Precise Measures
It was not her fault, gentlemen. She noticed the Choir, and nothing and no one can do that and stand their ground. There was only one course open to her. I'm sorry, gentlemen, but that's the course she took.
Manchester 1929
When Constable Wren failed to report there was no immediate concern. In the station, eyebrows were raised, knowing looks exchanged and a cursory search of the locals pubs undertaken. When this failed to accomplish little but the quenching of thirst, dark rumors of trouble at home made the rounds and the worried wife was duly visited. After her protestations that all was fine, Constable Dunn slyly suggested a visit to certain ladies known to the missing Wren; this was performed with mixed results. But when the exhausted searchers returned to station, they found the street outside in an utter uproar. The searchers had to stand aside for the civilians, P.C.s and officers staggering or running out the door. The veteran Dunn thought of Mons immediately upon seeing their faces. He knew the dazed shock of the survivor, the numb horror and burden of gratitude in the eyes and on the faces in the trench and the mirror.
Wren had, in fact, reported in.
Abiss and Trench made every effort to perform their inspection without undue local interest, but protocol demanded they make their presence and undertaking known to the locals. They were relieved, then, that a lone constable awaited them on the platform. This would, perhaps, be an affront to some, but Abiss and Trench were practical men. One did not become a London Metropolitan Superintendent of Police or a Metropolitan Police Surveyor through deficiency of character nor, indeed, the courting of shallow regard. Superintendent Abiss and Surveyor Trench, then, may be counted as men of character; their response to the evening's horrors should not be held against them.
The constable - a casually obsequious Mancunian named Willett - delivered the visitors to an unremarkable apartment set aside for the occasion, where they refreshed themselves and sought the constable's estimation of their itinerary. When the constable produced his own supervisor's recommendations, an hour or two was spent finalizing appointments, marking maps and determining the order in which reports were to be studied; Willett, who Abiss quickly marked as one to watch, proved a fine source of information. But it was dreary work after travel, and it was with bemused relief that Abiss accepted Willett's suggestion that the gentlemen may, in lieu of further paperwork, simply like to go for a walk.
It was early evening and the stench of the Mills lay heavy on the city. P.C. Willett seemed unaffected, Abiss noticed.
"Tell me, Willett," he said, "is the air always so... redolent of industry?"
The man nodded. "Some say it stinks, sir. Not as bad as it used to be, say others. What with the American market gone and all that. You'll see some good people living on the streets, here." He sadly nodded his head. "Not much different down London, is it, sir?"
"These are trying times for us all, Willett. London has her own crosses to carry, but I dare say we will bear them proudly to a respectable end".
"Well said, George," said Trench, and Willett grunted his agreement, then, "Here we are, sirs! The object of inquiry itself! Hmm. Odd."
"Constable?"
"Nothing, sir. Just my memory playing up. There she is, Mr. Trench! Beauty, right?"
Abiss softly smiled as Trench briskly rubbed his hands and quickened his pace. Willett noticed and dared a smile himself. "There's a man about his work. Am I right, sir?"
"That you are, Constable. That you are. An introduction is in order, don't you think?"
"Yes sir!" He cleared his throat. "Gentlemen, meet the dear friend and refuge of the Manchester City Police. Taller than a man, sturdy as a tree, blue as a nose on Christmas (and despite the stove, quite as cold, might I say), emergency shelter, temporary holding cell, handy telephone and new best friend of policemen, firemen, widows, orphans and bladder-full hounds - the Manchester City Police Box! Soon to have sisters in London, perhaps?"
Abiss chuckled. He was warming to this man. "That's what we are here to determine. Gilbert. Your thoughts?"
Trench, tape measure in hand, circled and studied the box. "Too wide, I'd say. I'll have to inspect the inside, of course. You - Willett, was it? You have keys? Willett? Pay attention, man."
Abiss glanced at Willett. The man was gazing down a dark alley between two antique blocks, his head cocked in an unmistakable pose of intent listening. Then Abiss heard it - a low creaking moan that reminded him of rusty cogs straining to turn. But not quite - the sound had an unearthly, ethereal, almost musical quality. Then, brief silence followed by a distinct click and a muffled clatter. Briefly, Abiss saw yellow light flicker and fade down the alley. Abiss would never forget the next moment of utter silence; even the city seemed to hold her breath. Then came a faint cry of sheer agony.
P.C. Willett was nearly to the entrance before he remembered himself. "Sir?"
"Proceed, constable. I'm with you. Wait here, Gilbert."
The men moved into the darkness. Abiss idly wondered if the constable should have used the police box telephone to report before investigating, then decided to not make an issue of it. He'd add it to the morrow's interviews, he decided, then noticed Willett had stopped. The constable nodded toward a dimly lit courtyard ahead. A large black crate leaned against a wall, the twitching figure of a man crumpled before it. Yellow sparks crawled across his body.
You aren't listening; it was not her fault. They're brave in their way, but her kind do not understand fear. They've no capacity for it. She probably didn't even know why she fled, did what she did.
Wren reported in thus:
First they heard his scream, loud and sustained as a locomotive in the small vestibule. The doors rattled and splintered as Wren moved into the station. Those near the doors were bloodied and deafened as the chaotic, roiling mass thundered in, a storm in violent miniature. Those further away dared a peek through fingers at the strobing horror - it was not a cloud. It was a man, loosed of all cohesion and proportion. As they watched, distinct parts would emerge from the mass - there was a hand, fingers ranging and changing in size; then a face - Wren, unmistakeably - surfaced in the mass, a pinpoint grown to a distorted whole of the sphere; now a bloody internal organ... and stark yellow light lancing from between the emergent masses. But the most horrible thing was the sound - above and below the the scream was a muttering, modulating roar that lanced the nerves and filled the mind. As they slipped into immobility, one imperative thundered in their minds - flee. But they could not move; perhaps mercifully, they all fell unconsciousness.
No one saw him go.
"I believe this man has met with misadventure, sir," said Willett, whose matter-of-fact assessment Abiss did not dispute. "If you'll help me here, now those sparks are gone, we can sit him up in the light. Lean him on that box. Shame, sir."
"Willett?"
"Dressed as a gentleman, sir, but this posh green coat is ruined. Oh, we've been to the fancy dress wars, we have."
"Be careful. He's obviously been electrocuted. Here! What did he say?"
"Something foreign, sir. Here, you! Hold still! Lean back on this."
The man groaned but cooperated; the two policemen noticed his right hand was clenched. They exchanged a glance. Abiss leaned close. "Sir, I am superintendent Abiss of the London Metropolitan Police. I am here to assist you. What is your name? How did you come to such a state?"
The man opened his eyes. They were blue, and focused as Abiss watched.
"London? She brought me back to London?" His voice was hoarse, his accent Northern.
"I'm afraid you're in Manchester, sir (No offense, Willett). Now, sir, who are you?"
The man blinked and studied his hands curiously, as if they belonged to another. "I don't know. I have a key, see?" He paused as a thought crossed his mind. "They're all dead, Abiss. Every one." His voice faded and his gaze lost focus.
"I see you have a lovely key, there, sir. Would you perhaps have an identification?" Willett snapped his fingers near the man's face.
The man was alarmed at the snap and scrambled to his feet. The black crate slid alarmingly and Abiss grasped the man's arm. He was gripped in turn. The man was surprisingly strong.
"No! There's no need! Just leave me- " He grimaced in agony. "Gallifrey..." He would have fallen had Abiss not held him. He lowered the man to the ground and said to Willett, "Time to see the police box in action, constable."
"I'll make the call, sir!" the constable said, and ran toward the street.
Abiss studied the stranger. Mid-thirties, he guessed. Lanky. Brown hair cropped short. A practical-looking man, Abiss thought. But strangely dressed. His torn - no, burnt - coat was green velvet, cut long at the back. A frilly... cravat, was it? hung half-tied at his neck. His shoes were well-made but seemed imperfectly fit; the soles were well-worn. But he was dirty. Dried blood and soot covered him, though he seemed to suffer no external injury. As he bent close, engrossed in flexing his old procedural muscles, he heard the man mutter. He leaned closer; the man was reciting something.
"Patrician... corsair... highwayman... rani... flavia... borusa..." He coughed, "All of them, all of them..." He settled and was still. Were those names? Abiss wondered.
Trench's shout startled him.
The surveyor briskly approached, a quiet Willett following. "This is unacceptable, George! Not only is the telephone non-functional, this constable has brought the wrong keys! This is an inauspicious beginning to our inspection, sir!" He paused, "What's wrong with that man? Is he... dead?"
"Not any more," said a voice from the ground, "I can walk, I think." The man, supporting himself on the crate, made his feet. "Just a jiff, please," he said. He studied the black box and sighed softly. Abiss noticed that one side of the box appeared to have doors; the man attempted to insert his key. He held his head to the panel, listening, then nodded as if in understanding.
"Nothing to see here, gentlemen," he said, "Shall we be off?"
As Willett and Abiss helped the staggering man, Abiss noticed Trench linger by the box, looking at it carefully, as if measuring it in his mind.
No, there is nothing you can do. After the Muttering Choir there is no hope, no rescue, no salvation. Nothing to do but run forever. That cannot be allowed. She has to be stopped. Here. Now.
Those who suffered no injury and were in relative good health were the first to flee. Gaining their feet, they scanned the room and each other. Without a word they scrambled to the door and vanished in the night. Slower or older ones followed. Paying no heed to the protests of Dunn and the other new arrivals, they scattered. The injured crawled if able. Those who could not move lay with nerves jangling. Lucky Dunn, suddenly the man in charge, wondered at their frenzy to leave. He was restraining a man with a shard of glass in his forehead when a familiar voice cried, "Dunn! Good Lord, man! What's happened?" Willett rushed to his side. Further down the street two gentlemen, supporting a sagging third, watched curiously as the bizarre exodus continued.
"Willett! Help me here! Hold still, fella, you've got a hurt! Is that them inspectors, Willy? Who's the drunk?"
"That's them. Proper pair of Victorian stiff upper lips, there. Don't know the third - found 'im in an alley," said Willett, "Bugger that, though, what happened here? Where is everyone off to?"
"Damned if I know; I just got here myself. Out looking for Wren, I was. Look at the doors, Willy. You don't think it's the Irish again, do you?"
"Your guess, Dunn. Where's the super?"
"He's scarpered, Willy. Ran right by me without a peep, like with hounds on his scent. No lie, Willy; I don't know what to do," he said. Willett clapped his shoulder, "I'm inside, then. See if the telephones are down. Keep this man still if you can." He indicated the approaching trio, "Tell them I'll be back in a flash".
Once the stranger was deposited, groggy and muttering, on a holding cell cot, Abiss gave him no more thought. There were terrified injured to restrain, ambulances to call, reporters to obfuscate, fleeing victims to apprehend. Finally, after hours of effort, the station was back in operation. He was respectfully released from duty. Trench approached with a pot of tea and a platter of cups. "I've sorted out the workmen, George. We'll be shipshape in an hour," he said, "time you had a sit. And for God's sake, tell me what happened here."
"Come back here, then. Let's see if our mystery man has recovered. Hmm. I didn't even think of him when the ambulances were here. Pour me a cup, Gilbert, and I'll fill you in."
As the stranger murmured softly, the two men talked. Through the night the story had emerged, though it gave rise to even stranger riddles. As they were trundled into waiting ambulances the survivors ranted of thunder and apparitions, and the damage was plain to see, yet neighbors heard nothing but the crash of the doors and a choir of screams. Curiously, barely a minute had passed before the witnesses recovered and fled.
" I don't believe in ghosts, George. Regardless, these people saw something. They claim it was this Wren, then? It won't be an imposition if I apply deductive reasoning, will it?"
"Please do. Our fields are hardly exclusive. Measures must be taken, you know."
"Very good. Where was this Wren assigned? When was he last seen?"
"I don't know... Here, there's Willett. Willett! Where was Wren assigned?"
"Right here on Eccles, sir. Where we were, that was his rounds."
"Thank you. That will be all, but please stay close, will you? Now, Gilbert, I know that look."
Trench gestured at the prone figure in the cell. He stroked his chin, then said, "I wonder, George, if we have but a single mystery here and the culprit, perhaps, already in custody. There's a link, you see. Phone boxes." He turned to the constable. "Willett, I'm an uncommonly observant man. Tell the supervisor and myself what bothered you about the phone box we inspected this evening."
Willett cleared his throat. "Thing is, sirs, I pass that spot every morning on my way here. That box we saw? Not there this morning. I'd stake my reputation."
"Thank you, Willett. You're a good man, by the way, so do not fret about your reputation. So, George, we have a missing man, the disastrous appearance of his apparition, a stranger who cannot account for himself, and two counterfeit police boxes."
"Wait, Gilbert. Two?"
"Yes. One on Eccles and one in the alley. Blue beneath the soot. Quite a good design, in fact, but wooden. I propose that this man was within. Judging by his theatrical costume, I would say he is a man of the stage. A magician, victim of some flash-powder trick gone wrong. I'm not sure how he arranged the demonstration here this evening, though I suspect one or more accomplices utilizing some form of airborne, hallucinogenic compound. On his motives I will not venture to speculate. But if I miss my guess, Wren is alive and well, enclosed within the box on the street."
He stood. "Willett. Be a good man and requisition the station lock picks, will you? Care for a stroll, George?"
Abiss, amused by his colleague's unforeseen enthusiasm for sleuthing, agreed, "Very well, Gilbert. Let's see what we can find. Willett! Watch this man! We shall return soon."
As the three left, only Willett noticed the man on the cot was now silent. After seeing the Londoners out, he returned to the cell and poured a cup. He studied the man, then said, "Wet your whistle, sir? I know you're awake. Here, sit up and have some."
"Can't fool you, eh, Willett?"
He helped the man sit up and handed him a cup. "Now, magician you may be, but I think the esteemed surveyor has you wrong. You don't strike me as a bad 'un, and I've seen all sorts, I have," he said as the man gulped the hot tea and held out the cup. "More." Willett poured.
"This is fantastic. Exactly what I needed." He grinned, and his face transformed. "Hello, I'm the Doctor! And you are young Willett, and those gentlemen who just left are...?"
"On their way to crack open that fake police box, sir."
"Oh, they'll be back soon, soon. She's regenerating. Even I couldn't get in. Spoil the surprise."
"Oh, not yours, sir. The one on the road, that's the one. They think you have Wren in there, sir, though I don't believe it."
The Doctor listened as wood was sawed in the lobby. He looked up and down at Willett and his rumpled and bloodied uniform. Suddenly he seemed very serious. "You've had a long night. What's happened here, Willett? What did I miss? What about a second police box?"
"Well, Wren disappeared, sir. Just vanished, but I didn't know. I was at the station waiting for the gentlemen up from London."
"'Gentlemen up from London?' Rarely a good thing, in my experience. Go on."
"Well, sir, these have come up to inspect our police boxes, see if it's something they want down there."
"Wait! Is this 1929?"
"I can get you a doctor, sir."
"Their names aren't Abiss and Trench?"
"Yes, sir?"
The Doctor clapped his hands. "Fantastic!"
"Pardon me for saying, but I'll be damned, George. Look!" said Trench as they approached the site, "Someone has dragged the other box out here and replaced the one we left!"
"So they have, Gilbert. The new one looks a bit like that one from the alley. Thinner. Let's walk a bit faster."
Abiss and Trench reached the nearly-twinned boxes and studied them without speaking.
Abiss shook his head in wonder, "But this does not add up. If they are disposing of evidence I understand bringing this one out so it can be loaded on a lorry. But why replace this with a duplicate?"
He knelt. "See where the leading edge has accumulated debris?" He reached to brush some of the dirt away.
The box lurched a hand span toward its twin.
"Good to hear you laugh, sir, but now it gets squishy. Round about the time we found you covered in yellow sparks -"
"Wait? Yellow sparks, really? Did you see a yellow glow, by any chance?"
"Now that you mention it -"
"Well! It went right for once, after all these years... Please, go on."
"Apparently Wren's ghost was full of yellow lights as well, sir."
And then the Doctor sat forward, suddenly intent. "Tell me about the second box, Willett, quickly."
"Magnets!" declared Trench, helping Abiss to his feet, "these conjurers are capable of quite puzzling feats. Why, my father once saw a Chinaman..."
"Trench, are you sure? I... felt something between the two boxes. Something in the air, like a current. Could a magnet do that?"
"'Magnetic force', Abiss," he said, "quite obviously a strong magnetic force."
"If you say so..." He said, then - "There! Explain that!"
Before their eyes, the lamp stem curving above the doors of the original box retracted into the shell. The lamp itself moved, like a boat across water, to the top of the structure. The box from the alley lurched forward again.
Trench blinked, "Hydraulics?" Abiss snorted.
He turned to the superintendent, "I'm so sorry, Abi- George. I don't understand. But now we know this is the original box and it is getting smaller and that man is still in there."
"Get your lock picks, Gilbert."
"Here, I'm supposed to be guarding you! You're a person of interest, sir!"
"You can say that again. Look at me, Willett! Listen to me! I'm the only person on this planet that can solve this. There shouldn't be a second police box and there shouldn't be yellow ghosts in your station."
"You haven't said what's happening, sir!"
"I'll explain on the way! There isn't time!"
"The super said to guard you!"
"He'll die if we stay here! Come on, Willett! You can guard me while we run!"
"Very well, sir, you convinced me. We'll go, but... let's not run through the station holding hands, hey?"
Abiss clapped Trench on the back.
"Really, Gilbert. I'm impressed. Some of the most skillful thieves I've met haven't your knack for this."
Trench grunted. "Really, this has been rather routine. Get set. One more tumbler and... "
The lock clicked and the door swung in with a sigh. As Abiss gazed into the darkness within, Trench heard approaching footfalls and saw the magician racing toward them. Behind him, looking winded, came Willett.
"Haste, George! That magician's coming up the street!"
Abiss spun to look, Trench stood and stumbled against him, both doors dropped open, and with an inrush of air and the snap of latches the police box ate them.
The Doctor crashed into the box, gripping the sides and pressing his forehead into the wood. As he watched the Doctor's expressions change, it struck Willett that he was somehow communicating with the box.
"I knew it! But why are you here? No, no, no... " he spun, "Yes! Willett! We need a rope, a long stout chain, a fast lorry and the bumpiest road in Manchester! Now!"
For the briefest of moments, Abiss and Trench saw beauty. A room like the gleaming interior of a pearl, soft and lush. Decorative hemispheres lined the walls. A glass cylinder in the center, soft blue switches and dials arrayed in a console about it. A minute, teasing prelude. Then the muttering rose like an insane choir and their eyes clenched and their hands could not block the sound and fear was all they knew.
Gilbert MacKenzie Trench screamed as shells detonated at his feet.
George Abiss screamed as dozens of bullets ripped his flesh and shattered his bones.
Slow fire reduced Trench to ash, again and again.
The gas exploded Abiss's eyes but he could still see.
A shrill voice cried, "Exterminate!" and every organ in Trench's body was displaced.
A chuckling phantom peeled the flesh from Abiss's bones. Enjoying the delicacy, she regrew him and did it again.
The horde of travesties finished their sewing and returned to the battlefield. To make things interesting, this time they left their eyes behind.
Stars impacted and extinguished on the monstrous mad lattice of the Nightmare Child, motes on Behemoth. Yet of the dying trillions it's maw missed not a single individual.
Abiss opened his eyes to a soft, white glow. He was aware that he was bound, and the room was bouncing and lurching wildly. He heard distant crashes, booms and an insistent tolling bell and... automobile horns? He struggled. He must escape! A pair of dark, fuzzy lines crossed his vision. He blinked and looked again. He was tied to the central console of the white room. The dark lines were the legs of the man from the alley, crawling around and atop the console like a deranged ape. He was shouting above the din:
"It was not her fault, gentlemen," the man said,"She noticed the Choir, and nothing and no one can do that and stand their ground. There was only one course open to her. I'm sorry, gentlemen, but that's the course she took. Uh -oh! Hold tight!"
Abiss heard Trench shout something indistinct. The room lurched to the right, the left and spun. Abiss realized he could see an opening in the wall, and through it he glimpsed the city outside, turning and spinning. Heavy chains crossed the opening and the rope trailed in. Trench shouted again and the man answered.
"You aren't listening; it was not her fault. They're brave in their way, but her kind do not understand fear. They've no capacity for it. She probably didn't even know why she fled, did what she did."
"Can we help you? We have to get out of here!" shouted Abiss. The man's face, inverted, looked down.
"No, there is nothing you can do. After the Muttering Choir there is no hope, no rescue, no salvation. Nothing to do but run forever. That cannot be allowed. She has to be stopped. Here. Now."
Then came a very heavy thump, a hum from the console, and a cry of victory from the man. Suddenly the room was still. Through the door, Abiss saw the view still jumping and jerking, but here all was smooth as glass.
The man looked down again. "Hello, I'm the Doctor! I'll be right back!" Abiss, struggling with the ropes, saw him pause on the threshold, rope in hand, then leap. He heard shouting, and the motion outside slowed, then stopped. "Help me stand her upright," he heard the Doctor say, and the view outside shifted. "Wait here, Willett, and no peeking!"
The Doctor walked in and behind the struggling Abiss. "You've seen too much, my friend," he heard him say. "Hold still. Let me help."
"Doctor, you have to let me go," Abiss heard Trench say, "there are things in my mind. I have to get away."
"But where you go, there goes your mind," said the Doctor, "Just relax."
Abiss heard Trench grunt, then sigh. "You see? Easy! Let's untie you, put Mr. Abiss in order, and all of us get out of here. Shall we?"
Early that afternoon, the four men met on the street side next to the police box the Doctor called his 'Tardis'. The burnt paint and soot were gone, and soft orange light gleamed from the windows.
The borrowed lorry, engine idling, was parked nearby. The other police box was securely lashed atop.
Trench frowned at the Tardis.
"So, Doctor, this one's bigger inside as well? Can we see?"
"I'm afraid she's still cooking. Soon," the doctor said, orange light reflected in his eyes, "The color of the sky..."
Willett cleared his throat. "Doctor... You said you'd explain. I don't want to go to my grave wondering... what was that thing?"
Abiss agreed. "Yes, Doctor, please."
The Doctor frowned, then nodded. "All right. Maybe I'll be an explainer this time. Basil Exposition, that's me!" he said with a grin. He sighed at their blank stares. "Simplify, simplify."
He looked up at a rare, clear sky.
"There was a war. But not just a war. This was a conflict folded up onto itself, never ending, always beginning. It wasn't a battle of tribes, or nations. No tool could measure its scale. It was a war between realities, galaxies and timelines. There were weapons you wouldn't believe, even if I let you two remember them. The box you men entered, the one poor Mr. Wren entered, right before the war ended it brushed the poorest, vagrant tendril of an image, an afterthought, of the Muttering Choir."
Abiss shivered. "A weapon to cause fear?"
"Worse than that, super. Fear and retreat. Endless retreat."
He smiled and looked around. "And here she came, to this ragged little mudball. Tagged along with me, I suppose. Just arrived a bit earlier. But she was stuck without a pilot, so she tried to make one. But the Choir was imprinted in her circuits, her dimensions were warped, and she failed. All she achieved was a mockery that escaped to terrify those poor people we visited this morning. Did anyone check on Wren's wife?"
"She's fine, sir. He didn't go home," said Willett, "She'll be well cared for. Widows and orphans."
"Be a lot of that soon, I'm afraid," said the Doctor, "Still! It's a glorious day! Let me finish so you can enjoy it.
"Now, what she attempted, that wouldn't have worked in the best of times. She tried again with you two, but I think she really was killing time while waiting for me. Tried to absorb this old thing, here, from what you say. Camouflage. Trick me into walking right in."
"What was that business with the lorry?," asked Abiss.
"She was more than a machine, you see? She was a living thing. Like any living thing she is prone to distraction, like Mr. Trench there."
He grinned at Trench, who was frowning at the box atop the lorry. "She's perfectly safe, now, sir. Anyway, I gave her something else to worry about. Manually locked her interior and exterior. While the estimable Willett dragged us around the city, she had to devote her power to structural integrity. That gave me time to dig in her mind and remove this." He showed them a small glassy box, metal and lights inside. He stroked it with a finger.
Abiss felt a strange pang. "That's her, isn't it? Her... brain?"
The Doctor nodded. "Close enough. I'll give her a proper burial. I'm taking her to Java."
Trench spoke. "Doctor. This morning the box up there had a room in it. Now it's an empty shell. Where is the rest of it?"
Before the Doctor could answer, Abiss heard the sound again, the musical grinding that had drawn he and Willet to the Doctor the night before. It came from the Doctor's pocket. He beamed.
"Mr. Trench, the rest of it's in my other pocket. But now, gentlemen, it is time for me to say, 'adieu'. Mr. Abiss, don't gaze back. Mr. Trench, keep that shell. It's just what you're looking for. And, you, Willett. I'll see you again, but you won't see me. Stand back now, gentlemen. Give a man some privacy."
He withdrew a gleaming key and regarded the doors, keen anticipation on his face. Without a word he unlocked the door and stepped inside. As the door closed, Abiss heard the Doctor say, "Coral? Is that a pun?".
And then the rhythmic grinding arose, and the Tardis faded from view. Abiss stepped into the vacated space and shook his head.
"So, Mr. Trench," said Willett, grinning, "they'll all be doing that, right?"