There is a little girl with hair like fire whose mother and father are dead. The little girl is young and brave and she is smart and she is pretty and she is, she is so alone. And there is a man with eyes like stars, shivering silver in the night. His mother and father are dead. His everything is dead.
In the vortex that lies beyond time and space tumbled a police box that was not a police box. The control room was empty. It was a spacious, brightly lit, chamber. It alone was too big to have fitted, into the battered exterior of the police box, and doors and passageways leading from it hinted at more inexplicable volumes beyond.