The Lord President, his hair intriguingly more blonde-white than it had been two weeks previous, grabs his hand, pressing his finger into Pasmodius’ palm until pain crawls outward over the nerves. He’s writing letters.
Get Box. Important. You-know-who has it. Time-travel. TARDIS. Knock. Leave. Ship hidden. Exit corridor. This date and time. Doctor asked. The Master.
What’s the matter, Old Man?” the man in his old robes groans, “…can’t you bloody read?”
Then he’s gone.