Chapter 1
“Don’t touch her,” commanded the Doctor. The sharpness of his tone froze Death mid-reach; in fact he retracted his gloved hand as it was about to stroke the child’s face. “Bargains with cheaters are invalid.”
“I’m not the one who has cheated!” Technically, this was true. The Doctor had made a bargain with Death: the Doctor would always know whether a patient would live or die, for if Death appeared to the Doctor in human form at the head of the patient’s bed, there was nothing to be done, but if he appeared at the foot, the patient would recover. This was a concession Death had made unwillingly in exchange for the Doctor’s not interfering, whichever way it turned out. The Doctor went along with this for reasons of his own.
This case was different. The Doctor had placed the child’s mattress on a large turntable in a small room, by a blazing fireplace to keep him warm and, against a tapestried wall, a table upon which stood a water pitcher, a bowl and a rag. The Doctor had been tending the child for days. Now that Death had appeared, the Doctor took ahold of the turntable and spun it so that Death always ended up at the foot of the bed. It was a close race, with Death scrambling to reach the head and the Doctor turning the table faster than Death could run.
Finally, Death gave up and stood panting at the foot of the bed. “You have cheated and I shall take what is due me.” He reached out to touch the child and the Doctor stopped him.
“No, my friend; you are the cheat here. You are posing as Death. Death isn’t a person any more than I am a medical doctor. I’ve let you have your way, since until now you’ve come only for those already dying in pain, a mercy, a blessing, though I know you don’t like to think of yourself that way. You and I have danced through time and space and in this matter, unlike in many others, you’ve been judicious. But you are not Death.”
“I’ll prove it,” said Death, reaching once more for the child, who lay feverish and gasping on the mattress.
“No,” cried the Doctor, and again, Death drew back, annoyed at himself for doing so but curious as to how the Doctor intended to stop him. “This child is special to me.”
“Why should that bother me?” Now his annoyance was at the Doctor. Was that all? A personal relationship? How banal.
“This child was my friend,” said the Doctor. “He and I were at the Academy together.”
Death blanched, stepped back, almost put his hand to his mouth but remembered just in time the poison on his glove. “No!”
“You didn’t know.”
“No! It’s been so long! How many faces have we had, between us, Doctor?”
“I remember all of mine, and all of yours so far.”
Suddenly, Death said, “I could still do it. Wouldn’t you like that, Doctor? Wouldn’t that please you? It might be a relief to me. Surely it would be a relief to you.”
“No,” said the Doctor, softly. “If you’d wanted to commit suicide you’d have done it long ago. What are you playing at? What are we playing at?”
“All right,” said the Master, with as much dignity as he could muster. “The deal is off, but this one lives. I won’t kill myself.” He turned as if to go, then spun and rushed at the Doctor, poisoned glove raised to strike the Doctor’s face.
The Doctor caught him easily by the forearm with his own gloved hand. “I’ll have this,” he said, peeling the glove from the Master’s hand and throwing it, along with his own, into the fire. A green flame leapt up and an odor at once both acrid and sweet filled the room, dissipating quickly.
The Master growled, “You are wrong about one thing, Doctor. You may not be a medical doctor but I am Death, and I will be yours one day. All right, today isn’t that day, but it’s coming. It’s coming.”
“Be careful,” replied the Doctor, as the Master fled. “You keep trying to kill me and I keep saving your life. If you succeed, who will be there for you?”
