‘The B Team’ of Grantham and myself crept from the chamber and made our way down a white corridor.

“What are we looking for?” asked Grantham.

“We’ll know when we find it” I replied wittily.

“I’m scared.”

“Be more like Dennis Brent” I told him. He took comfort from my words and settled into a pose of manly sensibleness. Creeping down corridors wasn’t something I’d done since Brian Creswell stayed at Brent Towers one night (and that was, upon closer scrutiny, only a dream I’d had three hundred and twelve times). Grantham gripped my hand (to prevent us being separated and for no other reason) and we headed for the first door we could find.

Three hours later and we had made no progress.

“We’re getting nowhere” moaned Grantham.

“I’ve got it” I said, inspiration having struck like a Tom Baker fan at one of my fascinating technical book signings. “Let’s imagine we’re looking for rare production documentation.”

“What an excellent suggestion” said Grantham, awed at my prowess and not for the first time. Within five minutes we had found a room full of important looking filing cabinets. They were locked, naturally, but ‘Orac’ <g> soon prised them open. The contents were astonishing. Truly remarkable. I had no idea a facility of that size could use so many paperclips.

Once we’d read and digested (not in the Ian Devine sense <g>) the stationary documentation, we searched for something more sinister. We did uncover a rather frightening document which outlined a blatantly unsuitable scheme for reindexing the filing room using an antiquated system. Because we’re good people, Grantham and I sorted the files for them. Even Tom Baker (in the afternoon, nudge nudge and wink wink) could find what he was looking for once we’d finished. Unfortunately this took up rather a lot of time and we were still no nearer to finding out who was involved, what they were involved with and why whoever it was who was involved was involved with whatever it was they were involved with. Grantham scratched his head.

“Could you say that again?” he asked. I wrote it down on a small piece of paper and he studied it until light dawned.

“Remind me” I said, “have we looked in this cabinet marked ‘Exotic Meat Factory – Top Secret’?”

“I don’t think so” murmured Grantham. I wanted a more definite answer.

“Look Grantham – I have to rely on you for something. Have we looked in this cabinet or not? It isn’t difficult – it’s not as if it’s a Nigerian television station which is rumoured to have an unauthorised copy of Power of the Daleks – it’s simply a filing cabinet which may be useful. Have we examined its contents?”

Grantham umm-ed and ahh-ed for a few moments.

“Yes we have” he said definitely. “I’m sure we have.”

“Sure?”

“No” he crumbled.

“Dash it all, Grantham” I snapped. “We shall have to go through it all over again.”

It was lucky that I was so sensible and thorough as it turned out that we hadn’t examined this cabinet before. It yielded much useful information. It turns out that the exotic meat factory was just a cover for a truly nefarious scheme. Before I could explain all to Grantham, an alarm went off and we ran for the door. Unfortunately, Grantham has very little co-ordination and I ran into him three times and ended up on the floor. Two security guards popped their heads round the door.

“Hello?” said the first.

“Ah” I said, playing for time with some skill.

“Hello” said the second, more definite than the first.

“Hello” I added, still playing for time.

“Can we help you?” asked the first guard.

“Yes” I said, stalling.

“Well?”

“Very well, thank you for asking” I rambled.

“It’s just that this is a top security section” explained the second guard. “I’m sure you have a very valid reason for being here but – and I hope you understand – we have to ask.”

“We’re looking for something” I blustered.

“Anything in particular?” asked the first guard.

“Not really”

“Hmm. I assume you have proper ID?”

“Yes yes” I assured him.

“I don’t mean to be rude” apologised the first guard, “but it’s in my contract of employment that I double check your ID. Sorry.”

“Grantham” I said firmly, “show the nice men our ID cards.”

“Um” stammered the feeble fool. “They’re in my other trousers.”

“Gya” exclaimed the first guard. “I hate it when that happens. But I’m going to have to insist you bring your passes to me after lunch.”

“Ok” I agreed, nudging Grantham in the ribs and getting an agreement out of him too.

“Excellent – sorry to trouble you” said the first guard and Grantham and I were left in peace.

“Score another triumph for Brent’s 7” I exclaimed.

We took copies of a number of important looking papers and, some forty minutes later, we snuck out of the records room. We had luckily found a map of the complex and soon found our way through the mass of corridors towards our freedom. The final obstacle was a locked door, amply protected with a key-pad lock. Oh for a sonic screwdriver <g>

“What are we going to do?” panicked Grantham.

“We are going to approach this in a mature and sensible way. We’re not dealing with a Dalek – we’re dealing with a door” I said, misquoting The Planet of the Daleks by Terry Nation (deliberately).

I input a random sequence and the door rejected me. Dash it. I tried again and got the same result. Grantham did a completely unnecessary mental calculation and told me how many possible combinations there were. I told him to hush.

“Mathematics is very interesting” he insisted (I could almost see his hair becoming bowl shaped <vbg>)

“Quiet Grantham” I insisted. I could hear the unmistakable sound of fierce footsteps approaching…