Garrick d’Arpexia de Lœngbærrow drank iced lime soda and pushed four perfectly formed pearls around the table like marbles. The pearls came from the Arfallion Oyster starter he had eaten nearly an hour ago. Arfallion oysters were dinner plate sized, boiled in the shell in a wine and garlic reduction and were one of the chef’s specialties at the Omicron Psi orbital restaurant. The dish always contained two or three fine pearls which was why it was the most expensive item on the menu.

The oyster had been followed by a succulent steak. The dessert had been a huge passion fruit and moonberry sundae, followed by very fine coffee with mints. Replete from the feast, Chrístõ was drinking brandy while his brother had the soft drink.

The Omicron Psi orbital restaurant orbited the planet it was named after. The oceans were red because of a plankton that was used in a soup that was also popular with restaurant customers. Its poles were white and its continents green and purple.

It was a very pretty planet. Chrístõ knew a few more details about it, including its rather oddly stratified social system and some biological traits but had never taken much more notice even though he had eaten at the restaurant countless times. He knew that was slightly remiss of him and promised himself that he would rectify the matter some time, but not now. After the dining experience he had some other immediate plans.

Garrick looked at the planet absently as he played with the marbles and thought deep and earnest thoughts.

“What’s up?” Chrístõ asked him.

“Up?” He glanced at the pale blue and white marble ceiling studded with soft, ambient lights before realising that Chrístõ was using a human colloquialism to inquire about his mood.

“Why are you blocking your thoughts? Is something wrong?”

“I didn’t realise I was blocking them. I’m still learning to do that. There’s nothing wrong. I was just wondering about… well, the food we’ve just eaten. It was… real meat?”

“Yes.”

“When we were on Earth, where they don’t know how to do clone meat, it was all right. But surely... here… they shouldn’t have to kill animals for food.”

“You start worrying about this AFTER you’ve eaten a succulent steak?” Chrístõ smiled. He knew where the conversation was going. On Gallifrey vegetable substitutes for meat were common. Many city dwellers in the Capitol had probably never eaten the real thing. Some even lived on pills that provided the nutrients for living, but most enjoyed food as a social construct like other civilised beings across the galaxies.

Besides, Garrick had always lived in the countryside.

“You’ve eaten fish and game caught on our own estate,” Chrístõ pointed out. “Father doesn’t go out fishing himself very much these days, but he took me when I was younger than you.”

“But, even so…,”

“The eating of meat is a tricky subject,” Chrístõ said. “You’ll come across it in ‘Ethical Studies’ with Madame Charr, and probably hate every minute spent on the subject. But the short answer is that most of the sentient beings in the universe eat non-sentient ones. Some don’t even care about non-sentience but they don’t tend to eat at this restaurant.”

Garrick took in this information and pointed out that there were vegan and vegetarian sections of the huge restaurant that seated over two thousand diners at any one time and provided for all kinds of eating habits except actual cannibalism.

“There is also a section for people who eat nothing but fish and one for people who are descended from fish, some of whom, in fact, also eat fish. The universe is diverse, and the Omicron Psi orbital restaurant does its best to cater for that diversity while maintaining a grade one certificate for ethical sourcing of the food.”

Garrick raised his eyebrows at that terminology.

“Meat slaughtered using cruelty-free methods, coffee from plantations that pay fair wages…. Seriously it is all REALLY boring the way Madame Charr teaches it, but very important all the same.”

“And what about….” Garrick nodded towards a door with a strange warning written in seven different languages.

“The ‘live’ food section?” Chrístõ laughed softly. “I try not to think about what goes on in that section, especially when I’m eating, but there is an ethical license for that, too. How it works I’m happy to gloss over. Feel free to mention it to Madame Charr any time. I’m sure she’ll be glad to debate the issue.”

“No, thanks,” Garrick answered. “I’ve seen her. I’m not that brave.”

Chrístõ laughed with his brother, then both of them rose from their seats in alarm. At the table nearest to them a diner had started to turn blue. At a different table a group of Isorites did that at will, but this was a Venturan who was dangerously close to suffocating.

Chrístõ reached the man quickly and immediately knew that this wasn’t a case of choking. The Heimlich manoeuvre couldn’t remove a blockage in his trachea.

The blockage WAS his trachea. His throat had swollen up until he couldn’t breathe.

“Is he allergic to anything? Does he have medication for anaphylactic shock?” Chrístõ looked at the distressed and bewildered Venturans who were happily dining until a few moments ago. They all shook their heads in bewilderment. The stricken man’s wife was crying hysterically. Another woman tried to comfort her. The other man tried to repeat the word ‘anaphylactic’ and couldn’t get past the second syllable. None of them, it seemed, had even heard of that kind of extreme food allergy.

He wasn’t entirely surprised. Venturans were among the healthiest people in the galaxy. They didn’t tend to have allergies, not even to hay fever on a delightfully green world.

But this man had all the symptoms of an extreme reaction to a food substance, and he was dying.

“Not on my watch,” Chrístõ murmured. He knew there was only one thing to do. He grabbed the nearest thing to hand that would serve his purpose - a plastic stylus used to sign the electronic bill at the end of the meal. With the tip snapped off it was a hollow tube. With his sonic screwdriver in emergency surgical mode he cut into the patient’s neck over the cricothyroid membrane and inserted the stylus as a makeshift breathing mechanism. He had to blow twice directly into the patient’s lungs before he began to breathe for himself, but that was the very simple operation in its entirety.

“He’s going to be all right,” Chrístõ said to the bewildered wife as he fixed the tube in place with a sterile plaster. “Come and sit here and comfort him until proper medical help arrives.”

He stood and looked around. While he had been saving the Venturan another victim had died, apparently of the same anaphylactic shock. The maitre-d for the section closed the victim’s eyes and covered him decently with a tablecloth. The only odd thing about that was that the waiting staff on board the restaurant were all robot lifeforms. Such care for the conventions of death in organic lifeforms was a step forward in artificial intelligence that he ought to make a note of – when he had time.

“I think we’re going to need a lot more table linen,” Garrick said quietly and unaware of any accidental irony. “Lots of people are sick.”

The nearby sounds of distress from victims and their friends and loved ones was obvious, but beyond their hearing, they could sense it happening all over the space station. People were screaming in their heads as well as out loud as they watched others die within minutes of taking ill.

“Chrístõ….” Garrick didn’t scream, but he suddenly bent over double and vomited noisily. When he was done he staggered back dizzily and sat down on a discarded chair. Chrístõ went to him, of course, but before he could examine him somebody caught his arm

“The boy will be all right. Our kind are not affected by the poison,” said a tall, slender woman with curiously angular features that were striking rather than beautiful. Chrístõ felt the psychic ident of another Time Lord at the same time that he saw the tattoo on her forearm - The Ouroboros, a serpent eating its own tail.

Only one Time Lord had that tattoo – the one known to all as The Corsair. He had been friends with him when he chose to live as a Sikh in northern India, but this was earlier in his life when he had, for a regeneration, been a woman.

In this life The Corsair was a doctor, working for the space equivalent of the Earth organisation called Médecin sans Frontières, treating the casualties of war and disaster without partiality.

“He’s my brother,” Chrístõ protested.

“And he’ll be fine. There are others who need help. The two of us can save twice as many.”

Chrístõ glanced once at Garrick, then followed The Corsair to where two of the Isorites were turning a shade of purple unnatural even to them. Working in tandem they saved both patients with the makeshift cricothyroidotomy using pieces of hollow artificial bamboo from the restaurant’s decorative floral arrangements.

When those two had been saved they moved onto new patients, this time native Omicrons from the planet below. The operation was complicated in this case because Omicrons had separate trachea for eating and breathing, unlike almost every other species in the universe. It was important to insert the tube into the correct one otherwise the patient would die of asphyxiation while his stomach filled with air.

Chrístõ and The Corsair both did it correctly, but as they finished they saw a third Omicron being attended to by one of his own kind, though clearly unsuccessfully.

“This is NOT an operation for basic first aiders with step by step picture guides!” The Corsair declared, pushing aside the hapless amateur who, incredibly, WAS consulting an illustrated manual.

Chrístõ left her to it and hurried to the next victim.

“Garrick, buck up,” he said. “You can assist me.”

His half-brother was paler than he was and didn’t want to do anything at all, but Chrístõ urged him on. They went from patient to patient doing what they could.

Between the two of them and The Corsair they saved fifteen people in their section of the restaurant. They were aware of others among the two thousand diners helping out in the same way. But after a very short time there was nobody left to save. They couldn’t reach them fast enough.

When it was certain nobody else could be helped they watched the space station’s robotic but emotionally sensitive stewards remove the dead to a temporary morgue on what should have been the observation deck. Those few who had received the emergency help were taken to the VIP lounge along with a few dozen or so who were made ill but didn’t die even though they felt as if that would be a relief just now.

Friends, relatives and bystanders sat wearily at the restaurant tables with the remains of their meals untouched, wondering what had happened and what would happen next.

“We did what we could,” said The Corsair to Chrístõ, reading his pale, worried face rather than his thoughts. “Sometimes that’s all we CAN do.”

“Yes,” Chrístõ answered with the same voice of experience. He thought about his work at the Free Hospital in Victorian London and the many times patients had slipped away despite all efforts.

“You DO understand,” The Corsair remarked. “You’ve more experience than one of your age usually has.”

“Yes, I do. Which is why my thoughts, now, are on what caused this. The idea of food poisoning here… with the Omicron Psi reputation for professionalism... seems incredible. Besides….”

“None of the people who died ate the same thing, and most of them had the same as friends who haven’t been affected.”

That was Garrick, who still looked a shade of pale green even the Isolites rarely achieved. He had been quietly observing while he had little else to do.

“Yes,” Chrístõ confirmed. “And the casualties have come from all areas of the restaurant – vegetarian, pescatarian… even one from the ‘live food’ section who don’t eat anything the rest of us eat.”

“Then it’s NOT the food,” The Corsair concluded. “At least it isn’t any sort of kitchen accident. Which leaves….”

“Deliberate sabotage,” Chrístõ noted.

“Murder!” Garrick added more dramatically.

“Shhhh, not so loud,” The Corsair told him telepathically. “There are enough worried people here. Don’t give them more reason.”

That was wise advice but preventing people from worrying became a moot point moments later when an announcement over the public address system interrupted every other train of thought.

“Attention all staff and customers of Psi Omicron restaurant. Due to the possibility of plague, the facility is under quarantine until further notice. Any attempt to leave the station will be dealt with severely. Security officers will be coming aboard shortly to ensure compliance.”

“What?” Chrístõ’s response was echoed by everyone around him. “There’s no ‘plague’ here. I don’t know what DID happen, but it wasn’t plague.”

“I agree,” The Corsair answered him. “The word for this in Low Gallifreyan is… not suitable to utter in front of your brother.”

“I know the word,” Chrístõ said with a grim smile. Garrick didn’t and was faintly annoyed at being teased about his youth. But there was more than his ego at stake just now. The mention of murder had set him thinking.

“Those books you made me read last week,” he said to his brother. “Those ‘murder mysteries’ from Earth. You said they would help me develop my deductive skills. It didn’t work very well. I didn’t guess that everyone on the train was the murderer….”

“You’re probably the only person left in the universe who was surprised by that one,” Chrístõ told him. “But if you’re suggesting there is a comparison to be made here….”

“No,” Garrick answered. “It was a different story I was thinking of. The one where the murder was….”

But Garrick’s take on the works of Agatha Christie was interrupted by the arrival of the Omicron Security Force with sonic rifles and uniforms displaying far more leather and metal than necessary. Nobody was happy about that, least of all the Omicron diners.

It was soon clear why they didn’t like their ‘security officers’. They were people with very little concept of diplomacy considering how many different races were represented by the clientele at the intergalactic restaurant. Or perhaps they thought that being rude to everyone in equal measure WAS diplomacy?

While Chrístõ was wondering about that, Garrick considered the Security Force’s physical appearance. He noted immediately that they differed significantly from the Omicrons who had been dining. Either by some form of genetic selection or actual surgical means their legs were long and slender and jointed very differently than most humanoids, resembling those of a chicken or a reptile that ran on its back legs. They had wide chests, giving them, he guessed, room for bigger lungs. Their eyes were larger and wider and so were their ears, allowing them to see and hear better than other races.

“Selective breeding and genetic modification,” The Corsair told him telepathically. “They have all the advantages of nature’s greatest hunters. What they lack is charm.”

Their behaviour was peculiar as well as humourless and abrupt. They listened to no attempts to explain what had happened. They took no statements from witnesses. They had no interest in the survivors who were still waiting for medical evacuation.

They weren’t even interested in the dead in any general sense. They removed the bodies of eight male Omicrons who had died, placing them in sterile tubes.

“The quarantine will remain in force for the next fifteen hours,” it was announced. “After which those uninfected will be allowed to leave.”

And that was that. The Security Force left the station. Everyone was left baffled and severely put out by the official handling of the matter.

“All right, that’s enough,” The Corsair decided. “If they don’t want to treat this as a murder scene, we will.” She held up her biometric medical ID in such a way that the official seal was visible but the actual details were not. “I am an agent of the Shaddow Proclamation. These two are my adjutants. I am going to be questioning some of you. Don’t be afraid. Those with nothing to hide need just tell the truth as they see it.”

Chrístõ approved of that. It might have been his own plan if she hadn’t thought of it. He readily put himself and Garrick at her disposal as she began to ask the friends and relatives of those who had taken ill about the food they had eaten, the wine they had drunk, anything unusual about their waiters….

But as Garrick had already noted, there was no one common factor. Everyone had eaten different meals. Some were near the end of their dining experience, others still on aperitifs. Some were meat eaters, others vegetarian….

Quietly, Chrístõ picked up the salt cellar from one table and tasted it. There was nothing wrong with it.

“It was a long shot,” he admitted. “There are several poisons that resemble table salt in taste and appearance, but that’s not the answer. It wouldn’t make sense, anyway. I ate my food with salt. Garrick didn’t, and he was the one who was sick.”

The Corsair looked at the brothers curiously. She had dismissed Garrick’s illness as unimportant. Now she considered it anew.

“The reason I knew you weren’t going to die, is that the anaphylactic substance attached itself to the haemoglobin in the victim’s blood. We Time Lords don’t have haemoglobin. At worst, it would just make us vomit. You demonstrated that spectacularly, Garrick.”

“Neither of us vomited,” Chrístõ pointed out to her. “So, what did HE do, along with the other victims, that neither of us did?”

The Corsair led them back to the table for two where the brothers had eaten. She carefully examined the pearls Garrick had played with, but they, like the salt, were unadulterated. His lime soda was warm now the ice had melted, but otherwise safe to drink.

“There must be something,” The Corsair said. “But….”

“The only thing he did differently was take a long time dithering over what to eat,” Chrístõ recalled. “He read the whole sixteen-page menu before deciding to have the same meal I’d already chosen.”

Chrístõ picked up the menu made of interactive micro-laminate that changed ‘pages’ with a swipe of a finger across the surface. Holding a finger on a section brought up holographic images of the dishes on the menu and information about the ethnic origin, allergy advice and religious taboos.

He performed an impression of Garrick reading the menu that made his half-brother blush uncomfortably.

Moments later he was kneeling on the floor, vomiting uncontrollably as unnatural lights danced in front of his eyes.

The episode was over soon enough, but Chrístõ was never going to look back on it as the best five minutes of his life. He sipped some of Garrick’s lime soda while his head stopped spinning.

“The poison is on the menus,” Garrick said triumphantly.

“Taken in through the pores of the fingers by anyone who had more than a quick glance,” The Corsair added. “Garrick also has a habit of putting his fingers to his lips as he reads, which may have increased his susceptibility.”

“He used to suck his thumb as a baby,” Chrístõ pointed out. “I told him not to. But to get back to the point… the menus… either all or just a random few… were imbued with a deadly and quick acting poison. This we now know. But we still don’t know why?”

The Corsair hesitated. That was the next question to consider. But Garrick pre-empted her.

“That’s what I was trying to tell you before,” he said. “The other book I read…. The ABC Murders. Lots of people were killed in order to cover up one murder, to make it look like one random death among many and draw attention away from the real killer’s motive.”

Chrístõ looked at his brother for a long moment, then turned to the group of unhappy Omicrons nearby. Two of their number had survived the poisoning because he and The Corsair had reached them in time.

“Sorry,” he said to them. “This might be a silly question. But are you important, socially or politically, on your planet?”

Diners on the Omicron Psi orbital restaurant tended to be well off. It cost to eat in such luxury. It was not unusual for royalty or presidents to visit as well as celebrities of all kinds.

“My husband is Mika Angeles, the Minister for Defence and External Affairs in the recently elected Democratic Omicron government,” answered the wife of one of the men who had received the emergency operation and was recovering in the VIP lounge. Her eyes were still tear-streaked from the crisis, but the arrival of the security force added a new level of tension among them. Chrístõ hadn’t got to that concern, yet. It was much lower on his priority list.

“And… even sillier question. Does he always have the same food when you dine out, or does he spend a long time choosing something different?”

“He… loves to pick and choose from the menu,” the wife answered, clearly thinking it was a VERY silly question.

“Chrístõ,” Garrick said as he got ready to ask another question. “The Security Forces are coming back.”

Chrístõ turned to see the shadow of the squat, ugly military ship sliding past the window. The Minister’s wife looked at it with distaste.

“Mika’s election campaign included plans to rein in the military class,” she said. “To make it more accountable to the civil government. The policy is popular with the ordinary people, but the Security Force has been very troublesome.”

That was all Chrístõ needed to know. He turned and ran, scattering chairs and decorative features in his hurry. The Corsair followed him. So did Garrick.

He reached the VIP lounge just in time. He was already running at full pelt, so when he dived on the back of the Omicron Steward bending over the recovering Defence Minister the two of them carried on a full five metres before they came to a halt against a plush VIP sofa where a grey faced Tellurian had gone through several complimentary VIP sick bags since his ordeal began.

Chrístõ was less worried about the unpleasant landing than what happened when he started to sit up and look at the man he had captured. He was dressed in the neat white uniform of one of the station stewards, but the uniform had been pulled askew in the scuffle and instead of a functional robot body he saw the chicken legs and the wide chest of the genetically altered military class.

“Make sure that ship is denied access to the station,” he ordered as The Corsair ensured that Mika Angeles was not hurt in this second attack upon him. “And somebody tell the government down on the planet to confine their military class to barracks pending a full inquiry. This attempt on the life of the Minister goes deeper than one fake steward with access to the menu cards.”

“The plot finally comes together,” Chrístõ said later when the coup was officially over and he, Garrick and The Corsair enjoyed a light supper with the compliments of the Omicron Psi restaurant whose reputation had been saved as well as the political stability of the planet. “Straight out of Agatha Christie as Garrick worked out. The intended target was Mika Angeles all along. The rest of the victims were just to cover up the true nature of the murder. The trouble was, Angeles was one of the people we saved. They found out he wasn’t among the dead and came back for another go.”

“We saved lives, solved the mystery and stopped a military coup,” Garrick summed up. “We did pretty good, really.”

“We did VERY good,” The Corsair agreed. “Though when you get to the academy and learn about the Gallifreyan policy of non-interference in external affairs I should keep this adventure to yourself, youngster.”

Chrístõ concurred. The Corsair smiled widely.

“Interesting to know that the two of you are out here breaking that rule with the same enthusiasm as I have,” she added. “I hope our paths will cross again.”

“I’m sure they will,” Chrístõ answered emphatically.