Benton appeared, bearing tea but nothing in the way of news. Liz watched the Doctor heap six teaspoons of sugar into his mug, stir, taste, and add a couple more.
She jumped, nearly spilling her own tea, as he suddenly slammed down the mug, slapped a palm to his forehead and said, "Of course!"
"Of course?" She placed her own mug on the table and sat forward. Benton, who had been heading for the door, stopped and looked back at the Doctor.
"My sonic screwdriver!" The Doctor stood up and spread his arms as if he'd just performed some sort of conjuring trick and expected applause.
"Sorry, Doc, I don't follow," said Benton.
"Neither do I," said Liz, getting to her feet, "Isn't your sonic screwdriver in your jacket?"
"Exactly!" he said, "The jacket the Brigadier is wearing. And if he has the presence of mind to switch in on, we can trace the frequency and triangulate his location."
Liz and the Doctor stood on the doorstep of the old farmhouse the trail had led to. Miles from the nearest village, it was the sort of remote outpost likely to be favoured by people who wanted to hide.
Despite the Doctor's blithe assurance that tracing the signal from his sonic screwdriver would be the work of a moment, it had actually taken them over seven hours to screen out interference, and to double-check the frequency and location. Getting to the middle of the Peak District had taken several more hours, and the light was fading – though that would help the UNIT troops who even now were dispersing into the woodland that surrounded the place, ready to move when the Doctor signalled.
Liz looked back along the rutted track that led to the house. The unmarked vehicle they had left at the side of the road was just visible beyond the stone gatepost, and she took a deep breath, nodded to the Doctor that she was ready.
Or at least as ready as she was ever likely to be. If this didn't work – or if the Brigadier was already…
She squashed the thought as the Doctor pressed a gloved finger to the doorbell and, for good measure, rapped on the door.
After waiting for almost a minute, he repeated the procedure, and this time the sound of boots on stairs preceded the door being wrenched open. "This is private property," said the hulking individual who confronted them, "Go away". Well over six feet tall, with a broken nose and muscles that stretched his T-shirt to bursting point, he looked as though nothing short of a bazooka would knock him over.
"Well, we're terribly sorry to bother you," said Liz, giving him her best 'helpless female' look, "But our car's broken down, and we wondered if we might use your phone to…"
"Ain't got one," he said, and jerked his chin in the direction of the distant village. "There's a box down the road."
"Oh dear," said the Doctor, tottering and clutching at his chest, "In that case, perhaps I might trouble you for a glass of water. My tablets you see…"
And before the man could react, the Doctor had managed to totter right into him and, with a couple of swift arm moves, dropped him to the floor unconscious.
"You'll have to teach me that some time," murmured Liz, as the Doctor turned to wave in the direction of Captain Yates' hidden Land Rover.
"Takes years to learn Venusian Aikido, my dear," he replied, stepping over the prone body in the doorway to lead the way inside, "But perhaps a couple of basic moves…" He stopped, and held up a hand, listening.
A moment later, a voice at the top of the stairs called, "Oy, Joe, what's going on down there?"
Liz heard footsteps overhead, and the Doctor drew her into an alcove a few feet along the hallway. She felt him tense for another confrontation, but the footsteps ended with a dull 'thud', followed by the sound of cursing, scuffling – and a shot.
"Come on!" Without waiting to see whether she followed, the Doctor charged up the stairs and Liz, fighting down a sick feeling of dread, forced herself to trail in his wake. Behind her, she could hear boot treads as the first UNIT soldiers reached the house.
When he reached the open door at the top of the stairs, the Doctor stopped in his tracks and Liz, bracing herself for what might lie beyond the threshold, peered past him into the room.
"Doctor! Miss Shaw!" The Brigadier was standing over a prone form in body armour, one booted foot on the man's throat. The gun in his right hand was aimed at the third of the room's occupants – though it looked unlikely that the man clutching the bullet wound in his left shoulder would be causing any further trouble any time soon. "That sonic thing worked then? I wasn't sure I'd switched it on properly."
"Brigadier," said the Doctor, "We'd rather assumed you needed help."
"Oh, I did," he said, "Couldn't take all of them on by myself. And they were starting to suspect that my brilliant improvisation over there wasn't actually a temporal stabiliser at all."
The Doctor chuckled and moved forward to take a closer look at the tangle of metal and wiring on the table in the middle of the room. "A crystal set, unless I'm mistaken – and I never am. Not quite in working order."
"Well, it's been thirty years since I last built one, Doctor," said the Brigadier, stepping back and putting the gun on the table as UNIT soldiers pounded into the room and took charge of the two floored men, "And I didn't have all the parts. Still, it kept them guessing for a while."
"And what would have happened when they stopped guessing?" Liz's emotions, wound to breaking point over the course of the day, snapped as she listened to the casual banter. As the soldiers marched their captives away down the stairs, she took a step towards the Brigadier, and heard herself shouting, "Of all the stupid, stubborn, pigheaded idiots! They'd have killed you without a second thought, and you stand there joking about some ridiculous piece of fritzed up wiring! What's the matter with you? Don't you care? Have you got a death wish or something? Just because you look better in that bloody jacket than he does, you think you… you think… you…" As her brain finally caught up with her mouth and communicated the need to shut up now, she stammered to a halt. With a final exclamation of "Dammit!" she spun on her heel and ran down the stairs, brushing past an astonished-looking Captain Yates en route. She didn't stop till she reached the car.
As she fumbled in the glove-box for the cigarette packet she knew was in there, she realised the sun had set and it was now getting quite dark. She was grateful for it, as she could feel tears threatening, though she wasn't sure whether they were of anger, mortification or relief.
She found the cigarettes and put one between her lips, annoyed that it wouldn't stop shaking. She couldn't find her lighter, and tore the cigarette from her mouth, clutching it like a lifeline as she hunted through her bag.
Then the driver's door opened and slammed, as the Brigadier – still in the Doctor's blue velvet jacket – slid into the seat next to her. Without a word, he conjured a lighter from a pocket and held it steady while she lit her cigarette.
"Promised myself I'd given these up," she muttered, sitting back and taking a deep, calming drag.
"Me too," he said, taking one from the packet and lighting it.
He didn't say anything else, just sat quietly smoking, his face illuminated by the glow of the cigarette, clearly waiting for her to speak.
Liz finished her own cigarette, wound down the window and threw the butt outside. He did likewise, sat back, watching her. Still waiting.
"That was… very unprofessional of me. Yelling at you like that." She risked a glance at him, though in the darkness she could barely see him, let alone read his expression. "I'm sorry." She took a deep breath and let it out before she spoke again: "I'll let you have my resignation in the morning."
"Resignation? Liz, you don't have to resign! Not for that."
"It's not about that!" She half-turned in the seat to look across at him. "Don't you understand? I've been frantic with worry all day. I couldn't think, couldn't eat, couldn't…" She shook her head, "Couldn't function. I just kept remembering all the times you've nearly been killed – trapped in those Silurian caves, attacked by that plague-carrying scientist, shot at and hijacked by Carrington's men…" Her voice cracked and she pulled her handkerchief from her sleeve and scrubbed furiously at her nose. "Then today…" She sniffed, stuffed the hanky back up her sleeve and took a deep breath. "I thought we'd be too late. And when I heard that gunshot…" She found his arm in the darkness and gripped it, felt warm fingers cover hers. She could feel his thumb stroking the back of her hand, heard his watch ticking and smelled the tobacco on his clothes. When she spoke again, her voice was a whisper: "I can't keep waiting and wondering, while you rush in where Angels fear to tread."
"It's my job, Liz."
"No, it's not!" she snapped, pulling away from him, "You're a sodding Brigadier, for God's sake! Order someone else to lead the damn' charge – you don't have to!"
"I won't order anyone to do something I'm not prepared to do myself." His voice was gentler than she deserved, and she felt him tuck a stray strand of her hair back behind her right ear, and smooth it, "But you know that, don't you?"
His hand still lingered on her hair, and she put her own hand over his and turned her cheek to rest against his palm. With a quiet sigh of defeat, she murmured, "I suppose that's why I love you – but you know that, don't you?"
The driver's seat creaked as he moved closer, and she could feel his breath against her face as he spoke her name.
Then shouts sounded outside, doors slammed, and they pulled apart as the jeep behind them switched on its engine and its headlights.
Shouldering the door open, the Brigadier climbed out of the car and yelled his driver's name. Then he stepped back as the man came running, and Liz heard him say, "Take Miss Shaw to the billet, Wilson. The Doctor and I will take the jeep."
"Yes, sir." The young soldier slid into the empty driver's seat, and Liz sat back in hers. She could still feel her cheek tingling where she had pressed her face against the Brigadier's hand, and her heart was poundng from their almost-kiss.
"So." Her next words, spoken a little over-casually, were ostensibly aimed at the Private starting the car; but she knew they could equally well be aimed at the man walking toward the Land Rover in front: "Where do we go from here?"