Riddell found himself in the middle of an extremely large room. It was the kind of room that seemed to get larger the more you looked at it. In the center was a large yellow control deck, like you might see on a particularly devious ship. Still clutching his shotgun, Riddell turned around immediately and stepped outside. He took a slow march around the thing, military style, then made his way carefully back in.
The professorial fellow was sitting on a chair with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. "Yes," he said, sounding a bit bored. "It's bigger on the inside. Clever of you to notice. What else?"
Riddell leaned his shotgun carefully against the door.
"Good show," said the professor. "That's progress. Questions?"
Riddell looked left, then right. He thought: it could rain in a room this big. He cleared his throat and hiccupped once. "Am I dreaming?"
"Extremely unlikely," said the chap. He paused, reflecting. "But not completely impossible. It's happened before. Do let me know if you find evidence in that direction. What else?"
Riddell squared his shoulders. He lifted his chin. He was ready to accept this, if it was his fate. It was hardly worse than anything he had already been through. "If I'm not dreaming, then I've gone mad."
The professor shrugged. "I'm not really in a position to say. But so what if you have? Nothing wrong with a good old fashioned bout of madness, I've always said." He frowned. "Well. I've actually never said that before, but it's a good solid thought. Madness is a bit like hot peppers, isn't it? Clears out the passages, gives you a fresh start in the morning. You ought to keep that in mind. Or, as you might say, out of it." He chuckled and gave Riddell a toothy grin.
Riddell didn't say anything.
The youngish man coughed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Um. All right, that got away from me a bit. But you know what I mean. What else?" He beckoned. "Come on, we haven't got all day." He tapped his foot.
"All right," said Riddell mildly. His temper was draining away. "What's your name?"
"The Doctor," said the Doctor.
"Doctor wh—"
"Just the Doctor," said the Doctor pleasantly. "Any more questions? Because we really ought to be getting on with things."
Riddell thought about it. "Have you got anything to drink?"
"Afraid not," said the Doctor. He clapped his hands and leapt to his feet, causing Riddell to jump backwards. "Look, I wasn't expecting visitors but now that you're here you might as well make yourself useful. See this?" He took an object out of his pocket. It had a long end like a pen, and then a knobby bit that glowed in the dark. Catching Riddell's nervous expression, the Doctor cocked his head like a curious dog. "You don't know what this is, do you?"
Riddell cleared his throat. "Well, not precisely, but I did see something like it in the south of France when I was in the service. This was a few years ago of course. A young lady of, ahem, negotiable affections used it on my—"
"It's a screwdriver," said the Doctor.
"Oh," said Riddell, much relieved. "Well, of course. Though by a strange coincidence the French device was also called a—"
"It's sonic," said the Doctor drily. "It turns screws."
"All right."
The Doctor flipped it once in the air, then tossed it at him underhand, and Riddell caught it easily, despite being more or less addled with drink.
"Just point the blue end here and press the button," the Doctor said, indicating a large area of the control panel in the center of the room. "I need the casing off here. Threw a bit of a coil about three thousand years ago. I had tried to put her down somewhere where there were no people. Completely failed on that account. People all around here. Not to mention you. Now you were in the military, hmm? Decent aim all around? Top marks? Steady hands?"
"I was a terrific shot," Riddell boasted.
"Lucky me," said the Doctor. "Lucky us, actually. Keep your hands steady and don't drop… anything. There's a small risk of, hm."
"What do you mean, hm?"
The Doctor scratched his chin. "Just a sort of a general hm. Nonspecific. Have you heard of something called the Tunguska event?"
"No. What sort of event was that?"
"Never mind that. Let's get on with it."
Riddell pressed the button.
There was a lovely interesting whirring noise, and then an entire side of the control panel whizzed up into the air. It kept rising and rising, until it was over their heads.
"Excellent work!" said the Doctor. "It was years before I learned how to do that. Now hold her just like that. If it gets too heavy, switch to the other arm. That's what I do. Why we've got two arms, I've always said. To carry the load."
"It's not heavy at all," said Riddell.
"That's the spirit," said the Doctor. He got on his knees and shimmied into the nest of wires and gears exposed by the open casing. Presently there was the sound of banging. "It's the temporal bearings, o'course, they're always slipping and they're the very devil to fix." His voice became muffled as he crawled further under the control panel. "Tunguska, ha. What do they call you when you're at home?"
"Riddell," said Riddell. "John Riddell, at your service."
"Oh yes? Well there you are, then. Why don't you know what year it is, John Riddell?" There was a loud screech, and sparks showered down from the control panel. Riddell almost dropped the screwdriver, and the casing wavered in the air. The exposed edge hung guillotine-like over the Doctor's feet. "Ow! Don't worry, it's just my head."
Riddell used the screwdriver to lift the casing back up into the air. "I'm sorry?"
"You said it was eighteen ninety-eight or ninety-nine. Where I come from it's usually one year or the other. If we do two at once it gets dangerous." A hard thunk. "Yes, well," the Doctor muttered. "That's always been there I suppose." There were a few squeaks and a long, rusty mechanical scream. "It's all right, darling," said the Doctor gently. "There, there."
"It's New Year's Eve," said Riddell.
"Hmm? I'm sorry, I was talking to the—"
Riddell leaned down and looked under the control panel. "It's New Year's Eve!"
Silence.
The Doctor wriggled out from under the control panel. "Really?" He was covered in black grease and stank like a smoked ham. In one hand he held a sad-looking piece of rusted whatsit. "New Year's Eve!" He grinned. "I haven't done one of those in ages. I'm rubbish at holidays really. And don't even mention birthdays. I can barely make it to Christmas every year."
"Yes, well, me too," said Riddell dully, then realized he'd said it out loud.
"You can put that down now," said the Doctor.
Riddell realized he was still holding the casing up in the air. He lowered it gently, and the Doctor secured it to the rest of the ship with a set of clips.
"That'll hold until she resets," said the Doctor. "Thank you for your help. That was excellent. Truly invaluable work. I shall have to return the favor someday."
"Not bloody likely," Riddell muttered.
"I'm sorry? You're mumbling. Nobody likes a mumbler, I've always said."
"Nothing," said Riddell, a bit louder. "Just talking to myself."
"Now stand over here," the Doctor instructed. "Not there, just over here. That's it. Now, if I were you, I should put these goggles on." The screwdriver was pinched from Riddell's hands, and replaced with a set of welder's goggles. The Doctor had his own, on his head, along with a leather helmet, which he pulled down around his ears and buckled under his chin. "In your own time, then," said the Doctor, lowering his own goggles. "As long as it's right now." He rested a heavy hand on Riddell's shoulder.
"Why?" Riddell looked down at the goggles. "What's going to—"
He experienced a tingling sensation, and then death.
