The man who would be the Doctor was becoming quite bored.

 At first he'd tried singing, but a minor avalanche had cut that short rather abruptly. 'I Spy' didn't work with only one player, and besides, the only thing around was 'rocks.' Even polyfractal block transfer computation didn't help, and that usually cheered anyone up. Well, anyone with an advanced degree in hyperbolic topology.

 If it wasn't for the men on the ledge, the Eighth Doctor might literally have been bored to death.

 There were two of them sitting on the narrow ledge, both of them conversing in Tibetan. As the Eighth Doctor dropped down to the ledge, grateful for the rest, they switched to English to speak with him.

 "Hullo," said the first, a pleasant-faced man with light blond hair and an infectious grin. "I'm the Doctor --Fifth, that is -- and you are...?"

 "I will be the Eighth, if I can ever find the Seventh," he said, noticing as he did so that his garb had altered itself again, this time to match the cricketing outfit of the Fifth Doctor. "Have you seen him, by chance?"

 "No, we've been...on strained terms with him for some time now. He ignores my advice, you see."

 "Well, you can certainly believe I won't. You're...his conscience, right?"

 "Yes," said the Fifth Doctor, "For what it's worth, these days. As I said, he ignores my advice. I thought things might have gone better, after he let me out, but I'm afraid he just kept putting me in the background. Perhaps this change is for the best, at that."

 "And the hermit?" The Eighth Doctor looked perplexed. "What does he represent?"

 The Fifth Doctor displayed a flash of irritation. "Himself, I imagine. Why not ask him and see?"

 "All right," said the Eighth Doctor, edging past his other self. He knelt down in front of the wizened little man and asked, "Who are you?"

 "Who I am is not important," answered the hermit. "Your library is burning, your body is dying, your past is catching up with you. The question you should be concerned with is not who I am, but who you are."

 "Look," said the Eighth Doctor, "I know I'm in danger. I know I've got to find my other self. But what I don't know is who you are." For some reason, answering the question seemed desperately important to him.

 "I am what you have already forgotten you have always known, your mentor and your father, your child and your student. I am the shadow of your past, and the hope of the future. I am the sound of one hand clapping. If that is not enough to be going on with, I don't know what is."

 "But--"

 "Be content. I have told you all I will...for now." With that, the hermit vanished.

 "Now you've done it!" snapped the Fifth Doctor. "Do you know how hard it is to find him?" And with that, he vanished as well.

 The Eighth Doctor sighed and continued his climb. "If I get out of this," he muttered, "I'll never read Kafka again."

 Finally, he reached the valley. The terrain was still rocky, but no longer mountainous. Not too far off lay a dark, twisted forest overgrown with thorns.

 "That must be the place," he said with a smile. "All I have to do is--"

 Suddenly the world fell away from him.

 He was in a twisting maelstrom of concepts, ideas, identities. It was disorienting and terrifying, but strangely comforting somehow. As though somewhere within the madness was an essential part of himself, something he'd lost -- or perhaps not yet gained. Then blackness.

 He was still aware of his eyes, but they seemed stuck shut. His limbs refused to obey his commands, and he felt a terrible sense of suffocation.

 Someone was speaking, but it seemed to be coming from a great distance away, or perhaps from underwater. The voice said, "Hey, man, you doing anything special New Year's Eve?"

 If this is a hallucination, thought the Eighth Doctor, it's a strange one indeed.

 Another voice responded, "Goin' to the costume party." Perhaps a reference to his changing clothing?

 The first voice came again. "Oh, yeah, me too; who you going as?"

 "Wild Bill Hickock."

 "All right, cool. Who's that?"

 He was still turning the phrases over in his head when he felt a slight tug on his foot. Again, the first voice spoke. "John Doe, on the toe." That explained it! He was in the real world again. A temporary return to consciousness? Or a partial regeneration, perhaps? He'd seen a few examples of those...death might be preferable.

 But the next words chilled him to the bone. "Oh, we've got a nice autopsy booked for you tomorrow morning, Mister."

 An autopsy? Tomorrow morning?

 The rest of the sentence faded away into meaningless babble as his mind retreated into the maelstrom, but the first part was more than enough to keep him occupied. Forget about secondary damage brought on by delayed regeneration -- they were planning to remove vital organs!

 With a start, he returned to the mindscape. He was still exactly where he'd been, but...

 The spot just outside the forest was occupied. The Doctor, the man he'd come to find, was lying crumpled in a heap. The Sixth Doctor stood over him, dressed all in black, and a second person in black -- Ace, his mind screamed at him -- had drawn a sleek, lethal-looking gun.

 Panic-stricken, he leapt to his feet and ran towards them, vaulting over boulders with an easy grace. But he was too far away, and Ace was already taking aim with the gun...

 He screamed out, "Ace, STOP!"

 Ace pulled the trigger without even glancing in his direction.

 TO BE CONTINUED...