Doctor Who_ The Tomorrow Windows Part 44

Fifty years earlier, Astrabel Zar was emptying his bladder against the wall of the crypt. There was a soothing pitter-pattering of liquid against stone.

Astrabel finished, zipped up and turned to go. He dug in his pocket for his torch, and aimed it back at the stairs.

A figure was walking down the steps towards him. The torchlight shone on it like mist, picking out a form but pa.s.sing through it to illuminate the stone wall.

The figure shuffled towards him. As it came closer, Astrabel could make out its features. It was an overweight man, carrying a bulky holdall.

Astrabel shuddered. The man's face was strangely familiar. . . it was his father father. Or, at least, it was a man very much like his father.

The phantom's mouth opened and closed as though saying h.e.l.lo. Then it dropped its bag to the floor and unzipped it. It pulled out a notepad and a pen and wrote a note. It then held the note out so that Astrabel could read it.

The handwriting was familiar it was Astrabel's own handwriting! It read: It's galactic year 2457 It's galactic year 2457 The figure scrawled another note.

Day 201 The figure checked its watch, then wrote again.

3.30 in the morning Astrabel watched in disbelief. This ghost. . . it seemed to know he was here.

h.e.l.lo young Astrabel!

The old man gave a small, friendly wave, before writing once more.

I'm you, in the future.

So that was why the face was familiar it was him! But, thought Astrabel, what did it mean about 'the future' How could a ghost be from the future?

Have a good life. I have.

Astrabel felt oddly rea.s.sured. His future self had come back in time to say h.e.l.lo. And his future self didn't look too bad. A little overweight, perhaps, and very pale, but that was probably because it was made of mist.

So he would live to be seventy. That was good news. And discover time travel, somehow. Suddenly the future didn't seem so bleak.

Don't forget what you're about to see.

The ghost turned, as though disturbed by a sound from behind it.

A laser beam flickered across the chamber.

The apparition of Astrabel's future self collapsed on to its knees, clutching its stomach. The ghost howled silently in agony, then looked at Astrabel, straight into his eyes. For the briefest moment its expression changed to hope before it slumped face-down on the ground.

A young man with spectacles, carrying a laser pistol, strode into the chamber. He kept the gun raised, as though expecting an attack. He levelled it 226 at Astrabel, and Astrabel thought the ghost had spotted him. Then the ghost looked away, and Astrabel remembered that this was not real. This was an echo of the future. Of his future. Of his future death.

The young man stood over the smouldering corpse as though in triumph.

His body shook with laughter.

Another figure appeared on the steps behind him. It was a heavily built man with a beard. It appeared to be shouting. Bellowing. Booming. It thrust one arm forward and pointed accusingly. It was like a scene from a melodrama.

The young man fired at the bearded man, striking him on the shoulder. The bearded man recoiled under the blast. He hit the wall, his chest rising and falling, his face wincing as though in great pain, but he did not die.

Four more figures arrived. The young man swung his gun towards them and fired. A laser beam cut through the mist, smashing a ghostly section of wall. Beneath the ghost wall, the real crypt wall remained solid.

Distracted, the young man didn't see the bearded man rushing towards him.

By the time he turned back, the bearded man had hurled himself at the young man's pistol. The bearded man's mouth was open, as though he was shouting at the top of his voice The mists parted and writhed, and for a moment Astrabel was alone. Then the air wobbled, and the scene reappeared.

The bearded man lay on the ground, motionless. Beside him was the body of the young man. His spectacles had been smashed and his mouth hung open.

Three of the four figures on the stairs made their way down into the crypt.

Astrabel couldn't make out the fourth figure it remained little more than an indistinct shape. Maybe there wasn't even a fourth figure at all.

The other three figures approached. There was a young girl, attractive, with long curly hair. There was a young man, a few years older than Astrabel, in a T-shirt that read ' I'm Voting For The Doctor I'm Voting For The Doctor'. And there was a man in his forties, wearing some sort of waistcoat.

The man in the waistcoat picked up Old Astrabel's holdall and pulled out half a dozen notebooks. A smile curled across his lips as he examined them.

Then he pulled a pen out of his pocket and scribbled a note which he held up for Astrabel.

You might want to get a pen and paper handy.

Astrabel stared at the words uncomprehendingly, then patted his pockets.

In the back of his jeans he found a small notebook with a pencil attached.

Gripping his torch between his chin and his shoulder, he rested the pad against the crypt wall and prepared to write.

The man in the waistcoat turned over the first page of the first of Old Astrabel's notebooks. The page contained a list of formulae and instructions. And 227 at the top it read, How to build a Tomorrow Window (and get a free lunch!) By Astrabel Zar By Astrabel Zar 228.

Epilogue.This Island Earth Fitz rested his elbows on the wooden table and peered out across the Thames, the breeze ruffling his hair. The sunset glistened on the water. It was all so peaceful. The section of the embankment around Tate Modern had been taped off, so they'd headed back towards London Bridge.

As they'd pa.s.sed the Globe Theatre, the Doctor had launched into an im-probable anecdote about helping Will Shakespeare to write Hamlet Hamlet. However, probably due to the Doctor's foggy memory, the anecdote had also included Leonardo DaVinci, a girl called Vicki, something called the Braxiatel Collection and the Daleks. It had been almost as confusing as the time he'd asked the Doctor if he'd ever been to Atlantis.

At Trix's suggestion, they'd stopped at a pub along the way. The Doctor emerged from The Anchor balancing two pints of lager and a lemonade. The lemonade was for the Doctor, of course. He was driving.

The newspapers were still full of headlines about the explosion at Tate Modern, though there didn't seem to be any more actual news. Apparently the government had launched an enquiry and someone had been evicted from the Big Brother Big Brother household. Life went on, in all its glorious triviality. household. Life went on, in all its glorious triviality.

Like lager, another glorious triviality. The Doctor placed the gla.s.ses on the table and sat down beside Trix.

'How long were we gone for?' Trix asked. 'I've lost track.'

'A week, I think,' said the Doctor.

Fitz savoured his first mouthful of Stella Artois. 'Seems longer.'

'We only travelled in s.p.a.ce, not in time,' said the Doctor, 'but we packed quite a lot in.'

Trix brushed her hair out of her eyes. 'So we're done, now?'

The Doctor nodded over his lemonade.

'You're leaving all the other worlds to Charlton?' said Fitz.

The Doctor looked out across the sparkling river. 'He's setting up Tomorrow Windows on all the worlds that Prubert influenced. With Martin out of the way, he should stand a very good chance of success.'

'What about all that stuff you said about the Tomorrow Windows being irresponsible interference, "tampering with a planet's development ". . . ?'

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'Charlton's only using the Tomorrow Windows on planets that have already been tampered with. He's correcting someone else's interference. Making amends, just as Prubert wanted.'

'Undoing the damage?' said Trix.

'Providing a second chance. Knowledge of the future can be remarkably effective at concentrating people's minds. I remember saying to Charles d.i.c.kens '

Fitz swallowed another mouthful of lager. 'So I suppose he'll be setting up one on Earth, then? To replace the one at Tate Modern?'

The Doctor shook his head.

'But Prubert said Earth was one of the planets he visited. . . It was on the list, the list of protected planets, the Galactic Heritage Foundation! The ones that. . . ' Fitz reached across the table. 'Have you still got that leaflet?'

The Doctor handed him the crumpled Galactic Heritage Foundation leaflet.

Fitz read from the list. 'Here we are. Kootanoot, Bros, Flamvolt. . . Earth Earth.

There!'

The Doctor rubbed his nose. 'I asked him about that. He did visit Earth, yes. He had a list of selfish memes ready to go. But when he arrived, he found that humanity seemed to have them all already. . . so he didn't bother. He just got drunk instead. He said he thought someone else had already got there first. . . '

'Hang on,' said Trix. 'If Earth already has all these selfish memes. . . That means it's doomed to destruction, right?'

'I don't know.' The Doctor retrieved a small, hand-mirror-sized object from his waistcoat pocket. 'Charlton gave me this. A mini-Tomorrow Window.

Would you like to find out?' He offered it to Fitz.

'No,' said Fitz, shaking his head. 'No way.'

The Doctor offered it to Trix. She held up a hand in refusal.

'Why not?' said the Doctor.

'There are some things you're better off not knowing,' said Fitz.

'If we knew for definite,' said Trix, 'if we knew there was no chance of things turning out all right, then how could you go on living? If there wasn't any hope? And if you knew for certain things would turn out all right, then '

' then you might take that for granted?' the Doctor suggested.

'And anyway, it's like you said,' said Fitz. '"Mankind can't learn learn if it can flick to the back of the book and look up the answers."' if it can flick to the back of the book and look up the answers."'

'Are you sure?' The Doctor offered the Tomorrow Window to Fitz, then to Trix. 'No? No.' The Doctor stood up and walked over to the railings. For a moment he waited there, then he swung his arm in an arc and hurled the mini-Tomorrow Window into the gleaming depths of the Thames.

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The Doctor returned to the table. 'Not that I advocate littering, you understand.' He finished his lemonade. 'You were right, Trix. I think there is is hope, though. The thing is, you see, you don't really need a Tomorrow Window to see into the future. You just need to pay attention to the past and the present. . . Maybe humanity will save itself, or maybe. . . ' hope, though. The thing is, you see, you don't really need a Tomorrow Window to see into the future. You just need to pay attention to the past and the present. . . Maybe humanity will save itself, or maybe. . . '

' the Earth will be reduced to a radioactive cinder ' said Fitz.

' and then get bought up by an intergalactic property developer?' said Trix.

The Doctor tapped his fingers on the table impatiently as Fitz and Trix finished their drinks. 'Come on,' he said. 'Let's get back to the TARDIS.'

As they walked away, Fitz returned to the Galactic Heritage Foundation leaflet, and its list of planets 'Venmof, Ertshea, Esto, Arethro, Wabbab, Gallifraxion Four ' He paused. 'Gallifraxion Four? It was Gallifraxion Four Gallifraxion Four all the time?' all the time?'

The Doctor and Trix exchanged bewildered glances.

'That makes sense now,' said Fitz. 'For a minute there I thought it was referring to Gallifre'

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Acknowledgements

This book is dedicated to Douglas Adams. It is not, however, intended to be a pastiche of his work. Any imitation of his style would inevitably be a pale one. It is merely a tribute to the person who made me love reading and who inspired me to become a writer. I'm still waiting for the helicopter ride to the top of Mount Everest, though. . .

Ken Livingstone appears by kind permission of Ken Livingstone. With thanks to David Hayward at the Mayor of London's office.

The following people proved critical: Peter Anghelides, Graham Ba.s.sett, Simon Belcher, Robert d.i.c.k, Simon Guerrier, Craig Hinton, Joe Lidster, Shaun Lyon, Mark Michalowski and Jac Rayner.

This book was conceived in various Edinburgh drinking establishments, so thanks are also due to David Owen.

And finally, thanks to my editor, Justin Richards, who provided the whooshing noises as the deadlines went by.

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About The Author.

JONATHAN MORRIS spends all his time writing situation comedies. One of them is bound to get made, sooner or later.

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