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

Doctors 1 - 9  Rated: U

Doctor Who is copyright BBC.



He sat on a tumbled block of concrete among the shattered remains of the
great city.  Somewhere out there, down by the river, he was committing his
first great crime.  He was saying goodbye to Susan, setting her feet on a
new road; one that she would not have had the courage to tread of her own
volition.  The crime, of course, was the exercising of his arrogance.

From amid the tumbled ruins, the sound of a recorder being played badly
drifted to him.  In a moment a small incongruously garbed man with a pixie
face and bright eyes under a cap of dark hair came into view.  Their eyes
met and wariness flared in both faces.

'So soon?' the old man with shoulder length white hair asked.

The little man stopped playing and came on.  'Don't blame me, It wasn't my
fault.'

'Of course not,' the old man agreed hooking his thumbs through the arm
holes of his waist coat.

The little man seated himself cross-legged on the ground nearby.  He gazed
around at the desolation with undisguised disapproval.

'You might have found somewhere a little more congenial?'

The old man tilted back his head.  He looked down his hooked nose and
harumphed noisily for effect.

'Don't like it ay?  Well!  I was first.  So the choice is mine.

The little man tooted thoughtfully on his instrument a moment, then asked:
'You don't suppose the Time Lords?  -'

A new voice spoke up.  'Not this time.'

'The newcomer was a tall man with a shock of white hair.  He was elegantly
attired in velvet smoking jacket, cravat and cape.

'And before you ask - it wasn't me either.'

'Nor me!' said the tall man with the great explosion of brown curls.  He
took off his hat and dusted off his great coat and check trousers.  He
favoured them with a wide toothy grin.

The elegantly dressed one looked him up and down, noting the frilled shirt
and the long multi-coloured scarf.  His eyes fell with disapproval on the
check trousers.  'Rather bohemian, for my taste.  Oh dear me no!  Not my
style at all; but better than these two.' He flourished an arm at the
others.  'And certainly more stylish than you,' he added turning to the one
who stood apart.

The new arrival wore a light coloured blazer and cricketing flannels.
There was a stick of celery in his lapel.  He clutched a shapeless hat.

The little man on the ground put the recorder to his lips and tooted
tunelessly on it again, then eyed the last two to arrive sidelong.  'No
better taste in hats,' he observed.

'not keen on them myself.'

They all turned to see another.  Elegant blanched at sight of the garish
multi coloured coat.

'Just as well,' said celery, still standing apart from the others.  'You
would never find a hat to go with that coat...And I suppose it wasn't you
either?'

The latest arrival drew himself up self-importantly.  He gripped the lapels
of his ridiculous coat and said: 'Do you really think? -'

'That was your trouble,' the dapper little man with the Scottish bur in his
voice interrupted him.  'You never did stop to think.'

Turning to the others, he pointed his brolly at the multi-coloured coat.
'They put him on trial, you know.'

'They just exiled me!  No proper trial at all!' remarked the wearer of the
elegant smoking jacket in an aggrieved tone.  'It took me years to get the
old girl going -'

the multi-coloured coat rounded on the dapper little man.  'It was you
wasn't it?' He turned to the others.  'I bet it was him!'

'No,' said a new voice.  'And before you ask: it wasn't -'

A silent explosion of light cut him short.

As one they all turned to see a thinning haze of smoke.  Emerging from it
was a tall, rather effete looking man dressed in a white tropical suite.
He had long blond hair and wore a pair of outrageous spectacles.  He was
surrounded by Daleks.

'Oh dear me!  That REALLY should not have happened.'

He re-positioned his spectacles and regarded the Daleks.  At the back of
the group sat Davros.  Though his face was not exactly made for expressing
his emotional state, he was contriving to look very, very surprised and
just the tiniest bit annoyed.  Slowly the Daleks faded away.

Oh dear me no!' Then the white suited fellow broke into a rich chuckle.
'But I'd bet the Lord Presidents robes that the invasion's off!'

The multi-coloured coat pointed theatrically.  'He's the one!  I bet he's
the one!'

The white suit regarded them lugubriously.  He cleared his throat
apologetically.  'Eh...Sorry chaps.  slight miscalculation with the timer.
Sorry..'

The dapper little man with the brolly looked around, counting heads.
'Never mind. It had to happen one day.  And we have had a pretty good run -
would've been nice to get to double figures though.'

The last to arrive dusted ineffectually at the dark smudges on his suit.
It was a little worse for wear and had been scorched around the edges.

'Told her not to touch the lever, but she just would NOT listen!'

'I had one of those,' put in Long Scarf, jamming his great hat down on his
unruly brown curls.  'More than one - come to think of it!'

'So did I!' said another.  A general nod of assent did the rounds of the
group.

The old gentleman got up and addressed them all.  'I think we are all
here?'

They all looked at one another and then around to see if anyone else was
going to pop up.  The silence was beginning to get just a little awkward
before the old gentleman spoke again.

'It's time we were going.'

The pixie got up and put his recorder to his lips.  He launched into a
jaunty rendition of: "When The Saints Go Marching In".

The old gentleman led off in a surprisingly strong voice: 'When the saints,
oh when the saints...'

They formed into a line and set off among the buildings.  Out in front,
stepping briskly, was the old gentleman.  The little man skipped along at
his side.  Behind them came the two Long Legs.  Behind them on his own
walked the Cricketer; and behind him, jostling each other, came the Garish
Coat and the Scottish burr; the latter conducting with his brolly.  At the
rear came the last two strolling companionably.

The unlikely cavalcade wound among the tumbled buildings.  They grew
indistinct as a thickening mist settled about them.  It might have arisen
from the Thames, or might perhaps have been the mists of time?  The raucous
cacophony of ill-assorted voices boomed and swelled in the fog - a noise
fit to wake the dead.

Out of the mist before them the figure of a white robed elderly man,
complete with white flowing beard, resolved.  They shuffled to an untidy
halt before him.

He eyed them dubiously, his gaze going from one to the other.  'Name?' he
inquired at last.

They all spoke together: 'The Doctor!' they chorused.

'What?  All of you?'

'I'm afraid so,' said the pixie.

The old man looked doubtful then waved another figure forwards.  This one
bore a great book.  He held it for the old man, who ran his fingers down
the lines of names scrawled in the book.

'The Doctor?  Did you say?  Ah!  yes, here you are.' A look of surprise
settled onto his benign features.  'My, but we have been busy, haven't we?
A full fanfare and massed choir, I think - and I don't get to order many of
those nowadays!'

He waved a hand and the great set of gates standing in the mist swung open.
To the sound of heavenly trumpets, and a soaring choir, the file of Doctors
strode through, melting into a golden haze.

The gates swung to behind them.

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The end.

Comments, suggestions or criticisms welcome.