Doctor Bethany Robinson was not a happy woman. Work, work, work. She had three reports due in next Friday, none of which she had started. The history department at The University of St. Oscars, Dellah was hardly the sort of place that inspired one to work though, she pondered as she gazed blankly at an empty datapad. The musty smell of actual printed books, the dark wood panelling, the barely-living professors and the slightly humid atmosphere combined to make it a department more suited to sleep than mental toil. Indeed, up until a few moments ago, Dr. Robinson had been engaged in the act of napping, a practice to which she was eminently suited. She had been woken up by a sharp knock-knock on the door.

 "Yes, come in," she yawned, scratching at her short, coppery hair.

 "Dr. Robinson!" It was Robson, an archaeology student who, thanks to the university's unfathomable module system, had been forced to take a course in a subject he cared nothing for in order to obtain the necessary number of points required to progress to the next year.

 "Yes, er, Rogers, isn't it." Beth deliberately got the student's name wrong. It never failed to annoy them, and it satisfied her evil craving for revenge upon the agent of her awakening.

 "Er, no, it's Robson actually," the boy said contemptuously. *Ouch* she thought. He probably thinks I'm senile. Most of the old gits in this place are.

 "Ay yes, Robson. You're doing a course on twentieth century history aren't you."

 "That's right. I've come to collect my essay."

 "Oh. Ya. Hang on a mo." Beth still hadn't got around (read: couldn't be arsed) to marking her Year One essays. Especially when The Winged Avenger was right next door to her lodgings at Rigg College. She got up and wandered rather unsteadily over to her filing cabinet and began to root rather unconvincingly through a pile of Year Three papers.

 "Oh dear," she said, after carrying on the pretence for a minute, "it doesn't seem to be here. I must have left it at home."

 "Never mind," Robson said, and winked.

 "I'm sorry?" Beth was rather taken aback. It wasn't the first time, of course, but they'd never been bold enough to come knocking for a look in (or looking for a knocking) before. She looked at the boy in a new light. The lithe muscles, the bleached hair...

 "I've been sent to fetch you," Robson continued, winking furiously. "Its about the *Braxiatel* collection."

 "Eh?"

 "I'm collecting for the *Braxiatel*."

 "Are you asking me for sex?" Nothing like being direct.

 "No!" Robson looked visibly appalled and yet strangely disdainful at the same time. Beth cringed.

 "Oh. Well, what in buggery's name are you going on about?"

 "I've come to collect for *Braxiatel*," the boy hissed through clenched teeth. "*He* is having a special collection and *wants you* to donate."

 Beth frowned at the boy.

 "Is this one of Braxiatel's top secret messages?"

 "Er..."

 "He wants to see me?"

 "Er, yes, he *is* collecting..."

 "Oh shut up."

 "Virgin Transplanetary Services would like to welcome all passengers who joined us at St. Oscars. This is the 1612 Interplanetary Shuttle Service calling at Station Alpha, Aridius and terminating at Beccalev at 2518 hours. All passengers are informed that there will be a trolley service of drinks and light refreshments. On behalf of Virgin I'd like to wish all passengers a comfortable journey."

 Beth sighed, heavily. She had lost her sense of humour somewhere in the queue at the spaceport and was now being kept from violent action only thanks to a generous infusion of flavoured vodkas purchased at the spaceport bar. Now she was sitting next to a large and formidable woman with a highly annoying brat whose sole purpose at present seemed to be to irritate her with its piercing squeals.

 "I mean what is it with Bernice bloody la-di-dah Summerfield anyway?" Beth slurred through a mouthful of mint vodka. "She never does any bloody work. She's either sloshed as a mongoose or else off planet on some fantabulous cruise. I mean, does the woman ever do anything other than party or holiday?"

 The fat woman looked disapprovingly at Beth.

 "Let me tell you something. Last month, I had to mark five hundred - yes, that's right, five hundred bloody Year One exam papers - and d'you know what Bernice Aim-So-Bloody-Grahnd Summerfield was doing? I'll tell you what she was doing. She was on Mars! Mars! Bloody planet Mars." The fat woman turned away and looked out of the window. "I hear she's always sloshed," Beth whispered confidentially. Unfortunately both the whisper and the confidentiality of the statement were unsuccessful, and she succeeded only in dribbling bilious green vodka down her frock. "And I hear she seduces all her students. She's divorced y'know. And I hear she seduces all her students. *All* of them. Even -" she failed in a second attempt to whisper - "the mature ones."

 The fat woman sighed, heavily.

 "I mean, I'm as reasonable as the next person, and generally much more spiffing, but Bernice Summmerfield just rubs me up the wrong bloody way. I suppose it's becosh we have nothing in common, but she's just so, oh, I don't know. And she wore the same frock as me to the history and archaeology societies ball. I mean, exactly the same frock. There were two in the shop and she just picked the same one as me. I bet she did it to show me up. She's so selfish. And she's slept with everyone at the university."

 "Actually," said the fat woman, "I find her course to be most interesting, particularly the archaeological evidence of the later Ikkaban period module. Oh, and to my knowledge she's never tried to seduce me. What do you think, Sa'Bbat?" The annoying child, actually a highly advanced being from the planet Y'X!v'cHak, looked up from where it had been chuckling to itself and squealed, "Ihkk!x!na'vortop!" Beth slumped gracelessly back into her chair. It was going to be a long journey. Two minutes later she was asleep.

 "You killed her!" Robin exclaimed.

 "Well, I am the *Deadly* Assassin."

 "You imbecile!" yelled Arthur.

 "We didn't want you to *kill* her." added George.

 "We were supposed to save her."

 "Well you didn't really do a very good job then, did you," said the Deadly Assassin. Bernice groaned.

 "What was that?" asked Arthur.

 The Deadly Assassin looked around, guiltily.

 "Nothing."

 Benny groaned again, and began to stir.

 "She's not dead!" shouted George, almost jumping for joy.

 "Yes she is," said the Deadly Assassin. "It's just, erm, rigor mortis."

 "Rigor mortis?"

 "Yes, that's right."

 "But she groaned."

 "No she didn't."

 "She did, I heard her."

 "Didn't."

 "Did."

 "Didn't."

 "Did."

 "What in buggery's name is going on?" Bernice sat up, rubbing her head.

 "I told you she wasn't dead," said George, glaring at the Deadly Assassin. The Deadly Assassin looked sheepish.

 "My mistake."

 "Well, at least there's no harm done, what?" said Robin, happy again.

 "Except to my reputation," added the Deadly Assassin.

 "Never mind, old chap. Anyone can make a mistake."

 "It wasn't even as though I wanted to be an assassin," moaned the Deadly Assassin. "Mother always wanted me to follow in the family trade, but I've never really been cut out for it. You see, I always wanted to be a lumberjack."

 "A lumberjack?"

 "Yes, I'd live with my partner in a log cabin, and I'd cut down redwood trees"

 "The trees are immaterial, man."

 "Shaddap!" yelled Bernice. "I've had *enough*!" The honourable members of the Noble Chivalric Society looked nonplussed. "That's *it*, I'm through. I've indulged you in your pathetic little game for too long. Find another bloody damsel because this damsel's damned if she's going to stand for this damnation a second longer!"

 "Now come along my dear," George began.

 "Come along? Come along? I could be in my office now, sitting in my comfy chair sipping a mug of brandy and reading the latest issue of Remains of the Day. D'you think I'm having *fun*? D'you think I *like* all this endless adventuring? Do you realise how many Year One essays I have to mark? And there you stand, strutting about pretending to be some sort of knight in shining armour. You've got more money than sense, my lad."

 George began to sob gently into his sleeve.

 "Now there was no need for that," complained Robin, glaring at Bernice.

 "Yes, he's very sensitive. He'll be upset for weeks now," added Arthur in an accusatory tone.

 "What about me?" said Benny. "You kidnap me, nearly get me killed and, and this is the worst part, you've denied me the heady pleasures of The Witch and Whirlwind. In short, gentlemen, I am not impressed." And with that, she swept out.

 "What a woman," said the Deadly Assassin, admiringly.

 Bernice Summerfield sat in Beccalev spaceport, a terrible place full of lost luggage, lost tourists and those who Benny told to "get lost" every time they approached her with that predatory "spare some change" look in their eyes. She was sure that somewhere, in some dark and desolate corner of the universe there was a training school for beggars with courses such as Getting that Unkempt Look, Puppy Dog Eyes and How to Simulate Three Days Beard Growth (that one for the women). Beccalev was a bit of a hole, a hangout for scroungers from all over the five systems. It's main city, Eis Moseley, was centered around the spaceport, and was a well known centre of dodgy dealings. It also had a number of infamous bars that Benny was keen to try out. There was one, The Merry Dalek, that she was particularly interested in. Egon Spengler's Good Pisser Guide didn't give it any stars, just five exclamation marks.

 George, Robin and Arthur were sitting on the bench opposite, looking mournfully at her. She was ignoring them. The Deadly Assassin and Fiera had gone to the games arcade together, so Benny was now sitting alone. She looked up and saw George's puppy-dog eyes. She glanced away, quickly.

 *Bastards,* she thought. *I'm not going to talk to them, but I need something to do.* And then she remembered the letter.

 'Dear Bernice,

 How are you? That's good. I'm pootling along as per usual-'

 "Excuse me," said the woman with the large bouffant of luxurious brown hair and the rather natty blue cardigan. "I was just wondering if you could tell me the time."

 "Yes, it's half thirteen," said Bernice.

 "Erm, no, I meant the year," said the other woman, apologetically.

 "Oh. It's 2595, Earth Year." "Oh, thank you very much." The woman looked somewhat perturbed. "Oh dear, wrong again. I sometimes think the Ship is as unreliable as, well, thank you anyway." The woman hurried off in the direction of the lost luggage depot.

 Bernice watched her as she walked away, and shrugged. Spaceports like Beccalev were always full of weirdos.

 A door slid open on the side, and a man's voice drifted out. "Oh no, it's not Spain again, is it?"

 "No, the twenty-sixth century this time," replied the woman as she disappeared into the cabinet. The door slid shut behind her. A moment later the spaceport echoed with an otherworldly chuffing noise as the cabinet faded from view.

 'Bernice, what happened between us that night was very special, and I shall always treasure it. Look after yourself. You are a very special person.

 'Remember, we'll always have Dellah :-)'

 'DW :-x

 'P.S. Watch out, you're about to get shot.'

 "Dolt, you could have told me *before* I got shot," Benny grouched, but she smiled as she re-read the letter.

 "Professor Summerfield." The voice was ever-so-slightly plummy, not posh enough to annoy, just enough to mildly irritate, like grazed knuckles. Benny looked up. The cropped, copper hair, the silver hoop earrings. A frock exactly like hers.

 "Doctor Robinson, what a... pleasant surprise. What brings you to Beccalev." *As if I don't know, you old sot* thought Benny.

 "You, actually, Professor."

 "Me?"

 "Yes. I was sent to find you by our mutual friend."

 "Irving?"

 "Quite. You have something he wants." Just then the Deadly Assassin and Fiera wandered up to the two women. Fiera's expression as she looked between the two women was almost comical. Both the Professor and the Doctor surveyed her with reproach.

 "Oh good, we're all here then," said Beth.

 "What does Irving want?" asked Benny.

 "I was just coming to that," snapped Beth. "You see, Irving is a great collector. Several years ago he purchased a certain rare item for a large sum of money."

 "Get on with it," said Benny. Beth glared at her.

 "The Ceremonial Sacrificial Dagger of the Cult of the Resurrection of Phu-Tun-La the Eightythird. A dagger of rare quality and worth."

 "What, you mean this," said Benny, producing the aforesaid dagger with a flourish.

 "Exquisite," said Fiera. "Absolutely exquisite."

 At the sight of the dagger, Arthur, George and Robin rose as one from their bench and wandered, trance like, to Benny's side, their mouths communally watering.

 "It was stolen from Neptune shortly before the Great War, but Irving wanted that little fact kept a secret to prevent a bounty hunt. He's very keen to restore the dagger to his collection."

 "That's why he hired us," said the Deadly Assassin.

 "He hired you?" chorused Arthur, George and Robin.

 "Do you mind?" said Beth. "As I was saying, Irving is very keen to get the dagger back. When he heard that Mr Raiph was after the dagger he hired the Deadly Assassin and Fiera here to find it and return it to him. Unfortunately you had to get involved," she said, pointedly, "and so everything got very complicated. Fortunately I'm here now to sort everything out."

 "Oh really," said Benny.

 "Yes."

 "So how come the Deadly Assassin was trying to kill me?"

 "I wasn't," said the Deadly Assassin. "It was all part of a clever plan to try and mislead Mr Raiph. I agreed to take part in their," he gestured at the honourable members of the Noble Chivalric Society, "silly little game as a cover for my true purpose - to find the dagger. That's why I only stunned you."

 "Cheers," said Benny, rubbing her sore chest.

 "So you mean, you weren't really working for us?" asked George.

 "Braxiatel is paying me more money than you'll ever be able to imagine," said the Deadly Assassin.

 "You mean, you don't really want to be a lumberjack?" Arthur inquired, wide eyed.

 "So now that's all sorted out, we can all go back to Dellah," finished Beth.

 "Oh good," said Benny. "Just one thing."

 "What is in now," Beth complained.

 "Who was Mr Raiph working for?" At that very moment the spaceport fell silent as fifty rather vicious-looking, two-tonne bipedal tortoise creatures, known almost universally as Chelonians, armed with heavy shells and plaser cannons burst into the arrival lounge and aimed their weapons directly at Benny and friends.

 "Oh bugger," said Bethany and Bernice in unison.

 To Be Continued...