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"Then live the rest of your pitiful short life in ignorance and pain, wondering what you will never know!"

"How strange," the Doctor observed. "I once said exactly that to a Tellurian police constable. It seems like only yesterday."

"You cannot resist," said the voice.

There was silence.

A very long silence.

"One question each way," said the Doctor at last. He also thought, you're a fool, Doctor. But that was in a separate subconscious.

"Agreed," said the voice.

"No trickery. We think the questions together and the truth after."

"Agreed."

The Doctor let his mind go blank. In his subconscious, he braced himself to deal with one riddle. Its implications were unknown, and their effect might be devastating for all of Gallifreyan history. Knowledge could be a dangerous thing. But he had bound himself by the laws of honour and would not resist.

He thoughtsent his one question. It was all he needed to know.

"Who are you?"

Into his head came the balancing question and the scales tilted against him. The voice asked the same riddle in inversion.

It asked, "Who am I?"

A moment's silence. The Doctor eased out a slow breath. He could guess the identity of the voice. It terrified him. She came from the Dark Time before Rassilon came to power, but she knew of that great Hero. He was plainly an obsession. Only one figure at that time, maybe two figures, wielded such powers of telepathy as she exhibited. She spoke of a successor, but that was not in the history books. The whole of Gallifrey's development rested on one moment in Time. One terrible accursed moment which he might now undo with his meddling. The turmoil that led to Rassilon's assumption of power might never occur. No Triumvirate of rulers, no Intuitive Revelation, no Time Lords.

"The answers," said her voice. "Together."

"Yes," said the Doctor.

But he held back as his head flooded with her response.

I am the five hundred and eighth Pythia in the line of Gallifrey. I am the Crown of the Empire, Mouthpiece of the Gods and Guardian of the Great Book of Future Legends. I see the Past, Present and Future as one. Through me, all thoughts meet, all Time is fertile. I am the hub of the world. I am Gallifrey.

The Doctor still held back.

"These are just titles," he said. "In my time there are no more Future Legends. The Book is a relic. Its predictions were all used up ages ago. It's all got rather boring."

"This is trickery!" she cried. "You are bound to answer my question!"

"Yes," he said.

"Who am I?"

The Doctor sighed. "In the history books, you are the last of the Pythias."

This time the silence was on her side.

"I knew you wouldn't like it," he added.

"Impossible! I have chosen my successor. How can this be?"

"You've had your question," he snapped. But to annoy her, be added, "Perhaps you should have asked who I am?"

She was not listening. "Vael will return to Gallifrey," she cried. "The Book of Future Legends foretells that my successor will be a man. I have chosen him."

"Then I should look at it again. Those books of predictions are notoriously cryptic. I suspect it says the next ruler after you will be a man."

The Doctor heard Vael choke. The Pythia's voice projected through his mind, crackled like fading reception on an old radio. "You lie!"

"Do I?" he retorted. "You know better than that. You've been clumping round my head in your hobnail thoughts for long enough."

There was a last cry of anguish. "Who are the Time Lords? Who are you?"

"Nothing to do with your time, venerable one."

"Liar!"

That accusation cut deep.

As her distorted voice faded completely, he heard: "Vael will succeed me. Not Rassilon. I have chosen!"

There were crashing sounds from all around. Showers of falling masonry were striking against the iron Tower.

The three spindly stairways rose from the edges of the Watch Tower, one from each Time Phase of the Process's World City. They met at the centre of the sky in an arrowheaded chevron, aimed at the oncoming moon.

The vast globe struck the pinnacle dead-centre. The stairways bowed and shattered into