‘And if we can only follow the trail and find them first, we can be ready for the Astingir,’ said the Doctor. ‘And get Graham and Ryan back.’

‘So how do we do that?’ Yaz asked.

‘It’s gonna be tricky!’ The Doctor smiled slowly. ‘But where there’s a Will …’

There were several apartments built into the Space Defence Centre where, during the long, tense days of Moon-shots or probe launchings or closest approaches, exhausted staff members could crash at the end of a shift without leaving the premises. As Director, Will Buckland had the biggest and best of these apartments, but it was still little better than student accommodation, and cramped further after his installing of a small double bed. He could never stay contained in a single, would wake with a shock from hitting the carpet face first.

It was 4am now, but Will wasn’t in bed. He was staring out of the window, at the woods around Devesham, and the dim stars beyond. His team would be coming off the night shift soon; Will knew that they were whispering about him, questioning his judgement and decisions, unwilling to accept he couldn’t divulge the nature of the party left on board the station in orbit. They knew he was talking to someone in the auxiliary comms room, the feed shut down to all other personnel. Still he could hear their whispers: the talk of ESA and NASA enquiries, possible shutdown, of his being unfit for command.

But only one voice had stayed in his head. The Doctor’s voice, telling him that Dorothy had been taken. That she was somewhere out there in the infinite.

He heard a rumpling of sheets, glanced behind. Sam was sitting up in bed, wearing his shirt, rubbing her eyes. ‘Any word?’ she said.

‘Nothing,’ Will replied, and turned back to the window.

‘I’m so sorry.’ Sam shifted, and her tone was cajoling. ‘Why don’t you come back to bed? You’ve been awake for 30 hours straight, you’re still recovering from that mad trip up to—’

‘I’m fine,’ Will snapped.

‘You’ll think more clearly if you only—’

‘Don’t.’ He turned and looked at Sam. ‘Please, don’t.’

‘What are you even doing, Will?’ Sam’s voice had hardened. ‘Think you can spot Dorothy out there with the naked eye?’

Will didn’t rise to it. ‘I’m just thinking.’

‘I hope you’re thinking what the hell you’re going to say to the NASA delegation when they call tomorrow.’ Sam’s anger was simmering. ‘I tried to cover for you, told them that you had the observations under control, that the radiation signatures given out by the station were only superficially similar to those taken from the UFO in 1987 …’

‘Superficially?’ Now Will turned to look at her, frowning. ‘I checked the figures myself – thought that the energy patterns from the two were more or less the same?’