Compassion's doors swung open. Outside, the sun was shining in a picturebook blue sky. It was still cold, though.

'See you, then,' he whispered to the room.

Fitz turned, took a deep breath, and prepared himself for what he supposed was the first day of the rest of his life. 'I'll see you too, Doctor. Everything will be fine. Life's a game of cricket, right? You'll have a nice, easy century, then back to the pavilion. OK?'

He couldn't help glancing back. The Doctor, even unconscious, looked as doubtful as he did.

Nivet looked around. He was in a large room, empty except for the striped mattress he lay on.

'Welcome to your new home.'

So, he was on board Compassion. But she didn't sound urgent, or resentful, or in any of the moods he'd come to associate with her. She sounded happy. What was going on?

'What do you mean, my new home?'

'The old one got blown up,' Compassion said, casually. 'Just as well I scooped you up when I did. I thought you'd be out cold for ever.

But Nivet was still trying to take in her first sentence. 'What are you talking about, blown up?

Gallifrey? You can't just blow up Gallifrey! It's ...'

'It's happened,' Compassion said. 'Deal with it.'

Nivet stared around at the bare white walls, wondering if perhaps they should be padded.

'What's happened?'

And, while he knelt there on the mattress, Compassion explained everything, in uncompromising detail. The Faction's stranglehold on the Matrix. The battle. The Doctor's struggle, and the death of their world. The details wouldn't stay in his mind, he couldn't take it all in. It was like listening to the story of some ancient gods, it didn't relate to him. All Nivet could think of was that his home wasn't there in the sky any more.

'You've lost a world, but gained a universe,' said Compassion. 'A universe free of the Faction, of the petty squabbles of the Time Lords, of the threat of the Enemy ...'

'Maybe so, but ... but ...'

Lost for words, Nivet stared around in outrage. As he did so, he noticed the pale walls blending to terracotta, saw lead slates begin to cover the floor, until his mattress was like a raft in a grey sea.

'This is like my room back on ...' He broke off. 'How are you doing this?'

'Telepathic circuits,' Compassion cooed. 'I want you to feel at home. I need someone who can ... sustain me. Someone who understands the way I function. Since the Eye of Harmony's been poked out, I'm not sure how smoothly I'll be running in the future. And I intend it to be a long, long future, Nivet. I'll need you. And you'll need me.'

'I get no say in this?' Nivet snarled.

'Obviously,' she whispered in his ears. 'I do hope you like your quarters here. But I've placed you a little way from the central console room, I'm afraid.'

Nivet felt his mattress sinking into the ground, and soon he was kneeling on the cold, hard floor. 'Really,' he muttered.

'The console room is my heart, if you like. But your room is just under my thumb.'

Nivet felt the temperature rise for just a second, like the breath of a lover on the back of his neck.

Compassion hurled herself spinning through space. She threw her head back and laughed with a child's delight at her freedom. As she travelled on, the vortex seemed to sparkle and shine about her.

The Doctor isn't sure how he arrived in the carriage. It smells of dust and distance. That is no clue.

A woman sits opposite, her lips slightly parted as she breathes softly in her sleep. Would she know? What will he ask her?

There is something on the tip of his mind. He tries out some of the things he does remember, rolling the words around in his mouth to see how they feel.

This seems to wake the woman. She is asking him a question, in English. An Englishwoman.

Does that help? She wants to know where he is travelling to.

Where is he travelling? Indeed, where has he come from? His mind seems to shy away from the question, a door in his mind closing, securely sealing a dank cellar, a deep dark room which needs no illumination. Lock the door. Pocket the key.

He slumps lower in his seat, hunching into his coat.

The Englishwoman is talking again, but by now he isn't listening to her. He tries out some more words. 'Phase malfunction sounds familiar. Why is that? But, that's just jargon, isn't it?

Well, isn't it? He tells himself so, yet remains unconvinced.

The train slows down, and the woman climbs from her seat to retrieve her case. Before she leaves, she glances around to ensure she has not dropped any of her belongings. Pats her coat pockets experimentally.

As he watches her go, he sees that the woman is confident that she has forgotten nothing. But what has he lost? It's on the tip of his memory.

Never mind. He knows who will be able to help him. He'll look for the Doctor, find him. The Doctor can help.

Whoever he is.

The Eighth Doctor's adventures continue in The Burning by Justin Richards, ISBN 0 563 53812 0, available August 2000 Acknowledgements Dominoes: Sue Cowley, Mike Tucker, Vicki Vrint Deeps: Lance Parkin, Jac Rayner, Justin Richards Souls: Paul Cornell, Lawrence Miles, Lars Pearson, Marc Plan Clouds: http://www.gallifreyone.com/ especially Shaun Lyon Flames: Lucy Campbell, Anne Summerfield Mesmers: Adam and Samuel Anghelides About the Authors Peter Anghelides has two previous Doctor Who novels published by BBC books: Kursaal and Frontier Worlds. He contributed to the BBC collections More Short Trips and Short Trips and Side Steps, as well as writing a debut story for the Eighth Doctor's companion Samantha Jones on the audio collection Earth and Beyond. He has also written for Visual Imagination, Marvel Comics, BBC Magazines, Virgin Publishing, Mediawatch International, and the Valley Park Community Newsletter.

Peter's day job is with the world's biggest computer company, where since 1988 he has had a variety of jobs, including technical author, project manager, and line manager. Previously, he has been an academic and a journalist. He is married to awardwinning writer Anne Summerfield, and lives with her and their two sons, Adam and Samuel, in Hampshire.

People keep asking Peter where his surname comes from, and he explains that it comes from his father.

Born in 1971, Stephen Cole spent a happy childhood in rural Bedfordshire being loud and aspiring to amuse. He liked books, and so went to the University of East Anglia to read more of them. After graduating in English Literature and Film Studies, he spent four years reading far more Enid Blyton than can be good for anyone as Editor of BBC Worldwide's preschool magazines. Finally tiring of Noddy's companionship, he opted to oversee Doctor Who books, videos and audios for the BBC instead. Three years later, halfdead, he was charitably offered employment by Penguin Books as a Managing Editor.

Stephen has had several books published, from children's poetry to Home Learning titles, from nonfiction to novelisations of awardwinning Disney/BBC TV series Microsoap. As a writer for Doctor Who he has produced audio dramas, assorted articles and reviews and cowritten a novel (Parallel 59 with Natalie Dallaire). He lives in West London.

Published by BBC Worldwide Ltd Woodlands, 80 Wood Lane London W12 0TT