The Right Honourable Parliamentary Under Secretary of State for the Ministry of Defence was not a happy man.

He was not a happy man on several levels. He was unhappy because his wife regularly ran up extortionate bills on her frequent shopping trips around the shopping Mecca's of the capitol; he was unhappy because his teenage daughter, whom he had worked jolly hard to provide her with education in one of the country's best (and naturally most expensive) finishing schools, had run off, very much unfinished, to some commune in Wales in the company of some long-haired, guitar-torturing drop-out by the name of Marco (undoubtedly an Anarchist, or worse, a Communist); and he was unhappy because the family cat, whom they had supposedly had neutered (expensively, of course), was expecting kittens, and his youngest daughter wanted to keep them - all - when they arrived, and threatened tantrums of a Biblical scale if she didn't get her way.

That was just at home. On the work front, he was facing growing discontentment among his constituents, largely because of their discontentment with his superiors - like he had any real say in what they were doing. They, in turn, were growing increasingly discontent with the running of his department; most specifically, their handling of a certain quasi-paramilitary organisation which, officially, was not within the control of the British government but within the United Nations. But because this organisation was stationed in the United Kingdom - and largely manned by United Kingdom personnel - it fell to his department to finance the wretched thing. Which took up a very large percentage - VERY large - of his budget. Which wasn't very large to begin with.

His superiors didn't feel they were getting a very good return for their money. The Right Honourable was very much inclined to agree; even more so at this present moment time.

Which came round to his principle reason why he was not happy. Why his superiors, his constituents, the whole United Kingdom, and, in truth, the entire world wasn't very happy.

That was what being threatened with annihilation by alien invaders in a fleet of flying saucers did for you though.

Now supposedly - supposedly, mark you - this was one of the reasons why the UN had sponsored (but not paid for, naturally) this particular organisation; to deal with... well, the unusual; the paranormal, the supernatural, the extraterrestrial. Things that went bump in the night, and all that nonsense. Which, until that moment, the Right Honourable had always believed it to be. It made him all the more unhappier to find out that, in fact, it most definitely was not.

But what made him really, really, desperately unhappy was the fact that the leader of this organisation, this group of expects whose sole purpose in life was deal with threats such as this, was sitting there behind his very expensive desk, twiddling his thumbs and doing exactly...

"NOTHING! You are doing precisely NOTHING!"

The Right Honourable slapped a hand down onto the surface of the desk to accentuate his point, and immediately regretted doing so as a horrible pain shivered up his arm to tingle constantly for several minutes afterwards. It was also a waste of time anyway, because it didn't elicit much of a reaction from the man sitting on the other side of the desk. Not even so much as a twitch from his immaculately trimmed moustache. He just remained sitting there, calmly, placidly, as starched and upright as the uniform he was wearing. The only emotion he showed was in the irritating twiddling of his thumbs between his hands, resting together on the blotter. But at least he was moved to speak, though in the same irritatingly calm, mannered, measured tones of someone awaiting the arrival of a tea tray, rather than imminent Armageddon.

"And I told you, sir, that we are not doing nothing. We are waiting."

"WAITING? Waiting?" The repeat of the word came out more as dry splutter than a loud expression of indignation. The Right Honourable had been shouting a lot that morning, and his voice was about ready to give out.

"Yes sir. As I explained."

"You... you have explained nothing, Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart!" The Right Honourable forced himself to speak at a lower octave. His throat was starting to hurt and he had yet to speak to the Minister about what was going on. He'd need a voice for that. IF he ever had the opportunity to speak to him again!

"Yes I have." The man was so irritatingly bloody calm! Of course, the Right Honourable knew all about British army officers and stiff upper lips, but he'd always believed that was purely in the realm of Boys Own fiction and Sunday afternoon cinema. Except this wasn't the bloody German army they were facing, it was alien beings possessing God-only-knew what aboard their ships! The bloody man should be showing some sort of action instead of just sitting there like... like...

His temper boiled over.

"NO YOU HAVE N-"

The Right Honourable forced himself to stop again and reached for the silk handkerchief in the top pocket of his suit to dab at his forehead, which was prickling with perspiration. The Brigadier, of course, remained as cool as a cucumber. Not even a hint of sweat on his brow.

"No you haven't!" the Right Honourable practically whispered. "Or at least, you have not given me an explanation which I find even vaguely adequate!" He stuffed the handkerchief awkwardly back into its pocket, tried to arrange back into its proper position, and failed miserably. This made him even crosser. "In fact, I don't even believe you fully appreciate the situation, Brigadier!"

At this, the Brigadier sighed, and his features took on a disapproving aspect. "I believe I appreciate the situation more fully than perhaps anyone else currently on this planet, sir," he retorted.

The Right Honourable gave up on his handkerchief and stabbed a finger upwards. "Flying saucers, Brigadier! Fleets of flying saucers, darkening the skies above the major city in this country!" The Right Honourable jabbed the finger to stab at the surface of the desk. "YOUR country, Brigadier! OUR country!"

The Brigadier arched an eyebrow. "I have seen the reports, sir," he replied dryly.

"Mass panic everywhere! Civil uproar! Pandemonium! Scenes unprecedented since... since... well, unprecedented!"

"Quite." The Brigadier stopped twiddling his thumbs long enough to look at his watch. He frowned slightly. Only slightly, mind you, as if the tea were late.

"The entire Commonwealth... the Americans, the Russians, the Chinese... good God man, even the bloody Irish, want to know what the hell we're doing... why we're not blasting those things out the skies!"

"Not a very prudent action," remarked the Brigadier distantly. He'd stopped looking at his watch and was now looking out of his window. He was still frowning though.

"You may not think so-"

"And the UN, too," the Brigadier interrupted softly, without looking round. But the Right Honourable continued unabashed.

"- But they are beginning to think otherwise!"

"I know," he replied quietly. Then he looked back at the Right Honourable and smiled. "But they do well to wait."

"For WHAT?!?"

"I told you," said the Brigadier, still smiling.

"And I don't believe it! Or you!"

His smile didn't slip. "You'll have to, I'm afraid."

The Right Honourable stared at him as though he were mad. "You're telling me... that we have to wait... that the entire fate of civilisation... of humanity... the entire world... is hanging on... on a TELEPHONE BOX?"

There was a quiet, but significant, pause, before the Brigadier replied.

"A police telephone box, actually. Though, as I explained, it isn't actually a police telephone box. It's a-"

"Spaceship!" barked the Right Honourable, feeling more perspiration beading his face. This wasn't good for his blood pressure at all, and what had his doctor warned him about the other day? "Another bloody spaceship!"

"Hmmm, in point of fact, more like a time machine, but yes, it does travel through space as well. The four dimensions, in fact."

The Right Honourable could only stare at the Brigadier speechless for a moment. He could feel his heart beginning to pound. That was what had done for his father, bad blood pressure, a dicky ticker. Dead before he was sixty. At this rate he'd beat that.

"You're mad," he eventually managed to whisper. "Stark raving mad."

"Not according to the Ministry's top trick-cyclist," replied the Brigadier, magnificently unruffled. "But as a friend of mine observed, you possibly have to be a little mad to do a job like mine. Excuse me." He leaned across his desk and pressed a button on the intercom sitting on his desk. "Any sign yet, Bell?" he asked.

A woman's voice crackled back. "None yet, sir."

"That device is still working, isn't it?"

"Yes sir."

"What about the patrols around the grounds? Any word from them?"

"None, sir. They haven't spotted anything."

The Brigadier sighed. "And our alien friends?"

"No further activity reported, sir."

"That's something, at least. Very good, Bell. Continue monitoring." He switched off the machine and leaned back in his chair, shaking his head slightly. "Last time we used the thing to call him back he landed several miles away. He said he'd done some maintenance since so it wouldn't happen again, but I don't know..." he shook his head again and chuckled, almost ruefully, "the Doctor never did seem to have much luck with that machine."

The Right Honourable frowned. "Who? Doctor what? Who are you talking about, Brigadier?"

A slightly faraway look came over the Brigadier's face, accompanied by a small, almost fond smile. "The Doctor? Ah... the Ministry didn't brief you on him, then?"

The Right Honourable shifted irritably in his chair. "The Ministry brief me on your excessive spending, Brigadier, but not upon the biographical minutiae of the individuals employed within your organisation!"

It was the Brigadier's turn to frown. "Ah... you haven't received that level of clearance, then?"

"Brigadier, I can assure you I have been cleared to the very highest level!" the Right Honourable replied haughtily.

"Up to UN Z-Alpha status?" the Brigadier asked shrewdly.

"UN Z-Alpha?" The Right Honourable looked confused. He'd never heard of a UN Z-Alpha status.

"Ah. You haven't." The Brigadier favoured him with a tight smile. "In that case, sir, I'm afraid you're not cleared for that information."

"But... but... damn it all man, I'm from the Ministry!" the Right Honourable spluttered angrily. "Your Ministry!"

"Be that as it may, sir," replied the Brigadier coolly, "you are not cleared. Therefore, I am not at liberty to discuss the matter. However..." his moustache twitched wryly, "if you would care to discuss our, ahem, excessive spending, may I direct your attention to our request for certain electronic supplies which the Ministry turned down-"

The Right Honourable slapped his hand down on the desk again and just as rapidly regretted doing it again. The pain added to his anger. "BRIGADIER! I do not think that it is appropriate for you to-"

He was interrupted by the sudden shrill buzz of the intercom unit. The Brigadier leaned smoothly forward and jabbed a control.

"Yes Corporal?"

"He's here, sir. Smack bang in his lab. Um, making a bit of a fuss too, sir. Wants to know what's going on, and why you've summoned him back."

A huge smile started to creep slowly across the Brigadier's face. "I'm not at all surprised. Thank you, Bell. I shall be along directly. Carry on."

"Sir."

The Brigadier leaned back in his chair with a deep - and very satisfied - sigh.

The Right Honourable glared at him.

"Well?"

"Everything will be now," replied the Brigadier distantly, still smiling. Then he stood up and started to march briskly round his desk to the door.

"What's going on?" demanded the Right Honourable crossly. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to see the Doctor."

The Right Honourable blinked at him. Everything was happening too quickly for his pedantic, red-taped Whitehall-trained mind. "Doctor? Are you ill?"

The Brigadier paused at the door to look back at him. He was still smiling. "Never better, sir. Especially now."

"What?!?" The Right Honourable swivelled awkwardly round his chair and made one last furious - but futile - attempt to exert his authority. "Brigadier, I DEMAND to know what you are doing about our problems!"

"Our problems, sir?" The Brigadier allowed himself a small chuckle. "No, sir. Now that the Doctor has arrived, I think you'll find that our problems are over - but that the problems for alien friends have just begun."

He opened the door, and gestured towards it.

"Shall we go?"

Huffing and puffing, the Right Honourable levered himself up out of his chair, and followed the Brigadier out. He was going to get to the bottom of all this if it was last thing he ever did.

And he was going to make damn sure afterwards that this was going to be last thing Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart ever did. After this, he'd be lucky to take charge of a pedestrian crossing, let alone a military organisation. A BRITISH military organisation anyway.

"I am not in the least bit convinced by this, Brigadier," he warned heavily. "ANY of this!"

But the Brigadier didn't seem to mind. In fact, he didn't seem to care.

"Oh, you will be, sir. You will be."