineral water.

159.

'Seventy-six, with the Fabulous Micron,' Dittero announced, absent-mindedly drumming his fingers on his clipboard.

Fitz placed the tumbler to his lips and sipped. The water went down the wrong way.

'Is that a bid I hear from the back?'

Fitz tried to say no, but all that emerged was a gurgle. As he hunched over the table, coughing, his head nodded up and down.

'Seventy-seven. . . ' Hostility crept into Dittero's tone. '. . . with Mr Kreiner.

Do I hear any other bids?'

Fitz couldn't hear if there were any other bids. He was too busy choking.

'No other bids? Fabulous Micron?'

Patting his chest, Fitz regained his breath and turned to the Micron's attendants. They gazed back at him with faces of steel.

'Fabulous Micron?' repeated Dittero.

The attendants folded their bulging arms.

'Going.' Dittero left a long pause. 'Going. . . is the Fabulous Micron sure it doesn't want to place a bid?'

The attendants both shook their heads.

'Going,' Dittero repeated. 'Going. . . ' He held his gavel above the table and winced. 'Gone!'

'I didn't mean to buy it,' Fitz protested. 'It was an accident.'

Dittero's eyes narrowed. 'You're not in possession of sufficient funds?'

'I was choking!'

'I regret to inform you, Mr Kreiner, that a verbal contract is binding. Unless you find seventy-seven million Arcturan ultra-pods within the next hour, I will naturally be left with no alternative but to take serious measures.' The threat was laced with a.r.s.enic. 'Extremely serious measures.'

Fitz staggered back to his seat. What he needed right now was drink. He drained the gla.s.s of Koolspring Mountain Water Koolspring Mountain Water and refilled it from the jug. and refilled it from the jug.

'I believe,' said Dittero, 'that brings the day's proceedings to a close 'We shall reconvene after breakfast. Good evening, gentlemen.' He strode to the door, where he paused to glower at Fitz. 'One hour,' he snapped, and left.

Vors.h.a.gg heaved its way over to Fitz. 'You have my sympathies human,'

it growled. 'I would put you out of your misery, but. . . ' I indicated the box attached to its head.

'Yeah, I know,' said Fitz. 'Thanks for the thought.'

Vors.h.a.gg stomped out of the room, his tail thudding against the carpet.

Welwyn rose from his chair and offered Fitz a handshake. Fitz refused the offer. 'Mr Kreiner,' smiled Welwyn. 'If there are any modifications you wish to make to Estebol, I would be only too happy to oblige. Maybe Italian 160 renaissance meets. . . neo-Aretian mock gothic? Or something retro-futuristic, perhaps?'

'Thanks, mate,' said Fitz, 'but get lost, eh?'

Welwyn swept back his hair and flounced out of the room with swish of crushed velvet.

Fitz turned to Poozle. 'I don't suppose you'd be interested in taking it off my hands, would you? Seventy-seven million ultra-pods?'

The rocket-shaped alien did not reply.

'One careful owner? And several million careless ones. . . '

Still no answer.

'You know you want to. You bid seventy-five for it, two more won't make any difference. It could be yours.'

Poozle levitated from the table and drifted out of the room.

'Sod you then,' Fitz shifted to look at the only other remaining occupants of the room. Micron's two attendants remained seated upon either side of his cushion.

One of the legionaries coughed. 'Mr Kreiner?'

'Yeah?'

'The Fabulous Micron is prepared to make you an offer for Estebol.'

'Really?'

'Seventy-seven million Arcturan ultra-pods.'

Fitz couldn't believe his luck. 'Seventy-seven?'

The attendant held one finger to his ear, listened to whatever instructions the Fabulous Micron related, and nodded. 'Seventy-seven.'

'Well, I'm not sure,' said Fitz. 'I've grown quite attached to it, you know, up-and-coming area. . . I was thinking maybe. . . eighty?'

'The Fabulous Micron says you can either take it or leave it,' said the attendant. 'That's his final offer.'

'I'll take it,' Fitz hurriedly replied.

The water cooler glubbles as I fill my paper cup. I offer it to Prubert, who gives it a tentative sip. 'Haven't got any Lochmoff's Lochmoff's, have you?'

'I'm afraid not,' says the Doctor. 'I don't think they make it any more.'

For a thousand-year-old, Prubert's not looking too bad. He's aged since Zap Zap Daniel Daniel there are strands of grey at the temples and some bloodshotness to the eyes but he remains an imposing figure, about six foot eight tall. there are strands of grey at the temples and some bloodshotness to the eyes but he remains an imposing figure, about six foot eight tall.

'They never make anything any more. It's all new new nowadays.' He blinks, puzzled and sad at the same time. 'Are you really my descendants?' nowadays.' He blinks, puzzled and sad at the same time. 'Are you really my descendants?'

The Doctor brushes some dust from the padded chair opposite before sitting down. 'You don't get many visitors?'

161.

'Oh, I used to. In the old days. I met my great-grandchildren!' He smiles, remembering. 'They were quite keen to hear my stories. Then the time after that, it was my. . . my great-great-great-great-grandchildren, I think. They weren't so interested. They just wanted to see a dinosaur.'

He doesn't speak with the Vargo boom. Years of tobacco and whisky have made his voice husky.

I sit beside Charlton. 'And after that?'

He gives me an affectionate smile. 'They lost interest. I must be very dull. I don't keep up with current things, you see.'

'No, no, I can see that would be difficult,' agrees the Doctor.

'To begin with, it was all a fun game! We'd go to sleep, wake up ninety years later. They'd be shouting, "tell us the news!" And it was exciting, hearing about who had fought wars with who, all the technological developments, the new films. We were time travellers, voyaging into the future!

'But after a while, you stop caring. They change the names of things without telling you. You ask, "whatever happened to so-and-so" and they don't know what you're talking about.' Rubbing his freshly trimmed beard, Prubert squints out of the window of the Relatives Room. 'Pretty,' he says, acknowledging the view. 'The only thing that never changes. Except the people, of course. We're all the same.' He glances at the corridor outside where an old woman is thrusting a walking frame before her. Her skin is as gnarled as a walnut and her hair is like candyfloss. 'All right, Hectrin?'

The old woman smiles at Prubert before clink-clinking her way further down the corridor.

'That's Hectrin. Known her for about five hundred years. Or five years, depending on how you look at it. She's planning to stay here until in her words "the universe tidies up its act".'

Another old lady wobbles past.

'And that's Gardlian. She was here before me. Had herself frozen because she didn't want her husband getting his hands on her life insurance. Her husband's in the next Astral Flower along.

'Where was I?' Prubert returns to his theme. 'Things changing! It all blurs into one. History repeats itself that's why it's so boring. "Oh, we've changed all the names back." And you know another thing? Everyone thinks they're living at the most important, exciting point in history. I tell them, "that's what they thought a hundred years ago, and they were wrong then!"'

He leans over to look at me. His breath is fetid. 'You get a different perspective, you see. Gives you a chance to see what's insignificant, and what's important.'

'And what's important?' I ask.

He gives a sputtering laugh, and shouts, 'b.u.g.g.e.r all!'

162.

'Ah,' says the Doctor.

'That's what I've discovered. It's all all insignificant. All the wars, all the great achievements, and insignificant. All the wars, all the great achievements, and particularly particularly all the politicians. None of it matters, because in a hundred years there'll be something equally bad along to replace it.' all the politicians. None of it matters, because in a hundred years there'll be something equally bad along to replace it.'

'I notice you've been keeping up your profile, though,' says the Doctor. 'Do-ing chat shows. . . '

'This place doesn't come cheap. When you wake up you never know what inflation's done to your bank balance. Still get royalties, Zap Daniel Zap Daniel and all that, but it's money for pins. So I have to air this carca.s.s and do the circuit. and all that, but it's money for pins. So I have to air this carca.s.s and do the circuit.

Nostalgia, that's all I'm good for. Archaeology, more like!'

'And you do conventions?' prompts Charlton. He's been keeping very quiet, but keeping his eyes fixed on Prubert.

'Yes.' Prubert clears his throat. 'Every now and then I wake up and suddenly I'm fashionable again! It's good, I suppose, that people are interested. It's a kind of immortality. Better than this kind.' He examines his gnarled fingers.

'What they want, you see, is to remember remember me. They don't want me as I am now, they want me as I was then. I must be such a disappointment. Still, keeps me in antifreeze! Speaking of which, you haven't got anything to drink?' me. They don't want me as I am now, they want me as I was then. I must be such a disappointment. Still, keeps me in antifreeze! Speaking of which, you haven't got anything to drink?'

'No. So, you remember the old days?' asks the Doctor.

'Ha!' Prubert jabs a finger at the Doctor and coughs. 'I've worked you out!'

'What?'

'You've come to get me to talk about Zap Daniel Zap Daniel. "Was it hard, getting strapped into those Wings?" "What were you thinking when you launched the attack on the Imperial City of Mang?" I don't know why they ask. They've got the answers written down for them already, in their magazines. They only want me to say what they've already heard!'

'We're not ' I attempt to interrupt.

'Knew you weren't my descendants. I think they must've all died out, otherwise they'd be touching me for an inheritance. Serves them right.' He looks at the Doctor expectantly. 'So where is it then? Your tape recorder?'

'I'm afraid I've neglected to bring one,' says the Doctor.

'Well, that's no b.l.o.o.d.y good is it! First you forget the Lochmoff's Lochmoff's, then '

'We're not fans,' I say.

'Not fans fans?' He leans back in his seat, pulling up the sleeves of his pyjamas to scratch the backs of his arms.

'Though, while we're here. . . ' The Doctor retrieves a notebook from one of his pockets. He presents it to Prubert with a fountain pen. 'If you wouldn't mind making it out to, "The Doctor ". . . ?'

Prubert scribbles into the book. As he flicks through the pages, I catch glimpses of other names. Winston. Conan Doyle. Emiline. John, Paul, George, Pete and Stu. And two Nelsons.

163.

Prubert returns the book to a grinning Doctor. 'So what did you want '

Charlton ahems. He's holding out an autograph book of his own.