by Clive May (clive@cj4386.demon.co.uk)

Fourth Doctor:  rated U

Doctor Who is copyright BBC

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The sudden wild baying of the crowds alerted the Brigadier where he
crouched at the window nursing his injured arm.  He could not see the
action from there; but the noise informed him that Captain Mike Yates had
fallen in the line of duty.  Now Sgt Benton alone remained to hold off the
disaster.

It was time to send in the Doctor.

He rose from the window and turned to regard the Doctor preparing himself
for the conflict.  His face was hidden by his mop of brown curls as he bent
over adjusting the armour that protected his legs.  Beside him, propped
against the wall, was the weapon.  The Brigadier put on his best military
manner.

'It's up to you now, Doctor.  Benton knows his duty.  He will do what he
can, but only you can save us now!'

The Doctor straightened.  He took up the weapon and flourished it
experimentally, trying a few cuts and strokes.  It felt just right in his
hands.  He pulled on the clumsy gauntlets and grinned toothily at the
Brigadier's worried face.

'Don't worry old chap.  I've had lessons from the very best. As I once said
to -'

'No time for reminiscing now, Doctor.  You're needed out there.  Benton's
waiting.  Good luck!  And remember, the honour of UNIT -'

'Yes, yes, Brigadier!  When have I ever let you down?' He clapped
Lethbridge-Stewart on the shoulder.  The Brigadier winced at the stab of
pain that shot up his arm.  The Doctor strode from the room to meet his
destiny.

Out on the field the sun beat down with merciless power.  The crowds who
had gathered to witness this conflict hushed expectantly as the new
champion emerged.  A few of them, too few to make any difference, the
Doctor knew, were rooting for him.  But it was impossible to tell which was
which.  The eyes might have given the clue, but it was impossible to make
them out in the glare of the hot sunlight.

As was customary in these affairs, the Doctor paused to survey the field,
and mark for future reference the disposition of the enemies forces.  It
might make the difference between disaster or an unlooked for victory.

He strolled, unhurried, to the centre where Benton waited, nonchalantly
leaning on his bat.  He feigned unconcern; it was an outrageous bluff.  The
Doctor grinned with approval.  That's the stuff!  He thought.  A little
psychological warfare would not come amiss.

He reached the centre, Took his guard and waited.  The enemy appointed for
this final assault - the one to whom the honour of destroying UNIT was
given - pawed the ground furiously and began his attack.

At the appropriate mark he released the little red projectile.  He had over
pitched it in his eagerness.

It was at that precise moment that the Doctor's attention was caught by a
face in the crowd.  A dozen recent, seemingly unrelated events came
together in his suddenly racing mind.  In an instant he saw the deadly
danger that threatened the Earth.  He was acutely aware that this last ball
of the match might well be the very last ball ever bowled - if he missed
it!

The Doctor stepped smoothly to the pitch of the ball.  He played a full
blooded, elegant straight drive.  The ball came off the bat with a sweet
smack.  It arced away towards the boundary, carrying the hopes of the
Doctor's hastily contrived plan with it.

The Doctor disdained to run.  He merely shouldered arms and
watched, his eyes narrowed against the glare.  The ball was flying true to
his intention.

It was game over - one way or the other.  The whole world would know in a
few seconds.

Far back in the crowd, a black suited man with a little goatee beard and
oddly compelling eyes, looked up at the sudden roar of the crowd.  He held
in his gloved hand a small communication device.  An unpleasant sneer
curled his thin lips.  He stabbed a finger at a red button on the device.As
he did so the flying cricket ball smashed it from his hand.  It fell in
pieces at his feet.

The Master glared at the Doctor; who glared back at him from the middle of
the pitch.  Their eyes locked.  Black hatred flashed in one direction, a
mixture of sadness, anger and compassion in the other.

Then the Master stooped to pick up the pieces.  He regarded them ruefully.
He had been only moments from signalling the Cyber fleet to come and crush
this noisome little ball of mud and its people.  Without his signal they
would not now make the attack.

He shrugged.  Oh well!  Win some, lose some.  He turned his sneering
countenance back to where the Doctor was being born along shoulder high by
cheering spectators, from the field of battle.

The UNIT versus the Regular Army cricket match was over for another year.

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The end.

Comments, suggestions or criticisms welcome.