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At any moment he expected the scream of rage as the Processes discovered the latest reverse to their plans. He rounded a corner and came in sight of the looming Tower.

Bells clanked, chains ground, anvils rang. And in Vael's head came a shriek — not the cry of an angry beast, but the lost wail of a woman from another world whose eyes burned in his head.

He fought it off, struggling to subdue the latest onslaught in its endless attempts to pierce his mind. His thoughts were tinged with blood, they tasted in his mouth. He gasped and fell senseless into a doorway.

You fool, you reject your own world!

"I thought Time Lords could regenerate when they died," said Ace.

"Really?" said the Doctor — or Wilby as he kept reminding her. "Fascinating."

She shook out her damp hair again and refused to despair. She had tried to explain things to him, but it grew more difficult. She was realizing too fast and too late that she knew precious little about him herself. His home and origins, even his name, if he really had one, were a complete mystery. How old was he? And what decimal point of his life had she knocked around with him for? Anything she thought she knew, she might have just dreamt.

But there must be things written down somewhere. Letters addressed to him or Christmas cards. She gave up on the idea that he ever filled in forms or kept a diary. Anything like that was probably lost or scattered across the City when the TARDIS exploded.

As it was, the Doctor, Wilby the Doctor, whatever he wanted to call himself, seemed to forget everything she told him within five minutes of hearing it.

They sat away from the Phazels, reluctant to join in the elaborate ritual that formed a eulogy for Reogus. His pockets were sifted. Each remembered item honoured. The Doctor looked awkward. He busied himself making a plumbline from a piece of string weighted with one of Shonnzi's finger biscuits.

"You're from Gallifrey too," Ace went on impatiently. "Gallifrey's a planet, Professor. I told you. It's your home. Have you forgotten that as well?"

The Doctor sighed and intoned, "And when I got there, the cupboard was bare."

"Then why did you challenge the Process?"

"Ah."

"Well?"

"I was pushed," he said pointedly. "And it seemed like a good idea at the time. Tell me about your home," he added and seemed alarmed by her scowl.

She couldn't just sit there. "If you're going to meet the Process, shouldn't we be preparing a trap or something?"

He tutted, held up the plumbline and squinted at the tall grey buildings that surrounded them. "Look at this," he complained, passing her the string. "Worse than that ridiculous tower in Pisa."

Sometimes he really riled her. "You remember some things then." She held up the plumbline and was too startled to notice any reply.

Seen against the straight line of the string, the threat of the illusion she had grown used to was renewed. As the City rose in an upward curve around them, the buildings tilted inwards more and more alarmingly.

"String is a very important thing," said the Doctor. "Something to remember."

Claustrophobia clamped in again. She wanted to hide — no, not hide, she wanted to smash her way out.

The City was fixed on the inside of a sphere.

"Professor," she said quietly. "Where are we?"

The Doctor smiled hopelessly at her and shook his head. "If only I could remember, erm . . ."

"Ace," said Ace.

"Yes . . . Ace."

"Right," she said. "You'd better leave the trap to me."

The moans of the funeral stopped. A distant howl echoed from the direction of the Watch Tower.

The Phazels shifted uneasily, recognizing a summons.

In Ace's mind, it was a cry of unthinking animal rage.

To the Doctor, the man who would be the Doctor, it was the inevitable acceptance of his challenge. He pressed his fingers to his forehead and tried to remember what he had said. What was he doing there? Where and who was he? "I don't think I've lost my memory," he whispered. "I think it's been stolen."

"What I really need," said Ace, "is a couple of crates of nitro-nine. Then we could really talk business."