Amy and Rory stepped into a small but well-appointed office that—but for the stone walls—would have been at home in any university on Earth in their own time.

Behind a carved wooden desk sat a kindly-looking old man in a suit and tie. He had deep blue eyes, bushy silver brows, a patient smile, and a look of gentle authority. Like a kindly uncle or your favourite teacher.

If your uncle was mental.

But his seeming calm was not the only reason he made Amy uncomfortable. It took her a moment to realize it, but his distant gaze and loopy smile reminded her not a little of the Doctor. The idea repelled her. Run away, her heart pounded. Run away.

"I am the warden," said the old chap. "How may I be of service?"

Rory seemed equally undone, but he flashed the psychic paper. "Prison inspectors, sir," he said weakly. "And so far its going very badly for... um." He trailed off.

The warden was staring at them. Just staring, sort of smiling.

A chill ran down Amy's spine. She and Rory had seen a whole range of responses to the psychic paper, from acceptance to awe to anger, but they'd never gotten no reaction at all. It was like the man couldn't even see. What was that? Some kind of drug? Mind control? Six months ago, either option would have sounded ridiculous. Now they barely scratched the surface of what was possible. How would the Doctor handle this? she wondered, and the answer came back at once.

Amy swallowed her fear and confusion, took a deep breath, and said, "Are you all right?"

"I am the warden," said the man, smiling.

There were two chairs in front of the desk. Amy stepped forward and sat in one of them. She put her elbows on her knees and cupped her chin in her hands. The position left her staring into the warden's sweet, empty eyes. "Listen," she said slowly. "If you're in trouble, if something happened to you, please tell us." She tried to smile. "We're not much," she admitted, and she knew they weren't. "But we'll try to help. I promise. Just tell us what's happened."

She put her whole heart into the urging, working as hard as she could to appear friendly and accepting. "If you were hypnotized, or, or infected.."

The man's expression did not flicker.

"Amy," said Rory, warning in his voice.

"It's all right," Amy murmured. She waved him away. "I don't think he can hurt us."

"I'm not worried about him," said Rory.

Having no luck with pleading, Amy tried a different approach. She waved a hand in front of the warden's face, then continued. "My husband and I came to visit someone. A friend of ours. River Song. Do you know that name?"

The warden did not perk up so much as come alive. "Oh, yes," he said. "River Song is a prisoner."

Amy felt like she had scored a point. "Yes. Yes she is. Now we're getting somewhere. So: can we see her? Please? It's very important."

"I'm afraid that's impossible," said the warden. "The prisoners have been punished."

Amy blinked. "What, all of them? What does that mean?"

"Justice has been served."

The warden smiled and smiled. There was nothing behind that expression. Amy used her feet to push her chair a few inches backward. But she did not break eye contact, nor lift her chin from her hands. Everybody gets a chance, a little voice inside her whispered. Everybody.

"Amy," Rory murmured.

"What?" said Amy. "I'm a bit busy down here."

"You're about to get busier," said Rory.

Amy shook her head like she was waking from a dream. She looked up at her husband, who was still standing, staring up at ceiling like it was about to come down on them. Then she heard it.

Then she saw it.

Of the two of them, it was Rory who had the keener senses. Amy knew the TARDIS and the Doctor best. But out here in the world, Rory was the one who had picked up the first signs of trouble. Just on the edge of Amy's perception was a high-pitched squeak, an eek-eek-eek that sounded almost like something winding up. Or winding down. She looked where Rory was looking. The ceiling was made up of metal panels, bolted in with screws. And one of the screws was turning. Eek-eek-eek, it went. It seemed to grow longer and longer.

Rory frowned and held up a palm. The screw dropped into his hand. "What—"

He was interrupted by a loud bang, then another. Something was pounding on the loose tile. There was something up there. It was strong. And it was trying to get in.

"Okay," said Amy. "Run?"

"Run," Rory agreed.

They got up and dashed to the door. Rory tried the handle. "Locked."

"It can't be locked!" said Amy. "We just came in that way!"

"Well, it is!"

Bang! Bang! The loose tile shuddered and shifted. Amy could see a tiny gap now between the tile and the others. All she could see through it was darkness.

Rory shouted through the door. "Guard! Guard! For God's sake, let us out."

"Wait," said Amy. She pressed the sonic screwdriver into Rory's hand.

Bang! Bang! Another scuffling noise, and the gap got wider.

Amy jumped over the warden's desk. She gripped his bony shoulder. "Look, you idiot," she hissed. "A minute ago you said the prisoners had been punished. All the prisoners."

Behind her Amy heard the whiz-whistle of the screwdriver heating up.

"It's not working," said Rory.

"Keep trying!" Amy called.

Bang! Bang!

"Justice has been served," said the warden.

"Yeah, I know, whatever," said Amy. "Just tell me: what was it? What did you do?"

"There is only one penalty," said the warden pleasantly.

"Say it," Amy hissed, her jaw set.

The warden smiled his charming, hideous Doctor smile. "Death."

"Amy," said Rory.

Bang—

The panel fell open, and darkness spilled out.