PERILS

Chapter Five

"I thought maybe you were some kind of sociologist," explained A.J, over lunch (A.J. had a bag lunch too). "Someone who thinks I'm a statistic. You look different. Out of place. I can't explain it. Well, you're obviously not used to manual labor but it's not just that. I can't put my finger on it. Are you really a doctor?"

"Not the way you probably mean, no. But that is what I am generally called." He took a bite of leftover fried chicken from the picnic, grateful that not-Annie had chosen to pack him that, an apple, a bottle of Cel-Ray and a packet of Schrafft's jelly beans. "Jelly Babies!" exclaimed the delighted Doctor.

"Well whoever you are, you're all right. You've got onhweh." On the Doctor's puzzled look he added, "Chutzpah." The Doctor laughed. "But you're still jack, on the job, all right?"

"All right," agreed the Doctor. At $2.30 a day he thought it might take some time to save enough money to transport himself back to the approximate location of the TARDIS. He didn't know from which line the fake distress call had emanated but he figured he could find that out easily enough, now that he knew to go to Port Authority. He didn't want to impose too long on the Royces. Maybe he should work for a while – his tasks were tedious but not difficult – and find a place to stay. Well, the first order of business was to get through this, his first day! It promised to be more pleasant than it had seemed this morning, and it kept its promise. The ride back to the Brooklyn pickup point (now the drop-off point) was still stony but he didn't mind so much.

Nick had given the Doctor cab fare back to the penthouse, but the Doctor first considered saving it (he had tucked it into his right shoe, along with his TARDIS key) and using public transportation instead, then changed his mind and decided to walk. (The walk would have been much shorter had he started at the job site, but he'd had the idea rather too late for that.) It was a warm August evening but the work clothes were loose, and lighter than his usual attire. Besides, he needed some time to think, and walking always cleared his head. He knew New York City pretty well, but this walk of perhaps nine miles would give him a good look at 1914 New York, with which he was not familiar at all. First he had to get to the Brooklyn Bridge and cross back into Manhattan. This was not a problem; approaching it and not stopping to marvel at its design was impossible. Getting across it without stopping multiple times to gawk at the New York skyline exceeded the Doctor's capabilities.

It was one in the morning when the tired but exhilarated Doctor presented himself to the doorman of the Royces' building and, after a wait while the doorman tried to rouse someone in P1, was allowed to take the elevator to the penthouse floor. A sleepy Miss Sutton had taken the call and let the Doctor in. The guest room was in order and the Doctor's clean, pressed suit of clothes was laid out on the chair by the bed. On the floor nearby was the sack containing his possessions. A pair of fresh pajamas awaited him on the bed, and he was in that bed himself in less than a quarter hour, but did not immediately sleep. He had the rudiments of a simple plan, new friends, a new name, almost two and a half dollars he hadn't had the previous morning, and the memory of a beautiful walk, all gently simmering in his head.

*0*0*0*

The Doctor was falling, spinning, screaming. The darkness that enveloped him was endless, the fall was endless, and he couldn't imagine a future. All he could imagine was what he was already doing; all he could do was be falling, spinning, screaming. He knew it was the end of him; he knew he could never return from it. If he had been able to imagine a future he might have wondered why he had sensory input at all, why he had to feel this overwhelming terror, unrelenting sick-making vertigo, unimpeded motion with neither acceleration nor deceleration, just unchanging, uninterrupted, timeless, directionless speed.

He awoke still screaming, but screaming a word: "No!" He was ice cold, and sweating. Slowly he became aware that he was no longer falling, no longer spinning, and he stopped screaming and started whispering, "Timeless. Timeless. Timeless." Someone was holding him, protecting him. He sank into her, melted into her, let her enfold him in her arms, let her stroke his hair and wipe the sweat from his face, his neck and throat, his arms. He let her lay him back down and pull the bedclothes, all in disarray, back up over him. When she got into the bed with him, he opened his eyes, saw where he was, remembered who he was, recognized Colie, sat up and shrank back. He had stopped whispering but now he whispered the word he had screamed, "No."

Colie reached for him and he tried to roll out of the other side of the bed, but the bed was against a wall; she was blocking his escape. He flung the covers aside – in her face, in fact – and scrambled to, and over, the foot of the bed. He tripped and landed on his knees on a small antique rug that skidded somewhat under him. He regained his feet almost immediately, and saw that Colie hadn't moved, except to remove the covers from her face. She was just staring at him with a peculiar smile on her otherwise expressionless face. "At your age," she said, softly, "you can't be a virgin. Are you artistic? Is that it?"

That drove the nightmare right out of the Doctor's head, although it was still there, like a hint of fog surrounding him. He laughed aloud at Colie's question and she frowned, slightly offended. "You just can't imagine," he said, trying not to be harsh, "that this has anything to do with honor. If I don't ravish you upon demand, I must be g… um, artistic." She frowned more deeply. "I guess I'd better get out of here."

"No," she said, plaintively, "don't go. I'm sorry. I won't bother you again."

"I'd like to get dressed now. Would you mind leaving the room?"

She turned to put her feet down on the rug – identical to the one that had skidded under the Doctor – but before she could stand up, the door opened and a yawning Nick entered the room, looked from his wife to the Doctor and back again, shut his mouth mid-yawn and turned bright red as the situation, as he read it, dawned on him.

"He attacked me," said Colie, calmly. "I pushed him away. He was about to block the door so I couldn't escape."

The Doctor hadn't expected any of this, had no recollection now of having screamed, nor of being comforted. All he remembered was Colie being in bed with him, and his escape from the bed itself. "None of that is true," he said, trying to remember how he'd gotten into this situation.

"Are you calling my wife a liar?" Colie had quickly run to her husband and thrown her arms around him, and now she was anything but calm; the Doctor could see her working herself up to a tearful frenzy, and thought, any moment now she'll be hysterical, and I'll be toast.

"No, sir," said the Doctor. "There seems to be a misunderstanding. I had a nightmare and your wife heard me yelling. She came to see what was wrong. I got scared and here I am. That's all."

Nick nodded understandingly, freed himself from Colie's arms, took a step toward the Doctor (who did not retreat) and clocked him. The Doctor did reel back then, against the wall, his hand to his mouth; his lip was bleeding where Nick's wedding ring had caught it. He held up his other hand defensively but Nick was through. "I want you out. Now. Come on, Colie." The two of them left the room, Nick without looking back, Colie barely glancing at the Doctor, who, sighing, sat down on the bed and just breathed for a minute or two. Then he stood up and began to remove his borrowed pajamas.