The Last Time I Saw Paris
THE LAST TIME I SAW PARIS
by Atlanta Lea (circa 1986)
"Any word yet, Sergeant Benton?"
"No, Captain."
"It's been twenty minutes."
"Yes, sir. If you could approve today's duty roster, Captain Yates..."
Mike scrawled his initials on the paper proffered to him. "Anything else?"
"I don't think so, sir."
"All right then, go check on that tea. Dismissed, Sergeant."
Sergent Benton saluted, but paused as he turned to go. "Is that the Brig's helicopter, sir?"
Mike's feet came off the Brigadier's desk in a hurry and he started to get up, then stopped to listen more carefully. "That's a car, Benton. Have you had your hearing checked lately?"
"I don't think so, sir," said the sergeant straightfaced, and beat a strategic retreat. On his way out he passed Miss Grant on her way in. Jo called a cheerful good morning to him before she reported in, surprised to find the Captain ensconced in the Brigadier's office. "I'm still in charge," he explained cheerfully.
"Where are the Brig and the Doctor?"
"Dunno. We got a message saying they would be delayed getting back from Geneva."
"I thought they were supposed to be home yesterday!" Jo said. "The Brig had told me he wanted this report first thing today and he's not even here to give it to."
"The airstrip in Geneva says they left on schedule, so I expect they'll be here fairly soon."
"I hope so." Jo plumped her papers onto the desk and herself into the chair opposite the desk. "You don't suppose they've crashed or anything, do you?"
"Of course not, Jo - we'd've heard by now. Would you like a cup of tea? As soon as the Sergeant delivers it, that is," he added in a tone pitched to carry to the outer office.
"Your tea, sir," Benton appeared on cue with the tray. "And that is the helicopter."
Mike leapt to his feet and hastily straightened the papers on the desk that he'd knocked awry. Jo winked at the sergeant. "Well, don't just stand there, Benton!" the Captain ordered. "Come along!"
On the landing field the helicopter was making a faintly erratic descent as the three from the office arrived with the Brigadier's jeep. They watched a bit anxiously, but the craft set down almost precisely on its accustomed spot. The Doctor was piloting. A loud and cheerful noise could be heard over the fading clamour of the engine as he clambered out; he ducked under the blades and straightened up outside their range, setting his top hat on at a jaunty angle. He was singing in an incomprehensible language, the watchers discovered as the racket from the machine began to die down. The Brigadier got out somewhat stiffly and pulled his uniform cap farther down over his eyes.
"If you're going to sing at the top of your lungs, you might at least translate," the Brigadier was heard to say as the pair approached the waiting party. "I told you, I don't speak Martian."
"It's Venusian," the Doctor corrected blithely. "Good morning, Jo. Lovely day, isn't it?"
"Just ducky," Jo agreed. "Where have you been, Doctor? We were starting to get worried about you two."
"Oh, we stopped off in Paris," the Doctor explained. "It was on the way."
"Yes, Doctor," Mike said solemnly. "Spot on, give or take a few hundred miles."
"Do you have any idea how long it's been since I saw Paris?" the Doctor demanded. "At least a hundred years - well, maybe two. I was saying to Bertie (Edward VII, you know) that it was the only place to sample the true heights to which Earth's cuisine can rise. Take the supper we had last night! Now that was a feast fit for only for the most discriminating palate..."
"Quite," the Brigadier assented absently. "Anything to report, Captain?"
"No, sir. All's been quiet on the home front."
"There, I told you things would be fine, Alastair. We needed a holiday after that business with the black hole, and what better place than the City of Light?"
"Well, what did you see?" Jo demanded, tagging at the Doctor's heels as he swept the party to the Jeep. Benton started the engine and headed back for HQ.
"Oh, this and that," the Doctor replied to Jo's question. "A stroll along the Left Bank, the Champs de Elysee, the Folies Bergere - Alastair was rather impressed with the chanteuse there."
"You were enchanted with the champagne, I seem to recall," retorted the Brigadier.
"Ah yes, a noble vintage. And the Bateau l'Peche we had later - Magnifique!"
"The Lapin Louisiane a la Antoine was tolerable," the Brigadier conceded.
"Tolerable?" the Doctor snorted. "It was a masterpiece created by one of the artists of this time. I still know my Paris!"
"I didn't think much of that Cafe Triste you insisted on dragging us to."
"We were a bit early. I was there in 1994 and it was a charming place!" the Doctor defended.
"I still preferred Le Petit Chat,” the Brigadier said.
"You preferred la petite brunette, that's why! Jeannette, wasn't that her name?"
"Genevieve. Jeannette was the blonde you were dancing with at the discotheque."
"Ah, yes. Wasn't that where you picked up that charming boutonniere?" He reached over to tweak the drooping carnation in the Brig's lapel. The Brigadier removed it hastily and Mike smothered something perilously close to a snicker. Jo regarded the superannuated Lotharios in patent astonishment.
"Honestly, Doctor! Aren't you a little old for that sort of thing?"
"Nonsense, Jo. Seven hundred is the prime of life, isn't it, Alastair?"
"I wouldn't know, Doctor, not being anywhere close to that."
"Fifty-three, isn't it?"
"Forty- never mind," the Brigadier snapped.
Fortunately for his dignity (and Mike's career) the Sergeant pulled to a halt just then in front of HQ. The Brigadier started to get out of the jeep. He sat down again. Then he levered himself up with slow and judicious caution, his face a shade of green that clashed with his khaki. The Doctor reached out to help his wobbly friend and almost overbalanced himself. It took the impassive Benton to unlatch the door and hold it with punctilious politeness while the travelers disembarked. They managed the steps to HQ's entrance hall, benignly dim after the unkind brightness of the morning sun, with Jo and Mike on their heels.
"I think it was that last bottle of brandy," the Doctor admitted ruefully. "Not that '34 wasn't a very good year, but in combination with the chenin blanc..."
"Nonsense," said the Brigadier. "We're a bit cramped from those ‘copter seats, that's all. It was a long flight."
"And a long night! You were drunk, both of you," Jo said sternly, propping her hands on her hips. "And you flew home in that condition! That's even more dangerous than driving drunk. Why didn't you stop him, Brigadier?"
The Brig looked affronted at this unexpected attack - and faintly sheepish. "I - er-"
"There wasn't the slightest need for that, Jo!" the Doctor overrode him. "My metabolism is capable of absorbing at least twice as much alcohol as this before it reaches impairment levels! Though I am just a 1ittle tired," he conceded. "Three days of dealing with bureaucracy is a strain - a short nap wouldn't come amiss, now that I come to think of it."
"Not a bad idea, Doctor. I could use a bit of a lie-down myself. Geneva always wears me out."
"Bureaucracy, my eye," said Jo. "You ought to be ashamed of yourselves." But the gentlemen managed only to look somewhat smug as well as hungover, and she had to bite back a smile.
"You're in charge, Captain Yates. Call me if there's an emergency," the Brigadier ordered. He paused for a moment to add, "And it had better be something I would consider an emergency. Good morning, Miss Grant. Goodnight, Doctor."
"It's been an education." The Doctor flourished an unsteady bow in the Brigadier's direction. "Goodnight, Alastair, and I thank you for the addition to my knowledge."
"Education?" Mike asked with great interest, and the Brigadier cleared his throat.
"Three new verses to 'The Ball o’ Kirriemuir'," the Doctor explained.
The sergeant's well-drilled deadpan almost cracked. Jo looked blank. Mike goggled openly. "Where did you pick up that one. Doctor?"
"Oh, here and there. I've collected fifty-eight verses so far, with five variations on the one about the minister's daughter and two slightly different versions of the chorus. The standard one is, of course,
"Wi’ a fa’ll dae it this time
Fa'll dae it noo?
The one that did it last time
Canna dae it noo..."
"Not in front of Miss Grant, Doctor!" the Brigadier cut through the enthusiastic baritone. "And not with my head in this condition, if you please."
"Aspirin and sleep, that's the ticket. It's nothing a few hours in bed won't cure." The Doctor nudged his old friend in the ribs and grinned reminiscently. "And worth every minute of it, eh? Not that last night was quite anything to compare to the famous Ball..."
"Well, there was certainly a bit less brandy involved," the Brigadier said dryly.
"Heavens no, not brandy there. It was whisky on that memorable occasion."
"I'd heard it was Spanish Fly, myself." He held up one hand to stop the Doctor's rebuttal. "No, don't tell me - you were there."
"Well no, as a matter of fact," the Doctor said with real regret. "That's one party I missed."
A snort of laughter escaped the Scotsman. "If you ever get that infernal machine of yours working, we'll check it out. Goodnight, Doctor."
The travelers departed in their separate directions. "Er, lab's that way, Doc," Benton corrected. He stopped to steer the Scientific Advisor down the right corridor before escaping to the motor pool where he could have his laugh out in safety.
Jo watched them out of sight in amused bemusement. "Who'd've thought it of those two?"
"R.H.I.P.," Captain Yates murmured enviously. "Oh well. Would you like some cold tea, Jo?"
"Might as well. But what was the 'Ball of Kirriemuir', anyway?"
"It's a song, Jo. I'll tell you about it later. About ten years from now," Mike added as she tipped an innocently puzzled face towards him. "When you're old enough to hear it."
by Atlanta Lea (circa 1986)
"Any word yet, Sergeant Benton?"
"No, Captain."
"It's been twenty minutes."
"Yes, sir. If you could approve today's duty roster, Captain Yates..."
Mike scrawled his initials on the paper proffered to him. "Anything else?"
"I don't think so, sir."
"All right then, go check on that tea. Dismissed, Sergeant."
Sergent Benton saluted, but paused as he turned to go. "Is that the Brig's helicopter, sir?"
Mike's feet came off the Brigadier's desk in a hurry and he started to get up, then stopped to listen more carefully. "That's a car, Benton. Have you had your hearing checked lately?"
"I don't think so, sir," said the sergeant straightfaced, and beat a strategic retreat. On his way out he passed Miss Grant on her way in. Jo called a cheerful good morning to him before she reported in, surprised to find the Captain ensconced in the Brigadier's office. "I'm still in charge," he explained cheerfully.
"Where are the Brig and the Doctor?"
"Dunno. We got a message saying they would be delayed getting back from Geneva."
"I thought they were supposed to be home yesterday!" Jo said. "The Brig had told me he wanted this report first thing today and he's not even here to give it to."
"The airstrip in Geneva says they left on schedule, so I expect they'll be here fairly soon."
"I hope so." Jo plumped her papers onto the desk and herself into the chair opposite the desk. "You don't suppose they've crashed or anything, do you?"
"Of course not, Jo - we'd've heard by now. Would you like a cup of tea? As soon as the Sergeant delivers it, that is," he added in a tone pitched to carry to the outer office.
"Your tea, sir," Benton appeared on cue with the tray. "And that is the helicopter."
Mike leapt to his feet and hastily straightened the papers on the desk that he'd knocked awry. Jo winked at the sergeant. "Well, don't just stand there, Benton!" the Captain ordered. "Come along!"
On the landing field the helicopter was making a faintly erratic descent as the three from the office arrived with the Brigadier's jeep. They watched a bit anxiously, but the craft set down almost precisely on its accustomed spot. The Doctor was piloting. A loud and cheerful noise could be heard over the fading clamour of the engine as he clambered out; he ducked under the blades and straightened up outside their range, setting his top hat on at a jaunty angle. He was singing in an incomprehensible language, the watchers discovered as the racket from the machine began to die down. The Brigadier got out somewhat stiffly and pulled his uniform cap farther down over his eyes.
"If you're going to sing at the top of your lungs, you might at least translate," the Brigadier was heard to say as the pair approached the waiting party. "I told you, I don't speak Martian."
"It's Venusian," the Doctor corrected blithely. "Good morning, Jo. Lovely day, isn't it?"
"Just ducky," Jo agreed. "Where have you been, Doctor? We were starting to get worried about you two."
"Oh, we stopped off in Paris," the Doctor explained. "It was on the way."
"Yes, Doctor," Mike said solemnly. "Spot on, give or take a few hundred miles."
"Do you have any idea how long it's been since I saw Paris?" the Doctor demanded. "At least a hundred years - well, maybe two. I was saying to Bertie (Edward VII, you know) that it was the only place to sample the true heights to which Earth's cuisine can rise. Take the supper we had last night! Now that was a feast fit for only for the most discriminating palate..."
"Quite," the Brigadier assented absently. "Anything to report, Captain?"
"No, sir. All's been quiet on the home front."
"There, I told you things would be fine, Alastair. We needed a holiday after that business with the black hole, and what better place than the City of Light?"
"Well, what did you see?" Jo demanded, tagging at the Doctor's heels as he swept the party to the Jeep. Benton started the engine and headed back for HQ.
"Oh, this and that," the Doctor replied to Jo's question. "A stroll along the Left Bank, the Champs de Elysee, the Folies Bergere - Alastair was rather impressed with the chanteuse there."
"You were enchanted with the champagne, I seem to recall," retorted the Brigadier.
"Ah yes, a noble vintage. And the Bateau l'Peche we had later - Magnifique!"
"The Lapin Louisiane a la Antoine was tolerable," the Brigadier conceded.
"Tolerable?" the Doctor snorted. "It was a masterpiece created by one of the artists of this time. I still know my Paris!"
"I didn't think much of that Cafe Triste you insisted on dragging us to."
"We were a bit early. I was there in 1994 and it was a charming place!" the Doctor defended.
"I still preferred Le Petit Chat,” the Brigadier said.
"You preferred la petite brunette, that's why! Jeannette, wasn't that her name?"
"Genevieve. Jeannette was the blonde you were dancing with at the discotheque."
"Ah, yes. Wasn't that where you picked up that charming boutonniere?" He reached over to tweak the drooping carnation in the Brig's lapel. The Brigadier removed it hastily and Mike smothered something perilously close to a snicker. Jo regarded the superannuated Lotharios in patent astonishment.
"Honestly, Doctor! Aren't you a little old for that sort of thing?"
"Nonsense, Jo. Seven hundred is the prime of life, isn't it, Alastair?"
"I wouldn't know, Doctor, not being anywhere close to that."
"Fifty-three, isn't it?"
"Forty- never mind," the Brigadier snapped.
Fortunately for his dignity (and Mike's career) the Sergeant pulled to a halt just then in front of HQ. The Brigadier started to get out of the jeep. He sat down again. Then he levered himself up with slow and judicious caution, his face a shade of green that clashed with his khaki. The Doctor reached out to help his wobbly friend and almost overbalanced himself. It took the impassive Benton to unlatch the door and hold it with punctilious politeness while the travelers disembarked. They managed the steps to HQ's entrance hall, benignly dim after the unkind brightness of the morning sun, with Jo and Mike on their heels.
"I think it was that last bottle of brandy," the Doctor admitted ruefully. "Not that '34 wasn't a very good year, but in combination with the chenin blanc..."
"Nonsense," said the Brigadier. "We're a bit cramped from those ‘copter seats, that's all. It was a long flight."
"And a long night! You were drunk, both of you," Jo said sternly, propping her hands on her hips. "And you flew home in that condition! That's even more dangerous than driving drunk. Why didn't you stop him, Brigadier?"
The Brig looked affronted at this unexpected attack - and faintly sheepish. "I - er-"
"There wasn't the slightest need for that, Jo!" the Doctor overrode him. "My metabolism is capable of absorbing at least twice as much alcohol as this before it reaches impairment levels! Though I am just a 1ittle tired," he conceded. "Three days of dealing with bureaucracy is a strain - a short nap wouldn't come amiss, now that I come to think of it."
"Not a bad idea, Doctor. I could use a bit of a lie-down myself. Geneva always wears me out."
"Bureaucracy, my eye," said Jo. "You ought to be ashamed of yourselves." But the gentlemen managed only to look somewhat smug as well as hungover, and she had to bite back a smile.
"You're in charge, Captain Yates. Call me if there's an emergency," the Brigadier ordered. He paused for a moment to add, "And it had better be something I would consider an emergency. Good morning, Miss Grant. Goodnight, Doctor."
"It's been an education." The Doctor flourished an unsteady bow in the Brigadier's direction. "Goodnight, Alastair, and I thank you for the addition to my knowledge."
"Education?" Mike asked with great interest, and the Brigadier cleared his throat.
"Three new verses to 'The Ball o’ Kirriemuir'," the Doctor explained.
The sergeant's well-drilled deadpan almost cracked. Jo looked blank. Mike goggled openly. "Where did you pick up that one. Doctor?"
"Oh, here and there. I've collected fifty-eight verses so far, with five variations on the one about the minister's daughter and two slightly different versions of the chorus. The standard one is, of course,
"Wi’ a fa’ll dae it this time
Fa'll dae it noo?
The one that did it last time
Canna dae it noo..."
"Not in front of Miss Grant, Doctor!" the Brigadier cut through the enthusiastic baritone. "And not with my head in this condition, if you please."
"Aspirin and sleep, that's the ticket. It's nothing a few hours in bed won't cure." The Doctor nudged his old friend in the ribs and grinned reminiscently. "And worth every minute of it, eh? Not that last night was quite anything to compare to the famous Ball..."
"Well, there was certainly a bit less brandy involved," the Brigadier said dryly.
"Heavens no, not brandy there. It was whisky on that memorable occasion."
"I'd heard it was Spanish Fly, myself." He held up one hand to stop the Doctor's rebuttal. "No, don't tell me - you were there."
"Well no, as a matter of fact," the Doctor said with real regret. "That's one party I missed."
A snort of laughter escaped the Scotsman. "If you ever get that infernal machine of yours working, we'll check it out. Goodnight, Doctor."
The travelers departed in their separate directions. "Er, lab's that way, Doc," Benton corrected. He stopped to steer the Scientific Advisor down the right corridor before escaping to the motor pool where he could have his laugh out in safety.
Jo watched them out of sight in amused bemusement. "Who'd've thought it of those two?"
"R.H.I.P.," Captain Yates murmured enviously. "Oh well. Would you like some cold tea, Jo?"
"Might as well. But what was the 'Ball of Kirriemuir', anyway?"
"It's a song, Jo. I'll tell you about it later. About ten years from now," Mike added as she tipped an innocently puzzled face towards him. "When you're old enough to hear it."