Tegan finds herself on all fours, overcome by nausea. A rather wry voice sounds over the muffled ringing in her head.

"I told you it wasn't comfortable."

The Master is standing next to her, and eyes her discomfort with amused indifference. He makes no move to help her as she struggles to her feet. She has just enough time to rush to a dirty, grey wall and lean on it, before she is regurgitating the few sips of coffee, all that is in her stomach.

"Humans are so fragile," the Master remarks behind her.

She would have liked to send him one of her scathing retorts that she has always been good at, but for the moment, she is too busy calming her rebelling digestive system.

Finally, she manages to regain control of her body, and begins to look around. The area very much resembles a small street of a large city. Probably a megacity. The scenery is almost uniformly grey - walls, streets and street furniture. Even the sky above their heads has a greyish hue. A few people pass around them, paying no attention to them. Most are dressed in neutral colours, and their faces are preoccupied. They seem to be in a hurry to reach their destinations, and walk quickly.

"Where are we?" she asks.

"The name is not important," the Master replies. "One of the many colonies that your species has established throughout the universe, and which has prospered...until now. Until he arrived."

"I don't see much difference between this place and any big city on Earth."

"Then here is what this town was like less than a year ago..."

He presses or three tiny buttons on the time-ring, and then warns her:

"Hang onto my arm."

"Oh no," the young woman moans. "Not again!"

"Quickly!" he snaps.

There is a new sensation of dizziness - shorter, though. She barely feels the vague dizziness on arrival.

"Well that went better," she sighs, relieved.

"That is because we are displaced only in time, and over a short period," the Master explains.

They are in exactly the same place. However, it doesn't look like the place they were a few seconds ago. The walls are painted in pastel colours, and the sky is a bright blue. There are people circling around them, but the faces are open, smiling, the clothes diverse and colourful.

Some street shops offer merchandise under umbrellas or awnings. The crowd mills around these shops. The noise of dozens of conversations, calls, jokes and laughter fills their ears.

A man arrives, followed by a large troop of onlookers. He is playing an instrument which resembles a guitar, but produces more varied sounds. He sings, and the crowd echoes some of the lyrics in the chorus.

"Less than a year, you say?" she murmurs, frowning doubtfully. "How could a change like this have taken place in /that/ time? And how did he do it - since you say it's the work of the Doc-...well, of the Valeyard?"

"Even while leading the most perfect life possible," he explains, leading her towards one of the shops serving drinks, where a few chairs and wobbly tables allow them to sit, "most people still find something to complain about."

"Bloody oath!" Tegan mumbles.

"It is on that fact that he plays. He promises an improvement. He highlights aspects that could be better. He offers solutions - or rather, he suggests them. These shops are blocking the way, aren't they? Oh yes, it's nice that they're there. But all the same, we should put a little order into it, shouldn't we? Why not give permission to pitch awnings only to those who really deserve it and won't bother you? Everyone agrees, of course. To restore some order...who /hasn't/ dreamed of that? Don't tell me it has never crossed your mind, Tegan."

"Yes, of course," admits the young woman.

"So he continues to push in that direction, and soon, accomplishing anything requires so much paperwork and so many authorizations that the machine jams. What we saw a few minutes ago is only the first step. I am going to show you what happens next. We're going to have to move quite far again, because as I told you, the future is no longer as accessible. Let's go to a world that's already at a much more advanced stage."

oooooooooo

Panting, Tegan recovers from the space-time transfer and straightens up.

The city is now only a village. Well, what remains of a village. Everything around them is in a state of advanced decrepitude. The streets are potholed, the walls leprous. Everywhere are broken windows and doors missing or barred by nailed beams.

Furtive people creep along the storefronts. These are no longer even the indifferent and hurried crowds she saw in the grey metropolis. It is a terrorized people that has survived.

"Authorization to wear pink?"

Tegan jumps. The metallic voice is coming from a truncated cone-shaped helmet atop a body dressed in a thick-padded costume. Six similar figures have risen up around them, seeming to come from nowhere. Over their shoulders, she sees the people moving away quickly, throwing fleeting glances.

"Authorization to wear black?" continues another of these individuals, addressing the Master. "Authorization to have a beard? Invoice for this bracelet?" It points to the space-time device.

"We're leaving," whispers the Master. He raises his hand to make new adjustments to the device, but it's too late.

"Threatening gesture!" exclaims one of the auditors. "Alert!"

Immediately, four of the six project an intense yellow ray with their gloves onto the Master, who collapses in a heap, moaning on the ground.

"What are you doing?" Tegan protests. "He wasn't run-..."

"Alert!" another of the individuals rattles. "Untimely cries!"

No! Tegan wants to cry. But a shooting pain overcomes her as a yellow halo surrounds her and her strength betrays her. She too falls.

She is in a state of semi-consciousness, where all that she sees and hears is distorted, and she is unable to move a muscle. She feels that somebody is moving her. It seems to take forever. Then, her head hits something and she loses consciousness.

ooooooooooo

Slowly, she regains her senses. She is still a little dizzy, but most of all, her mouth is sticky. And she is terribly thirsty.

She sits up to find that she is in a room that looks very much like a cell. At least, what could be a cell if one reduced that concept to its minimum. It is about one metre wide, two long and two in height. Barely enough to lie down and stand up. It would almost fit a coffin if the ceiling were half as low.

This narrowness is particularly distressing - that nothing breaks the linearity of the walls. No doors, no windows. No furniture either. She gets up and gropes around as high as its size allows, to search for a bump that would indicate that she is not in a fully-sealed tomb, but in a place that one can get out of .

"Hello?" she finally attempts in a low voice. "Can anyone hear me?"

There is no answer.

"Can anyone hear me?" she repeats, as loudly as she can. It is as if the sound is smothered between the walls. She sits down and buries her face in her arms folded on her lap, trying to stop the building attack of claustrophobia. She is not usually claustrophobic, but this room can do nothing but cause that.

A voice, distorted by a loudspeaker in disrepair, finally replies soberly,

"Yes?"

"You can hear me?" she gasps.

"Yes."

"What am I doing here?"

"Infraction of a number of rules."

"What infractions?"

"You will know at your trial."

A vague noise tells her that someone has just turned off the sound.

"Wait!" she cries. "Can I have a glass of water? Please! I'm dying of thirst!"

After a few seconds of silence, the voice returns.

"We need an authorization for a glass of water."

"What?" Tegan says, surprised. "You need an authorization to give me a glass of water?"

"Yes." And the sound is muted again.

She finally falls asleep, despite the thirst and anxiety. Upon awakening, she finds a glass of water present at her feet.

Well, she thinks with bitter irony, I am authorized to not die of thirst. This is great!

She almost swallows it in one gulp, despite the unpleasant taste of dust. But another problem surfaces. She wants to go to the toilet, and the room has no system permitting it.

"Hey!" she cries out again. "I need to...well...to go to the loo."

"Specify," the voice answers her after some minutes.

"To...to...to urinate."

"Then go."

"But where?" the Australian says impatiently. "There's no place for-..."

"On the floor. It is self-cleaning."

"Ah!" She is about to move to the corner to relieve herself, when a thought strikes her. "Can you see me?" she demands.

"Of course."

"Could you not...not look while I do...what I need to?"

"No."

"Why?" she begs. "It's private! It bothers me, that you're doing that."

"I am charged with monitoring you. I am monitoring you."

Anyway, she thinks, even if he tells me he is not looking, I have no way of checking.

She sighs and crouches in a corner. Gradually, as the liquid spreads over the ground, it disappears, and the area remains as clear when she has finished as when she had begun.

"Practical," she whispers, "but I wonder what happens when you do the other business. I hope I'm out out of here before I need to do that."

A vain hope.