Doctor Who and the Dinosaur Invasion

by Malcolm Hulke

  ‘Thank you,’ said Sarah, apparently resigned. ‘I’ll do that.’

  ‘Well,’ remarked the Doctor, ‘I’d better get started. Most of what I need is in the TARDIS. If you’ll excuse me…’ He produced his key, opened the door of the TARDIS, and went inside.

  The Brigadier looked at his watch. ‘I’m due for yet another planning meeting with General Finch. Now he wants to hang looters in public! I sometimes think the poor fellow lives in a bygone age.’ He turned smartly and left the headmaster’s office.

  Sarah and Sergeant Benton were left facing each other. ‘Isn’t it marvellous,’ she said scornfully. ‘I’ve just been told to go out and play!’

  ‘The Doctor said you should get some rest.’

  ‘It comes to the same thing.’ She felt her temper rise. ‘They don’t want to listen to me. Look, if there’s a nuclear generator involved it must have been designed and assembled, and all that could be traced. There’d be records of it.’

  ‘The Brigadier’s checked all that, miss,’ said Benton, loyally. ‘He found nothing.’

  ‘Maybe it was all secret,’ she said, thinking aloud.

  The sergeant smiled. ‘Too secret for the Brigadier to know about?’

  ‘Yes, why not?’ Sarah had a sudden flash of inspiration. ‘Can you get me some transport?’

  ‘I could try, miss. But where do you want to go?’

  ‘Out to play,’ she replied pertly. ‘There can’t be any harm in that, can there?’

  ‘What a pleasant surprise,’ said Sir Charles Grover as he welcomed Sarah into his office. It was a small ministerial study, beautifully furnished, with a fine view of Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. ‘I’m sorry you had to find your own way in here, but we’re down to a skeleton staff. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m very sorry to trouble you, Sir Charles.’ Sarah accepted his offer to sit down. ‘But you seem to be the only member of the Government still in London.’

  ‘Indeed I am.’ As he talked, he lit a little camping gas ring that had been set up on a corner table next to cups and saucers, a teapot, packet of tea, and a bottle of milk, all of which looked somewhat incongruous in a Cabinet Minister’s office. ‘We have no catering staff now—nothing. But I can make you a cup of tea. Do you take milk and sugar?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ she said. ‘One lump.’

  Sir Charles put a kettle on to the lit gas ring. ‘The rest of the Government shot off to Harrogate. But I said to the Prime Minister, “If I’m in charge of the situation in London, I’m going to stay on the spot.” So here I am. How can I help you?’

  Sarah quickly explained the Doctor’s theory that it would require a nuclear generator to produce the vast amounts of power necessary for the Time transferences. She continued, ‘Wasn’t there a plan once,’ she then asked, ‘to build underground quarters for the Government in the event of an atomic war breaking out?’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Sir Charles. ‘The Government of the day saw itself retreating to a hole in the ground where it would be safe.’ He laughed. ‘Goodness knows why! Just ten hydrogen bombs would have destroyed every city, every living person, every blade of grass in the British Isles. So they’d have had nothing to govern once the war was over!’ He poured boiling water from the kettle into his teapot.

  ‘Do you know whether any of these special underground shelters were ever built?’ asked Sarah. ‘I remember reading about them. Weren’t they all to have their own nuclear generators?’

  ‘Now I see what you’re getting at,’ Sir Charles said. ‘What a remarkable piece of thinking! But I don’t think any of these places were ever built. I was only a junior back bencher in the House of Commons in those days. As far as I know, all the plans were shelved.’ He poured tea into two cups. ‘Have you talked about this to the Brigadier?’

  ‘I’m not talking to anyone about it until I can get some evidence. I thought you might be able to help me.’

  Sir Charles stirred a cup of tea, lost in thought. ‘Maybe I can. There are ministerial files here going back years, documents that I’ve never had time to study. Let’s have a look.’ He crossed the study to a small door and opened it. ‘This is my filing room. Do come in.’

  Sarah entered the little windowless room. It was lined with grey metal filing cabinets. Sir Charles closed the door and pressed a button on the wall, causing a faint whirring sound.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked.

  ‘The air conditioning.’ He opened one of the filing cabinet drawers and peered inside at a row of file tags. ‘I hardly understand the filing system myself. I’ve only been Minister six months, you know.’

  Sarah looked at a guide to the files on the wall. One item read Top Secret Construction Projects. ‘Could it be that one?’ she asked.

  ‘I wonder.’ He consulted the index. ‘That would be File 9941. Let’s see if we can find it.’

  He walked along the row of filing cabinets. ‘We need the drawer whose files start with the number 9. Ah, here we are!’ He pulled open the drawer, and after a moment’s search found a manilla file numbered 9941.

  Together they examined the contents of the file: letters, rough working papers of figures and costs, and a map. Sir Charles found a sealed envelope, quickly opened it, and glanced at the Ministerial letter it contained.

  ‘Do you know, Miss Smith, you were right! They did build a fully-equipped shelter for the Government to hide in. And—fancy that!—they never let the public know. Quite disgraceful.’

  But Sarah was staring at the map. ‘That must be Whitehall,’ she said, pointing. ‘And the exact position of the shelter would be…’ She gasped.

  Sir Charles’s well-known politician’s smile faded. His face set in stern lines. ‘That’s right, Miss Smith. It was built, nuclear reactor and all, directly beneath this building. Shall we take a look at it?’

  He gestured towards the door. Sarah turned, saw that the ornate carved door by which she had entered had been covered by a metal sliding door. The whirring sound stopped, and she felt the floor give a very slight bump. Sir Charles walked forward and pressed the button on the wall. The metal door slid to one side.

  ‘This is my own very private lift,’ said Sir Charles. ‘After you, Miss Smith.’

  Sarah stepped out into a metallic-walled corridor. A man wearing a white overall came towards them. A livid scar ran down one side of his face.

  ‘We weren’t expecting you, Sir Charles,’ said the man.

  ‘Indeed not. This young lady is coming to stay with you for a while. Is everything going according to plan?’

  The man nodded. ‘She is to be processed?’

  ‘Immediately.’ Sir Charles turned to Sarah. ‘This man’s name is Butler. He is a good man and will help you out of your dilemma.’

  ‘I’m not in a dilemma,’ she protested. ‘I want to be released immediately!’

  ‘That isn’t possible,’ said Sir Charles. ‘Come with me.’

  He walked ahead of her down the corridor, obviously very familiar with the place. Butler came up behind Sarah and occasionally hastened her along with a gentle shove. She followed Sir Charles.

  Sir Charles opened a metal door that led into a small cell-like room. It contained one item of furniture—a chair. ‘You will have to wait in here, Miss Smith. But no harm will come to you.’

  Butler pushed Sarah into the room.

  ‘You’re both mad!’ she screamed.

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Sir Charles, his well-known politician’s smile starting to return now. ‘My associates and I are the only ones who are sane.’

  ‘Creating monsters in Central London is the work of lunatics.’

  ‘That is how it may seem to you. But there are very good reasons for it. When you understand everything you will be eternally grateful. Believe me, my dear, and try to trust me.’

  ‘They’ll find me,’ she shouted. ‘You’ll be sent to prison. The Doctor and the Brigadier will be searching for me!’

  ‘I very much doubt it,�
�� said Sir Charles. ‘And certainly not where you’re going.’

  Sir Charles nodded curtly and Butler slammed the door.

  Sarah paced angrily about the tiny room. How stupid to have walked straight into the trap! It was the same with that tyrannosaurus rex—she had brought it all on herself. The bump on her head was throbbing and she felt very fed up. She sat down on the chair and tried to stop herself from crying.

  A light set in the metal wall opposite her started to blink on and off, red and green and orange. She moved the chair round to face a different wall. There another light was blinking, pink and blue and mauve. She moved the chair again, and found herself facing yet another light. And this time the light began to fascinate her. In a moment she was staring fixedly at the blinking light, and all the anger and fear drained from her mind.

  6

  The Space Ship

  Sarah opened her eyes. A very handsome young man was smiling down at her. His glinting fair hair was cut short; his cheeks glowed with good health.

  ‘Welcome to the people,’ he said gently.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name is Mark.’

  She turned her head to look about her. The walls and ceiling made one huge curve—it was as though they were inside a tube. She realised she was lying on her back on a trolley.

  ‘Where is this?’

  ‘The space ship,’ replied Mark. ‘You see it’s all come true.’

  Sarah struggled to sit upright. She looked down at herself. She was wearing a very plain blue denim tunic. Mark was similarly dressed.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she asked, trying to conceal the panic in her voice. ‘Where am I?’

  Mark smiled again. ‘We left Earth three months ago. Come and look.’

  With his help, Sarah got down from the trolley. Her legs were unsteady, as though she had just awoken from a very deep sleep. ‘This way,’ said Mark, leading her to a porthole set in the curved wall. ‘Isn’t that wonderful?’

  Sarah looked through the porthole on to the black vastness of Space. Distant suns showed as pin-pricks of light. ‘How did I get here?’

  ‘You must have forgotten. It’s understandable. But the Elders will explain everything. Let’s go and meet them. Come.’

  He held out his hand. Cautiously Sarah took it, and allowed herself to be led through a curved metal corridor. They entered a large communal area with many portholes, tables, and chairs. A middle-aged man with white hair and a white goatee beard was seated at a table carving a wooden bowl. Close by, a tall, rather beautiful grey-haired woman was making cloth on a treadle weaving machine. Both wore blue denim tunics.

  ‘Here she is!’ Mark announced.

  The man and woman looked up and smiled. The woman left her weaving and came over to embrace Sarah.

  ‘You’re the first to recover,’ she said, kissing Sarah lightly on the cheek. ‘Welcome back to the people.’

  Sarah pulled away from the woman. ‘Who are you?’

  The white-haired man came over to her and extended his hand. ‘My name is Adam. This is Ruth.’

  Sarah looked at them in astonishment. ‘Surely those aren’t your real names!’ She turned to the woman. ‘I interviewed you about that Bill of yours in the House of Lords against the pollution of rivers.’ She pointed to the man. ‘And you’re Nigel Castle, the novelist.’

  ‘Not any more,’ said the man who liked to be called Adam. ‘Now I work with my hands.’

  Sarah turned back to look more closely at the young man called Mark. ‘And now I remember you, too. You’re John Crichton. You ran the three minute mile. What are you all doing here?’

  ‘The same as you, my dear,’ said Ruth. ‘We are on our way to New Earth, a small planet similar to Earth but at an earlier stage of development.’

  ‘You’ve been in suspended animation for three months,’ Adam informed her. ‘But it will all come back to you when you fully recover. New Earth is still pure, undefiled by the evil of Man’s technology. There is air that is still clean to breathe, and a simple pastoral people, innocent and unspoiled. It will be our task to guide them so that the evils developed on Earth shall not be repeated.’

  Sarah was convinced these people were mad. She decided to humour them. ‘Just the four of us have to do all that?’

  Mark laughed. ‘You really are forgetting things. There are over two hundred of us on this ship. Look.’ He crossed to a monitor screen set in the wall and pressed a button. The screen lit up showing the interior of another compartment in the space ship. Tiers of bunks lined the walls, each carrying a sleeping person. ‘We have six slumber chambers,’ he said. ‘They’ll all be recovering soon, just as you did.’

  ‘And this is only one of the ships in the fleet,’ said Adam, beaming. ‘It’s a whole armada of people who wish to take intelligence and right-thinking to New Earth.’

  Sarah asked, ‘Why are all those people asleep?’

  ‘To save food and oxygen,’ Ruth explained. ‘It’s a three month journey, remember. And now almost over.’

  ‘You mean to say I’ve been here three months?’ said Sarah. ‘I can’t believe it.’

  Bewildered, Sarah ran her fingers through her hair. Her forefinger touched the bump on her head. It was still very tender. At that moment she knew she could only have been on the space ship for a few hours.

  Ruth said, ‘Is something wrong?’

  Sarah smiled. ‘No, of course not. It’s all very exciting. And now I’m just starting to get my memory back.’

  The Doctor roared down Whitehall on a big Army motorcycle which had been lent to him by the Brigadier. A motorcycle, he explained to the Brigadier, was the quickest way to get round London, and he had to cover a large area in the shortest possible time. Strapped to the handlebars was the energy detecting device he had built, a compact black box with a simple on-off control, and a dial that registered the presence of high voltage electricity. He had already covered two sections of London, duly marked off on the map in his pocket. A few minutes ago, as he turned into Trafalgar Square, the needle on the detector’s dial flickered for the first time. As he drove round Trafalgar Square at high speed, he found the needle flickered most actively when he was close to the opening to Whitehall.

  He arrived in Parliament Square, deserted except for a few pigeons. The needle registered to the number 4 on the detector dial. Slowly the Doctor drove round the empty square. Going towards Victoria Street, the reading dropped to 3; completing the circuit of the square and heading back towards Westminster Bridge, the needle jumped to 5. He stopped the motorcycle outside Westminster Underground Station, unfastened the detector from the handlebars, and carried it to the metal gates that barred the entrance to the station. The needle moved to 5.02. The Doctor found his set of skeleton keys in his capacious pockets and opened the gates. He went down the dirty, unswept steps of the station.

  Inside, the station was in complete darkness. The Doctor fished out his torch and continued down the steps to one of the platforms. The dial now read 5.08. Cautiously the Doctor moved along the railway platform. He stopped to listen. There was a faint humming sound. Swinging his torch round to the wall, the Doctor saw a metal airvent grille. He went over, bent down and listened. He could just hear the distant hum of a machine, probably an air ventilation plant. He plucked out his large silk handkerchief, and held it in front of the vent between finger and thumb. The handkerchief was sucked towards the vent by a slight air flow. How very, very odd! The airvents in London underground stations pump air in to the stations; this one was sucking air away from the station. So someone, somewhere must be needing a constant supply of air.

  Footsteps. Someone was coming down the stairs to the platform. The Doctor slid full-length under one of the bench-type seats that jutted from the wall, and extinguished his torch. The footsteps came nearer, and now the glare of a torch carried by someone in a hurry. Looking up from his hiding place, the Doctor could just discern the outline of a man in the spill of light from the man’s torch. The man
stopped by a louvred door set in the wall. He did something to the door that the Doctor couldn’t see; immediately there was the sound of a lift ascending. Fifteen seconds later light glared through the louvres of the door as the lift came up and stopped. The Doctor risked his luck and craned his neck out from under the bench. As the man opened the door the Doctor caught a glimpse of a livid scar running down his cheek. The man, dressed in a lounge suit and carrying a large suitcase, entered the lift. A moment later its glaring light sank down and out of sight.

  The Doctor crawled out from under the bench and brushed down his clothes. He listened until the noise of the lift machinery stopped. Then he shone his torch on the louvred door and inspected it closely. There was no key hole. He tried to guess what the man had done to activate the lift, and ran his fingers down the slats. The fifth slat turned on an axis. Instantly, the lift machinery came to life. Fifteen seconds later, light glared through the louvres. The lift door opened with ease, to reveal a cleaners’ cupboard containing mops and pails. He stepped inside, and pulled the door shut. Then he searched for a control that would activate the lift from inside. There was nothing to be seen except two hooks in the wall. From one of them hung a cleaner’s overall. The Doctor touched the empty hook, and found that it could be manoeuvred like a little lever. He turned it round on its in-built axis until it pointed straight down. The lift started to descend.

  Butler opened the suitcase to let Professor Whitaker examine its contents. ‘Do you now have everything you need, Professor?’

  Whitaker picked over the electronic equipment that filled the suitcase. ‘I don’t know yet. If I need anything more, you’ll have to provide it.’

  ‘It isn’t easy getting this stuff for you. Every time I go out in the streets I risk being shot as a looter.’

  Professor Whitaker stepped back from the open suitcase. ‘If you’re going to make a big thing of it, let’s forget the entire project!’

  Butler would very much have liked to batter Professor Whitaker’s head to pulp. He smiled and said, ‘You will have your little joke, Professor. Don’t take me seriously.’