The Two(ish) Doctors

by The Minister of Scones

Part Three: Journey into Peril

Tarrant was sure he was doing the right thing. All the same, as he faced the door to the cloaking-chamber that would disguise him as a perfectly ordinary Equestrian, an unusual sense of trepidation overcame him, and he felt the pit that had until recently been his stomach deepen even further.

The casual (and Equestrian) observer would have initially made Tarrant out to be a slightly tall Earth-pony. Looking more carefully, one would notice a few distinguishing features. For one thing, he had no mane, nor any visible tail – although one could not be quite sure that there was no tail at all, for most of his body was swathed in elegant robes, in vivid sapphire and subtle emerald shades. The blues and violets and greens danced in exquisite patterns, all loops and whorls, so intricate that one would swear that they were the work of no craftspony, but were magically wrought, or else something so wonderful as a crystallised dream, and, lost in these fanciful thoughts, one probably wouldn't really notice his face.

And then one would, and would panic.

Tarrant's face, if face you could call it, was noticeable only by its apparent absence. Certainly, he had a mouth, eyes, a nose, a muzzle – all the things you expect on a face, and in much the right positions. The trouble was that that was all there was, as though an enthusiastic and imaginative filly had drawn a face with her crayons, happily slapped on the aforementioned ingredients, and then, finding herself drained of both enthusiasm and imagination, had given up and wandered off. In more descriptive, and perhaps more helpful, terms, it was a minimalist face, based on the principle of flatness wherever possible, and emptiness elsewhere.

A pony, faced with such a visage, would run a mile, and fair enough. The fact is, though, that that is what Galgonquans look like, and a pretty picture they think Equestrians, who, they say, have far too complicated faces by half.

He was also blue. This is also quite normal for Galgonquans.

“Tarrant!”

Tarrant's thoughts were interrupted by a sharp female cry. Looking up, he saw an elderly Galgonquan mare, similarly clad, rushing down one of the brightly lit corridors. Glancing over her shoulder, he could see through the windows lining the left hand wall of the corridor, opening onto the void of space. Tarrant gulped. This was his first time space-travelling, and he was still not used to the idea; after all, he had only been in the ship for about two Equestrian days.

“Quan-Mother!” he cried.

“Tarrant, I thought I'd miss you. I was held up by a pressure leak in cabin 4. That fool of a guard wouldn't let me through long after it was obviously safe.”

“Mother, I can look after myself. You have no need to worry.”

“I couldn't let my son go on the final stage of his examination without saying goodbye, you silly boy.” She reached up with her right forehoof, and stroked it across his forehead – the Galgonquan equivalent of kissing.

“Mother, there are ponies watching...”

“Don't be silly.”

“Hem-hem.” Both turned to look at the cloaking-chamber's operator, who was perched on top of its roof. The chamber, you see, was like a lobby between two rooms, and extended into both of them, its ceiling a good few hooves lower than that of the main rooms. The first room, in which Tarrant and his mother were standing, was a sort of waiting room, for those who were being cloaked to wait while the complex machinery was being prepared. The second was the final briefing room, where Tarrant would be reminded of his mission. “Are you quite ready, Quan-Tarrant?”

“Just coming, Quan-Operator,” said a sheepish Tarrant.

“Now remember,” said his mother, still fussing, “be nice to ponies and they'll be nice to you. Always be polite to your friends, politer still to strangers, and the politest of all to your enemies.”

Tarrant had heard it all before. “Yes, mother,” he said, blushing furiously, although he could have spared himself the embarrassment, as the operator had also seen this scene played out dozens of times.

“And watch out for Wirdegens!” she said urgently.

“No need to worry about telling him that, Quanness!*” the operator reassured her. “We'll be sure to warn him ourselves plenty of times before we beam him down. We've just received reports of a Wirdegen presence on the planet, so we're all on red-alert.”

“What?” An expression of shock crossed Tarrant's mother's face. “You're not sending him down with that going on, are you?”

“Oh, don't worry. We should have it under control by the time he arrives.” The operator seemed to be trying to convince himself as much as her. “Right,” he began, changing the subject, “I'll bring up the visualisation of the appearance you chose from the Face-bank.” He punched a few buttons on the control panel in front of him, and brought up an image on his screen. “So, you've gone for… brown Earth-pony?”

“That's right.”

“Sure you don't want a unicorn? Most ponies go for the unicorns. They're a lot more powerful.”

“Yes, quite sure.”

“Huh. To each his own, I guess. Then enter, Quan-Tarrant.”

“Thank you, Quan.”

The door to the chamber slid open with a hiss, and Tarrant stepped forward into the chamber. He turned to face his mother, who smiled at him.

“Good luck, Tarrant.”

“Thank you, Quan-Mother.”

Then the door slid shut, separating them. Though they didn't know it, it was the last they would see of one-another for a very long time.

Inside the chamber, Tarrant was surprised at how empty it was – just a smallish, white, featureless room.

“Please discard your robes,” said a computerised voice, echoing despite the chamber's size, making it difficult to be sure where it was coming from. Obediently, Tarrant removed his clothing, leaving it in a heap in one corner. “Stand quite still,” came the voice once more, “we are preparing to cloak your body.” To his surprise, it didn't hurt, as he had secretly been worried it would. It was little more than a tickling sensation as his body was bombarded with psychic rays that would ensure that, despite the fact that his body would remain unaltered, anypony who looked at him, or sensed him by any other means, would be convinced that he was a perfectly ordinary pony. Next, he was furnished with a complete understanding of the Equestrian language, transferred directly into his brain by means of similar technology.

Emerging from the door in the opposite side of the chamber, Tarrant glanced down at his new form. Everything was perfect, as expected; down to the last hair. The room he was in had tall, sloping, blue walls, like most of the rooms on the ship, and to his left and right, there were trapezoid doors in the centre of the walls. The far wall was taken up by a vast window, which opened out onto space, and the planet below. A matronly figure sitting at a desk, which was made of the same dark-blue semi-metal as the walls, in the middle of the room smiled kindly at him.

“You must be Quan-Tarrant. I'm Quan-Hylda, head of Equestrian Relations. I'm here to make sure you're properly kitted out and prepared for your exam.”

“Pleased to meet you, Quanness.”

“I can see you're a well-mannered young pony,” she beamed at him, her wrinkled – though, not very, for as I have said, the Galgonquan face is renowned for its featureless appearance – face breaking into wreaths of smiles. Tarrant instinctively felt he could trust her, although obviously trustworthiness was to be expected of one with so important a position as Hylda's. “First, though,” she went on, “a few formalities. We need your teacher here to verify your identity. Actually,” she said rather huffily, glancing at the time-disk on her desk, “she should be here by now. Do you have any idea what could be keeping her?”

“Well, she died about six years ago, so she glitches occasionally”

“Ah, I see.” A small red light began to flash above the door in the left wall. “Well, well, that should be her now. Open!” This last was addressed to the door itself, which obediently opened, splitting down the middle into two half-doors which hinged round to either side.

On the other side of the door, a magenta ball of light hovered in mid-air at around head-height. It was about the size of an apple, and was covered in flexing white tendrils, about as long as the ball's diameter. When it spoke, the tips of the tendrils crackled with purple energy. It spoke now.

“Tarrant! Quan-Hylda! I'm sorry I'm late!” The voice was that of an elderly mare, distorted a little, and seemingly a little louder than it ought to have been. “My form lost its structure in the lift, and I missed my floor trying to reacquire stability.”

“Quite alright, Quan-Lidiya. Tarrant has only just arrived,” replied Hylda. “Now then, if you wouldn't mind completing this form?”

“Of course.” The sphere, Tarrant's teacher Lidiya, drifted over to the desk, and used one of her tendrils to pick up a transparent square sheet of plastic, on which various strange symbols – the Galgonquane language – were embossed. With a faint crackle of electricity from Lidiya, new symbols began to emboss themselves into the plastic, glowing faintly at first, then gradually fading. As she filled out the form, she chatted away happily. “I'm sure you'll enjoy it down there, Tarrant. Equestria's a beautiful place.”

“I know, Quanness, but I'm a little nervous. I've never left the planet before, and now...”

“I know, my boy, but you'll soon get used to it. Why, I was far more scared than you are before my first trip, but after a few years I couldn't get enough travel! I was quite the wanderer in my previous incarnations, I can tell you.” This was true. Not only could she tell him, she frequently did. Tarrant was quite eager to avoid hearing the same stories again, so he decided to change the subject.

“Their language is a little limiting, isn't it? How would one express, say, 'boojanji'**?

“I wouldn't try, if I were you,” remarked Hylda, drily. “Now, are you familiar with the contents of this examination scheme?”

“I am to be transmatted to Equestria, where I am to collect as much information as possible about Equestrian culture over the course of one Equestrian week,” recited Tarrant. “I am to interact with the ponies of the city of Canterlot, and to remain undetected as alien to their world.”

“Which shouldn't be too hard,” Lidyia interjected, “since they've no knowledge of alien life-forms.”

“Once I have completed my time there, I am to activate the transmat reversal unit you will give me, thereby returning myself to this orbital craft.”

“Word perfect!” applauded Hylda, delighted. “The only problem is that there have been one or two reports of Wirdegens in Equestria. You'll want to avoid them.”

“Yes, I heard about that.”

“Well, don't worry. They haven't been seen anywhere near Canterlot, so you ought to be alright.”

“Oh… good.” Tarrant was far from convinced…

---

“Stars and sapphires!” exclaimed the Doctor, picking himself up off the cobbles, “where did you spring from?” He had, lest we forget, recently found the pony he was looking for not through the complex and time-consuming detective work he had been about to embark on, but by coincidentally bumping into her in the street, though a little more literally than either would have wished.

“Oh, I...” Derpy was left sitting in the middle of the street in front of the Doctor, looking dazed. Bringing her eyes into focus, Derpy suddenly realised whom she was talking to. “I... Oh!” She clapped her hooves over her mouth, trying to stop herself from letting out a great sob of despair. It didn't work.

“There, there,” said the Doctor, helping her to her hooves, and resting a gentle hoof on her shoulder, “I'm sorry if you've hurt yourself.”

Derpy shook her head, and sniffed. A fat tear rolled down her cheek, and she sat down again with a thump. “You… you are the real Doctor, aren't you?” she asked, tearfully.

“Well, I suppose I am, rather… I say, you look in a bit of a state. Why don't you come with me?”

“I… guess. I think I need to talk to you.”

“So do I,” said the Doctor, thoughtfully. “Come on!”

He led her to a nearby café, and they sat together at an outside table. The waiter came straight over to them – today hadn't been good for business, and he was hoping to pick up a few tips before the café closed for the evening. He put on his best 'impoverished waiter' smile. “Good afternoon monsieur, madame, what can I get you?”

“Bring me your finest wines!” proclaimed the Doctor, casting a hoof dramatically aloft.

The waiter gave him a dry look. “Sir, this a café, not a restaurant. We do not stock alcohol.”

The Doctor looked around, bemused. “Oh. Coffee-shop, eh? No alcohol. Hmm.” He put a foreleg round the waiter's shoulders and leaned towards him conspiratorially. “Listen, are you sure you don't have any brandy, or somesuch? This young lady has had rather a shock… I think.”

“You 'think'?” The waiter raised an eyebrow, and glanced at Derpy. She had stopped crying, but was looking very sorry for herself. She was staring straight down at the table – or doing her best to, at any rate – and hiccuping occasionally.

“Well, I haven't been able to ask, yet. She's still suffering from the after-effects of the shock… or not, as the case may be. I'm hoping that if I give her some of the stuff that cheers and inebriates she'll calm down enough to tell me what happened, so that I can figure out whether she actually needs any.”

“I see.” He didn't. “Well, I will see what I can do.”

“Thanks awfully.”

The waiter turned and headed towards the indoor part of the café.

The Doctor considered trying to talk to Derpy, but decided against it. Inwardly, he congratulated himself on how sensitive this new incarnation was turning out to be. A regeneration had been just what he needed, although he was still not happy that he had been forced through it. A very underhoof trick by the Timelords. Lost in such thoughts, he didn't notice that the waiter had returned, bearing a nauseous-looking bottle of dark rum.

“Cook keeps this in case of medicinal emergencies,” he explained.

“Why,” asked the Doctor, eyeing the oozing contents of the bottle suspiciously, “in case she has to cause one?” The waiter didn't laugh.

“We will not be allowed to charge you for it,” he said, almost apologetically.

“I suspect I'll survive the gnawing feeling of guilt. Pass it over.” Obediently, the waiter hoofed*** him the bottle. After a brief wrestle, the Doctor managed to uncork it – “Let's hope the contents are more keen to leave the bottle than the cork!” he joked, to no avail – and looked around in vain for a glass. “You haven't really thought this through, have you?” he said, glaring at the waiter.

“My apologies, monsieur. I will see if...”

But before he could finish, Derpy grabbed the bottle from the Doctor's hoof, sniffed it, and, before the very eyes of the two astonished stallions, swigged the whole contents in a few seconds.

“Well...” said the Doctor, amused, “now I've seen everything.”

“Thanks, Doc,” said Derpy, apparently completely recovered from her bout of misery, and none the worse for wear for her one-mare drinking contest.

“Well,” said the waiter, obviously very annoyed, “you have only yourselves to blame if we have a medical emergency in the next few days and we have no rum.”

“Having seen that… that stuff,” remarked the Doctor, “I'd say the patient would have us to thank. I'm amazed we aren't having a” – the Doctor did a rather realistic imitation of the waiter's snooty Fancy accent – “'medical emergency' right now.” The waiter stood frozen to the spot, open-mouthed with shock and rage. He was not used to customers talking to him like this. “Now, I suggest you get on with your job and bring us two menus. Chop-chop!”

The waiter was about to throw this ruffian out, when he noticed that the Doctor had slipped something into his hoof whilst talking. He glanced down. It was unmistakably a diamond. He looked back up at the Doctor, who winked.

“Menus?”

“Of course, sir. At once, sir. Thank you, sir.” The waiter dashed back into the café as fast as his legs would carry him. Fortunately, this was very fast.

The Doctor turned to his guest, smiling. “Now then, my dear, whatever's the matter?”

“I… um… look, I guess I owe you an apology.”

“Not at all.”

“But I… I thought you were some sort of imposter.”

“I would have assumed the same. Actually, I've mistaken myself for an imposter before now.”

“Well, I should still… Doc, I was wrong. As soon as I told… the other Doctor about you, he told me that… that he's a fake. That all this time, he lied to me...” Derpy looked ready to relapse into tears. She looked hopefully up at the Doctor. “Have you got any more of that stuff?”

“Miss Hooves, notwithstanding your liver's apparent durability, it would be remiss of me in the extreme to let you have any more alcohol even if I could, or wanted to, which I can't, and don't, because no, I haven't.”

“I… I forgot the question.”

“Come to think, so have I.” The Doctor began to chuckle. Nervously, Derpy joined in. Soon they were both laughing away like old friends. They laughed so hard that they didn't notice the waiter return, who was getting rather sick of not being noticed returning. He had, as instructed, brought two menus. The Doctor glanced down his, eyebrows raised. “Hmm.” He took out a monocle, which he placed in his left eye, and began to read. “Right then, let's see what we've got. Daisy sandwiches, lettuce cutlets, water burgers… hay fries. Ah, yes. I had fries once. Like chips, only not as good. Got any crumpets?”

“I'm afraid not, sir.”

“Thought not. Ah well. How about chocolate cake?”

“That we do have.”

“Splendid. What'll it be, Miss Hooves?”

“Muffins,” she said, without hesitating.

“Good-o. Waiter?”

“Sir?”

“Muffins and… er..." He had obviously forgotten what he was talking about. "The other one.”

“Chocolate cake, sir?”

“Precisely. Off you go.”

Off he went.

“My stars,” muttered the Doctor to himself, "I seem to have developed quite the sweet-tooth. My tooth's sweeter than a… a… sweet thing. Oh dear.”

“Apple?” suggested Derpy, helpfully.

“Oh, no, no apple similes. I don't want to end up sounding like… like… orange… wears a hat.”

“Applejack?”

“That's the bunny. Ah! Bunny! They're sweet. Thanks.”

“Uh… you're welcome.”

“Now, you were saying?”

“Oh, er… Yeah, my friend, the Doc… he's not the Doc.”

“I think we've definitely established that.”

“I wanted to say sorry. I thought… I dunno what I thought, but I shouldn't have been so rude.”

“I owe you the apology. I should never… I forget what I did, but I'm sure I shouldn't have done it.”

“You forget a lot of things, don't you?”

The Doctor sighed. “Maybe they're right. Maybe I am senile.”

“I… I'm sorry?”

“Oh, nothing. Look, I know this might not be the best time, but did he happen to mention who he was?”

“Well, he said… he said he was an alien.”

“Fair enough. He's not the only one.”

“What do you mean?”

The Doctor leant forward across the table, resting his head on his forehooves. He allowed his eyes to bore into Derpy's. She flinched away, but then found herself drawn into them somehow… Peering closer, she found herself staring not into the Doctor's eyes, but into two enormous black pits, their bottoms too far away to see, infinitely dark and cavernous. She wondered how she hadn't noticed them before. But no matter, for now she was falling, falling into those pits, their walls lined with what felt like thousands of years of knowledge and experience, happy times and sad, memories that could be treasured for all eternity and others best forgotten. She had long since forgotten who she was, where she was, all she was aware of was falling, all that truly existed were these chasms…

“Do you require butter with your muffins, miss?”

Derpy screamed and jerked her head away from the Doctor's gaze, her eyes flying off in opposite directions. Then she realised the waiter was staring at her. “Oh! Uh, yes please.”

The waiter set a butter dish down on the table next to her plate of freshly baked muffins. “And your cake, sir.”

“Thanks awfully.”

The waiter departed tutting to himself about manners, and the Doctor promptly buried his muzzle in the generous slice of chocolate cake the waiter had placed before him. For her part, Derpy bent herself over her plate, closed her eyes tight shut, and inhaled deeply. The muffins were still warm, and the steam wafting from them carried the scent to the eager pegasus. This little anchor in reality had been just what she needed after... that. She still wasn't sure she could trust this stallion. Opening her eyes again, she noticed the butter that the waiter had left. She hadn't really wanted any, and had simply been taken by surprise by the waiter's request, but now it was here it seemed a shame to waste it.

In this short space of time, the Doctor had all but demolished his cake, and had set to painstakingly licking every trace of chocolate from his hooves. He was halfway through the tedious but rewarding task when he realised that Derpy had started to watch him. In his embarrassment, he quickly hid his hooves under the table and resumed the conversation. “He, er… didn't happen to say which planet he was from, did he?”

“Well...” Her mouth full of muffin, Derpy's words were practically unintelligible. “He faid fomefing abou' being on a refearfch miffion, bu' I don' really remember anything else.” It was her turn to look embarrassed. She swallowed her mouthful of crumbs. “I was pretty upset,” she said quietly.

“I understand.”

“So, I get that you're the Doc, but what do you do? Are you a mechanic, like my Doc?”

“Well, I… I suppose that I'm just a doctor. I wouldn't like to be more specific. I am the Doctor, and the Doctor means me.” He leaned back in his chair and smiled.

“Like, a medical Doctor?”

“Oh, no, no. I only wish I were. My back's been playing up again lately...”

“Then what are you a doctor of?”

“Of everything.”

Derpy gave him a quizzical look. “You weren't kidding about not being specific, were you?”

The Doctor laughed. “I'm not easy to describe. I'm a traveller, I suppose; an adventurer, that's certain; a gentlecolt, though I say it who shouldn't; and I'm somepony who likes to extend a helping hoof.”

“You travel, then?”

“I would say so, yes.”

“Where have you been?”

“Ha! Where haven't I been!”

“Yak-yakistan?”

“I haven't been there.”

“Then where?”

“I mentioned I was an alien, didn't I?”

“Well, you more just sort of implied it and did a stare-y thing with your eyes.”

“Oh, sorry. Well, I am. My dear, I've travelled the length, breadth, width and depth of space. I've travelled to the nine corners of the universe, seen things you wouldn't believe. Golden birds wheeling in a silver sky, their cries echoing over crystal mountains and emerald lakes. Glassy islands set in purple seas. Ponies made of words or thoughts, and creatures older than time itself. I've met Starswirl the Bearded, taken tea with King Sombra – before one or two unfortunate events that rather altered his way of life – and got into a fight with Princess Celestia's nanny. I've rescued whole planets from certain destruction, and seen suns burn as they die. And as they live, come to that. Suns have a bit of a habit of burning.”

Derpy was captivated, staring at the Doctor, eyes like saucers, begging him to go on. “Wow!” she breathed. “It sounds amazing!”

“Oh, it is,” smiled the Doctor. He stood up and walked out into the middle of the street, smiling at Derpy. “Believe me, I know. You see –

“I am the very model of a modern space-time renegade;

I've left countless evil power-grabbing monsters feeling quite dismayed;

I've climbed the mountains of Gi-braa, explored the caves of Fromium;

Discovered sixteen uses of the element polonium.”

The Doctor's apparently spontaneous melody was beginning to attract quite a crowd.

“I've got into more sword fights than a pony likes to talk about,

Defeated vampires, werewulfs, dragons, zombies going walk-about;

I've saved you all from Autons and a cruel Nestene Intelligence...”

Abruptly, the Doctor broke off, unsure. “Intelligence, intelligence… let me think. Ah, yes! Of course.”

“I speak eighty-million languages, though only twelve make any sense.”

To the Doctor's obvious delight, the townsponies echoed his rhyming triumph in chorus:

“He speaks eighty-million languages, though only twelve make any sense,

Eighty-million languages, though only twelve make any sense,

Eighty-million languages, though only twelve of those make any sense!”

(Diddle-iddle-iddle-iddle-iddle-iddle-ee)

“I battle against evil, but I'm not afraid to stop for tea,

To me alone the science of the strange can hold no mystery;

Considering a thousand talents more which I have not displayed,

I am the very model of a modern Timelord renegade.”

“Considering a thousands talents more which he has not displayed,

he is the very model of a modern Timelord renegade.”

(Om pom pom pom pom pom pom pom)

“I've been elected president, crowned king and made a noblecolt;

My differential calculus is faster than a lightning bolt;

I've fought a dozen robots with my grasp of alien martial arts;

And baked a temporal cake, a crystal bagel and some partial tarts.”

“Though not too keen on guns I am a crack-shot when I need to be,

My enemies, once shown my skill, immediately concede to me;

Though wanderer I may be, I am coping with my banishment...”

“Oh, crumbs. Banishment…? Oh, yes. Obvious, really.”

“The ponies of this town will surely think my presence Heaven-sent!”

“Oh yes, as ponies of this town, we think his presence Heaven-sent,

As ponies of this town, we're quite convinced that he is Heaven-sent,

As townsponies of Ponyville we've little doubt the Doc is Heaven-sent!”

(Diddle-iddle-iddle-iddle-iddle-iddle-ee)

“I've travelled back in time to help your ancestors along a bit,

And now I've got a moment it's a joy to make a song of it;

And thanks to many other talents which I haven't yet displayed:

I am the very pattern of a Gallifreyan renegade.”

“Those many other talents which he sadly hasn't yet displayed

Prove him the very pattern of a Gallifreyan renegade.”

(Om pom pom pom pom pom pom)

Now the Doctor slowed down his song to a more reverent pace.

“Now… From time to time I must admit, I doubt my very sanity,

And I've been known to demonstrate a frightening inanity.

On more than one occasion I have yielded to vanity,

And even valued violence over manners and urbanity.”

He cleared his throat, rather embarrassed. “And so, my dears –”

“This Doctor, though originating from a distant planet, he

would never let your world fall into chaos and insanity;

I hereby promise that so long as I retain organity...”

“Right… I've painted myself into a bit of a corner, here, haven't I?”

“Ratify!” shouted one of the ponies watching.

“Now, that's not quite right, is it?” the Doctor responded.

“Auntie!” shouted another.

“Better...”

“Strawberry!”

“You're not even trying.”

“Humanity!” suggested a teal unicorn mare near the front of the crowd.

“You just made that word up,” muttered the Doctor. “No, I have a better idea...” And drawing himself up onto his haunches, he very loudly and quickly sang:

“No evil creature will disturb this peaceful planet's sanctity!”

“A tricky one to rhyme as well, we didn't think of 'sanctity',

And even though it seems that mare made up the word 'humanity',

While he is here no monstrous thing would dare disturb Equestria's sanctity!”

(Diddle-diddle-diddle-diddle-diddle-diddle-dee)

“The mention of my name makes brave Sontarans and cruel Quarks afraid,

Slitheen and Weeping Alicorns are lucky to escape unscathed;

And bear in mind the talents that won't rhyme, and so go undisplayed:

I am the very model of a space-time-travelling renegade!”

“Those many talents that won't rhyme are tragically still undisplayed…

But he is the very model of a space-time-travelling renegade!”

(Om – pom – pom!)

(POM)

“Thank you, fillies and gentlecolts!” shouted the Doctor to the dispersing crowd. “I'm here all century. Please tell your friends not to call me 'Doc'!”

Derpy was almost speechless. “Doctor… that was...”

“Incredible?”

She nodded dumbly.

“Yes, well, not too bad. More or less had to make it up as I went along. Not too sure about one or two of the rhymes.”

“There's just one thing I don't understand, Doctor.”

“Oh? What's that?”

“What is a 'partial tart'?”

“Well, nothing really. I just couldn't think of anything else to rhyme with 'martial arts'.”

“Oh.”

As Derpy polished off her muffins, the Doctor continued to question her, and quickly found out about her first meeting with the other Doctor, about the many years they had spent as friends, and about the blow that his arrival had struck their relationship.

“My word,” he said, once Derpy had finished. “So he actually does know who I am? I was rather hoping it was some coincidence...” He got up from the table as if to go – Derpy had long since finished her muffins – saying as he did so “Well, it looks as though I'll have to have a talk with him. I need to find out who he is and what he wants. I don't think he's a threat any more, so that's a relief at any rate.”

Derpy giggled. “You talk funny.”

“You don't seem to understand adverbs, but I wasn't going to mention it.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind...”

“Doc?”

The Doctor winced. “Don't call me that, please.”

“Sorry, Doctor?”

“Yes?”

“I think he said his name was Tarrant.”

“Oh, well… there are a lot of species that use that as a name. Odd, really...”

“And he's a… Gal-something.”

“Ah, now that does narrow it down a tad.”

“And I don' t think he really looks like a pony. After he told me, when I looked at him, I could sort of see what he really looked like.”

“What, then?”

“Sort of purpley-blue. With no face.”

“Of course! He's a…” The Doctor's face fell. “It's on the tip of my tongue, but I can't for the life of me remember what they're called.”

“I feel like something was messing with my mind, telling me that he was a pony, when really he wasn't.”

The Doctor looked at Derpy with new respect. “It takes a lot to tune out psychic interference rays. You're actually pretty intelligent, aren't you?”

“What's that supposed to mean?” challenged Derpy, rather hurt.

“Well, for somepony who spends most of her life causing traffic accidents...”

“Oh, yeah. Fair enough.”

Together, the two ponies made their way towards the dwelling of the imposter Doctor. To her astonishment, Derpy realised that she was beginning to look up to this Doctor just as she had her old one. To his dismay, the Doctor realised that one slice of cake hadn't really been enough.

*'Quan' being roughly equivalent to 'Sir' or 'Mr' in Galgonquan society, as well as a polite prefix to a name or title, it is worth remembering that when addressing a female Galgonquan, properly called a 'Galgonquinne', it is correct to use the term 'Quanness', or one risks offending her. The fact that the feminine suffix is the same in Galgonquane – the many-layered language of that splendid race – as it is in Equestrian is pure coincidence.

** I'm afraid this can't be expressed in our language.

*** Well, ponies can't 'hand' each other things. That would be silly.

Author's Note:

Next episode: Come into My Parlour

I am truly sorry that this has taken so long. No one will even remember this story, now. More is on its way very soon!