Doctor Who: The Mutation of Time

by John Peel

  Sensing her own job fading away, Blossom sobbed even louder. No one paid her the slightest attention.

  Steven had paused to allow the Doctor to catch up with him, and when they looked around, Sara had gone. Guessing at a direction, they set off to look for her. As they passed a building, the Doctor gestured with his stick. ‘Let’s try in there.’

  The door was unlocked, and they slipped in. It was obviously a wardrobe building of some kind, because literally thousands of costumes hung on hundreds of racks – clowns, cowboys, firemen, ballerinas, French courtesans... the place was like a warren, with walls of cloth.

  A man suddenly appeared from one of the cross-rows, carrying a clip-board and pencil. ‘There you are!’ he exclaimed. ‘Come on, your costumes are over here. Let’s get a move on.’

  ‘But...’ Steven began to protest. Then he heard the sound of footsteps approaching outside, and realized that the pack was still on their heels. The Doctor caught the noise, too, and nodded. They followed the man with the board, and discovered that they were expected to play policemen. Steven grinned. ‘I’m getting the hang of this!’

  After a few moments, Sara saw that she had lost Steven and the Doctor. They had obviously fallen behind somewhere. She started to retrace her steps through the maze of buildings, when she saw the crowd that had been chasing her round the corner. There was much pointing and cries of ‘Stop!’ and ‘Hey, you!’ Sara dived through the nearest door. It was into the property department, and the place was littered with all kinds of conceivable items that a film-maker might call on for his latest picture, from dining-room sets to Indian tepees or from a full-sized steam locomotive to a chess set. With the sound of pursuit getting closer, Sara looked around for somewhere to hide. The only thing that seemed possible was a large oriental basket. She slipped into it, and pulled the lid closed over her, hoping that her pursuers would not think of looking in it.

  A moment later, the door opened. It didn’t sound like the men who had been chasing her, as two quiet voices conferred. ‘That’s the one over there, Al. Grief, listen to that racket. Steinberger must’ve flipped his top again.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Al agreed. ‘Come on.’

  To Sara’s horror, the two men picked up the basket she was hiding in, and carried it out of the door. She didn’t dare try to get out, because she was certain to be seen by the hunters. All she could do was to lie still and hope that she would have an opportunity to get out soon.

  Something of the same thought was passing through Steven’s mind at exactly the same moment – though for very different reasons. He and the Doctor had been hastily dressed in the police uniforms, which were singularly ill-fitting. Then they were hurried outside a different door, where a car of sorts was waiting. It contained more men in the uniforms, all armed with large truncheons. Steven and the Doctor were ushered into the open back of the vehicle, along with most of the other policemen. Then someone yelled ‘Action!’, and the car started off.

  The trouble began right away. The driver took a corner at high speed, tipping the car almost on to its side. One of the policemen fell out, grabbing Steven as he did so. Steven, in his turn, gabbed at the next policeman in the car. The grip of the man er the side was gradually dragging him over too when the car turned sharply, and he was flung out. Luckily, he retained his grip on the policeman still in the car, who in turn grabbed at another.

  In seconds, there were five of them, strung out in a line, being dragged behind the car... the Doctor looked on helplessly as the line of police wagged from side to side with ever more eccentric driving of the vehicle.

  Neither he nor Steven knew what the words painted on the side of the squad car meant. They read: ‘KEYSTONE KOPS’.

  The sheikh moved forward dramatically, sweeping into the tent of his beloved. Slave girls swooned, and the mistress of the tent hastily flung her veil across the lower half of her face. ‘I will come to you on my camel, and sweep you away across the desert!’ the sheikh vowed.

  ‘Cut! Cut!’ A thick, Scandinavian figure in his mid fifties crashed on to the set, gesticulating wildly. ‘No, no!’ he screamed at the actor in his thick accent. ‘ Terrible!You’ve got to give it more feeling .’ His gestures suggested that he’d like to rip the actor’s heart out. Perhaps he did feel that way, for he was Ingmar Knopf, the Great Dane, and current champion of the box office. He pointed to the scantily clad actress, who was gazing off into the distance, trying to stay aloof. ‘She is not a sack of potatoes.’

  ‘No,’ the girl agreed in thick, Russian accents. ‘But he is a sack of potatoes. Vere did you find heem? On a rubbish dump?’

  ‘I resent that!’ the sheikh said, pouting.

  ‘Ach!’ The girl snapped her fingers at him. ‘I give that for your resenting.’ She mopped her brow, dramatically. ‘I vant to be alone.’

  At that moment, Steinberger P Green bounced into the room, several of his yes-men trailing, and peering everywhere. ‘Did you see them?’ he howled at the top of his voice. ‘Two guys and a gal? They just beat the living daylights out of my camera crew! It was great !’

  Sara peered out of the basket in the tent set, and hastily closed the lid. There was no exit for her quite yet, it would seem. Ingmar Knopf was less than thrilled with the interruption. He glared angrily at Green ‘I am trying to make a motion picture in here. Kindly remove yourself and that... that riffraff.’

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ yelled Green.

  ‘You, sir, are a boor! And if you do not leave, I shall have you ejected!’

  ‘You can’t talk to me like that!’ Green yelled, and turned to his yes-men. ‘Get him, boys!’ They didn’t show much enthusiasm for the idea, and Knopf summoned his own camera crew into action. In moments, the place had degenerated into a free-for-all.

  The sheikh stared at the scene, then walked over to tap Ingmar Knopf on the shoulder. ‘Now, look here, Mr Niff...’

  ‘Knopf!’ the director yelled. ‘Ingmar Knopf, you doltish lout!’

  ‘You can’t talk to me like that!’ the sheikh huffed. ‘I am an actor!’

  ‘You are not an actor,’ the girl yelled from the set. ‘You are a cheap peeg!’

  Sara decided that in all the fuss, she might be able to sneak back to the TARDIS. She slipped out of the basket, only to run into the stage manager. Like so many people in this inexplicable place, he was carrying a clip-board. He glanced up, and then shook his head.

  ‘That’ll never do,’ he said, firmly. ‘Get those clothes off.’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘Get ’em off,’ the man repeated, pointing at Sara’s outfit. ‘It’s all wrong.’

  ‘I shall do no such thing,’ Sara snapped.

  Thinking he was dealing with a moody actress, the man took her arm, aiming to give her a good talking-to. Sara thought he was about to try to remove her clothing by force, and promptly tossed him clean through the painted backdrop.

  Steinberger P Green looked up at the man hurtling along. ‘I recognize that style!’ Glancing around, he spotted Sara. ‘There she is!’ he yelled. ‘Grab her!’

  Sara took off as fast as she could manage. Green’s men tried to separate themselves from the fight to follow her. Knopfs crew, thinking they had Green’s mob on the run, chased after them. Things were not going well for anyone. Knopf threw his script to the floor, and started tugging at his hair in despair.

  ‘I should never have agreed to make a film in America!’ he wailed. ‘They have no artistic sense!’

  The actor materialized again, tugging at Knopf’s sleeve. ‘Mr Nipp...’

  ‘Knopf! Knopf, you numskull!’

  ‘... I demand an apology. You hurt my feelings with your insensitive words’

  Knopf glared down at him, his face slowly turning crimson. ‘You – demand – an – apology?’ he breathed. ‘I shall give you something!’ His fist shot out, connecting very solidly with the actor’s jaw. The actor’s eyes crossed, and he collapsed. For the first time that day, lngmar Knopf felt satisfied.
>
  The Doctor and Steven had finally managed to extricate themselves from the mad policemen. The car ride had been bad enough when everyone was falling out of it, but when they were heading for a steam locomotive at full speed, Steven and the Doctor had looked at one another and with one accord leaped from the car. They were not alone in this move, and were quite surprised to find that the side of the road at the point they had jumped was padded. None of this was making any sense at all to them. They did, however, know when it was time to retreat. Shedding the police uniforms, they retreated at top speed.

  They soon found themselves back in the main area of the lot, where the sound stages were situated. The Doctor was certain that the whole adventure had some inner meaning that he was trying to fit together. Steven, on the other hand, was of the opinion that they were in some huge mental asylum, and just wanted to find Sara and escape before one or more of the lunatics here actually succeeded in killing them.

  The Doctor shrugged, and tried the first door that they came to. It led into another large building, this one with the inevitable lights and cameras. The people here, however, were not as frenetic as the others that they had encountered. On the contrary, everyone sat around looking glum. One man, the director, was shredding a thick wad of papers and tossing them rather haphazardly towards a waste bin.

  The set was of a large restaurant dining-room. Tables were laid, and piles of food made the huge banquet table groan under its weight. Sitting despondently at one table was a pale-looking young man, dressed oddly even for this place. A grubby black bowler was perched on a shock of dark hair. His small moustache drooped unhappily over his mouth. His suit was several sizes too small in some places and too large in others. A wilted flower hung from his buttonhole, and he twirled a walking stick slowly in his hands.

  The sight of all that food reminded Steven of his earlier remarks in the TARDIS. ‘Hey, I’m famished, Doctor. You think they’d miss some of that?’ Without waiting for a response, he shot towards the table, and began to help himself. The Doctor shook his head, and went to talk to the little clown. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ he asked, gently.

  The clown looked up. ‘I shouldn’t think so, unless you’re a script-writer. We need a new ending for this film.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not a – what is it? – script-writer, but I am rather good at solving problems. Perhaps if you were to explain...?’

  ‘Why not?’ the man shrugged. ‘Everything in the film to far has been terrifically funny, but... well, we need one big belly-laugh to finish it all off – and we’re stuck for ideas.’

  The Doctor glanced around, a twinkle in his eyes. ‘And this is the set for the last scene?’ He had finally realized where they had landed – a movie company! He had seen films before in his travels, but never known how they were made. Suddenly, everything was coming together.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, I think I know how to solve your ending. If I may demonstrate...?’

  ‘Be my guest.’ The clown signalled to the director to start up the cameras, as the Doctor crossed to where Steven was munching away. Glancing around, he saw a large custard pie, and lifted it up, thoughtfully. Then he tapped Steven on the arm.

  ‘Excuse me, my boy, but I’d like your help in a little demonstration.’

  Steven looked around, his mouth rather full. ‘Sure thing. Hey, that pie looks good.’

  ‘Really?’ asked the Doctor innocently. ‘Would you like some?’

  ‘Sure.’

  With a cherubic smile, the Doctor slammed the pie full in Steven’s face.

  For a second, there was silence, then the clown doubled over, laughing. Steven stood there, a shocked expression on his face that gradually turned to anger as the custard dripped down his features. He turned and picked up a pie, and then hurled it at the Doctor...

  ... who ducked. The pie caught the clown in mid-laugh, silencing him for a second. Than, with exaggerated motions, he dashed for a pie and hurled it at an actor dressed as a waiter.

  ‘Great stuff! Great stuff!’ the director enthused, as the cameras caught all this. ‘Everybody into this! Move!’

  The other actors piled on to the set, and the fight began to increase in tempo. Pies, tarts and flans flew furiously. Pitchers of water and other drinks were spilled over anyone in sight. No one much minded who was hit with what.

  The doors burst open as Sara shot into the set, looking for escape from Steinberger P Green and his men. Spotting the Doctor weaving his way through the food fight – and miraculously unscathed by all of it – she headed straight for him. She was followed by the technicians and yes-men. As Sara struggled to reach the Doctor, a pie caught her right in the face. Wiping the custard from her eyes, she glowered at the man who had thrown it, who was laughing. She grabbed one of his arms and hurled him onto the table. He landed with a squelch.

  Green’s men ran into a barrage of pies and food, and instantly lost sight of Sara. They were too occupied with getting their own back and defending themselves with whatever edible weapons came to hand.

  Sara had just pushed someone into a large cake when the Doctor managed to get to her. ‘I think it’s high time we were out of here,’ he muttered. Sara couldn’t have agreed more, and together they made their way to where Steven was alternately eating and pushing food into people’s faces. ‘Back to the TARDIS!’ the Doctor told him. With a nod, the young man followed. They left the raucous mob behind them, still heaving food in all directions. The director was ecstatic.

  Outside, they broke into a run as Sara led them back to where the TARDIS had originally landed. With Steinberger P Green’s men no longer hunting them, they could get back without much trouble.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ Steven asked her, as they dashed between buildings.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Sara replied. ‘But a strange man kept telling me to take my clothes off!’

  ‘It’s a madhouse,’ Steven reflected.

  The studio where they had landed was now deserted, and they slipped back into the TARDIS without being seen. The Doctor set the controls, and with the usual cacophony, the ship took off.

  ‘Where was that place?’ Steven asked, bewildered. He and Sara were from times when such studios no longer existed.

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ she replied. ‘Let’s just hope we never return there!’

  A short while later, Steven had showered and changed his clothes. It felt good to return to the control room without leaving a trail of food as he walked. Sara, still looking fresh, was relaxing in a tall-backed chair there. A moment later, the Doctor entered the room, carrying a tray with three goblets on it. They were wrought silver, very ornate, and steaming slightly. ‘Here we are!’ he announced, cheerily.

  ‘What’s this?’ Steven asked, wondering if the Doctor was trying to make up for having hit him with the pie.

  ‘Well,’ the Doctor answered, extending the tray to Sara first, then to Steven, so that they could take a goblet each. ‘We don’t often get a chance to celebrate, but this time we must. Mulled wine’

  ‘Celebrate?’ asked Sara blankly.

  ‘Yes.’ The Doctor chuckled. ‘Don’t you recall? When we landed at the police station, it was all decked out for Christmas!’

  Steven grinned. ‘So it was.’

  The Doctor put down the tray, and took the remaining goblet, which he raised. ‘So, then – a toast! A happy Christmas to as all!’

  Smiling, Sara and Steven clinked their goblets with his, and echoed the sentiment. The wine warmed their throats, but the warmth in their hearts came from other causes.

  Chapter 4

  Failure

  Two thousand years in the future and half a Galaxy away, the planet Kembel was a reluctant host to a spearhead of the Dalek fleet poised to invade the Galaxy. By the year AD 4000, the area controlled by Earth and its allies occupied a good slice of the home Galaxy. The Daleks had subdued their own systems, and were now reaching out once again for the planets owned by the human race.
Knowing full well that they could never defeat the forces of Earth and its allies alone, the Daleks had formed an Alliance with the various ruling powers of the outer galaxies. Together, they were more than a match – it was believed – for the forces of humanity. To ensure their victory, the Daleks had assembled a weapon of their own design, the Time Destructor.

  The central mechanism for this device was housed at the moment within a laboratory in the Dalek city constructed on the surface of Kembel. The weapon itself was designed to be portable, but was currently undergoing the final phases of its testing before its power would be unleashed against the Earth itself. Computer banks, scanned by monitor Daleks, lined the room. The Time Destructor was housed in a harness, suspended in front of a glass cubicle. It looked like a large, glass-encased cannon. At the far end of the weapon was a complex of wiring, and a tube – the housing for the Taranium core that powered the device.

  Outside the testing area, separated by low barriers to show the safe zone, stood three of the representatives from the Dalek Alliance. Trantis was a small, wizened humanoid creature with wild hair and facial tendrils that hung down untidily. They were empathic sensors that enabled natives of his world to communicate with one another emotionally. Celation was a tall creature, which breathed the oxygen-rich air with difficulty, giving his speech a throaty, disjointed effect.

  The final member of the trio was peefectly human. He was tall and held himself with dignity. His face showed age, but of an indeterminate nature. His hair and neat beard were white, his eyes a piercing blue that showed a keen mind, observing all. The man was Mavic Chen, elected Guardian of the Solar System, and the traitor who had sold out the human race to the Daleks in the hope of increasing his own personal power.

  Two Dalek scientists were putting the finishing touches to the mechanisms of the Time Destructor, under the watchful lens of the Black Dalek. As they began to insert the Taranium core that was to power the device, the Black Dalek spun its head-section to face another subordinate Dalek.