"Attention. Attention. This is Hyperville. Good morning to all customers. We would like to draw your attention to today's special offer. Holders of red 300‑euro Hypercards are entitled to a free half‑day session in the Spa and Pool Complex until 12 noon on Thursday. Unwind, float and enjoy a world of water at Hyperville. Shop. Dream. Relax.'
Behind a huge, polished desk, Sir Gerry Hobbes‑Mayhew surveyed his empire.
From his office in the apex of Hyperville's central pyramid, he could look out on the complex from the picture window: the metallic triangle of the ShopZone, the glass dome of the FunGlobe, the comings and goings of the many travelers and shuttle buses.
Hyperville was miles from the nearest city – that was deliberate.
People sometimes booked themselves in for three, four, five days at a time – you couldn't have them disappearing off and not spending money. Everything they wanted was here.
His intercom buzzed.
'Ey up?' he said, half‑closing his crumpled eyes.
The plasma screen, taking up all of the far wall of his office, showed the dark, goatee‑bearded face of Max Carson. 'Sir Gerry, that journalist is here again. Andrea Watkins.'
Sir Gerry sighed, puffed his florid red cheeks. That wretched girl.
She'd done an interview with him for _Metropolitan_ a few months ago – a puff piece, very nice, all about his taste in art and his philanthropic tendencies – but ever since then she had been plaguing him for a follow‑up.
She wouldn't leave him alone.
'What the 'eck's she after now, Max?'
'She's asking about the accident.'
Sir Gerry spread his hands. 'They've had the official inquiry,' he growled. 'What does she want, Max? Blood?'
Max smiled. 'She says she's going to the authorities if she doesn't have her questions answered, Sir Gerry.'
'The authorities. Cheek of t'lass. Does she even know who the "authorities" are? When the country's plagued with bomb threats and supposed alien invasions…'
'Well, quite, sir.'
'She thinks they're going to be bothered about one poor daft feller who got himself electrocuted through some dodgy wiring?'
'She seems very insistent, Sir Gerry.'
'Rule One, Max. Insistent people need to be dealt with. So deal with her.'
Sir Gerry lit one of his huge cigars and leaned back in his chair, wreathed in clouds of blue smoke.
Max smiled again. 'Very good, Sir Gerry.'
'And Max,' Sir Gerry added, puffing on the cigar, 'how long until them wretched apprentices get 'ere?'
'The Trainees will arrive in one hour and fifty‑eight minutes, Sir Gerry.'
Sir Gerry grunted his approval. In the four years since he'd been brought in, Max had proved his efficiency, but sometimes he could be just a little too pedantic.
Most people would have said two hours, and been happy with that.
'Champion. Be sure you send 'em straight to me when they arrive.'
The screen went dark.
Sir Gerry sighed, hauled himself up from his seat and waddled over to the cylindrical drinks cabinet in the centre of the room. 'Single malt,' he growled. 'No ice.' The machine clunked and whirred, and a second later it had dispensed a crystal glass with a double shot of Sir Gerry's favourite spirit.
'Don't like interfering types,' Sir Gerry muttered to himself into his whisky. 'Don't like 'em at all.'
Arranged in a perfect equilateral triangle, with the hub of a big, well‑known store at each of the points, Hyperville's ShopZone was a vast, glittering consumer palace, packed with strolling people.
Pellucid blue escalator‑tubes criss‑crossed the ceiling above, their passengers like sea‑life in an aquarium.
Avalanches of vermilion foliage spilled from latticed balconies.
High above the malls was a dome, its neo‑classical trompe l'œil sky‑scape a bright shade of sapphire.
A soft babble of voices carried upwards, occasionally punctuated by the bing‑bong of the public address system.
Off the bustling, soft‑white space of Europa Plaza was the Holistic HealthZone, with its endless arcades of organic fruit.
shops, ethical cosmetics and natural remedies. And in an alcove by a service door stood a rickety blue police box. It was looking as inconspicuous as it was possible for something so anachronistic to look.
The box's sole occupant popped his tousled head out of the door, eyes wide, and sniffed the air. 'Coffee, bread, hint of jasmine,' he murmured to himself. 'Okaaaay. Definitely the right place.'
The Doctor stepped out of the TARDIS and swivelled on one heel, taking a quick look at the bustling, brightly lit square beyond.
Most people would not have looked twice at his chosen outfit of pinstripe suit, dark shirt and loose tie, although the trainers which accompanied it might have given them pause for thought.
If anyone asked, the Doctor would explain that this was because he often had to do a lot of running.
If they ever asked why, they soon found out.
'Here we go, then.' The Doctor turned round, snapped his fingers and the TARDIS door squeaked, then slammed shut.
He grinned, as much in surprise as in satisfaction. 'Getting better at that,' he said.
A quick glance at some calendars in a nearby gift shop was enough to tell him that the year was 2013.
He liked to trust the TARDIS to get him to the right place and time these days, but it had been known to overshoot by a hundred years, or even a hundred million years. Which could be both embarrassing and inconvenient.
Hands in pockets, grinning, brown eyes wide open in admiration, the Doctor sauntered through Hyperville.
He'd seen leisure and shopping palaces before, of course.
He remembered a particularly impressive one on stilts above