"So, Doctor," Cassie began as she walked along the bookshelves, glancing at random titles. "Just how big is this ship, anyway?"

"Why do you ask?" the Doctor replied, making his rounds around the console, idly flipping switches and turning dials to set the TARDIS on course."

Cassie shrugged. "Just curious. I mean, if the mass of everything on the inside doesn't register on the outside, then in theory there could be infinite space, right?"

The Doctor looked at her approvingly. "Very good. And not too far off the mark. It's not so much a matter of available space as it is available and potential energy to be converted into space. Different functions take different amounts of that energy, and the layout itself is malleable." The Doctor thought for a moment. "Well, adding together the console room, the wardrobes which you've seen already, living quarters, maintenance alcoves, storage rooms, the wine cellar-"

"You have a wine cellar?" Cassie interrupted.

"Several," the Doctor replied. "Let's see, what else? Swimming pool, gardens, galleries, libraries, and...well...everything else, I'd say it comes to a few cubic miles or so."

"Or so?" Cassie said flatly.

"Like I said, it all depends on the energy available. Matter/energy conversion is probably the least complicated function the TARDIS performs. If I power down a few nonessential systems, I could possibly double that. Not that I'd ever likely use it all. It's hard enough finding things in here as it is."

"What kind of galleries? Like, for paintings?" Cassie asked, her interest piqued.

"Yes, actually. It's something of a hobby of mine. Track down lost works of art to the point where history declared them lost and then rescue them."

"You don't mean stealing, do you?"

"Heavens no." The Doctor looked almost offended by the very thought. "Paintings lost in gallery fires, sculptures smashed beyond repair, that sort of thing. At the point where they would be lost forever, I show up when nobody's looking and whisk it away. To all the universe, they no longer exist and history continues on unaffected, but those works live on. They deserve not to be forgotten, at least by someone."

Cassie nodded, accepting the explanation for what it was. "Do you think it would be okay if I could see them?"

"Of course! Nothing would make me happier." The Doctor flashed her a grin before something on the pull-down monitor caught his attention. He frowned and stabbed at a few controls but still did not seem satisfied.

"Seems there's a bit of turbulence in the time vortex. It's making it difficult to lay in a proper automatic course," the Doctor explained. "Tell you what, though. How about you go and have a look around for awhile? We should be there in about an hour, so I'll come get you when we've arrived."

"Sounds good to me," Cassie replied. She headed for the open doorway when she turned back. "I won't get lost or anything, will I?"

"Of course not." The Doctor sounded amused. "The TARDIS will steer you clear of anything dangerous. Just go ahead and go. Explore. Open some doors at random and see where they take you."

With one last look at the Doctor, his attention now focused on the controls in front of him, Cassie turned and walked through the doorway. Doing as the Doctor suggested, she set off with no particular destination in mind. There was no hurry; she moved slowly down the hallway, taking in the scenery as she went. As in the control room, the floors were a rich, dark wood, framed by walls of polished granite. Though there were no windows or lights that she could see, the halls were nonetheless easy to navigate. Every so often she saw a torch mounted into a scone in the wall, or a stand of candlesticks, each burning with flickering orange light, casting shadows and banishing darkness from halls that were never truly dark.

The long hallway she had been walking down ended, and Cassie found herself in a large, enclosed courtyard. The ceiling extended several stories into the air, while the walls at the highest points were lined with massive windows, letting in what Cassie guessed must have been artificial sunlight. A large staircase on each side of the yard led up to a balcony that circled the expanse of the yard, but what caught Cassie's attention most was the waterfall. Built into the side of the wall beneath the balcony, the water cascaded down over two dozen feet into a large pool at its base, a series of protruding stones dissipating the water into a fine mist that glittered in the sunlight. A small brook, built into the floor itself, weaved from the pool, back and forth across the courtyard as naturally as any stream before draining into a small culvert at the base of the wall. Though the brook was only two or three feet across at most, a series of wooden footbridges provided easy access to the entire room. Near where Cassie was standing stood a large expanse of white sand, easily ten feet to a side and lined with polished stones. Nearby rested a series of wooden rakes and a small table clutted with smooth stones of various shapes and colors, along with a stack of books and some kind of handheld computer.

Walking across one bend in the stream, Cassie saw an enormous table on the opposite end of the yard, every inch covered with complicated and delicate-looking glass tubes and fixtures that reminded her of a high school chemistry set, though on a scale she'd never seen before. The whole room, with the sunlight and the brook's gentle murmering, gave a feeling of serenity, though the cluttered books and tubes suggested it was used just as often for work as for relaxation.

Climbing up to the balcony and pressing on through another door, Cassie found another room just as impressive as the one she'd just left. A small slow-moving canal, the source of the waterfall in the courtyard, cut through the middle of a wide hallway. On either bank, beyond a small walkway barely wide enough for one person, were massive shelves of books stretching over ten feet high. Wheeled ladders mounted on brackets provided access to the uppermost shelves. There was even a small gondola tethered to one side of the canal. Up ahead, Cassie could see branches in the canal leading off in different directions. Unlike the well-lit courtyard, sunlight here came only from narrow windows near the ceiling, reflecting off the water and casting a blue-green glow. Cassie's well-worn tennis shoes echoed loudly on the stone walkway and she found herself lightening her tread. The library struck her as eerie, yet strangely compelling, as though the room were a labrynth holding some precious treasure within, but had been built underwater and could flood at any moment.

Moving along the walkway, Cassie walked slowly along the edges of the canal's many branches until finding another door she decided to pass through. This time, she found herself at the top of a winding ramp, wide enough for ten people to walk side by side and spiraling down for many stories. The canal drain near the door led to a large waterfall that cascaded down the empty space in the middle of the ramp's spiral. An enormous window set directly above focused the sunlight down on the water like a pillar, refracting off the water into thousands of tiny rainbows.

Hundreds of paintings of every size, subject, and style lined almost every free inch of the wall. As she followed the ramp slowly downwards, Cassie could not see any similarity between them other than that the Doctor found them worth preserving. A couple that she passed almost seemed to glow in the diffuse sunlight, and one otherwise unremarkable picture seemed to radiate heat as she passed close to it.

Eventually, Cassie reached the bottom level and, after rounding the stone pool and giggling a bit at the cherub fountains lining its edge, headed out through another door. What she saw there stopped her dead in her tracks.

Compared to the beautiful sculpture and design of the rest of the TARDIS, this room seemed downright spartan. Polished marble floors and high vaulted ceilings, along with hundreds of silver display cases along the walls and set randomly across the floor, made the room feel like a modern day museum. Cassie stepped forward and examined a few of the cases. There were no labels, and many of the objects within defied any categorization she could think of. A tuft of grass, a stuffed animal, a scroll, a feather tipped in silver for use as a quill, and a signet ring; all these and more were stored under glass or encased in crystal, all lovingly preserved.

She moved toward the walls and saw that these cases all contained pictures. Nowhere near the size and majesty of the paintings she had seen elsewhere, but all set on display like priceless treasures. Most of those she saw were photographs of almost lifelike quality, showing a man with brown hair combed back and curling above his shoulders. As she continued walking, she saw other pictures of the same man at varying points in his life: A young man smiling proudly while wearing orange robes and a strange headdress; a child, no older than eight or nine, staring enraptured into some kind of swirling purple vortex mounted in a frame like a stand-up mirror; a serious-looking man in his middle ages, brown hair now laced with silver, wearing his orange robes, now much more intricately embroidered, and shaking hands with a smiling old man holding an ornate golden staff and wearing robes of brilliant white; and an old man, hair now completely white but looking happier than in any of the previous pictures, a fey gleam in his eyes, dressed in chequered pants and black jacket, and his arm around the waist of a grinning young woman in her late teens, with short black hair, tight-fitting black pants, and an oversized tunic tucked into her waistband. Next to that last photo stood a pair of certificates, handwritten with such ornate calligraphy that Cassie could barely read them; they looked like diplomas. The name 'Susan Foreman' was written on one, while the name on the other, appearing far older, faded with slight tears at the edges, was indecipherable, though whether that was because of the penmanship or smudging of the ink, she couldn't be sure of.

Beyond that, in the middle of the floor, Cassie saw the orange robes the man had been wearing draped around a mannequin encased in glass; next to it was a mannequin wearing the outfit she had seen the man wearing in the last photograph. Past that point, she saw that the displays continued, though they were now polished brass. The first object that caught her attention was a small metal penlight; just beyond that stood a recorder, chipped and faded. The pictures continued as before, though now the main object was a middle-aged man in a rumpled suit and a slightly ridiculous bowl cut. Many of the pictures with him featured a short-haired man wearing a tight black turtleneck, a smug-looking young woman in a glittering minidress, and an earnest man with reddish-brown hair and a kilt. The pictures were less lifelike, yet more realistic, as though taken from an actual camera and not a perfect memory engraved on paper. As before, the displays ended with a mannequin draped in the man's rumpled suit, the type of outfit he wore in most of the pictures, before continuing on, the cases this time tinged in red.

Dominating this collection was an old-fashioned yellow jalopy, perfectly waxed and restored, resting on a platform above the other displays. The pictures were now mixed with rough sketches of faces, buildings, and other objects of note.

The next hall was perhaps the largest yet. They featured a tall man with an easy smile, wearing high leather boots, a long tweed jacket, and an absurdly long scarf. The collection of pictures, this time with the sketches replaced by brightly-hued watercolors, had a wide variety of people standing beside him or on their own. Several dozen pictures, all grouped together, displayed the man alongside a petite young woman with long, strawberry blond hair. Cassie laughed when she saw one large photograph with the pair. The man was smiling broadly, his arm around the woman's shoulder while both her arms stretched around his waist. He wore the same outfit as before, but what made Cassie laugh was that the woman was wearing much the same thing, a long white coat and a white scarf laced with pink. Nearby, a small metal robot, less than two feet, tall, battered and dented, stood on a display case. The main body looked as though it moved on wheels beneath its base, but the protruding face looked almost like that of a dog. There was even a red leather collar draped around its neck.

After that, the next hall featured a young man with short blond hair, dressed in striped pants and a cream-colored jacket that he wore casually but which nonetheless looking almost like a uniform. There were very few pictures compared to the previous displays, but one large painting stood above the rest, featuring a young man in his late teens, with unruly brown hair and a red and yellow patchwork shirt decorated with what looked like a sheriff's star pinned on his chest. The size of the painting, and the way it stood, with a fair amount of open space before it, made it seem as though it were a memorial. A mannequin, as before, held the man's outfit, though the cream jacket was burnt and torn in places, and the white sweater beneath was smeared with ash and soot. A display case neck to the mannequin, set conscpicuously apart from the others, held an empty glass vial.

The next hall had very few displays, though the number of pictures it held more than made up for it. Almost all featured a grinning man with curling light-brown hair and a garish, clashing outfit that was hard to look at directly. With few exceptions he stood alone in those pictures, and even when he stood next to someone he tended to lean forward as though to dominate the frame.

The hall after that featured a middle-aged man with dark hair and somber features. The first few rows of pictures had him wearing a bright red-and-green sweater dotted with question marks, though that was soon replaced by a more tasteful maroon waistcoat. Unlike the menagerie of friends the previous halls had featured, this man's only held two: A tall woman with bright red hair and an expressive face, and a young woman not much older than Cassie herself, with a light-brown ponytail and a black leather jacket decorated with sewn-in patches. Walking past the displays, Cassie saw a featureless metal tube, punctured and set with a short fuse like a homemade bomb. Near the end, she saw a large picture with the man and the young girl standing next to each other. Both were dressed in flowing orange robes; the man's were lined with glittering medals and a brilliant white sash fringed in gold, while the girl's were without decoration and did not feature the stiff headdress of her counterpart. The man's face beamed like a proud father while the girl offered only an embarassed smile.

Cassie gasped slightly as she passed into the last hall and saw the Doctor smiling at her from a large photograph of himself, standing in between a blond woman in a white lab coat and a young asian man in black pants and a bright red windbreaker. What did that mean? Where the men displayed in all the previous halls friends of the Doctor? Family? Maybe a line of descendants? None of them looked anything alike, though, other than their odd taste in clothes.

Directly below the first picture was a State of California death certificate, made out on December 31, 1999 for a Mr. John Smith, signed by a Dr. Holloway and co-signed by a Dr. John Bowman. Cassie raised an eyebrow when she saw the Doctor's assumed name written there, complete with a little smiley face next to the signature.

Almost immediately after, there was a long series of photos featuring the Doctor and a blond girl maybe a few years older than Cassie herself. Her constant smile, bright clothes, and all-american demeanor reminded her of Kendra. A perpetually unshaven man in his mid twenties, wearing a worn leather jacket and an easy grin, soon became a constant subject. And on and on it went. Of all the halls so far, this one had by far the most people coming and going: A mocha-skinned, professional looking girl in a lavender pantsuit; a dark-haired woman in her thirties with a dirty face and worn travelling clothes, a plain-looking woman with coppery-red hair and a perpetually annoyed look on her face, and dozens more.

Almost all of the subjects in the photos were also featured in large portraits spaced high along the walls, all painted with oils in a classical style that reminded Cassie of the landscape painting he had done of the Amethyst Sands. He must have painted all these, she realized. Every one of the Doctor's friends had been given a place of honor along these walls. Many of the people within were in formal dress; gowns or suits, reflecting a sort of nobility the Doctor had seen within them. Comparing the paintings to the photographs below, she could see the difference in how they were reflected: A blemish subtly removed, the softening of a frown, a glimmer in the corner of an eye. One by one, the Doctor's brush had made them better than they were before.

Cassie had just finished looking at a photograph of the Doctor standing next to a young woman, blond, with a denim jacket and a mischievous grin when she looked around and saw nothing else beyond. Though the gallery itself continued, there were no further exhibits on display, no more pictures. The displays stood empty, standing in the darkness where the lights had ceased to function.

"I see you've found my museum, then!" A booming voice echoed from behind her. Cassie turned and saw the Doctor walking briskly toward her.

"Your museum?" Cassie asked.

"Yes," the Doctor replied, coming to a stop before her. He waved a hand encompassing the entire hall. "Everything here, everything you see, I've collected on my travels. I keep them close as memories of what's come before. Which leads me to it's given name: The Hall of Memory."

The Doctor laughed softly as he reached over and placed his hand on a display of tiny round stones, each polished and etched with complex designs. "These were given to me by the Patriarch of Orbis, oh, years ago. Holy relics, he called them." His eyes lowered. "I never learned why," he said softly, his voice tinged with regret.

Cassie wanted to press further, but the memory was clearly a bad one for the Doctor. "Who are all these people with you?" Cassie asked instead, indicated the long rows of pictures.

The Doctor gave her a gentle smile. "They're like you. All friends and companions who've travelled with me at one point or another."

"There's so many, though..." Cassie trailed off. "I mean, I know you said you were old and that, but...where did they all go?"

The Doctor's smile dropped a little.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean-" Cassie blurted out, seeing that she had hit a soft spot.

"No, no," the Doctor waved her off. "Everyone leaves, sooner or later. Because they have to, or because they should. They leave on some new adventure. Find some new cause to work toward. Fall in love. Or fall out of it." The Doctor shrugged. "They grow up."

They turned and began walking back toward the entrance.

"What about all these other galleries?"

The Doctor turned toward her. "What do you mean?"

"Well, this whole hall has just pictures of you, along with all these paintings you did. But these ones all the way back have completely different people. Are they friends of yours?"

"Sometimes, but not as often as I would like." The Doctor lingered a moment near the death certificate Cassie had seen earlier. "In a sense, they are all me."

Cassie was quiet for a long moment. "All you?" she asked. "Like, reincarnation?"

"Reincarnation actually isn't a bad way of looking at it. My people, the Time Lords, all have a way of cheating death. When our bodies are dying, we can regenerate. We live on, but in the process we change. Our bodies, our minds. Our personalities. Everything except the innermost core of who we are is altered. We live but it still feels like dying." The Doctor's voice grew quiet. "A new man with a new face walks away, and the man left behind is gone forever."

The Doctor inhaled, smiled, and focused again on Cassie. "But yes, aside from some minor disagreements, they are all me, and so for better or worse, their memories are my memories."

Cassie decided to change the subject. "So we've made it to wherever we're going?"

"Yes!" the Doctor replied, suddenly excited. "I've given this a lot of thought." He stopped in his tracks, turning to face Cassie and smiling infectiously. "For your first real trip, I thought long and hard where to take you. Out of tens of billions of possible galaxies and the entire lifespan of the universe..." The Doctor trailed off.

"Yes?" Cassie prodded.

"I've decided to take you..." He trailed off again, clearly enjoying himself.

"Yes?"

"To the most renowned, the most revered..."

"Yes?"

"The most highly recommended steakhouse in history!"

With a flourish, the Doctor turned and walked toward the exit, leaving a baffled Cassie standing in his wake.

"Steak?" she finally asked aloud.