I am making no profit. I intend no infringement. Mel and Dr Who belong to the BBC.
The pair crossed through halls carved, ornamented, gleaming. Voices were behind, silence ahead: these rooms were deserted.
Mel and the Doctor approached and opened massive doors. They stopped atop stairs leading into a dark lake. An old man sat there, fishing. The lake sat there, lapping. The sun shown down, sunning.
"Not my fault," said the fisher.
"What?" asked Mel.
"Not water," said the fisher.
"What is it?" asked the Doctor, crouching down and holding out a small humming device over the water.
"Vera," said the fisher.
Mel wanted answers. "Do you know Kielif?" she asked.
"That rat," he growled.