Having finally arrived back at the lobby after a few tweaks with the sonic and a desperate swiftness in their steps, the Doctor and Amy threw themselves onto an empty couch. The room hummed with the sound of other early-starters. A waiter had seen their arrival and scooted over to them to offer them a drink.

''Two coffees, please,'' said the Doctor with a certain pride in his educated social request.

''No, no, no,'' Amy butted in, ''no more of that for you mister. He'll have a decaf.''

The waiter bowed his head and walked off to a corner of the lobby where a bulky metal door resided. The Doctor looked browbeaten.

''Alright, Mister Caffeine,'' said Amy, ''slow down and make with the techno-babble.''

The Doctor leaned in close to Amy and began talking in an excited whisper.

''These people,'' he said giddily, ''all of these people in this lobby, behind that counter, in the kitchens and in the rooms, they're all ghosts!''

''What kind of ghosts?'' Amy enquired.

''Projections. Living, thinking projections of people who once visited 'The Vaconian'.''

''So they're not real, but they can still react to whatever is real?''

''Precisely. They're echoes. Whatever this place is, whatever it really is, it's filled with electronic ghosts.''

The Doctor beamed at the cleverness of the hotel while Amy deliberated.

''So,'' she eventually said, ''if everything inside is just a… projection, then does that mean the entire hotel is as well?''

''No,'' said the Doctor. ''No, I don't think so. At least, not entirely. I think it's just the people and the storm. Wherever this illusion is coming from it's having a hard enough time keeping those intact. Did you notice when we first came in here-''

''It was like we were passing straight through the crowd.''

''Yes. Like a glitch in programming. This means there must be some kind of foundation that we're on; otherwise we could just fall straight through the hologram at any moment. Someone, or something, has brought the hotel back to life.''

''What happened to it? How was it destroyed?'' asked Amy, dreading the answer.

''A meteor,'' stated the Doctor.

''H-how many people… died?'' Amy asked, wondering if she even wanted to know. The Doctor contemplated Amy for a few seconds but couldn't bring himself to answer her. Luckily, a distraction arrived in the form of two ceramic, colourfully decorated coffee mugs, balanced perfectly on a reflectively clean silver tray resting on the waiter's arm. They were placed on the table between Amy and the Doctor and rippled before them, awaiting their refreshing demise. Amy took a sip but her reaction was not how someone usually responds to drinking a beverage. Instead she looked perplexed by the menial task she had performed.

''It tastes real,'' she said to her mug.

''I would hope so, I've been drinking it all night,'' said the Doctor.

''But we can taste it. If everything's all just an illusion then it's a really damn good one,'' said Amy.

''Implying every little thing is fake as well as the people,'' the Doctor responded. ''Then again how else would they be able to hand us coffee mugs that we can pick up.''

''But if I'm right,'' mused Amy, ''and the coffee mugs are just projections as well, then how can we pick them up? It doesn't make sense either way.''

''Trust me, Pond,'' yearned the Doctor, ''in my world it makes just as much sense for us to be able to touch something that's not real than for something that isn't real to touch something that is.''

With a moment's hesitation, he took a gulp of his decaf and immediately shot up from his chair. Amy sighed and followed after him. She caught up to the Doctor just as he arrived in front of the counter and boyishly bopped the service bell. The lobbyist, Alison, was once again there to greet them.

''Hello, me again,'' said the Doctor before she could begin her pleasantries.

''I'm sorry, have we met?'' Alison asked innocently.

''Prince of France,'' said the Doctor, holding out his hand. He retracted it awkwardly when Alison didn't respond. ''We met yesterday.''

Alison stared blankly at the Doctor, raising her eyebrows. He retrieved his psychic paper and waved it in front of her.

''That says 'Ash Brown; Kitchen Hand','' said Alison bemusedly. The Doctor flipped the paper around in his hand.

''Ah. I should stop, uh, thinking about breakfast. Anyway! I need to get to the maintenance areas of those elevators. Which wa-?''

''Those areas are restricted to guests. That information is for the main-'

''The maintenance man! Of course. Who just so happens,'' he passed the psychic paper to his other hand, behind his back, and held it in front of the clerk once more, '' to be me. Switched jobs last week; getting my cards muddled.''

Alison was doubtful of their legitimacy but nevertheless directed the Doctor to the maintenance door, just along the wall from the door they had originally entered through. Along with Amy, the Doctor turned to head straight there.

''Wait, where's her ID?!'' enquired Alison.

''Oh, um,'' began Amy, but the Doctor triggered the sonic from inside his pocket and the large case of pigeon holes behind the lobby counter shook violently. Several pairs of keys fell to the floor, amidst copious amounts of folders and paperwork. A dozen guests turned their heads and Alison scuffled about trying to figure out what had happened. By the time she had collected herself and gone back to confront the pair, they were already halfway across the lobby. Panic stricken, Alison dived for the phone and swiftly dialled a memorised number.

''It's me,'' she said when the receiver picked up, ''a couple have just gone into the maintenance areas. Keep an eye on them.''

Thirty storeys above her, a closet door stood ajar; darkness leaking from the cracks in the archway. There were no guests on the landing, which was silent but for the creaking of the closet door as it swayed of its own accord.

''As you wish, ma'am,'' came a deep, hoarse from inside the closet. The man who had spoken dropped a mobile phone onto something soft but hefty. The door swung open from the breeze and the hallway light leapt into the closet, discovering the body of a man in a dark grey uniform, lying dead on the floor curled up in an undignified position.

Mysteriously, the very same man treaded out of the small storage room and as a smile crept up one half of his face, he slammed the door shut and walked off towards the elevators.

Back in the lobby, the phone slipped down between Alison's hand and her suddenly sickly pale cheek and crashed onto the counter. Her face was frozen in horror. A single hushed word fell from her lips.

''Anton.''

...

''How does that work? The psychic paper?'' asked Amy. She was skipping in her step to keep up with her lead. ''How come it messed up with the prince thing?''

''It sends a relay to the mind,'' said the Doctor. ''Either the mind of the person you want to fool or the mind of the holder. Normally I just clear my own mind and let it show whatever the viewer needs to see; the authority that overpowers them. Sometimes, though, I need to back up who I say I am, so in those cases all I have to do is think and voila!''

''So you were thinking more about bacon than your disguise?''

''Don't be silly,'' hammered the Doctor. Amy looked inquisitively at him. ''I was thinking about eggs.''

The two shared a smirk, and sonicked their way through the maintenance door.