Contents
Cover
About the Book
About the Author
Also in the Series
Title Page
The Changing Face of Doctor Who
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Copyright
DOCTOR WHO AND THE DALEKS
David Whitaker
DOCTOR WHO AND THE CRUSADERS
David Whitaker
DOCTOR WHO AND THE CYBERMEN
Gerry Davis
DOCTOR WHO AND THE ABOMINABLE SNOWMEN
Terrance Dicks
DOCTOR WHO AND THE AUTON INVASION
Terrance Dicks
DOCTOR WHO AND THE CAVE MONSTERS
Malcolm Hulke
DOCTOR WHO AND THE TENTH PLANET
Gerry Davis
DOCTOR WHO AND THE ICE WARRIORS
Brian Hayles
DOCTOR WHO – THE THREE DOCTORS
Terrance Dicks
DOCTOR WHO AND THE ARK IN SPACE
Ian Marter
DOCTOR WHO AND THE LOCH NESS MONSTER
Terrance Dicks
DOCTOR WHO AND THE ZARBI
Bill Strutton
DOCTOR WHO AND THE WEB OF FEAR
Terrance Dicks
DOCTOR WHO AND THE DINOSAUR INVASION
Malcolm Hulke
DOCTOR WHO AND THE GENESIS OF THE DALEKS
Terrance Dicks
DOCTOR WHO – THE VISITATION
Eric Saward
DOCTOR WHO – VENGEANCE ON VAROS
Philip Martin
DOCTOR WHO – BATTLEFIELD
Marc Platt
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Epub ISBN: 9781473530355
Version 1.0
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
BBC Books, an imprint of Ebury Publishing,
20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,
London SW1V 2SA
BBC Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com
Novelisation copyright © Eric Saward 1982
Original script © Eric Saward 1982
The Changing Face of Doctor Who and About the Author © Justin Richards 2015
Eric Saward has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
BBC, DOCTOR WHO and TARDIS (word marks, logos and devices) are trademarks of the British Broadcasting Corporation and are used under licence.
First published by BBC Books in 2016
First published in 1982 by Universal-Tandem Publishing Co. Ltd.
www.eburypublishing.co.uk
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9781785940392
Editorial Director: Albert DePetrillo
Editorial Manager: Grace Paul
Series Consultant: Justin Richards
Cover design: Lee Binding © Woodlands Books Ltd, 2016
Cover illustration: Chris Achilleos
Production: Alex Goddard
The Fifth Doctor
This Doctor Who novel features the fifth incarnation of the Doctor. In this incarnation the Doctor was perhaps at his most ‘human’. The Fifth Doctor was apparently younger than his predecessors. But despite his apparent youth, the Doctor demonstrates again and again a depth of wisdom and experience that is at odds with his appearance.
The Fifth Doctor was also more affected by the process of regeneration, needing to spend time in the TARDIS Zero Room in order to recover from the experience.
Rather than a father figure, he was more of an older brother to his companions, and his affection for them was obvious. He is also perhaps the most selfless of the Doctor’s incarnations. Ultimately, he sacrifices his own life to save Peri Brown – a young woman he barely knows.
Adric
A talented mathematician, Adric comes from a community stranded on the planet Alzarius. He hid on board the TARDIS after the Doctor, Romana and K-9 helped his people repair their Starliner and leave the planet.
Socially inept, and rather selfish, Adric does mellow during his time on board the TARDIS. He gradually comes to appreciate and care for other people, although he is never one to philosophise or suffer from a moral dilemma. Throughout his time in the TARDIS, Adric tends to put himself first. This attitude is exaggerated by contrast with the selfless Nyssa, but tempered by his growing admiration for the Doctor.
Nyssa
Nyssa joins the Doctor after her father is killed by the Master (who steals his body for himself) and her own world, Traken, is destroyed by an entropy cloud.
During her travels, Nyssa is frequently frustrated at the lack of opportunity to put her considerable technical skills to good use. There are occasions where they come in useful, but for the most part, Nyssa feels under-employed on the TARDIS. She is not one to complain, however, always putting others before herself, perhaps because she has lost so much.
Tegan
An impulsive, self-confident Australian woman, Tegan is on her way to her first day at work as an air stewardess when she finds the TARDIS. She realises at once that it is a vehicle, and she implicitly trusts the Doctor.
Despite being inclined to be rather bossy, Tegan and Nyssa become friends – although she finds Adric rather irritating. While she enjoys her time in the TARDIS, Tegan is initially keen to get back to Heathrow and her job. She is constantly – and vocally – frustrated by the Doctor’s apparent inability to get her there.
It was a warm summer evening. The rays of the setting sun bathed the old manor house in subtle shades of red and gold. Evening stars appeared as the light continued to fade. From a high branch, a sleepy owl watched a fox break cover and silently pad towards the west wing of the manor house.
Night was awakening. Small furry animals with bright, shiny eyes scurried through the undergrowth in search of food. A grass snake, warm and refreshed from a day spent lying in the sun, tentatively flexed his body and explored the air with a series of short, sharp, flicking movements of his highly sensitive tongue. The owl, now fully awake, stared fixedly, saucer-eyed, at a shadow below. Suddenly he launched himself into space, and on silent wings, talons extended, sped towards a tiny harvest mouse. A moment later, the bird’s hooked beak was tearing at his supper. It was the first kill of the evening.
With her day book before her on the window seat of her bedroom, Elizabeth watched the fox as he trotted by below. Smiling, she picked up her quill, dipped it into her pewter ink pot and recorded the sighting in her best copperplate hand-writing. She then replenished her quill, and, at the bottom of the entry, set its creaking, scratchy nib to uncoil, in black ink, the date: 5th August 1666. Blotting the sheet carefully, she closed the day book, rose, picked up the candle and crossed to the door.
With long skirts carefully controlled, Elizabeth started to negotiate the steep, narrow stairs from her bedroom. As she descended she heard the distant bark of the fox. Hoping to catch a last glimpse, she paused at the stairway’s tiny lancet window and peered out. But the only moving thing visible was what appeared to be a ball of light slowly crossing the sky. Elizabeth stared at the object, puzzled by its slowness and the acute angle at which it was travelling towards Earth. If it was a shooting star, she thought, it was unlike any she had seen before.
Surprise replaced puzzlement when, at great speed, a tiny but very distinct bolt of light was ejected from the main ball. Elizabeth watched as the bolt not only rapidly decelerated, but also lost light intensity. A moment later the main ball exploded, creating a pyrotechnic display of such magnificence, it looked as though a million fireworks had been ignited at the same moment. Overcome with excitement, Elizabeth half ran, half fell down the remaining stairs.
In the main hall of the house, Sir John dozed before the unlit fireplace. He had just consumed a vast meal along with two bottles of his favourite wine. Although the rhythmic movement of his bulky stomach suggested contentment, his high colour and twitching countenance more accurately indicated the onset of indigestion.
Ralph, the elderly servant, blew out the taper he had been using to light extra candles, and slipped it behind his ear for safe keeping. ‘Do you want me to clear away, Master Charles?’ he said.
Charles, who was sitting in his favourite chair cleaning a pair of saddle pistols, glanced across at his now-snoring father. ‘Leave the bread and cheese,’ he said, ‘I’m sure Sir John will want a little more to eat before retiring.’ He gazed at the undulating stomach and sighed. ‘Although heaven only knows where he puts it all.’
The servant smiled and started to shuffle towards the dining table. Suddenly the door burst open and the highly excited Elizabeth rushed into the room. ‘Papa! Papa!’
Sir John’s face turned deep purple as he coughed, spluttered and then sat bolt upright, placing his hand on his racing heart. ‘Fire and brimstone!’ he screamed. ‘You should know better than to enter a room like that.’
‘I am sorry, Papa,’ she bubbled, setting her candle on a side table and running to the window, ‘but you must see them.’
Sir John craned his neck as he endeavoured to keep his daughter in view.
‘The lights, Papa.’ She tugged at the curtains. ‘They’re so beautiful.’
‘Lights?’ Sir John clambered awkwardly out of his chair. ‘What lights?’ It was clear he was uneasy.
Elizabeth continued her tussle with the drapes, but her final victory was a hollow one. ‘Oh, they’ve gone,’ she sighed, staring into the blackness of the night.
Sir John turned from the window, clearly disturbed. ‘What were the lights like?’ he muttered.
‘Like a million shooting stars. The whole sky was ablaze.’
The old knight made his way to the dining table, picked up a quarter-full bottle of wine and emptied it into a goblet. Charles watched, concerned by his father’s reaction. ‘Are you all right, father?’
‘Of course I’m all right,’ he growled. ‘It’s just this talk of lights.’ He paused, staring into the goblet. ‘I don’t like the sound of it.’
Elizabeth moved to her father’s side. ‘Oh, Papa.’ Her tone was slightly disapproving of his superstitious response.
‘Strange lights do not bode well for the future. Take my word.’
Elizabeth reached up and kissed her father affectionately on the cheek. ‘You’re so sweet.’ The old man snorted. ‘You’re so sweet… and so old-fashioned,’ she laughed.
Sir John took a long swallow from his goblet and then looked down at his smiling daughter.
‘Maybe you’re right,’ he said at last. ‘Maybe you’re right.’ But in his heart he was less certain.
The fox Elizabeth had watched earlier with such pleasure continued his nightly patrol. Now clear of the house, he raced across the open ground to the high brick perimeter-wall of the estate. He paused to sniff the air. Something was wrong.
Undeterred, he made his way along the wall until he came to a small gate. Without hesitation he squeezed through its narrow bars. Ahead lay the forest and a good night’s hunting. But something was definitely wrong.
Cautiously, the fox moved into the silent forest, ears cocked, nose keenly analysing the night air. He sensed danger. The game keeper? The local poacher? But no. He knew their smells only too well. This was new. Something was burning.
The fox moved on. Thin, whispy twirls of smoke hung in the air and bushes, its acrid smell irritating his nose and eyes. He sneezed hard and shook his head, trying to clear the irritation. A little way ahead he noticed an enormous, dark shape surrounded by flattened, smouldering undergrowth.
Frantically he tried to make sense of the silhouette. Then the shape seemed slowly to split open, purple light pouring from the crack. This was too much for the poor old fox, who panicked and fled into the night.
As the split grew larger, an open hatchway could be seen behind what was now clearly a ramp being lowered. As it descended, a figure appeared, his massive form dividing the flood of purple light and casting an enormous shadow across the forest.
When the ramp was fully lowered, he began to move. Wheezing and gasping, his lungs unaccustomed to the Earth’s thin atmosphere, he lumbered down the ramp and across the charred undergrowth. He paused for a moment, sniffing the air in much the same way the fox had. He then let out a loud hiss, turned and started towards the manor house.
By the light of a large candelabra Elizabeth and her father were playing cards. Sir John had always fancied himself a good card-player. Indeed he was, as his winnings far exceeded his losses. But Elizabeth, his pretty, shy, excitable daughter was better; much better. Her fast, nimble mind quickly grasped her opponent’s stratagems. She had an excellent memory and could always remember which cards had already been played. Reluctantly her father had acknowledged her superior skill, but it still irked him to lose.
Shoulders hunched, lips pursed in concentration, Sir John watched his daughter pick up a card from the pack face-down on the table. Impassively, she slotted it into those she already held, barely pausing before discarding an unwanted card. Sir John glanced down at the neatly fanned cards in his hand and smiled. She had thrown away the very card he wanted. The game is mine, he thought, reaching for it.
‘Too late, Papa.’ Elizabeth placed her own cards on the table. ‘I think I’ve won.’ Sir John scanned them with piggy eyes hoping for a mistake. But no, she had won again.
Charles laughed, ‘Well done, sister!’
The old knight scowled as he gathered the cards together.
‘Luck,’ he muttered, ‘pure luck.’
‘Be fair, father. You were beaten by the better player.’
‘My concentration was spoiled,’ he growled, as Ralph entered the room. ‘I could feel a chill on my neck.’
‘Impossible, Papa. It’s a perfectly warm evening.’
Charles pushed his chair back from the card table, making a harsh, rasping noise on the flagstone floor, and stood up. ‘Father always feels a chill when he’s losing,’ he said, crossing to where he had left his pistols. ‘It’s either that or his gout bothers him.’
‘Arrant nonsense. I felt a definite chill about my neck and shoulders.’
The large candelabra flickered as though to prove his point. ‘You see!’ Sir John crowed.
‘Perhaps Ralph should fetch your shawl, Papa.’
Sir John frowned. He hated his shawl. To him it was the mark of an old man. Years may have aged his body, but not his spirit. ‘Certainly not,’ he said, clearing his throat, ‘I’ll have a warmer. Fetch me a posset, Ralph.’
Charles glared at his father as he picked up the pistols. ‘You are incorrigible. Haven’t you drunk enough already?’
Sir John started to shuffle the cards. He had anticipated disapproval. ‘This is medicinal,’ he snapped. ‘It helps keep the cold out.’
‘Cold? We’ve barely scratched August, yet your consumption of this “medicine” suggests we are but half a day from the winter solstice.’
Sir John grunted. But before he could think of an answer, Charles had marched out of the room.
‘Insolent oaf!’
Pretending to be bothered by an itch, but really to hide the fact she was smiling, Elizabeth rubbed her nose with the flat of her hand. ‘I think I should retire, too, Papa.’
‘You remain seated,’ he grumbled, starting to deal. ‘I’ve brooked enough humiliation from my offspring for one evening. We will play one more game. And this time I shall win.’
Elizabeth picked up the cards he had dealt her and fanned them out. ‘You can certainly try, Papa,’ she said, and smiled sweetly.
On the landing outside the main hall where the card game was still in progress, Charles stood before the heavy, oak gun cupboard, rummaging in his pocket for the key. As he searched, Ralph appeared carrying two candles.
‘I thought you might need this, Master Charles.’ Gratefully Charles took one of the candles and placed it on the floor near the cupboard.
Finally locating the key, Charles inserted it in the lock, but the lock was stiff and he had great difficulty in operating it.
‘I think a little rendered sheep fat would work miracles,’ said the old retainer, shuffling across the landing. ‘I’ll attend to it tomorrow.’
Just then the lock gave and, creaking loudly, the cupboard swung open to reveal a row of muskets.
‘I take it you’re not having a posset, Master Charles.’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Then I’ll wish you good night.’