Dr Who sighed and considered the two invitations in his hand.  Both had arrived at his country cottage in that morning's mail (old Hooper the postie had even winked as he handed them over - both envelopes were laced with perfume) and both spelled trouble.

One was from Dr Who's friend Miss Brown, a local newspaper reporter he had first met shortly after his exile to Earth by the Time Lords, asking him to accompany her to a formal dinner in aid of the Lindfield Society.

The other came from Miss Young, a rather more flighty young lady who wanted him to accompany her to a party being thrown by the makers of that dreadful daily television drama, The Squire of Crampton.  Miss Young had recently been working for the television company in some secretarial position.

Trouble was, both were to take place on the same evening: next Thursday.  Of course, the easiest thing to do was to go to neither - but Dr Who could immediately picture their disappointed faces.  No, he would need a genuine third option to get him out of this mess.  Vogans, Uggrakks and Daleks were nothing compared with young human females in a mood.

The telephone rang. DrWho hoped this would be the beginning of some new adventure to take him away - preferably off Earth, and long enough for next Thursday to pass without recrimination.

'Hello?  Dr Who speaking.'

'This is Peter Tait, secretary to Oswald Holland at the Ministry of Defence.  The minister would like to talk to you.  Would you hold the line, please?'  Tait was gone before Dr Who could reply and, after a couple of clicks and buzzes, a new voice could be heard.

'Hello, may I talk to Dr Who?'

'You already are, Minister,' snapped Dr Who.  He didn't like the minister very much.  Men from the ministry tended to have small, closed minds.  'What can I do for you this time?'

The minister cleared his throat.  'Dratted odd thing, you understand.  Film crew vanished.  By the sea.  General Maxwell-Lennon thought this would be right up your street, if you get my drift.  So, pop down to Haylock-on-Sea and sort this mess out, what?  Gone to film some archaeologists, as we understand it.  Must dash.  Toodle-pip.'

And Oswald Holland was gone.

'I'll give you "toodle-pip",' muttered Dr Who.  Still, it would him out into the open air, and Betsy could do with a good drive."


A few hours later, map unfurled on the passenger seat, Dr Who, sporting a long, flowing cape, was driving his sprightly yellow Edwardian roadster along the road to Devon, ruffled white hair blowing in the wind.  He frequently overtook little red sports cars, doing a good ninety as he nipped around tight corners, the souped-up engine coping excellently with the small roadways.  Angry drivers flashed headlights or beeped horns, but Dr Who took absolutely no notice of them.  He'd passed driving tests on a hundred planets.

Within a matter of hours, he was in the tiny seaside village of Haylock-on-Sea, the fresh air revitalising him after the journey.  The first thing he noticed after parking Betsy and wandering down the main street was how quiet it was.  The familiar cawing of the seagulls that populated the English coastline was conspicuous by its absence, and without it, the atmosphere was strangely muted.

The second thing he noticed was the distinct lack of people.  It was mid-afternoon on a glorious July day.  Even if there weren't any tourists milling around, the locals ought to have been going about their business.

'How odd,' Dr Who muttered, echoing Oswald Holland's thoughts.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a blur of familiar blue passing behind a couple of parked cars.  Civilisation, at last.

'Excuse me,' he called out to the policeman.  'I say, old chap...'