In the familiar corridors of Memorial House, Alan Tull, made his rounds leisurely, alone, after dark, after closing, he was the administrator. Often, he was the last person to leave. Sometimes the days could be very busy, with the tourists, or if someone rented one of the rooms for a local function. They might have to clean after caterers or whatnot. Today was one of the more common days. A few dozen cars of tourists taking pictures, talking with the helpful staff, pointing at the point at things, and a group rented the banquet room for this coming weekend.

Alan checked that all the lights were out, the unnecessary ones. Then he checked all the little security lights by the entrances. They were some of the necessary ones. He could go home himself, now that the whole place was...

... A mat of light lay beneath the doors to the banquet room. Had he not turned the fixtures off in that room?

As soon as he started opening one of the doors, he realised the lights were not on. Not the ceiling fixtures, but against a long wall of the banquet room, on a credenza, sat a lamp. The light had been a lamp that Alan knew did not belong to Memorial House. It seemed so out of place there, a bronze, smiling Buddha, holding up a shade with frills around the bottom, with his arms above his head.

More out of place, beside the smiling Buddha lamp, sat a man, his tousled hair and dishevelled brown striped suit, which gave the impression he had been running. The fellow had folded his hands in his

Lap, his legs were hanging off crossed at the ankles, and he was wearing lace up canvas sneakers.

He seemed to be waiting, patiently, for some reason, or for someone.

Alan switched on the ceiling fixtures. He approached the man who seemed to notice and greeted Alan with a smiling;

'Good evening. I am the administrator of Memorial House. Tell me, did you bring this lamp in here?'

'No, it arrived before I did.'

'You are going to have to leave. We have closed for today. The public is not allowed to stay after hours.'

Alan spoke slowly, as if he were speaking to someone who did not understand instructions easily.

'Oh please, don’t make me leave. This is very important. It is only another minute. It’s so funny that I have to wait for time. I could have already been there. But I am following their technology, you see.'

'Whose technology are you talking about? This institution is closed and you must leave.'

'Well, there is this group from another dimension, who is attempting to take control of the human race and is using this area as entry points. Therefore, I have to be here to wait for their signal. It’s only another thirty seconds.'

'Aha, and what is the name of this group who want to take over control of the human race. Moreover, they must claim a reason for it I am sure. Can you tell me what that reason might be?'

'Yes! They claim a reason and reasonable people cannot reason with them. They are the Impostors. Their deception is to gain control of a people by mimicking a people’s own idea of what their leaders are. By recreating copies of earth’s leaders and thinkers, mostly historical figures, they use the archetype impressions those leaders built society with. These impressions are what humans have learned to respect, to follow, what makes governments work and prosper. Well the governments that listen to the great thinkers of history do, anyway....

... You might ask me, Administrator, how these Impostors could mimic people so convincingly... Well! They have widgets that give them the inhomogeneous decelerator ability to become the physical double of a people’s leaders, through a complete rearrangement of their cellular structure, based only on the historical descriptions in earth’s literature....

... However, if a people follow the Impostors they soon become trapped in a closed thought mind stream, unable to neither make their own decisions nor question the commands of the Impostors. Then, slowly, what those poor people think of everything is taken from them.'

The man shook his head sadly, 'How ironic, a people’s own idea of what authority is and what their own responsibilities are to society are their own undoing.'

Alan who had been listening with fascination at this incredible, and completely unlikely yarn, saw his chance to speak.

'Oh, a most disturbing scenario. Moreover, you, sir, say you are waiting for a signal. What might that signal be?'

The man looked the administrator in the eye, smiled and gestured with his hand as if he just had a splendid idea.

The bulb in the lamp began to flash blue! The man said, 'There it is now! Excuse me, will you Administrator.'

The man pulled the chain on the smiling Buddha lamp and the lamp went dark. Moreover, the man disappeared right in front of Alan’s eyes!

Alan, startled, looked about him. Searching for the man, but no one was there. The door he had entered was still open. Nevertheless, no one could have made those thirty-odd steps unnoticed by him.

The room felt empty and quiet. As if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Alan regained his composure and made a quick decision.

'It did not happen.'

He made an effort to make his mind accept it. However, he faltered.

'Then again, if the unbelievable did just happen. Then this lamp shade should still be warm.'

He slowly raised his hand as if to touch the lamp, and then dropped his hand down to his side.

'No. I have already decided. It did not happen.'

He abruptly turned and left the lamp of the smiling Buddha.

Sometime later - Alan is standing in a hallway, having a discussion with a woman he had found only minutes before. Standing there, as if waiting for someone.

He chose not to question her about the portrait that looked down on them, an impressive painting of the founder of Memorial House, Joseph Witworth. It is not the only portrait of the founder here, but it is the most unusual, in that, Alan had never seen it before.

Like what happened earlier this evening, this cannot be a coincidence.

One more unusual thing, nothing unusual ever happens here! However, tonight, after hours, after locking the doors, people are here telling a

strange tale, and bringing things in, valuable things. Like this portrait of the founder?

Moreover, the security alarms have not sounded; so reason says they were already here when he closed... hiding.

So, why has he not sounded the alarm himself; called the police? Because something is going on. Something has him; could it be curiosity, the unexplained, maybe he wants answers, or could he be... bored?

The woman argues, 'I only need another few minutes of time.' She smiled and glanced up at the newly found portrait of the founder.

Alan asked, sarcastically, 'Madam, are you an enter-dimensional Impostor here attempting to over through the human race?'

'I should say not!' She appeared offended. Then she appeared forewarned, and went on the offensive.

'How could you know about that plot, unless you are in co-hoots with the Impostors, yourself!? Are you?'

'No, madam, I had quick acquaintance with a man earlier tonight, who had an excuse similar to yours for being where he was not supposed to be. Before he... disappeared.'

She turned her head slightly and said, more to herself than to him;

'Oh, which could be good or bad.' Turning suddenly cheerful, 'I have an idea. You go back to your office; come back in a few minutes and I’ll have disappeared, too.'

Alan Tull directed, father like, 'No disappearing.'

Then he offered, 'May I show you out.. and even to your car. Do you have transportation?'

He was being sweet, and it visibly agitated her. 'Yes, I have transportation, a beamer! ... With no equal.' Her jaw was set.

Alan smiled, 'I'm missing the joke.'

She attempted to look urgent, 'I can’t go. Because the moment is so close, I have to confide in you. I am a time traveller.'

The keeper moved his lip around slowly as if he wanted to laugh, but suppressed it.

She went on, 'You must believe me because humanity is in peril.'

At that moment, a figure steps hurriedly into the hall from an adjacent corridor. Alan sees him first and says, 'Now here is that fellow who scurries so silently in his sneakers!'

The woman looks behind her, then makes a quick introduction, 'Oh, this is The Doctor. I won’t be doing this alone then.'

Alan asked, 'Doctor, who?'

The Doctor strides over, 'Yes, Administrator, we meet again.'

He turned toward the woman, and said in an exaggeration of unconcern, 'Howdy, Donna, good of you to be here.'

Donna reacts, 'Understated! I’m glad you’re here, too, Doctor.'

Alan spoke up, resolved now to go along with this farce; he had become intrigued.

'My question now is why are the three of us gathered in front of a portrait of our honourable institution’s founder?'

The Doctor answered. 'No, no! That’s an Impostor. You wouldn’t want him down here. He might eat up your brain... and could not even comprehend the manners to say, thank you for the meal.'

Alan said in a mocking way, 'So, as I understand it, you are a pair of time travellers, who have come across great distances of time and space to thwart the insidious plans of the Impostors to enter our dimension to eat our brains.'

The Doctor understood the tone, 'Thwart. Yes, that's it! Donna, has informed you about what we are doing then?'

Donna laughed, 'Not very much, he’s figuring it out on his own, but I don’t think he believes it.'

Joseph Witworth’s portrait on the wall began to flash blue! The Doctor spoke with the enthusiasm of a discovery.

'Here! This is the reason we have gathered under this portrait!'

He placed a chair in front of a sturdy side table that was beneath the picture frame. Then stepped onto the table, and to Alan’s astonishment, jumped through the painting, as if it were something he could hardly imagine. Vanishing again, like the Doctor had done earlier!

A moment later, a hand appeared out of the portrait. An arm stretched forward, at the back of it; a face; the Doctor! Without saying so, this was an invitation to Donna. She smiled, took the hand firmly allowing herself to be assisted up the chair, onto the table, and through the; what could not be! The painting, then, stopped flashing blue!

Alan had stood there in frozen disbelief. Now he moved. It was an open window! He rushed forward, grasped the sill, of this marvellous open window, while thrusting his head through! However, instead his forehead hit the stiff canvas soundly. At the same instance that he realised the window had closed, he, instinctively, grabbed the frame to steady it, because it was in danger of falling to the floor.

He stepped back from the painting.

Once again, he was alone. With no evidence that the impossible he had just witnessed, happened. Puzzled; he looked up at the portrait.

The founder appeared to be glaring at him!

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