Contents
Cover
About the Book
About the Author
Doctor Who 50th Anniversary Collection
Title Page
Dedication
Credo
Introduction
Chapter One: Mudlarks
Chapter Two: Attack
Chapter Three: Capture
Chapter Four: Prisoners
Chapter Five: Plans Afoot
Chapter Six: Evil at Work
Chapter Seven: Journeys
Chapter Eight: Memories
Chapter Nine: No Man’s Land
Chapter Ten: Ambush
Chapter Eleven: The Chateau
Chapter Twelve: Gala Evening
Chapter Thirteen: Flight
Chapter Fourteen: Return
Chapter Fifteen: Interference
Chapter Sixteen: Consortium
Chapter Seventeen: The Bank
Chapter Eighteen: Explosion
Chapter Nineteen: Invitation
Chapter Twenty: Encounters
Chapter Twenty-One: Conspiracy
Chapter Twenty-Two: The Guest
Chapter Twenty-Three: Lunch Party
Chapter Twenty-Four: Conference
Chapter Twenty-Five: Kidnap
Chapter Twenty-Six: Raid
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Trap
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Preparations
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Execution
Chapter Thirty: Departures
Copyright
About the Book
Arriving on the sun-baked veldt in the middle of the Boer War, the Sixth Doctor is soon involved in the adventures of struggling politician and war correspondent Winston Churchill. Of course, he knows Churchill is destined for great things, but unseen forces seem to be interfering with Winston’s historic career… The Doctor suspects the hidden hand of the Players, mysterious beings who regard human history as little more than a game. With time running out, can the Doctor find the right moves to defeat them?
An adventure featuring the Sixth Doctor as played by Colin Baker and his companion Peri
About the Author
Terrance Dicks worked on scripts for The Avengers as well as other series before becoming Assistant and later full Script Editor of Doctor Who from 1968. Dicks worked on the entirety of the Jon Pertwee Third Doctor era of the programme, and then turned to writing for the show, scripting Tom Baker’s first story as the Fourth Doctor. Terrance has written many original Doctor Who novels for BBC Books.
Doctor Who 50th Anniversary Collection
Ten Little Aliens
Stephen Cole
Dreams of Empire
Justin Richards
Last of the Gaderene
Mark Gatiss
Festival of Death
Jonathan Morris
Fear of the Dark
Trevor Baxendale
Players
Terrance Dicks
Remembrance of the Daleks
Ben Aaronovitch
EarthWorld
Jacqueline Rayner
Only Human
Gareth Roberts
Beautiful Chaos
Gary Russell
The Silent Stars Go By
Dan Abnett
For Steve Cole:
an editorial raft in the stormy sea of deadline
CREDO
Winning is everything – and nothing
Losing is nothing – and everything
All that matters is the Game.
INTRODUCTION
Not long ago I was leafing through a book on writing and writers. I came across the quotation, ‘A writer writes for his own pleasure.’
‘Nonsense,’ I thought.
Writing is my work. I write for my living – to earn an advance, fulfil a contract and meet a deadline – just as I’m doing now.
But on reflection, I’m not so sure that the writing for one’s own pleasure bit was completely wrong.
Writing is work of course – bloody hard work. Any writer will tell you that. There’s a saying – ‘All you have to do is to sit in front of a blank sheet of paper (or screen) until drops of blood break out on your forehead.’ The Master himself, the great P.G. Wodehouse said, ‘Writing demands application – application of the seat of the pants to the typist’s chair!’
But I have to admit that writing, in its own peculiar way, is pleasure as well. At least, there’s pleasure attached to the work.
Take my many Doctor Who novelisations, for example. I always get ratty when people say, ‘They must be dead easy, surely. You’ve got it all there, haven’t you? It’s all in the script.’
A television script tells you two things – what people say and what they do. Everything else – and there’s a hell of a lot else – that you see on the screen comes from the myriad of people who get to work when the script arrives. Actors, first of all, who bring the characters to life. Helped by costume, make-up and the director who moulds and shapes the show. Then there’s music, lighting, sets, costumes and special effects.
Turning a script into a book means the writer must do all that and more. He must create an atmosphere, build up tension and suspense. The reader needs to know what characters think and how they feel.
It’s a formidable task – but it’s a pleasure as well. A pleasure when you feel it’s worked, and that reading the book will recreate and replay the show in your reader’s head. (In those early days, with no DVDs or VHS, and few if any repeats, if you missed a Doctor Who, you’d missed it. The novelisations were the only option.)
The novels, when they appeared, presented an entirely different set of problems. For a start you had to make it all up! Plot, dialogue, characters, the lot.
Since the novels were not only aimed at an older audience, but considerably longer than a novelisation, you needed a big, complex idea at the centre. Doctor Who novels were hard work – but there was pleasure as well. In Players, I enjoyed coming up with the concept of the Players themselves – mysterious transcendental beings who treated human history as a giant chess game, changing the results by moving – or re-moving – vital pieces on the board. The possibilities were infinite and I was to return to the Players in other books.
Then there was the matter of the Doctor – or rather Doctors.
I took a great deal of pleasure in getting the underrated Colin Baker Doctor out of his clown suit and giving him some gravitas and dignity. It was nice to revisit the Patrick Troughton Doctor after the end of the War Games. Nice to see Lieutenant Carstairs and Lady Jane, in 1915 and then later in the story. I even found a place for my trench-coated private eye, Dekker, from the Doctor’s bootlegging days in Chicago.
There was the additional pleasure of introducing some of my own interests into the story. Winston Churchill, for example, has long been a hero of mine. And to many others, of course. But most people only think of Churchill in the ‘Blood, toil, tears and sweat’ and ‘Never has so much been owed by so many to so few’ era. But Churchill’s Second World War leadership was only the climax of a long and exciting career. What a pleasure to show the young Churchill as a failed Parliamentary candidate and temporary war correspondent, struggling to make a name for himself during the Boer War – and succeeding only by getting captured and making a heroic escape. Churchill as an Infantry Major in the First World War, leaving the comfort and safety of life in Parliament, re-joining his regiment and heroically volunteering for the trenches when his Dardanelles attack plan failed… all great stuff for the story – and all true!
Then there’s my fascination with the Nazis. A gang of crooks, thugs, failed politicians and deadbeats –
who gained control of a powerful nation and conquered – briefly – most of Europe. Hitler was vain, lazy and addicted to cream cakes. Von Ribbentrop, Ambassador to England was a vainglorious snob. It’s all in the book!
Finally, there’s the Abdication Crisis. We owe Mrs Simpson a great deal. Without her we might have entered the Second World War with a feckless, selfish, pro-Nazi king on the throne instead of his shy, stuttering but staunchly patriotic and utterly reliable younger brother. Things could so easily have been very different.
It’s an extraordinary tale. Mrs Simpson was a close friend of von Ribbentrop, and was rumoured to spend occasional nights at the German Embassy. Amongst the English upper classes there was a self-styled King’s Party, in favour of appeasement and closer ties to Germany. Then there was David, Prince of Wales and, briefly, uncrowned King. Handsome, charming, a popular idol all his life, someone who thought it his right to have anything and everything he wanted without delay. Historically, he gave up the throne. But it was very unlike him. Suppose he had rebelled, planned a coup – with a little encouragement from the Players…
So there you are. The Doctor, Peri, Winston Churchill, the Boer War, Nazis, the First World War, the Abdication Crisis and the mysterious Players all mixed up together. Hard work to fit all the pieces together into – I hope – a reasonably coherent whole.
I enjoyed writing it. I enjoyed re-reading it, for the purposes of this introduction, even more. Now I hope you enjoy reading, or re-reading, it too.
After all, that’s what it’s all about.
Terrance Dicks
August 2012
CHAPTER ONE
MUDLARKS
OUTSIDE THE PALACE wall, the sewer-hatch slowly began to rise. Two figures crawled out into the murky, drizzling gloaming of Rigel Seven.
The first was substantial, the second somewhat smaller. Since both were covered in thick black slime, it was difficult to make out much more.
The smaller figure spoke. The voice was feminine, the language English, the accent American, and the tone cool with an undertone of suppressed fury. ‘When I was a kid, Doctor, there was this comic called Swamp Thing…’
The larger figure’s voice was robustly masculine, with a note of repressed irascibility. ‘Interested as I am in your native culture, Peri – if culture is the word – may I remind you that we are still hunted fugitives. If we don’t find the TARDIS before the Palace Guard find us…’
‘This Swamp Thing was kind of made of mud,’ Peri went on calmly. ‘I know just how it felt. Come to think of it, old Swampy would fit in very well on this planet. Blend in with the natives with no trouble at all.’
‘Rigel Seven is a planet with plenty of rich fertile soil and a heavy rainfall,’ said the Doctor defensively. ‘Naturally there’s a lot of mud about. The Rigellans like mud. You might almost say they worship it. They regard it as the primal ooze from which flows all life.’ He looked up at the huge mud wall looming above them, and gazed around the swampy desolate landscape.
‘This way, I think. Come on.’
‘The Rigellans may like mud, but they certainly don’t like us,’ muttered Peri as she followed him along the muddy trail. ‘What was all that “Cast them into the deepest dungeon!” bit, back at the palace? You said we’d be honoured guests here.’
‘I’m afraid I failed to allow for the changing political situation.’
‘Come again?’
‘Years ago, I helped old King Adelebert put down a palace revolution, led by his son. How was I to know the poor old boy had died and the son was on the throne? He always was a nasty, vindictive lad.’
‘He certainly had some imaginative plans for you,’ said Peri. ‘That stuff about the red-hot spikes, the boiling oil and the poisonous spiders was very inventive.’
‘He had plans for you as well,’ the Doctor reminded her, and nodded as she shuddered. ‘Not quite so bloodthirsty, but just as gruesome in their way. It’s lucky for both of us that the main sewer runs right under the deepest dungeon. A little digging with my Gallifreyan Army knife and – Voilà!’
‘How did you know about the sewer – and that escape hatch?’ asked Peri. ‘More luck?’
‘I designed the sewerage system for them,’ said the Doctor modestly. ‘At the time I was a national hero.’
‘Hail Doctor,’ muttered Peri mutinously. ‘Bringer of peace, justice and flush sanitation!’
‘The Rigellans live mainly on fruit and beans, Peri. Believe me, they need flush sanitation.’ The Doctor peered through the gloom. ‘There she is, just by that clump of swamp-oaks. Come on!’
From somewhere behind them they heard a hoarse voice bellowing. ‘Halt in the name of the King!’
They turned and saw a group of very large lumpy figures squelching determinedly towards them through the mud. The Palace Guard wore heavy mud-spattered armour, and carried an assortment of ugly-looking weapons amongst which spike-studded iron balls and jagged saw-edged blades featured prominently.
‘Run!’ cried the Doctor, succinct for once.
Unencumbered by arms and armour, and spurred on by the thought of red-hot spikes and a place in the new king’s harem respectively, the Doctor and Peri made better time than their pursuers. Soon the Doctor was struggling with the door of the TARDIS.
The Palace Guard lumbered closer.
‘Hurry, Doctor!’ urged Peri. ‘They’re nearly here!’
The Doctor heaved open the door, shoved Peri inside it and dashed through after her.
As the door closed behind them, the Palace Guard caught up.
‘We have you now!’ bellowed the Guard captain. ‘Useless to hide within this flimsy hut! Smash it, men.’
Surrounding the blue box, the Palace Guard hammered it with their assorted weapons – to no effect at all.
With a sucking, squelching sound the TARDIS disappeared.
Some subjective time later, Perpugilliam Brown, Peri for short, late of Pasadena, California, and currently the Doctor’s travelling companion, was feeling much, much better.
She had stripped off her mud-soaked clothing and soaked for ages in an enormous hot bath, scented with oils, unguents and potions from all over the galaxy. She had washed and brushed and arranged her hair, and applied a little make up. She put on a Grecian-style gown in heavy white silk, with a jewelled brooch at the shoulder.
Looking at herself in her big bedroom mirror, she decided she looked terrific and went to find the Doctor. She had something to say to him.
The Doctor was in the TARDIS control room, freshly scrubbed and groomed, his face clean and shining. His mop of curly fair hair was restored to its usual springily uncontrollable state, and he wore one of his horrible multi-coloured three-quarter-length coats. He seemed to have an endless supply, each one just as ghastly as the last.
He was tying an eye-scorching cravat, red with big blue spots. It clashed perfectly with his yellow trousers, purple spats and green shoes.
Peri wondered, not for the first time, why this Doctor insisted on wearing an outfit like a slap in the face. Maybe that was why – an opening statement of defiance. Like it or hate it, this is me and here I am!
The Doctor gave Peri an approving nod. ‘That’s better. I must say, you do clean up nicely. Feeling better, I hope? You were getting somewhat pettish out there.’
‘I’m much better, thank you, but I’m still feeling – well, disgruntled, actually.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said the Doctor with unusual politeness. ‘What will it take to gruntle you again?’
‘I’ll tell you,’ said Peri. ‘Since we first met leaving Androzani Minor…’
‘We met long before that, Peri.’
‘That was a different you…’
Very different, thought Peri. As she surveyed the flamboyant figure before her, his gentle predecessor seemed to fade away in her memory.
Determinedly she went on with her speech.
‘Since we left those lousy caves, we’ve visited a planet ruled by paranoi
d gastropods, a London invaded by Cybermen, and a Punishment Dome dedicated to torture and death – heaven knows what else…’
‘All right, all right,’ said the Doctor irritably, waving away any further examples. ‘I admit we’ve landed in a few hot spots, but that’s the way the cosmos crumbles.’
‘Well, I’ve had it with hot spots, Doctor. I need a change.’
‘What are you after, Peri?’ said the Doctor exasperatedly. ‘Exactly what is it you want?’
‘I want elegance!’ said Peri explosively. ‘Culture, civilisation, champagne and charm! The ballet, the opera, society balls. Somewhere they won’t shoot at us or throw us in dungeons, or threaten us with a variety of fates worse than death. Somewhere – nice, Doctor!’
The Doctor sighed. Somewhere nice. The request of his female companions through the ages. Heaven knew he’d tried to provide it, but so often fate seemed to conspire against him.
For a moment he considered offering Peri a trip to Metebelis Three. Then he thought perhaps not. Somehow those Metebelis Three trips never quite worked out.
He looked thoughtfully at Peri. She’d been having quite a hard time lately and wading through those sewers hadn’t helped her mood.
Generously, the Doctor decided to indulge her.
‘Elegance you shall have, Peri,’ he promised. ‘I know just the time and place.’
He moved to the controls.
CHAPTER TWO
ATTACK
CAPTAIN AYLMER HALDANE came out of the Command Tent and looked around the railway station yard, now filled with orderly rows of army tents.
Dusk was falling rapidly, and the South African twilight was brief. Very soon it would be dark.
Instinctively, Haldane studied the ring of hills surrounding Estcourt. The enemy was on the other side of those hills – somewhere.
The British, two battalions of them, had pitched camp at Estcourt Station, nestling in a little cup in the hills. Captain Haldane wasn’t happy with their situation. The little hollow was a refuge that could easily become a trap.
As he strolled through the rows of tents, Haldane saw someone hurrying towards him. It was his friend the war correspondent, a medium-sized, almost stocky figure in breeches, boots and tunic, a forage cap stuck on the back of his head.
Doctor Who: Players: 50th Anniversary Edition Page 1
