The Grand High Admiral of the Dark Segment stalked into his War Room and gave the two people already there a look of weary resignation.
"If you're looking for the Pleiades Old-Time Scarf Fetishists' Annual Dinner and Dance it's down the hall," he said. "Second door on the left. You know, for a moment, when I found out you'd talked your way past my slave... Mind you, even lettuce has been known to talk its way past Baldrick. No matter. Run along, I'm busy."
"Nice to meet you, Mr Busy," the man said, extending a friendly hand and grinning broadly. "I'm the Doctor, and this is Romana."
"Do you think you could let the Admiral know we're here?" Romana added.
Admiral Blackadder inwardly sentenced them both to five years in the worm pits of Turanis Minor. "As I'm sure you know perfectly well, I am the Admiral."
"Really?" The Doctor gave him a boggle-eyed look. "Splendid. You're just the chap we want to see. Isn't that convenient, Romana?"
"Frightfully," Romana said.
"Ridiculously." Mentally revising their sentences upward, the Admiral fixed them with his good eye. "Amusing though it doubtless is to watch the pair of you exchanging ridiculous compliments, I assume that you have a good reason for being in my war room without permission. Perhaps you would be good enough to tell me what it is?"
"He's got a point," Romana said.
The Doctor sat down – in, the Admiral noted, the Supreme Commander's chair – and considered the question.
"Well now," he said. "Would you be interested if I told you a Dalek fleet was massing on your borders?"
The Admiral leaned forward. "Yes, I would. Particularly if you could also explain how they weren't showing up on our long-range detectors, and why our patrols haven't picked them up."
"Well, that's really a matter for you, isn't it?" The Doctor shrugged. "Once you've dealt with the Daleks you can have a really searching enquiry into discipline and equipment in your patrol fleet. I'm sure you'd enjoy that."
"Not quite as much as being the main course at a Krassanid banquet. I suppose it would be too much to hope, Doctor, that you can give me actual evidence of this alleged Dalek fleet? Imagery? Gravitational scans? Maybe a picture postcard saying 'having a great time, wish you were here?'"
"Ah. Well, I'm afraid we had to leave in something of a hurry."
"I thought so."
"You don't have to take our word," Romana said. "You could always send one of your ships. We'll tell you where to look."
The Admiral shook his head. "Wasting fleet resources? On the word of two outrageously-dressed–"
"Does he mean me?" the Doctor asked, in a stage whisper.
"Didn't I tell you the other boots coordinated better?" Romana replied, in the same manner.
"Enough!" the Admiral snapped. "If I go to the Queen with what you've told me this far, she will almost certainly deprive me of a number of interior organs I would much rather keep, pursuant to using them in an exciting new legwear venture."
"And if you don't do anything, there won't be a Queen," Romana retorted. "Or an Empire."
The Doctor nudged her. "I think you're being a little abrupt in your manner."
"I don't think he's taking us seriously."
The Doctor thoughtfully pulled out a yoyo and sent it tumbling. "On the contrary, I'm sure he's taking us very seriously. As spies of some third power with an interest in seeing the border weakened. Or perhaps he thinks we work for one of his rivals and we're trying to get him discredited in the Queen's eyes. That Rear-Admiral we saw on the way in... what was his name?"
