The Day of the Daleks Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Authors

  Also by BBC Books

  Title Page

  Introduction by Gary Russell

  The Changing Face of Doctor Who

  1. Terror in the Twenty-Second Century

  2. The Man Who Saw a Ghost

  3. The Vanishing Guerilla

  4. The Ghost Hunters

  5. Condemned to Death!

  6. Prisoner of the Daleks

  7. Attack of the Ogrons

  8. A Fugitive in the Future

  9. Escape from the Ogrons

  10. Interrogation by the Daleks

  11. The Raid on Dalek Headquarters

  12. Return to Danger

  13. The Day of the Daleks

  14. All Kinds of Futures

  Between the Lines

  Copyright

  About the Book

  UNIT is called in when an important diplomat is attacked in his own home – by a man who then vanishes into thin air. The Doctor and Jo spend a night in the ‘haunted’ house and meet the attackers – who have time-jumped back from the 22nd century in the hope of changing history.

  Travelling forward in time, the Doctor and Jo find themselves trapped in a future world where humans are slaves and the Daleks have already invaded. Using their ape-like servants the Orgons to maintain order, the Daleks are now the masters of Earth.

  As the Doctor desperately works to discover what has happened to put history off-track, the Daleks plan a time-jump attack on the 20th century.

  This novel is based on a Doctor Who story which was originally broadcast from 1 – 22 January 1972.

  Featuring the Third Doctor as played by Jon Pertwee, with his companion Jo Grant and the UNIT organisation commanded by Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart.

  About the Authors

  Terrance Dicks

  Born in East Ham in London in 1935, Terrance Dicks worked in the advertising industry after leaving university before moving into television as a writer. He worked together with Malcolm Hulke on scripts for The Avengers as well as other series before becoming Assistant and later full Script Editor of Doctor Who from 1968.

  Working closely with friend and series Producer Barry Letts, Dicks worked on the entirety of Third Doctor Jon Pertwee’s era of the programme, and returned as a writer – scripting Tom Baker’s first story as the Fourth Doctor: ‘Robot’. He left Doctor Who to work as first Script Editor and then Producer on the BBC’s prestigious Classic Serials, and to pursue his writing career on screen and in print. His later scriptwriting credits on Doctor Who included the twentieth-anniversary story ‘The Five Doctors’.

  Terrance Dicks novelised many of the original Doctor Who stories for Target, and discovered a liking and talent for prose fiction. He has written extensively for children, creating such memorable series and characters as T.R. Bear and the Baker Street Irregulars, as well as continuing to write original Doctor Who novels for BBC Books.

  Louis Marks

  Louis Marks was born in London in 1928. He worked as a television scriptwriter and script editor all through the 1960s – writing the 1964 Doctor Who adventure ‘Planet of Giants’ for the very first TARDIS crew – before joining the BBC as a script editor in 1970.

  It was while at the BBC that Louis Marks wrote the scripts for ‘Day of the Daleks’ (originally titled ‘The Ghost Hunters’ and then ‘Years of Doom’), later adapting them to add the Daleks as the villains.

  Marks wrote two further stories for the series – both featuring the Fourth Doctor: ‘Planet of Evil’ and ‘The Masque of Mandragora’. He went on to become a highly respected television producer working for the BBC on, amongst other productions, The Lost Boys, Play for Today, Middlemarch and Daniel Deronda.

  Louis Marks died in September 2010.

  Also by BBC Books

  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

  INTRODUCTION

  BY

  Gary Russell

  So it’s Easter 1974, and I’m not at school. Cos it’s the holidays, by the way, not because I’m some terrible truculent truant (tempting as that was sometimes – I really didn’t get on with ‘school’ as a concept). Anyway, unlike many of my contemporaries who remember buying their first Doctor Who novels from WH Smith or John Menzies back in the 1970s, for me it was Woolworth’s. Not because they were especially famous for their literary sections but because their pick ’n’ mix selection was too amazing not to stand and stare at and frantically dig out ten new pence (it had a lion grinning like a loon on one side and the Queen on the other – bigger than modern ones, it felt hefty and worth something to a 10-year-old) and indulge in these long, thin, brown and yellow stripy sweets that smelled of banana and tasted of enough sugar you could go through a mouthful of teeth in a day! I had in my hands three shiny ten-pee bits – that bought a lot of pick ’n’ mix in 1974.

  But then I was distracted – Maidenhead’s Woolworth’s conveniently placed the pick ’n’ mix on a central freestanding bench right next to two tall racks of paperbacks. Now these tended to be a bit like airport books: a few of the latest bestsellers by Frederick Forsyth, a handful of Mills and Boon and, at the top, the latest by Xaviera Hollander, whose books I never understood but the covers were… eye-catching.

  They also had a small cluster of SF books, about six usually, one of which was always a copy of Star Trek 4 by James Blish. Always. I’m pretty sure I read that book a chapter a week in Woolworth’s, it was there, unloved and unbought, that long. But this particular Easter afternoon, there were five books the like of which I had never seen before. They were Doctor Who books with marvellous colourful covers but with the Doctor drawn in black and white. And they were 30p each.

  Banana sweets (yummy)? Doctor Who in book form. A book. About Doctor Who? No contest – except then it was which book to buy? I mean, I could easily discount the three with the old man from the past – yeah, I’d read about William Hartnell’s Doctor in the Radio Times Tenth Anniversary Special, but two of these featured the proper Doctor. My Doctor. Jon Pertwee.

  The Doomsday Weapon – not heard of that one. But this one, Day of the Daleks – oh, that was a title I knew.

  And so that was my purchase that day.

  I had read it by the time I went to sleep that night. I read it again the next day. I read it a lot of times that holiday, swapping days with reading The Doomsday Weapon (oh yes, pleas, beggings, tantrums and a pocket-money advance eventually secured that one the Monday afterwards).

  And I was captivated because, although it had been only two years since ‘Day of the Daleks’ had been broadcast on telly, to a 10-year-old that was a lifetime away. I recalled nothing of it except the Controller getting exterminated. (I’d even written to Ask Aspel, asking them to show that clip when Jon Pertwee was a guest. They didn’t. Bah – their loss.) Suddenly it was coming back to life before me and I fell in love, not just with Doctor Who books (a lifelong
obsession ever since) but with words. With words conjured by Terrance Dicks. I confused him with Charles Dickens once at school – frankly I know which one I reckoned told better stories. He and Malcolm Hulke (who wrote The Doomsday Weapon) made me want to be a writer. Full stop. No amount of Blyton, Kipling, Uttley and every other writer’s work I had devoured prior to this experience, held a candle to Dicks and Hulke. Oh sure, those other writers were good, but these two? They were genii.

  Day of the Daleks also had pictures in it. Normally, at 10, I’d’ve pooh-poohed a book with pictures but these were amazing. An Ogron being knocked out by Jo (looking more like someone who’d stuck a wet finger in a socket than Jo to be honest), or Shura with his bomb, or (my favourite) Austerly House exploding at the end. And then on page 42, that peculiar picture of Jo and the Doctor in front of the fireplace. Years later, I realised the reason it didn’t look like Jo was because it’s actually based on a photo of Jane Leeson from ‘Colony in Space’ – she turns up again on page 54, this time pretending to be Anat.

  All these little things contributed to this book being a treasure – and it’s still treasured today. I’m looking at it now; that 30p copy I bought in Woolies is still here (unlike Woolies). Battered, creased but loved. Beside it sits a later Target edition. And the American one with a UNIT spaceship on it (I wonder why). And completing my Day of the Daleks obsession are A Mudanca da Historia, O Dia dos Daleks, De Dag van de Daleks, Ve Dalek Baskini, Dzien Dalekow and a Japanese one, Darek Zoku no gyakushuu, which is also full of wonderful pictures, drawn by someone who has clearly never seen an episode of Doctor Who in his life and presumably based the Daleks, Ogrons and Jo’s fashion sense solely on Terrance’s descriptions.

  Day of the Daleks wasn’t the first Target novel to be released, but it was my first. And like so many things in life, you always remember, cherish and love the first one that little bit more than is truly healthy.

  It was also the first time I read and absorbed that fantastic Gerard Garrett quote on the back – ‘Doctor Who, the children’s own programme which adults adore…’ At 10 years old, I considered myself the adult in that scenario and thought it summed up why Doctor Who was the best TV show in history. At nearly 50, I still do…

  The Changing Face of Doctor Who

  The Third Doctor

  This Doctor Who novel features the third incarnation of the Doctor, whose appearance was altered by his own people, the Time Lords, when they exiled him to Earth. This was his punishment for daring to steal a TARDIS, leave his home world and interfere in the affairs of other life forms. The Time Lords sentenced the Doctor to exile on twentieth-century Earth. The secrets of the TARDIS were taken from him and his appearance was changed.

  While on Earth the Doctor formed an alliance and friendship with Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart, head of the British branch of UNIT. Working as UNIT’s Scientific Adviser, the Doctor helps the organisation to deal with all manner of threats to humanity in return for facilities to try to repair the TARDIS, and a sporty, yellow Edwardian-style car he calls Bessie.

  UNIT

  UNIT in the United Kingdom is under the command of the ever-practical and down-to-earth Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart. He first met the Second Doctor, and fought with him against the Yeti and the Cybermen. UNIT is a military organisation, with its headquarters in Geneva but personnel seconded from the armed forces of each host nation. The remit of UNIT is rather vague but, according to the Brigadier, it deals with ‘the odd, the unexplained. Anything on Earth, or even beyond…’

  From mad scientists to alien invasions, from revived prehistoric civilisations to dinosaurs rampaging through London, UNIT has its work cut out.

  Jo Grant

  Jo Grant is an unlikely UNIT agent. Having been foisted on the Brigadier against his will at the insistence of her uncle – a high-ranking official in the UN – the Brigadier hits on the idea of assigning Jo to be the Doctor’s assistant.

  Jo tells the Doctor that she is a fully qualified agent, but – since she also tells him she took an A level in General Science, only to point out later ‘I didn’t say I passed’ – this may be an exaggeration. But Jo’s abilities in escapology and her enthusiasm are never in doubt. Very quickly, the Doctor and the Brigadier come to realise what an asset she really is.

  But in an organisation as professional and disciplined as UNIT, Jo – like the Doctor – will always stand out as an individual who is not afraid to speak her mind and follow her own instincts.

  1

  Terror in the Twenty-Second Century

  MONI SAT UP and looked around cautiously. The enormous dormitory was packed with sleeping forms, dragged into total exhaustion by hours of brutal physical toil. One or two murmured and twisted and cursed in their sleep. A man screamed, ‘No, no, please don’t…’ and then his voice tailed off into the mutterings of a nightmare. Moni saw that it was Soran. He had been beaten by the guards that morning for failing to meet his work-norm. Soran was weakening daily. He wouldn’t last much longer.

  Somehow the incident seemed to give Moni courage. It was for Soran that he was fighting. Soran and thousands like him who would die in the work camps from brutal beatings, or worn out after years of grinding labour, unless… unless… Moni threw back the coarse blankets and swung his feet to the floor. There was nothing unusual in his being fully dressed. The dormitories weren’t heated and most of his fellows slept fully clothed against the night cold. Vaguely Moni remembered having heard of a time when men had special clothes to sleep in – called py-something or other. His mind could scarcely imagine such luxury.

  Moni fished his boots from beneath his pillow. He’d put them there automatically the night before. The boots were made of new strong plastic, and in the work camps nothing valuable was safe unless it was within touching distance. Tucking the boots under his arm Moni moved silently across the room towards the door. His bare feet made no sound on the rough concrete floor.

  Once in the compound, he paused in a patch of shadow to pull on the boots then crept silently along the edge of the outer wall. Taking off his tunic Moni uncoiled a thin plastic rope from round his waist. He took the crude grappling hook from his pocket, tied it to the rope and swung the grappling hook at the row of spikes on top of the wall. It fell short and landed back at Moni’s feet with a metallic scrape. Moni froze in terror. He glanced towards the doorway of the guard’s quarters. Surely they must have heard. But there came only the rumble of guttural inhuman speech. The compound was supposed to be patrolled at all times, but the guards were careless and idle. On cold nights like this they kept to their quarters, huddling round the roaring fires in the iron braziers, stuffing down slabs of coarse grey food that their masters provided.

  Moni hurled the grapple again, and this time his luck was in. It caught firmly on the spikes and, after testing it with a tug, Moni climbed quickly up the rope, his tunic between his teeth. Once on top of the wall it would make a rough pad to protect him from the spikes. Awkwardly he bestrode the wall, pulling the rope up beside him, and freeing the grappling hook. He lowered the rope to the other side of the wall, dropped his tunic after it, and then jumped down, landing with a thud that jolted the breath out of him. Quickly he put on his tunic, and hid rope and grappling iron beneath it. He set off swiftly down the endless concrete road through the rubble.

  Moni had covered several miles before his luck ran out. He was just turning the corner of one of the many ruined buildings when an enormous hairy hand reached out from the darkness and plucked him off his feet. The hand slammed him against the remains of a brick wall, making him gasp out loud. Moni flinched, as a burning brand was thrust uncomfortably close to his face, and as his eyes became accustomed to the light he could just begin to pick out the hulking shape of the creature that had captured him. Nearby was a small campfire with other giant forms huddled round it. Moni cursed his luck. He had run into one of the roving patrols, camping out in the ruins. From the campfire, a guttural voice said, ‘Bring!’ Moni’s captor shambled back t
owards the fire, dragging Moni after him like a rag doll. Moni let himself hang limp, making no attempt to resist. He had no wish to be torn to pieces. Against human beings he might have stood a chance, but these guards were not human: these were Ogrons.

  Thrown sprawling at the feet of the patrol, Moni looked up at the hulking shapes looming over him in the firelight. Often as he had seen them before, the Ogrons never failed to terrify him. Creatures somewhere between gorilla and man, they stood almost seven feet in height with bowed legs, massive chests and long powerful arms that hung almost to the ground. Their faces were perhaps the most awful thing about them: a distorted version of the human face, with flat ape-like nose, small eyes glinting with cruelty, and a massive jaw with long yellow teeth. But the Ogrons had one quality which gave Moni a glimmer of hope, even now: for all their savage ferocity and primitive strength, they were very, very stupid.

  Moni scrambled to his feet. Forcing himself to speak slowly and calmly he said, ‘I am a section leader of Work Camp Three. I am needed to replace a section leader of Work Camp Four, who has been taken ill.’ He looked round the circle of Ogrons to see if his story was being believed. The Ogrons looked back at him impassively. Did they believe him? Had they even understood what he was saying? In the same calm, flat voice Moni said, ‘The order for my transfer came direct from your masters. If I am delayed they will be very angry. They will be angry with you.’

  This time his words had some effect. It was almost comic to see the looks of alarm on the brutal Ogron faces. The one thing which could strike fear to the hearts of these terrifying creatures was the mention of the even more fearsome beings who were their masters.

  The leading Ogron gestured into the darkness with a massive hairy paw. ‘You go. Go quickly.’ Moni turned and ran into the darkness.

  It took him another hour of hard, dangerous travel before he reached his destination. He crossed a patch of waste ground. The moonlight showed weeds flourishing over the shattered foundations of a house. Shifting the concealing rubble, Moni found and then lifted a hidden trap-door and dropped down into the darkness. He landed at the head of a still intact flight of steps. Cautiously he moved down them until his eyes picked out a little patch of light at the bottom. It was shining beneath the edge of a closed door. Moni moved quietly to the door and rapped out a complicated series of knocks. After a moment the door creaked open. Boaz stood facing him, blaster in hand. ‘All right Boaz, it’s me,’ said Moni.