THE TICK-TOCK PARADOX

Chapter 3

As the seconds ticked by, the Doctor crouched down on the floor of the phone box, remaining motionless. But, no more weapons were discharged. Peeking through the shattered door, the Doctor saw nothing to indicate who had tried to kill him. Life seemed to be going on as usual on the high street, no one noticed the destruction of the phone box. The beam seemed to have been aimed at his head and chest, and so missed the Doctor completely when he'd bent down to pick up River's purse.

The assassin seemed to have gone, possibly mistaking the Doctor's immobility on the floor for death or serious injury. Slowly, the Doctor raised himself up off the floor of the phone box. Still clutching River's purse, he carefully brushed the broken glass and slivers of red wood off of him. The Doctor hesitated. There was something strangely familiar about that energy weapon, but try as he might, he couldn't quite conjure up exactly what it was.

"Someone doesn't know me very well, if they think this will put me off. Or," the Doctor paused thoughtfully, "perhaps they know me a little too well, and want to draw me in?" he shrugged, as he headed towards the alley where he'd parked his TARDIS. "Either way, I think I should find out where River's gone. Something tells me she knows a lot more than she was letting on." .

The Doctor was just fitting the key into the lock, when a hand tapped him on the shoulder. Removing and pocketing the key, he turned around. When he saw who it was, the Doctor winced and groaned.

"Doctor! Major Tibbets at your service. It is my very great honour to meet you, sir!" Said a distinguished looking older gentleman in a U.N.I.T. uniform. U.N.I.T. stood for "United Nations Intelligence Task Force, a semi-secret international military & scientific organization, founded in the early nineteen seventies to deal with extra-terrestrial threats to Earth. The Doctor had once served as its unofficial scientific advisor in its early years, and occasionally thereafter. The major came to attention and saluted the Doctor.

The man was tall and hefty, but not fat. His ruggedly handsome face bore a slight tan, as if he'd spent a lot of time outdoors in a hot climate recently, and his dark hair was graying at the temples. He spoke with a clipped posh accent. The man reminded the Doctor of someone, but he couldn't think of whom it might be. All these military types looked the same to him.

"Oh, do put your hand down." A disgruntled Doctor told the Major. "Salute me again and I'll...I'll be quite cross with you."

"Yes, I'd been tipped off that you didn't care for military protocol." Major Tibbets replied. "I can see that the personal footnote the brigadier made in your file all those years ago, was quite correct. Very well, Doctor, I shan't salute, if that's your wish. Nice fashion accessory, by the way. Perhaps next time I should curtsy." the major added sarcastically, eying River's purse.

"It's a purse. " The Doctor said defensively. "I carry a purse now. Purses are cool. Besides, I think it sets off the bow tie rather nicely. You have a problem with that, major?"

"Ahem--" the major cleared his throat, "Er--no, I suppose not. 'Don't ask, don't tell', as my American counterparts like to say." He responded stiffly. "Modern fashion trends aside though, Doctor, I really do need to talk to you. Rather urgently."

Love to chat, really I would," the Doctor said, turning around to unlock the TARDIS door, "but I really have quite a lot to do today, major. So if you don't mind, must dash...."

There was an audible click of several gun triggers being cocked. The Doctor froze and looked behind him. Three U.N.I.T soldiers were stood there, with their guns pointed at his head.

"Such as...?" the major asked, not about to be put off.

"Well, for one, I need to wash my hair. Not very pleasant having slivers of glass and wood in it. And I really must put a sticking plaster on. I have a scratch, you see." The Doctor answered indignantly, holding up the back of his hand, which indeed did have a very small abrasion on it.

"I'm sure you'll find our medical facilities back at U.N.I.T. base more than adequate, Doctor." the major informed him. "I'm afraid I really must insist you come with us. And, if necessary, I will personally see to your--erm, 'wound.'

"Are you going to kiss it and make it all better?" The Doctor sniffed.

One of the soldiers behind him snickered, and the major glowered and cleared his throat. The noise immediately ceased.

"Really major, you don't understand." The Doctor said urgently. "I have to get to my TARDIS. The life of someone I care about very much may be at stake, so whatever you want me for, the answer is uncategorically, absofreakingloutely, positively, N. O. As in no, nyet, nanew-nanew, non, nein, nix, nada, la shukron."

A half hour later, the Doctor was sitting in a U.N.I.T. Lab, situated deep underneath the Tower of London. Around the room were placed computer stations, and tables holding various scientific equipment. A few lab assistants had been working when the three of them entered the room, but left when the major ordered them out. With a sticking plaster covering his hand, the Doctor was leaning one hand on the desk, staring intently at a display on a computer. Seated in front of the computer was his scientific friend Malcolm, who'd helped save the lives of the Doctor and others, when the flying bus 200 had to escape from an alien planet through a wormhole in space.

The Major was also stood there observing, but admonished by a cranky Doctor for breathing down his neck, he'd stepped back a few paces.

"As you can see, Doctor, it's not exactly the same as that wormhole that brought those alien stingrays through to this world, but there are some definite similarities." Malcolm told him. The dark haired little man was barely able to contain his excitement at working with his hero again. His eyes shone with delight and his busy fingers almost trembled with joy. "Look at this reading here, it's measuring exactly 120 malcolms, until right after a man in Milton Keynes was reported to have crashed his car into the back of a lorry. About at that very moment, there's a fluctuation in the osolation output, of an additional 55 malcolms...and then it simply disappears. Look there," the scientist pointed at the screen, "flat line. Back to normal, as if nothing had ever happened."

"Was there anything found at the scene to indicate anything unusual?" the Doctor asked.

"Nothing specific, I'm afraid." The major answered. "Unfortunately, the car burst into flames and exploded on impact. However, the medical coroner did find something unusual when he examined the body. He found a dead locust in the man's mouth."

"There shouldn't be any locusts or grasshoppers at all, this time of year. What kind of locust?" The Doctor questioned Malcolm, ignoring Major Tibbets.

"Oddly enough, our entomologist expert says it was a desert locust, found mainly in the Middle East. Very curious, that. Although he could be mistaken, I suppose." The major answered.

"And there's been at least two other incidents?" The Doctor said.

"How on earth did you know that?" A surprised major asked. "As a matter of fact, yes. The body of a young woman, or rather what was left of her, was found on some rail tracks a few days ago. At about the same time, there was that exact fluctuation which was just described to you, in a specific point of space close to where the young woman was found."

"How'd she die?" The Doctor turned and looked at the major. "I need to know. It could be very important." He added seriously.

"Well, by all appearances, it seemed almost as if she'd been crushed between two trains. However, that was a side track, used by a local factory for freight shipments. We checked with the rail transport company, and no trains were scheduled to be using that particular siding until the following week."

"What else?" The Doctor asked.

"A woman in Wales was hanging laundry in her back garden, when she was felled by some chlorine gas. Her home was outside a small village in the Gowers, miles from anywhere that would produce such a gas. She didn't die, but she is a very sick woman. It may be months, perhaps years, before she fully recovers, if she does at all. She wrote down some details for the police, which were passed along to us. Nothing unusual occurred, except that she saw a white mist or fog, rolling across the sheep pasture next door, and swore she could hear gunfire and explosions, just before the gas injured her. About a half a dozen sheep were also killed. We sent a couple of them to our lab for a necropsy."

"Let me guess," the Doctor said, nodding his head, "they'd been killed by inhaling choline gas, just like the woman, but in slightly greater concentrations."

"Yes!" the major exclaimed. "How in the dickens did you know that?"

"Oh, he knows everything, sir." Malcolm interrupted smugly, "He's the Doctor."

"Me? Good heavens, no! I hope not. Sure, I'm a genius, but to stop thinking for myself or asking questions because I believed that I already knew everything, and nothing else mattered? I'd be like some right-wing conservative...person." The Doctor shuddered. "My worst nightmare. Why do you think I ran away from home in the first place? Bleurgh!" The Doctor shuddered again. "Speaking of not knowing something, what about the dead girl?" The Doctor asked, looking up at Major. "Has anyone bothered to check to see if anything was left behind, to indicate what sort of trains they were?"

"I'm not sure why it matters what model of trains they were, but yes, Doctor. As a matter of fact, our forensics team ran over the area with a fine toothed comb. All they found were a few pieces of charred wood, a small patch of what appears to be kerosene oil and bits of twisted iron plating. We're expecting the results from the lab, any time now." The major informed the Doctor.

"OK, OK," the Doctor muttered, getting up to pace the floor, as he puzzled the evidence out in his mind. "So, what we do know so far, is that there's been three isolated, but not necessarily random attacks, resulting in two deaths and one injury. We have a desert locust, a chlorine gas attack and possibly a head-on train wreck."

"I'd say that sums it up, Doctor." The major said dryly. "But I hardly see where any of this can lead us, without more evidence to go on."

"Really?" The Doctor asked, ceasing his pacing and looking at the major with raised eyebrows. "And here I thought all of you military types thrived on history in school. All those wars and revolutions to read about."

"As a matter of fact, Doctor, I preferred drama and music." The major answered stuffily, putting his hands behind his back, and assuming a posture and look which dared anyone to make light of this statement. "And I don't see what history has to do with any of this, what can some old dusty tome on the past tell us, that we don't already know?"

"On the contrary, it can tell us a lot more than you think, major. History has a way of repeating itself, like a broken record...or pickled onions. Different players, different events, but the same pattern, repeated over and over. Why do you think you humans have so many wars and bigotry and social violence all the time? For instance there's a popular political party in America whom occasionally incorporates many of the same propaganda techniques and social attitudes as those used by Nazi's, but very few people seem to notice--because they don't think the past is revalelent to the present. Except when it suits their own agendas.." The Doctor said, looking at the computer readings again. "What about you, Malcolm?" he casually asked his friend, "I suppose you preferred maths and science in school?"

"Maths and art class, actually." Malcolm admitted, grinning. "I used to be quite good at pencil drawings. I liked to draw comic book characters. I didn't like science until I until my high school science teacher, Mr. Norton was his name, starting showing me all of these far-out experiments I could do."

"Erm...far-out?" the major asked, slightly askance at this revelation.

"It was the seventies, major. I suppose today kids would say that it really rocked or rolled, or does...something. You know, I'm not sure what the equivalent of far-out would be today, actually. Perhaps I should do some research in my spare time."

"I believe the saying these days is 'dope' or 'crack'....or something like that. When I was in school, the popular saying was 'neat-o!'" The major contributed. "Or rather, I think it was. I'm afraid I was rather shy, back then. Not exactly part of the 'in' crowd."

"Me too!" Malcolm exclaimed. "And I hated P.E., positively dreaded it. One boy used to hit me over the head with his school books after we played football, because I had a rather bad tendency to kick the ball towards someone on the other team...."

"Anyway," the Doctor said, sitting in a nearby swivel chair, barely containing his excitement, "sorry to interrupt this fascinating discussion about your school days and current cultural etymology, but if we could get back on course, I do have one observation for you. Because the three events do, you see, have a very definite connection to each other." With that, he used his feet to spin the chair around in a circle, smiling like a child who'd just been offered a free double scoop ice cream coronet.

Both Malcolm and Major Tibbets turned questioning eyes towards the Doctor.

"As I said there is a pattern, but you're just not seeing it.. Mainly because the clues are all historical one's." The Doctor informed them.

"How so?" The major said, looking unsure of the Doctor's reasoning.

"Oh, I think I get it!" Malcolm interjected, waving his hand in the air, his eyes alight with sudden understanding. "You mean these events may have happened before Doctor, but in a different time and place?"

"Very good, Malcolm." The Doctor smiled. "Yes, all three of these accidents, if you can call them that, have a connection with actual historical events in Earth's history. What's more, I think it's entirely possible that they can all be traced to a very specific year."

"Poppycock!" The major snorted. "How on earth can you deduce all of that, with only a handful of evidence and some scientific mumbo-jumbo?"

"Connecting the dots, major. Otherwise known as basic common sense." The Doctor answered, leaning back in his chair, crossing his legs and putting his hands behind his head. "I presume you have heard of that, even if the military doesn't like to use it very often."

Releasing his hands, the Doctor looked up at Major Tibbets.

"Here's your evidence then: a plague of desert locusts, a head-on collision of two trains, one of them possibly with wooden rail cars, and, a chlorine gas attack." As he'd spoken, the Doctor had ticked off each clue with his fingers. "Only in one specific year did all three events occur. There was a devastating plague of locusts in the Middle East, around Palestine and Syria. It was said that the insects were so numerous, they blotted out the sky. This event not only caused a famine of biblical proportions, it also completely destroyed the economy in the hardest hit areas. Also in that same year, one of Britain's greatest rail disasters occurred in Scotland. A troop train collided head-on with an express passenger train. The troop train was using old-fashioned wooden cars, which had been taken out of retirement for use during the war. They were lit with gas and oil lamps. Those troops and passengers who weren't killed in the initial crash, were burned to death in the resulting fire. Over two hundred lives were lost. And, in that same year, major, the Germans began using chlorine gas for the first time in the battlefield, against British troops."

"What point in time do you believe this is coming from, Doctor?" Malcolm queried.

"If I'm right, it all centres on the year nineteen fifteen." The Doctor answered.

"But Doctor, how can events that happened in the past, come forward ninety-six years into the future, and effect people here in the present?" Malcolm asked, looking worried now. "Wouldn't that create some kind of time paradox?"

"Not always, no. You see, time isn't linear, it's sort of like a ball of....oh never mind." The Doctor shrugged. "Just trust me when I tell you that some points in time are immovable, they cannot change, they must remain constant. Yet, time can also be a creature of the abstract. It can and has been altered. Often it's on such a small scale, as to not even be noticeable. Well, not noticeable by you lot, anyway. However," the Doctor continued, once again restlessly pacing the floor like a caged tiger, "for events such as these to occur, from one specific time period, creating havoc without any witnesses or attracting any obvious attention, that would take a very deft hand indeed. No, I don't think this is your ordinary, run-of-the-mill time meddling, Malcolm."

The Doctor ceased his pacing and stared the major in the face. The Doctor's eyes gleamed with determination, his jaw was set and his hands were clenched.

"Someone is messing about with time, Major Tibbets. As they said in the seventies, time is groove thing, my own private party. And it seems that there is a party crasher afoot. I must suss out whomever it is, and show him, her or it, the door."

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