No. He himself is committed to a single act of murder against the man lying in repose on a stone bench some fifty footsteps away.
He can see the man sleeping there, his white shirt close to his chest but for a hand against the unnatural bulge of his stomach. Soon he gets to one knee on the second to last step, sets the rifle to his aiming shoulder again, clicks the catch, pulls the primer switch on the tannish shell of the pulse-scaling vascillator, and...
A finger-shaped pressure on his opposite shoulder drive shim to sheath every noise he might make too suddenly; his breathing becomes a memory under such a grasp. His thoughts escape like little bits of char afore a fire.
“You won’t be needing that thing where you’re going, Ykarcynthioncalavishtarmiotracolix- give it here.”
The soft voice comes to him from the side, whispering into his ear like the sweet air of a puppet as hands slide like scurrying tafelshrews along the braces and barrels and catches of the sonic rifle, disarming it.
“Are you going to kill me like me like you killed the Ten Billion, my Lord?” Ykar asks, reaching up to cover the Doctor’s strangely gentle hand where it lies against his cheek with his own.
Funny, so funny, Ykar realises, as he considers the fact of such a pause... the Doctor’s hand is not moved from the bench, but Ykar can feel his presence behind him as surely as if he were truly standing there now.
“I’m very cross with you just now, so I’m not at liberty to say... go to sleep and we’ll see in the morning.”