‘I can’t do this any more,’ he said.
The Master slowly turned , as the ship finally broke free and sailed into the space-time vortex, and looked at him once more. He indicated the shattered room around them, and the lack of enemies within it with an all-encompassing sweep of his arms. ‘And yet … you just did. As always, Doctor, you are doing at least two things at once.’ He turned back to the console with a little tut of feigned annoyance. ‘Perhaps your most infuriatingly human trait.’
The Doctor stared at him for a while, but no more was forthcoming. Then he found a chair, took some books from it, and sat down.
The brilliant escape, the funny line to cap it, despite the lack of timing. And the girl was still dead. The last act had not materialised. The world, and himself, remained so far from what they should be, so imperfect.
He found that in his hand he was holding a manuscript copy of Hamlet, signed by the author in an unsteady hand. The Doctor threw it aside and closed his eyes.
Scream of the Shalka (Paul Cornell)
