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STRANGES RESTAURANT, YONGE STREET TORONTO, CANADA
11:00 am

“So,” Terry Nation asked, “who is this Moses we are meeting for lunch?”

Paul suspected that Terry already knew. The man did his homework. The question was for the benefit of the third man, David Burton, who had grown much colder and more wary since the board room meeting. Enough so that Paul might have dropped the project, but for Terry Nation’s easygoing charm, and his promises that he could keep Burton in line.

“Moses Znaimer,” Paul took a breath, “is one of the most innovative and influential creative personalities in Canadian television right now. He started out with the CBC back in the 60's, the same time as I did, but he stayed with them. We were both inspired by Marshall McLuhan. In 1972, he started City-TV in Toronto. In the 1980's he and City-TV merged CHUM-TV, as their head of programming. A couple of years later, he started Much Music, a 24 hour music video channel.

“Since then, CHUM as basically expanded as Canada’s third network, after the CBC and CTV. Following up on Much Music, Znaimer’s launched a series of specialty channels: 24 hour news, Fashion Television, Court TV, Drive in Classics, you name it.

“Now CHUM is launching a Sci Fi Channel, scheduled for later in 1997. The Canadian Radio and Television Corporation assigns channels. The make it a condition that whoever they give a license to has to generate local programming. Usually, that means talking heads, documentaries, low budget stuff. But they prioritise drama.

“So, Moses needs to develop programming for his channel...” Paul concluded. “And here we are.”

David looked up.

“Local programming,” Terry asked tentatively. Paul didn’t pay attention.

“This is it, gentlemen. This lunch is make or break. If Moses says yes, then we’re in business. If he says no, then it’s over. We call it a day and go our separate ways.”

Terry Nation nodded. Paul dared to look directly at Burton.

“Best behaviour guys, if we screw it up, it’s finished,” Paul said. “Let me take the lead. We need to make a good impression.”

They got the message, and for the next half hour the conversation around the table was polite and civil. David showed no sign of another tantrum like the one in the Boardroom. Apparently, Terry was good at talking him down. Paul put that down to their long association together.

Finally, Moses showed up, a balding hippy, with a kind of elfin look. Paul stood to greet him, they shook hands, he introduced them to his partners.

“Down to business,” Moses said. “You said you had something big?”

It was time for a spiel...

“What we’ve got, is a legacy franchise,” Paul said, putting excitement into his voice. “A big one, up there with Buck Rogers and Flash Gordon, contemporary with Star Trek and Star Wars.”

“Doctor Who is a worldwide phenomenon,” he continued, “starting in 1963, it’s been going strong for over thirty years. It’s the biggest show in Britain, and it’s got a worldwide cult following---”

“I’m aware of the show,” Znaimer cut him off. “I used to catch it on PBS once in a while back in the 1980's. The fellow with the scarf. Very eccentric. Sort of low budget. The blue phone booth. I get it. How does this relate to ‘The New Doctor’?

“Doctor Who ran from 1963 to 1986 with the BBC,” Paul explained. “And then the franchise was licensed out to Millennium Productions, which retitled it as ‘The New Doctor’ to distinguish the private production from the BBC production.”

“That’s us,” Burton chipped in. “We ran two seasons. I play the Doctor, it was a straight up continuation, with some changes. We still have a BBC license.”

Znaimer glanced at Burton without much interest.

“I’m aware of the BBC Enterprises license agreement. It’s not particularly valuable, according to our lawyers,” he said.

Burton deflated under Saltzman’s glare.

“Nevertheless, it is a legacy series, with a thirty year history, just waiting to be picked up. Yes, it was cheap, but if you look at my proposals for updating it, I think we can bring Doctor Who into the modern age and make it a 21st century production, with universal appeal. The same, but different, modernized in key ways, like Star Trek, and Star Trek: Next Generation.”

“I’ve looked at your proposal,” Znaimer said. “I didn’t particularly like it.”

“Oh,” said Paul.

“But,” Terry Nation said genially, “you’re here. You’ve clearly done your homework.”

Znaimer turned his calm gaze upon Nation.

“So...”

“So,” Nation said, “there must be some appeal. There’s something in it that works for you.”

Znaimer shrugged, refusing to make a commitment, one way or the other.

“So tell us what you don’t like, we’ll see if we’ve got a show if we take that out.”

Znaimer leaned back thoughtfully.

“I like the basic concept,” he said finally, “this man who goes through time and space helping people. It’s a very basic format at heart. A lot of the time, it’s militaristic, so that is a nice change. Or it’s wanderers who get lost and stumbles around into situations. So this... positivity, is appealing. And the idea of picking up a legacy series, that’s appealling.”

“What doesn’t appeal to me,” Znaimer said, “is the format. This medical van blasting through wormholes. That’s just Sliders combined with Danger Bay. I’m seeing this ‘wormhole’ thing everywhere since Stargate, and I think we’ll see a lot more of it. I can see the appeal of that kind of visual, that motif, but it doesn’t work for me. Not for this project. Maybe on a different project.”

“So what do you have in mind?” Paul asked.

“I liked the Blue Phone box,” Znaimer said. “But it’s inaccessible. Most people won’t recognise it. But something along those lines. Remember Bill and Ted, their time machine was a phone booth. People get behind that. Phone booths, time machines, teleport pods, cryogenic pods. That’s all very recognisable.”

“Something like that,” Znaimer was staring above their heads. “But a phone booth like Bill and Ted’s is too universal. The blue phone box in Doctor Who, too obscure. You want something both recognizeable, but still exotic. You want something that will say ‘British’ to connect it with the legacy, but still striking and distinctive....”

“What would you say too, instead of all this nonsense of medical vans and wormholes.... Using a classic British red phone booth?”

For a second, everyone was speechless.

Then Terry Nation applauded.

“That’s brilliant!” he exclaimed.

Znaimer tilted his head and gave a half smile.

“That could work,” Saltzman said.

“And it could be bigger on the inside than the outside,” Burton offered.

Znaimer frowned. “That’s stupid. It makes no sense.”

“How about if the phone booth is a gateway,” Nation said quickly. “You go into it, and it leads to, connects to some home base or headquarters. Like the cabinet to Narnia. Or all those innocuous little shops that lead to spy headquarters... Except that the phone booth can appear anywhere.”

“I like that,” said Znaimer. “That works. Also, I liked the eccentricity of the British series. I’m not as interested in a standard action adventure. I’d like something eccentric and quirky.”

He paused.

“It would be excellent if we could get the man in the scarf... But he must be what? Seventy by now. Someone like him thought.”

“I’ve been called the new Tom Baker,” Burton offered.

“Who?” Znaimer said, his gaze passing over Burton and dismissing him.

“I liked the complicated stories,” Znaimer said. “I’m not sure you can do that with this half hour format you’re proposing.”

“I was thinking, two parters,” Nation said. “That way, we can sell them to markets as half hours, or full hours. Maybe even do a three or four parter - TV movie length.”

Znaimer thought it over. “Clever.”

He looked at Saltzmann.

“What do you think, Paul. Would this work for you?”

“I like it,” Paul said enthusiastically. “I like it a lot. I think your approach solves a lot of problems, it really ties us to the legacy, while going forward with some unique aspects.”

“I like it too,” Nation said, “you’ve really tied it together for us.”

“Definitely!” Burton said. Znaimer glanced at him, eyebrow raised, as if wondering why he was at the table. But then he dismissed the thought.

“Good,” Znaimer said finally. “I’m prepared to offer you a contract for a thirteen episode season, half hours, standard rate, with deliveries commencing September/October 1997. Acceptable?”

“Definitely,” Paul said. Burton and Nation chorused agreement.

“Then, gentlemen,” Znaimer said, “our business is done. It’s been a pleasure, but I have another meeting to prepare for....”

He shook hands, and departed.

After he was gone, a waiter came by to take orders, and then departed. David looked at his companions.

“Is it me?” he said, with just an edge somewhere between gloating and bitterness, “or did we just come full circle?”

Paul was unperturbed. “It does feel like that. Funny, isn’t it.”

“I’ve seen it happen,” Nation said, “you start out with a pitch, and then you get feedback, and feedback, and feedback, and eventually you end up back where you started. Or at someplace completely unrecognizeable. Happens all the time in California.”

“It doesn’t bother you,” Burton persisted. “That he just threw out all your ideas, and replaced them with ours.”

“Not really know,” Paul said cheerfully chewing on a breadstick. “He didn’t throw out ‘all’ of my ideas. And he replaced them with his own, not yours. They just happen to be the same as yours, but he got there on his own.”

“Congratulations though,” Paul said, “it shows you’ve got good instincts. The concept is sound.”

“It really doesn’t bother you?” Burton asked.

“Why should it?” Paul said. “We sat down at this table with nothing, and now we’ve got a thirteen episode series. The rest? That’s just window dressing. You can’t keep an ego in this business David, you’ve got to be looking at the big picture."

"It may strike you as odd, David," Nation said, "But that's how it goes. If they're interested, they start bringing ideas. If they're not, it's just a flat no. Everyone in this business fancies themselves creative. If they're engaged, they want to contribute. Once Moses started going on about his suggestions, I knew we were in. It was just a matter of jollying him along."

"Nothing’s personal, it’s all just business.”

“Solid attitude,” Terry Nation said. “We’ve got a series. We could take it back to England an start shooting tomorrow?”

“What?” Paul asked. “No!”

“Why not,” David asked in turn. “We’ve got a contract for thirteen episodes. It’s all locked up.”

“Well, for one thing,” Paul said, “it’s not like the BBC where they pay the whole shot. There’s not that much money around. Moses commitment is maybe 5% of production costs. We still have to find the other 95%.”

“Bloody hell!” Nation swore.

“And we’re not going to shoot in England. The whole point of Moses buy in is that it has to be shot mostly in Canada, with Canadian crew, talent and stars. Maybe even a Canadian Doctor.”

“Bloody hell!” Burton swore.