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A pearl of guilt that had rolled in Rassilon's mind for a year was growing. How much of the Pythia's state of mind was due to his own intervention? An act of egotistic mischief that another had warned him against. The dark tradition of millennia was instilled in his soul also. Was he the man to sever the ancient course of Gallifreyan history as surely as the hero sliced the monster's head from its spine?

"Time is changing," said the Pythia to the Sphinx. She rocked on her haunches like a wailing woman at a funeral. "They would sweep away all the ageless lore with a cold and dismal practice that they call reason." The Library echoed her shriek of disgust. "Fools! They have machine-minds and do not fear the Gods. They say the Gods are dead and want to steal their thrones. I fear they will succeed. I, who am Gallifrey, must know. Tell me what you see."

Rassilon stepped closer to the hunched figure.

"Tell me, wise one!" the Pythia cried. She pressed her hands against the glass of the exhibit. "If they doom me, they doom the world. What is the future? Tell me!"

Rassilon fell forward with a cry of pain. His toe had stubbed on a shelf. He stumbled over in agony. The Pythia turned and a wave of hatred hit him like the hindward kick of a sagittary to his head.

"You!" she cried.

As he reeled under the blow, he saw the venerable Pythia, a decrepit old woman, struggling up with her wand like a spider on spindly arms and legs. Her eyes fixed him, eclipsing any other pain. They burned into his mind like knives. His lungs seethed with scorching air.

The jewels on her robe clinked and glittered like starlight. She was muttering a spell over and over as she scrambled closer. It sounded like "Vael, Vael, Vael . . ."

Rows of books spilled to the floor as he clutched at anything in an attempt to steady himself. He fell to his knees. He could taste smoke and his body was scorching.

Then the attack ceased.

He tried to catch the air to cool his throat. He looked up, bewildered that he was not dead.

The Pythia stood over him. Tall, taller than him, even in her dotage — but then everyone was taller than him. Tears of anger ran down her wrinkled, golden face, "Vael is lost, little man," she said. "I cannot find him."

Out of her coiled hair she pulled a steel comb and lifted it to strike at him.

He caught her bony arm and tried to push her away. Her strength was frightening. The comb wavered close above his head.

There was a clatter of shoes on the marble floor. Another arm, squat with white hair, dragged the Pythia clear. She cried out and pulled free of Thrift's grip. Then she threw down the comb and crouched to the floor in a foetal knot.

Thrift pulled Rassilon to his feet. "Meyopapa you all right." It was a statement not a question. Tersurrans know about things like that.

Two sisters stood nervously behind, young adepts with snow still clinging to their rustred cloaks. Rassilon hauled himself up and tried to stand on his good foot. He coughed and cleared his throat several times before he could manage to speak at all. The Pythia ignored them all. She squatted, staring at the lifeless head of the Sphinx.

"Despite the rumours, your mistress is in shockingly good physical health," he croaked at the adepts. "I think you'd better take her home before she does someone an injury with her mind."

The Pythia, her face shaking and eyes staring emptily, pushed away the helping hands and got to her feet. She walked slowly out, followed by one of the sisters. The other adept, her hair like a torrent of red fire, lingered for a moment staring at the Sphinx head in the glass case.

"It's just a facsimile," said Rassilon. "Only exhibited in the Library while the real head is being studied and cleaned."

He watched the tall adept walk away between the rows of shelving. So cool-faced and so young and pledged to a lifetime of unworldly devotions. His toe began to throb, the overture to a whole concert of aches and pains throughout his body.

"Vael," he muttered. The name was vaguely familiar, but he could not quite place