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There’s this book, you see.
Narvin keeps hearing about this book. Everyone seems to know of its existence. Every Monan he’s spoken to, that criminal Mephistopheles Arkadian, that Nekkistani ambassador he’d met at the summit — he’s even heard the madam president reference it! Everyone knows about this book.
Everyone except him.
Not that Narvin minds being left out of the loop. He doesn’t. In fact, he rather prefers it that way, because he’d much rather not compromise his security rating by having close personal acquaintances, or, Rassilon forbid, friends. He nearly shudders at the thought, but he’s a Time Lord, and instead represses the feeling so successfully that he can almost feel it shrivel up and die in his chest somewhere.
It isn’t until Romana’s bodyguard mentions the book offhand that he begins to feel left out. If even the Lady Leela knows of this book, then he should definitely learn its contents. For... research. Security reasons.
It’s small in terms of physical size, but that’s to be expected, as his research has informed him that the contents of the book itself are enough to fill warehouses that cover most of a planet. (Other species, he reflects, really need to learn something of dimensionally transcendental engineering. It would de-clutter so much of the universe. Although it would also place Gallifrey at a strategic disadvantage should any other races get angry at the Time Lords.)
Across the cover of the book are large words. Narvin believes the font has specifically been chosen to appear friendly to the reader, but as a Time Lord (who is therefore intellectually superior to all other species), this does not have the desired effect. Rather than feeling comforted, he lets out a disgusted snort.
“Don’t Panic,” he mutters. “How very thoughtful of them.”
Narvin, it’s worth mentioning, isn’t the sort to panic. Or at least, he fancies that he’s not the sort to panic. Panicking is for races who aren’t in possession of intellect and logic quite as advanced as the Time Lords. Time Lords, he is proud to say, are not the panicking sort.
(Narvin has also not yet ever been on the blade end of an angry Leela. His opinions on panicking change rather quickly after that.)
He can’t imagine why this book would need such a warning printed on its cover. This is not, he knows, the title of the book. He also knows that book titles generally are printed on the cover, and he decides that he’d like to have a word with whoever the publishers are, because they should know better than to confuse the general population like that.
The book, it would appear, is some sort of guide to a specific galaxy, somewhere far enough away and insignificant enough that really, Narvin doesn’t much care about it one way or another. He can’t imagine why such a book is so well-known by seemingly every person he’s ever met.
It’s biased enough that half the information in the book is, Narvin would assume, incorrect, and it hints at things worrying enough that Narvin thinks he should maybe start some official Celestial Intervention Agency investigations. Whoever’s operating that supposed restaurant at the end of the universe should be arrested and thoroughly cross-examined.
(Narvin is also slightly worried — not panicking, remember, he doesn’t panic, and besides, the book has given him the specific instructions not to panic, and Narvin is nothing if not a rule follower — that the CIA hasn’t had any clue that such a restaurant existed. Perhaps it was something the madam president was covering up from him, he decides. She has a fondness for alien cultures. Perhaps she even frequents such a place, despite its blatant disregard for the Laws of Time.)
He confronts her about it in a private meeting. If she doesn’t know it exists, there’s no use jeopardizing his political capital in false accusations. And if she does know, well, he’s better at subterfuge and clandestine deals than outright confrontation. He’s sure he can either expose her or come to some sort of... arrangement.
(He’ll expose her eventually, if she’s involved. Despite what Narvin would have the universe believe, he does adhere to a very strict ethical code of conduct. How he ever got to be Coordinator of the Celestial Intervention Agency, then, is truly a baffling mystery.)
The madam president is sitting behind her desk in a chair of Earth make, with wheels and the capacity to spin around in circles. She looks up sharply when she barges in, quickly setting a datapad down on the desk. “Don’t you ever knock, Narvin?” she asks, her voice a mixture of weary resignation and still-sharp annoyance.
“It has come to my attention that certain information has been withheld from the CIA,” he says crisply.
She raises her eyebrows at that. “And this is important enough that it involves me?” she asks, something like sarcasm oozing from her lips. “You’re the Coordinator, aren’t you? Take care of it yourself! I’m quite busy enough, thank you.” She waves a hand to dismiss him, but Narvin won’t be cowed quite as easily as other Time Lords.
“What about this?” he asks, unable to keep the triumph out of his voice. He slams the book down onto her desk, the large, friendly DON’T PANIC staring up at them.
Romana looks at it, then at Narvin, then back at the book. The corner of her mouth is twitching.
“Well?” Narvin demands, when the silence has stretched long enough. “What do you have to say for yourself? I know you know this book exists, I’ve heard you reference it.”
The corner of her mouth continues to twitch. Narvin realizes slowly, with growing horror, that she’s trying not to laugh.
“You do know this is fiction, Narvin?” she asks slowly, voice shaking with laughter.
He pauses, not quite sure what to say. He looks down at the book. The book says, DON’T PANIC.
He doesn’t panic. He takes a deep breath, picks the book back up, hides it in his sleeve, and dares to glance at Romana’s face. “Not a word of this,” he hisses, and stalks out of her office with as much dignity as he can muster. He’s only glad the president’s bodyguard isn’t in there with them. Or worse, Cardinal Braxiatel.