AS TIME

“Are you sure we won’t end up on another rogue planet?” Tegan was wary; our last attempt to reach Blaine had been diverted by the intersection of Rangin’s seemingly random trajectory with our own, the TARDIS and the planet, commonly thought to be mythical, each hurtling through the universe. The TARDIS hadn’t even been able to tell us where she had landed; as far as she was concerned, she had landed, but landed nowhere.

“The odds are astronomically against it,” I punned, and got two blank stares in response; Turlough was wary too. Our adventures on Rangin had been intense, even dangerous, and we were so exhausted once we’d found our way back to the TARDIS that we spent a week under her protection, never leaving her, just chilling. “The TARDIS does have a mind of her own, but that was a freak accident; she won’t be waylaid again. We should have no difficulty reaching Blaine.”

“We won’t need sunglasses there, right?” Tegan was relieved when I reassured her that we would not. “Rangin was awfully bright!”

“Unlike some of the people we met there,” snorted Turlough. “Will we really be monochromatic when we get to Blaine?”

“Indeed we will,” I said. “Like an old newspaper.”

“Like a skunk,” offered Tegan.

“Like an old movie.”

“Yes, Turlough,” I agreed. “Very much like that.” The rotor stopped pumping so I glanced at the console. “We’re here.”

I stepped out onto the planet Blaine, then gave my companions the come-ahead as they stood in the doorway, watching me with their mouths open. Tegan’s dark auburn hair had a red clip in it, and although her short skirt was black, her blouse was red, black and white. All red (and hints thereof) vanished into near-blackness as she set foot on Blaine. Turlough’s ginger hair faded into an interesting shade of gray as soon as he left the independent dimension of the TARDIS. Seeing how they viewed me and each other, I looked down and saw that I was also monochromatic, as expected. Expecting something is one thing; seeing it happen is quite another.

We stood and ooh’d and ah’d for a minute and then looked around, eager to see whether Blaine was like a journal, a mephitis mammal or a classic film. I knew Blaine by reputation only, and precious little of that, so it was with unabashed curiosity that I looked around and saw that we had landed on a bustling city street, at dusk.

One of the first things that struck me was that everyone was bundled up in trenchcoats and hunched forward as if darting between raindrops. Immediately upon noting that, I saw that it wasn’t raining. “All right,” observed Tegan, “this is pretty weird.”

“I like it,” said Turlough.

“That’s ’cause you’re weird, too,” retorted Tegan. “Doctor, do we need trenchcoats too?”

“If we don’t want to stand out, then yes, I rather think we do.”

About a half an hour later, all trenchcoat-clad and hulking around like everyone else, sans umbrella, hands in pockets, glumly aloof in aspect although I assume my hearts were not the only ones excitedly pounding, we blended in (or so we thought) and, since we had no destination in mind beyond actually reaching the planet, we let the general flow of the crowd carry us where it would, through city streets lit by tall corner lamps, dark, dangerous-looking doorways (more mere indentations than venues for passage between indoors and out-of-doors), the occasional alley, cafes (closed) and bars (open), tall buildings with glass doors and expressionless people moving in and out through those glass doors. I could tell Tegan was as tickled and excited as I was. Turlough looked a tad bored but that is his usual demeanor, so I regarded it as a tic or a birthmark (or like a bad haircut): noted in passing, perhaps only subliminally, and then mentally kicked aside as irrelevant. Our ostensibly downcast eyes in truth darted right, left, up and down in absolute glee, at all the shadows and people -- humanoids (why are they not called “Time-Lordoids”? No, “Time-Lordics”!) -- and their forms being broken up into shadows and light, with many variations to be sure but still, in the end, only shadows and light.

“Definitely not skunk,” declared Tegan.

“If it’s a newspaper,” I admitted, “it’s sensationalist.”

As if on cue, on the very next corner, a newsboy started crying the evening edition with its scandal du nuit: “Extra, extra, mayor’s wife indicted for murder, mayor’s body still not found! Extra extra!”

I’m not sure why my trenchcoat had Grigsian coins in its pockets, but as it did, I handed the newsboy a couple of them as I took a paper from him. “What is this?” he sneered.

“An investment.” He shrugged and went back to work.

The print was small, so I slipped on my half-moons and tried to read by the light of the real half-moon, then that of the corner lamp. The former was too dim and the latter flickered eerily, so I backed off into the doorway of a shop that appeared to be open even at dusk, since it had lights on inside, and a conveniently lit display in the window of a papier-mâché housewife sitting on a kitchen chair, her hair in curlers and her abandoned mop leaning up against the kitchen table, a book in her hand and as much delight on her face as papier-mâché can be coaxed into showing.

Suddenly the door against which I was leaning opened and an arm grabbed mine and... I won’t say “dragged” but rather guided me into the shop, which, of course, was a book shop. I immediately peered out of the window, past the transfixed reader, to see if I could spot Tegan and Turlough, but I was spun around (gently, all things considered) to face the knowing smile of a dark-haired woman of about my own apparent age and only an inch or two shorter. I smiled back. “Hello. I’m the... I mean I’m John Smith.”

She ignored my extended hand and lifted my half-moons off of my face. “Why Mister Smith,” she purred. “Without your glasses, you’re beautiful!”