In his fully automated office, with no secretary or assistant to listen to his grievances, the station administrator was forced to talk to himself. He was fuming at the images displayed on the public viewscreens. Every hour, they flashed up, and the message was always the same:
"The man in these pictures is the Doctor. He is a saboteur and an anarchist. Be on your guard at all times and report any sightings to General Feigle."
"Report to General Feigle!" The administrator's knuckles whitened at the clenching of his fist. "The nerve! I should have thrown his money back in his face, should never have taken the contract, should never have let him and his gang of thugs aboard the station. I hated the idea from the start. The..."
He blinked. The revolving 3d computer image of the Doctor's head and shoulders flickered and vanished, to be replaced with a picture of a common or garden sentinel robot. Baffled, the administrator watched the white metal and shielded eye sockets of the machine go round and round on the display.
"Ooh, that doesn't look too good, does it?"
The administrator started and looked down at his palm held personal communicator. The face of the man on the little 3 inch screen was familiar to him, because up until now it had been displayed on the main viewscreens once an hour.
"Wrong picture on your wanted poster," the Doctor continued brightly. "Computer glitch, I expect. This sort of thing happens all the time, but it's always annoying."
The administrator held up his communicator in puzzlement.
"What are you hoping to achieve here, Doctor? Everyone knows what you look like by now. Playing with the computer's image files won't change that."
"Well, concerned as I am by the thought that I can be readily identified by a few dozen ineffectual, overweight scientists, you'd do well to consider another factor. Namely, that robots are stupid, and if you tell them that the face in a given image file is that of an enemy they'll believe it and act accordingly, no matter how absurd the conclusion to which it leads them."
The administrator paused, thought, and a second later his face paled. The Doctor was heedlessly elaborating on his theme.
"One posited definition of insanity is taking an incorrect assumption to its furthest logical conclusion. By that..."
"Doctor!"
He looked irritated at being interrupted.
"What?"
"Do you realise what you've done?"
"Yes."
"Those robots have been ordered to arrest you on sight by any means necessary. If you've changed the image in the central data bank they'll see one another, they'll think they're recognising you and they'll try to arrest each other. They'll fight to the death!"
"And?"
"Listen! Those are our top of the range sentinel droids. They're virtually unstoppable. They'll tear the whole station apart trying to destroy one other."
"And you're under the impression I'll think that's a bad thing?"
The administrator's face sagged piteously.
"But... but you're a scientist yourself! How can you want to wreck a place like this? We are one of the foremost research centres in the..."
Even from within the confines of the little flat screen, the savage twist in the Doctor's expression from flippancy to fury was alarming.
"Shut up!" He lunged forward at the screen, blue eyes ablaze. "You think you deserve my respect? Are you proud of what you've achieved here? You have allowed your station to be used for experiments on sentient lifeforms. You have caused pain and suffering. Whatever else you've achieved in your life is nothing, now. You have given up your right to be called a scientist."
The administrator dropped the communicator on his desk and stepped back weakly. He looked about the room with a sense of desperation.
"I'll change the image back," he muttered. "Change it back, or just blank it out altogether."
"Good idea," the needling voice called from the discarded communicator. "I only hope no one's flooded the network with white noise messaging. That might make accessing the data core rather difficult and your sentinels will be left with nothing but the images in their pointy heads."
White faced, the administrator froze, then rushed back to the desk and bent imploringly over the tiny screen.
"Please!" he begged. "Please, please just fix this and I'll kick Feigle and his brutes out and you and your friend can go free. I'll do it gladly! I always hated this contract."
"Not a bad offer," the Doctor said coolly. "But you strike me me as the type who might see things in a different light once you're not wriggling on the hook any more. I have to go now. I have things to do."
The screen went dark and the administrator straightened, looking with a sense of unreality around his warm, comfortable office which was suddenly a cold and unfriendly place.
--------------------
Far away towards the other side of the station, a lone sentinel droid patrolled the corridors, its great oval feet clunking down solidly in a metronomic rhythm on the carpeted floor. In time, it came to a security door manned by a second droid. It halted.
"Immediately discard all weaponry and raise your arms," came its bass, synthesised voice, carefully calibrated for maximum authority and demoralising effect. "You are to be restrained and confined until further notice."
The other droid stared in silence for a moment, then its own identical voice boomed back:
"You have been identified as an unauthorised and potentially dangerous alien. You will give yourself up into my custody."
"Surrender at once or minimum physical force will be employed to subdue you."
"Turn and place your hands against the wall or you will be fired upon."
"This is your final warning."
"This is your final warning."
The bulky machines moved with inhuman speed, whipping up their forearm-mounted energy cannon to the aim, and the passageway rang with the piercing din of blaster fire.
--------------------
The Master stalked slowly along another corridor, head down, hands linked behind his back, deep in thought. His obsidian eyes stared down at the grey plastic floor lining as if there was something fascinating written there. A sly, thin voice spoke up from behind him:
"There you are at last. You know, I don't usually like my employees to be this difficult to track down."
The Master sighed with a deep sense of boredom, and turned slowly.
"General Feigle," he stated. "Having a nice day?"
Feigle walked forward slowly, his smile repeatedly fading and then twitching back into place, his eyes almost feverishly bright.
"I am indeed. I've made an important discovery and suddenly everything's a lot clearer. Sergeant!"
The Master looked sharply from side to side as armed men rushed from the side passages to surround him. They primed their levelled weapons with a click and a whine of swelling energy. Feigle advanced, mingled fury and triumph contorting his face.
"In the army," he said, "We execute traitors."