“Mr Hartnell – you’re alive” I gasped, having briefly lacked faith in my abilities for the first time in my life.

“Of course I’m ah alive my dear Chesterfield – my brain was functioning with the speed of a mah mechanical comp… computer. I was asking myself questions and the answers were arriving with remah markable alacrity.”

“Mr Hartnell, you’ve been frozen for almost thirty years.”

“A hah handful of heartbeats for a citizen of the universe and a gentleman to boot, Chesserman.”

“I’ve thawed you out for a specific reason, Mr Hartnell.”

“Mr Who? What is he talking about?” muttered the elderly actor.

“Very well, I’ve thawed you out, Doctor Who, for a specific reason.”

“Spah specific reason, Chesterfield? Wah what is all this diddling about in aid of? Hmm?”

“I have a book.”

“Book? Wah what book? Hmm? I remember telling William Shakespeare ‘Will, my boy, the future is in printed manuscripts’ and he simply laughed and threw a parsons nose at me.”

“What did you do?”

“Threw it at Henry the Eighth of course. Susan was locked in the Tardis and I had to get to the Tower of London to rescue Jon and Gillian.”

“No no no no no” I protested. “The comic strips are not canon, Doctor Who. You cannot mix and match between your different threads of adventures.”

“Wah what are you talking about Chestexpander?”

“The comic strips do not take place in the same universe as the television series. Equally, if you were to tell me about your adventures during the American witch hunts I would be forced to have a fascinating technical discussion with you.”

“I don’t think you’re properly awake, Chestercity. Have some of this orange juice and the trembling will soon stop."

“Doctor Who, will you pay attention. I have a job for you to do.”

“And I suppose you’ve placed a… some kind of force bah barrier around my Tarship and you won’t let me back in unless I do this… job hmm?”

“Um, no” I confessed.

“You pushed your way in here – to the forty ninth century – without so much as an anti-radiation muff to your name and now you’re demanding that I take part in your monstrous scheme. What madness is this, Chesterroad?”

“I need you to sign this book for me.”

“Sah sign a book, Checktrousers?”

“Yes. Just write ‘To Grantham, kind regards, William Hartnell.”

“This book needs autograh…graphic…ing? I am that man” he announced, clutching his frosty lapels.

“Excellent.” I handed him the book and a sensible rollerball pen.

“I gave Bic the idea for the pen you know” he muttered. “Do pay attention, Chelseabun.”

“To Grantham…” I began, dictating for the elderly gent.

“I know that” he snapped. “If you want to pit my brawn against your brain… my brain against your shoes then you could’ve lent her your tie, my boy.”

He slowly wrote “To Grandson, retards, Doctor Who.”

I could see that this would look to Grantham like a cheap forgery. Although he wouldn’t suspect me of perpetrating the fraud personally, he wouldn’t be above suspecting me of employing a third party to do the evil deed. I am not, as you know, a violent man and I do not consort with violent people but my friends and I are united in our belief that there is no act that deserves harsher punishment than falsely signing a book or other piece of merchandise. Hanging is too good for them. I had a sudden inspiration. I grabbed my “camcorder” (purchased after every single television and video production company turned down my idea of a series of video cassette lectures in the manner of the “Myth Makers” interviews only better and much much longer). I pointed the camcorder at Mr Hartnell and asked him to show the signature, swear to it’s authenticity and say a few words of congratulation to Grantham on the festive season we were to be sharing.

“And a happy Mistfall to all of you in Hove” he said, raising the book in toast and smiling an almost toothless smile at the lens. “Now, let’s stop diddling about and get back to the ship, hmm? Cheekychops? Hmm?”

“Of course” I said cunningly and I moved him in the direction of the cryogenic unit.

“That’s not my Tarship” he protested.

“Oh yes it is – Susan diddled about with the camouflage unit and repaired it” I lied.

“My granddaughter is such a clever girl. What a pity I had to lock her out of her home and strand her on a war ravaged world, all because I was sick to the back seat of her moaning and fancied getting myself a young female who wasn’t a blood relative.” He climbed back into the cryogenic unit and I pressed the insta-freeze control. He was as hard as a rock in seconds. I looked down at Grantham’s book and ticked another box on my mental list.

“Well done, Mr Brent” said Mr Grade, “but you’ve had 41.66% of your time and only achieved 28.57% of your mission.”

“Stop quoting fascinating statistics at me” I snapped as I watched the carriage clock tick closer to the end.

09:59:58

09:59:59