Whilst the Doctor's pose might have resembled that of an Egyptian mummy, nothing else about the Doctor did.  Tousled mop of hair, multi-coloured coat, old and much-loved boots, none of these belonged in the depths of a pyramid, though that's just were they might was well be, he mused.  He had set himself down to the third level of banji-rana, one heart slowed almost to a standstill, body temperature almost three degrees down, respiration normal, and allowed the twenty per cent of brain function left to him to wander as freely as it wished.  The theory was absolutely sound, and the resulting washing of impurities from his several subconscious levels should have done wonders for his powers of concentration, but it wasn't working out that way and the present state of sublimity he had achieved was driving him potty.  Well, all things are relative, he was forced to concede.  He had missed out a couple of staues somewhere, he knew, and the end result was nowhere near as relaxing as it should be.  Probably something to do with that infernal pipe rattling, he thought irritably.  Disturbing my concentration, rubbing my aura up the wrong way.  The fact that banji-rana was designed to overcome exactly such things as rattling pipes, he found deliciously perverse, which was another sign the trance was not effective, and another very good reason why, with all the temptations it otherwise offered, he had never become a transcendentalist.

Curse that infernal pipe!  With the money invested in this tunnel complex, you'd think they could have got a decent plumber...  His eyes snapped open and the second heart tripped in full pelt.  This is not the recommended method of coming out of a banji-rana trance, in fact for anyone with a normal human physique it was guaranteed one hundred per cent fatal, but by Jove it was fast.

Not a plumber born could have cured that pipe.  No water that ever fell from heaven ever produced that rhythmic tone.  The Doctor listened for a few seconds longer.

'Ask not for whom the pipe clangs,' he muttered, with only a pitiful gesture of an apology to Mr Donne, as he frantically searched through his pockets for something to communicate with.  He uttered a small cry of triumph as he pulled forth an ancient pair of nutcrackers.

'The right tool for the right job,' he crowed as he jumped up on the bed.  Hesitantly, he tapped out a short staccato beat of his own devising on the pipe.  Silence.  He tried another variation, slightly less mathematical.  Silence.  He thought for a moment and tried a bongo beat he'd picked up with Livingstone.  Nothing.  At last, reduced to childish basics he tried a straightforward, no-mucking-about, this-one's-for-you-baby , one-two-three.  Not a peep.

'Not the Abbe Faria then,' he concluded, glumly.  Determined to put on at least as good a show as the Count of Monte Cristo, he started tapping again.