Doctor Who and the Empire of Glass | Page 7

the same
way that Steven had seen him sniff fine wines. "Salt marshes, I think you'll find. Ah, yes,
and wood smoke. There must be a settlement of some sort nearby." He walked a few
steps down the beach and bent down to pick up a dried out strand of seaweed. "No sign of
tides," he said, examining it carefully. He moved towards the water's edge. Taking a
small strip of paper from a pocket, he bent forward and dipped it in the water. "And the
neutral pH indicates that this liquid is safe. You may go paddling if you wish." He turned
to find Vicki already standing ankle-deep in the water. She smiled apologetically. He
frowned and wagged a finger at her. "Foolish child," he chided. "You might have got
yourself into all sorts of trouble, and then where would you be, hmm?"
"Sorry, Doctor." Vicki looked genuinely crestfallen. The Doctor turned to Steven. "Salt
water but no tides. What does that suggest to you, my boy?"

"No moon?"
The Doctor nodded judiciously. "Yes, or... ?"
Steven shrugged. "Or a lagoon. Is it important?"
"Most instructive, hmm? A lagoon. Yes." A breeze ruffled the Doctor's long, white hair.
Steven stared at him, wondering what the old man was getting at. Sometimes, just
sometimes, it occurred to him that the Doctor possessed a laser-sharp intelligence that he
chose to hide in vague mutterings and abrupt changes in mood and conversation, but
most of the time he just thought that the Doctor was a senile old fool.
"Doctor! Steven!" Vicki's voice cut through his thoughts. He turned, crouching, ready to
protect her from whatever threat had sprung from hiding, fight any monster that was
lurking in the vicinity, but the beach was empty apart from the three of them and the
TARDIS. Vicki was pointing out to sea, into the mist. Or, rather, into where the mist had
been. The breeze had thinned it out and shredded it, revealing sketchy details of the
waterscape beyond. Near at hand there were islands, some barely more than sandbanks
with sparse vegetation, some rocky and covered with bushes. Beyond them, scarcely
more than a darker grey shadow against the grey mist, there was a city: a fabulous city of
towers and minarets, steeples and domes, all seeming to float upon the water like a
mirage.
"Ah," the Doctor said, "just as I thought - we've arrived at Venice."
"Venice?" Steven and Vicki chorused together.
"A city built on sandbanks and wooden pilings, just off the Italian coast. It sank beneath
the waves centuries before either of you were born. Well, I rather think I know where
we're meant to go, hmm? Vicki, my dear, why don't you go back inside the TARDIS and
retrieve the dinghy from the store cupboard by the food machine?"
Vicki nodded and, taking the key which the Doctor proffered, vanished inside the time
and space machine. As soon as she was out of earshot, Steven turned to the Doctor. "I
don't like this. It smells like a trap to me."
"And to me, dear boy." The Doctor nodded. "A trap, indeed. I am in complete
agreement."
"And you're just going to walk into it?" Steven said, aghast.
"Whoever gave me that invitation had me in their power, and let me go," the Doctor
mused. "If thisis a trap, and it has all of the classic signs, then perhaps we aren't the
intended victims."
"No?" Steven frowned. "But if we're not the victims, then what are we?"
The Doctor's bright blue eyes twinkled. "Perhaps we're the bait!"

Galileo Galilei, ex-tutor to Prince Cosimo of Tuscany, Professor of Mathematics at the
University of Padua, equal of scholars and natural philosophers and heir to the mantle of
Bruno and Brahe, burped and took another swig of wine from the bottle.
Light trickled between the curtains, casting a bruised purple illumination across the
strewn clothes, piles of manuscripts and half-eaten plates of food that filled the space in
the room. Nearly sunset, then. Nearly time to start work.
That damned landlord had irritated him to the point where he had almost struck the man
down. Venice should be paying him to be there, not the other way around. Things would
change soon. Oh yes, things would change. All he needed was five minutes with the
Doge on top of the bell tower in St Mark's Square, and his fortune would be made. All of
Italy - no, all of Europe - would defer to him. The name of Galileo Galilei would resound
through the ages.
He staggered across the rotting, creaking floorboards towards the tiny stairway that led
upwards, towards the platform on the roof. This place was a death-trap, what with the
galloping rot and the rats both competing to see who could gnaw