He pilots the TARDIS into the cargo hold of Antares's ship−a cruiser-class transport with noticeable modifications to the defence array−while Clara searches the TARDIS wardrobe for suitable attire. Hielo is in the grip of a millennia long ice age. One day it will green again, and a past version of himself will walk amongst the pristine forests that eventually replace the desolate glaciers. Today, Hielo is death to a human not appropriately dressed.
She emerges on cue as the TARDIS lands, standing in the doorway of the console room with one hand on her hip. "Is all this really necessary?"
She is bundled from head to toe in orange thermals, her face framed by a fur hood, mask pulled down and goggles on her forehead.
"Yes."
"And yet you're wearing a thin hoody. And no hat."
"Why would I need a hat? I've got the hood. Anyway, I am taking gloves, look." He waves them at her. "It's not my fault you're basically a tropical ape and I'm an advanced species, is it?"
"Tropical ape? Ha. That's a new one. Come on, I'm over-heating just standing here."
He follows her out into the cargo bay, effectively the belly of the ship, lined with shuttle pods. A stairway leads up to the crew quarters, kitchen and bridge.
"The Wray," Clara says, reading the huge stencil adorning the bay walls.
A pun, he suspects, referring to the Batoid shape of the ship and Scorpius's bright star. "The Bridge will be upstairs. You don't want to miss the view on our trip through the Gate."
She gives him a look, blowing fur and fringe off her already sticky forehead, but follows him down the bay and up the stairs.
Elara unfolds down the ladder from her quarters as they pass, wearing only a thin leather jerkin and trousers. Her mouth quirks at the sight of the swaddled Clara. "Nice coat."
"Thanks," replies Clara breezily, unintimidated.
The rest of the crew are waiting on the bridge, Antares and one of the faceless Multiple segments at the helm.
"All here Captain," says Elara.
"Good. Time to be going."
There is the slightest shudder as the docking clamps release, and they are away. The ship swings slowly backwards from the station, out to where the Gate hangs in space. The graceful arch gleams in the starlight, sinuous alien metal, blackness held within. The Wray edges towards it slowly, inching into position. There is a second of stillness as the manoeuvring thrusters cut out, and then the rumble of the main engine starts to thrum through their feet.
They enter the Gate. For a second it is hard to draw breath; the sensation of being squeezed. The blackness explodes with light, stars rushing past in a blur, and suddenly winking out. They burst from the Hielo Gate, wrought from the side of a mountain that would dwarf Everest, and accelerate away over a vast tongue of ice.
Clara's face is aglow, he notices. The TARDIS brings them wonders, of course, but he rarely takes the time to provide an aerial showcase like this. Perhaps he should do it more often.
They pass the control tower, a dark finger against the greys of the ice stretching away in all directions, and the ship begins to make her descent. Antares disengages from the helm. Multiple's concealed segment can apparently pilot unaided, despite the lack of eye-holes in its silvery mask.
"There are three outward Gates on Hielo," explains the Captain, "And Alya could have taken any of them onwards. Or she could still be here. Clara, Doctor: you'll be scoping out the Alpha Gate. Elara and I will take the Beta, and Multiple One and Two will take Delta. Multiple Three will remain here with the Wray."
He touches the helm, and Clara jumps as a shimmering hologram of a coltish young girl suddenly appears on deck. She is frowning, pensive, long dark hair partially hiding her face.
"Alya," says Antares simply, his voice thick. "Find her. Bring her back to me."
He passes them all a fat grey disk with a button in the middle. Clara has to remove one of her huge mittens to take it, and looks inquiringly at the Doctor. He presses the button of his own disk in explanation. The same image in miniature appears, standing up from where the holo-emitter sits in his palm.
"In case you need a reminder."
Clara tucks her disk into the front pocket of her enormous coat and replaces her glove, fixing the Doctor with a determined look. "Let's go find her."
"Well, how did you think we were going to get to the station?"
"I don't know!" she retorts, "The TARDIS maybe? Some sort of transporter… beam. Not snow speeders. More specifically, not you driving a snow speeder."
"But why would I make you wear that coat if we were going to take the TARDIS?" he asks, appealing to reason.
"Fair point," she concedes, casting a critical eye over the speeder. "That is… a fair point. Right." She appears to have reached some sort of decision, pulling up her mask and putting on her goggles. "I'm driving."
"What? No, come on, you've never driven a speeder before-"
"Maybe not, but it looks pretty much the same as my scooter and I've seen how you pilot the TARDIS, Doctor. No arguments. I'm driving; you can navigate."
She swings a heavily padded leg over the seat and sits in the driving position, brooking no disagreement.
With extreme reluctance he climbs on behind her. "You used to let me drive," he complains, as she fires up the scooter.
"Yeah, well! I know you better now!" she shouts over the engine, and they roar out of the cargo bay doors after the others.
The cold hits him like a door for all his claims of superior biology; catching in his throat and cutting to his core. The speeder skips along the ice, roaring away from the Wray at considerable speed. He can just about hear Clara whooping over the rushing wind.
"Left!" he screams, all propriety forgotten as he clings on to her for grim death, "You need to go left! Follow that glacier!"
She turns the speeder gracefully. With grudging reluctance he's forced to accept she can drive the thing rather well.
The icescape unfolds before them; mile after mile of interwoven grey and white stretching away to the distant rock walls of the valley. He tries not to let his teeth chatter as she manoeuvres them around the occasional up-thrust of dark rock or powdered snowfall, following the tongue of ice.
Alpha Station sits at the junction between glaciers, a glittering spire that catches the setting sun and flashes red-gold. For a second he is worlds away; speeding towards the gleaming tower of the Academy on Gallifrey, shining world of the seventh system. Then the light changes, and reality returns.
They join what is clearly a highway into the Station, other bundled travellers now zipping alongside them towards the formidable structure. Traffic slows as they approach, peeling off left and right to destinations unknown. The main road continues inside the Station, rough-cut ice arching around the thoroughfare to form a huge tunnel.
"Next exit!" he yells over the drone of the speeders and she pilots them onto the slip-road. The conceit that the whole station is hewn from the ice is revealed at this point, carved walls giving way to metal shutters and container units. These are the business premises and houses of the lower tier of the Station, laid out in a rough grid within a huge fissure in the ice. The Doctor calls Clara to a halt outside a particularly large unit. Several other speeders are parked outside.
He disembarks somewhat stiffly. "This is the place. Old Martin knows just about- what? What's so funny?"
She fails to quite stifle her giggles "Your eyebrows have frozen."
"Well, I'm sure they'll thaw out soon enough," he returns waspishly, "Come on. We've got people to talk to."
He leads her inside the unit, which is decked out in the universal furniture of scummy bars across the Universe. Ill-matched fixtures, puddles of stale smelling beer and lumpish intimidating clientele are very much the order to the day. Several such patrons are openly staring at Clara.
"You always take me to the nicest places," she mutters.
"That's a bit unfair. We did see the Orient Express, after all."
"Yes, and look what happened. A mummy tried to kill us."
"There are no mummies here. I'm absolutely certain," he lies.
She raises a sceptical eyebrow, not at all fooled. "I'm more worried about the Abominable Snowmen in this instance." She trails off, frowning.
"None of those left either," he reassures, watching her closely. "Are you alright?" He's never really sure; what she remembers and what she doesn't of all those copies of herself she scattered throughout time and space.
"Yeah. No. I-just…" She takes a breath, regains her usual cool, and tries again. "I'm fine. Just a feeling. Like someone walked over my grave."
"Let's hope not. Anyway, don't let the battered exterior fool you. This place is the beating heart of the Station." He spreads his arms wide, inviting further scrutiny. Behind him, one of the patrons begins to slide slowly off his stool. She watches in fascination as the drunk slips all the way down to the floor, where he rolls over and starts to gently snore.
"Beating heart?"
"There's no call for that tone," he says severely, "And stop smirking."
Before any other barflies can undermine him, he sweeps over to the bar proper where a man is cleaning glasses. He is probably human, although his giant mustachios, hulking frame and shaggy fur overcoat definitely suggests walrus as a potential second option.
"Afternoon traveller," he says, "What can I get for you?"
"A Telurian tea," answers the Doctor gravely, fixing the man with a glare made only more ferocious by his still-thawing eyebrows, "Two limes, but hold the olive garnish."
The landlord's mouth drops open. "Professor?"
"Yes," says the Doctor, enjoying Clara's obvious confusion. "It's a pleasure to see you again, Martin."
Movement under the mustachios suggests something like a smile might be happening. "Professor!" Before he can react, the Doctor finds one of his hands is now caught in Martin's fearsome grip. He almost manages not to wince, as the giant delivers his traditional bone-grinding handshake. "It's been too long! I must say, the new cover is really impressive. I'd never have guessed it was you."
It's hard to look too pleased with himself when circulation is progressing no further than his wrist. Thankfully Martin lets go, transferring his attention to Clara. "My new associate," the Doctor says by way of explanation.
"Clara Oswald," says Clara.
For reasons unfathomable to the Doctor, Martin kisses her hand rather than crushes it. "A pleasure to meet you. Martin Ingeborgsen. I run this establishment, for my sins."
"And many they are," mutters the Doctor, which raises a booming laugh from the landlord.
"You musn't listen to him," Martin tells Clara, "Almost all of the stories about me are lies. What can I possibly help you with this time then, Professor?"
Wordlessly, the Doctor pulls out his holo-emitter and the brooding Alya flickers into life in his palm. Martin studies the girl's frowning face carefully before shaking his head. "She didn't come through here. But I can put out some feelers."
"Good man."
"I'll need at least a day," Martin continues, "Come back tomorrow and I'll let you know what has turned up. Oh, before you go, Doctor… I don't suppose you see much of the delightful Ms Dorothy these days?"
He swallows the sick swoop in his stomach, smiling tightly. "Sometimes. Around and about." In his nightmares mostly.
"Give her my best, won't you? That Nitro stuff she helped me brew up went down a treat with the mining crews over on the Nils Glacier."
"I'll try to let her know."
Clara waits until they are outside to ask the obvious question. "Who's Dorothy?" Her tone is soft rather than accusatory, afraid she already knows his answer.
"You know, she hated that name. Almost everyone knew her as Ace." He meets her big doe-eyes, forcing himself to say the words. "She was on Gallifrey in the last days of the war and I don't know what happened to her."
Her mouth twists and she nods. When he wore another face she would have hugged him about now, and it might have made him feel better. These days she gives him that sad look instead, knowing there's nothing in anyone's embrace that can take away the hole of his missing people; that he'd rather keep up the pretence that he's really fine about it all. Water under the bridge. Or something like that.
"Come on," he says, "There's somewhere else we can check for Alya while we're waiting."