It's a funny place, this BZR Inc. Posh, in a very obvious way; all shiny and gleaming like everything, including the receptionist, has been smoothed over with furniture polish. And it is old, like a oily-scaled, curled up animal, all sleepy with its power and serene the way an iceberg is.

The receptionist is stabbing a button frantically with one finely manicured finger, the red gleam of panic in his eyes not quite disguised by his glasses. Halfbreeds know each other, halfbreeds know true angels or demons, and halfbreeds know humans.

Halfbreeds do not know Time Lords.

"Call him," says the receptionist into the phone, coldly. For the Doctors, at least, it may be as if his human face simply peels itself away to reveal the rotten, grotesque visage beneath: slime and decay and maggoty with corruption. "It's his own instruction, for anomalies. Call him."