040 - Doctor Who and the Loch Ness Monster

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Doctor Who and the Loch Ness Monster

Terrance Dicks

ISBN 0 426 11041 2

Why is DOCTOR WHO suddenly summoned to the shores of Loch Ness?

Terror and panic spread as the third oil rig is smashed into the sea by a mysterious force...

the monster?

The controlling power must be the ZYGONS—alien creatures who have lived hidden on

Earth for thousands of years, and now feel strong enough to take over the planet... The

Doctor, Sarah and UNIT have different ideas—but can they outwit the supreme cunning of

the ruthless ZYGONS?

DOCTOR WHO scripts—awarded The Writers' Guild Award for the best British children's

original drama script.

CONTENTS

1 Death from the Sea

2 Murder on the Shore

3 The Zygons Attack

4 A Trap for the Doctor

5 The Sleeping Village

6 The Monster on the Moor

7 Hunt for a Zygon

8 A Visit to the Duke

9 The Secret of Forgill Castle

10 Plan for Conquest

11 Escape!

12 Monster in the Thames

1 Death from the Sea

The oil-rig called 'Bonnie Prince Charlie' towered high above the moonlit sea. Its

massive steel legs, set firm in their concrete foundations, seemed to defy the ocean, which

lapped almost tamely round the base of the rig. It was a calm, clear night, silent except for

the persistent sighing of a chill wind.

In the warmth and comfort of the rig's radio room Jock Munro stretched out in his

chair, a mug of rum-laced cocoa in one hand, his radio-mike in the other. He was ordering

fresh provisions from the supply base on the Scottish mainland, more for the sake of a chat

than because the matter was urgent. 'Hey, and listen, Willie, the blokes say can you rustle

up a few haggis and send 'em out with tomorrow's supply helicopter? The cook here's a

Sassenach, and he doesna' ken the first thing about them!'

Grinning to himself, he waited for 'Willie to demand how the blanketty-blank he was

supposed to find haggis for twenty-odd men at a few hours' notice.

But Willie's reply did not come. The radio went suddenly dead. Jock jiggled controls

for a bit, cursed, and tried again. 'This is Charlie Rig to Hibernian Control—are you

receiving? I say again, Charlie Rig to Hibernian Control, do you read me?' The only reply

was a high-pitched electronic burbling sound.

Suddenly the entire rig shuddered under a tremendous jolt. Munro was thrown out

of his chair and sent crashing against the door. As he struggled to his feet, there came a

second jolt, and then another. The rig seemed to reel under a series of massive hammer-

blows. Munro struggled to the RT set. 'Mayday, Mayday, Hibernian Control and all

shipping... the rig is breaking up...'

Another tremendous blow tilted the entire cabin, sending the RT set crashing to the

floor. Munro struggled to the door and clambered out on to the catwalk. From all around he

could hear the blaring of alarm signals, the shouts and screams of running men. Clinging to

a steel girder, he gazed out at the moonlit sea. To his horror, he saw something huge,

incredible, rushing through the water towards the rig. As it struck again, the impact sent the

whole rig lurching. Munro was torn loose from his girder and sent flying through the air. He

struck the water with an impact that knocked the breath from him, and the cold, dark sea

closed over his head.

With a strange, wheezing, groaning sound, the blue police box materialised on the

bleak windswept hillside. The door opened and three people emerged. First came a very

tall man, untidily dressed in a strange assortment of vaguely bohemian-looking garments.

A long woolly scarf dangled round his neck and a floppy hat was jammed on the back of a

tangle of curly hair. He looked around eagerly, his eyes ablaze with interest. A broad,

childlike grin spread over his face at the sight of the wild and unfriendly landscape.

The two who followed from the police box didn't look quite so delighted. The first

was a brawny young man, conventionally dressed in blazer and flannels. His handsome

face with its square jaw, frank blue eyes, and curly hair, made him look like the hero of an

old-fashioned adventure story. The slim, attractive girl who accompanied him shivered in

the cold wind, turning up the collar of her jacket.

The young man was Harry Sullivan, the girl Sarah Jane Smith. Both stared

accusingly at their companion, that mysterious traveller in Time and Space known only as

'The Doctor'.

Sarah looked startled, 'I thought you said we were returning to Earth.'

The Doctor abandoned his survey of the landscape to give her a look of guileless

innocence. 'This is Earth, Sarah.'

'If you say so, Doctor.' She didn't sound too convinced. Suddenly the blue police

box winked out of existence. Sarah clutched the Doctor's arm. 'The TARDIS—it's gone.'

The Doctor sighed. The TARDIS—the initials stood for Time And Relative

Dimensions In Space—was playing up more and more these days. As fast as he repaired

one thing, something else went wrong. 'Thought I'd fixed that fusion plate,' he muttered

crossly. 'Must have gone on the blink again. Shan't be two seconds.' He stepped inside the

invisible TARDIS and immediately became invisible himself.

Sarah and Harry watched unsurprised. Since beginning their travels through Time

and Space with the Doctor they'd seen so many strange things that the odd vanishing trick

was nothing special.

Sarah looked again at the windswept landscape. 'I don't care what he says, this

isn't Earth.'

Harry said gloomily, 'Probably some benighted planet right on the far edge of the

galaxy.' Sarah and Harry knew from experience that the TARDIS's destinations were

always unpredictable, though this never seemed to affect the Doctor's cheerful confidence.

The TARDIS reappeared and so did the Doctor. He was wearing a strange-looking

bonnet with a bobble on top, and the woolly scarf had been replaced by another, equally

long, in a particularly vivid tartan. 'Native dress,' he explained. 'We don't want to attract

attention now we're in Scotland.'

'How do you know?' asked Harry suspiciously.

The Doctor breathed deeply of the clear cold air. 'I can smell the tangle of the isles.

Besides, I've just checked the co-ordinates. Now why has the Brigadier brought us here?'

Brigadier Alastair Lethbridge-Stewart was head of the British section of UNIT, the

United Nations Intelligence Taskforce, an organisation of which Harry Sullivan was a

member. UNIT was dedicated to protecting Earth from the many attacks and invasions

from outer space that had plagued it in recent years. The development of Man's technology

to the point where the moon had already been reached, with interplanetary travel an

inevitable next step, had attracted the attention of hostile forces throughout the galaxy.

Most seemed to consider the Earth an attractive little planet, just ripe for conquest. UNIT

had been formed to help Earth protect itself, and the Doctor was supposed to be UNIT's

Scientific Adviser. Unfortunately, he hated being tied down to one place or time, and his

habit of disappearing on prolonged trips round the galaxy was a constant source of

aggravation to the Brigadier.

Just before this latest trip, the two had reached a compromise. The Doctor had

given the Brigadier a recall device, which could signal to the TARDIS whenever, and

wherever it happened to be; he had also given his promise to return to Earth whenever the

signal was used.

Watched by Harry and Sarah, the Doctor produced a compass-like device from his

pocket. He flipped open the lid, revealing a directional needle quivering over a multi-

coloured dial. 'Well, he's still signalling on the syonic scale. All we have to do is keep the

needle in the green sector and it'll lead us to him. Follow me!'

Tartan scarf blowing in the wind, the Doctor set off down the hill-side. Sarah and

Harry followed. Despite all the Doctor's assurances they were quite prepared to come

across anything from a Dalek to a dinosaur.

What they did meet was considerably more prosaic. The track joined up with a

narrow country lane, and after consulting his syonic compass the Doctor led them along it.

A few moments later they heard the sound of an engine, and a muddy shooting brake

appeared on the road behind them. As it came up to them, it stopped. The driver was an

authoritative-looking old fellow in country tweeds. He spoke in a clipped, upper-class voice,

with just a suggestion of a Highland lilt somewhere underneath. 'Might I offer you a lift?'

The Doctor took a quick look at his compass. 'Well, you do seem to be going our

way. It's extremely kind of you.'

'Whom do I have the pleasure of speaking to?'

'Forgive me. This is Sarah Jane Smith, this is Harry Sullivan, and I'm the Doctor.'

The driver of the shooting brake gave a stiff nod. 'I am the Duke of Forgill. Would

you like to get in?'

The Doctor climbed in beside the Duke, and Sarah and Harry piled in the back.

As they drove down the lane, the Doctor said, 'I wonder if you could tell me where

we are?'

'You're just outside the village of Tulloch.'

'And Tulloch is...?'

The Duke looked at him curiously. 'In the highlands of Scotland, of course. As a

matter of fact, we're quite close to Loch Ness.'

Sarah noticed a lumpy tarpaulin-covered object in the area behind the back seat.

From under the tarpaulin a glassy eye stared at her. She lifted the cloth a little, then smiled.

The covered object was a stuffed stag's head, mounted on a wooden plaque.

Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart was not a happy man. The landlord of Tulloch village

inn had resented having his parlour commandeered by UNIT for their temporary H.Q. He

was retaliating by constant practice on the bagpipes. The noise had already given the

Brigadier a headache. Now a very angry oil-company executive called Huckle was

pounding the table and shouting at him. The Doctor still hadn't appeared, though his

signalling device was bleeping away in the corner. To crown it all, the Brigadier was

beginning to have second thoughts about his decision to celebrate his return to the land of

his ancestors by wearing the kilt. He had a shrewd suspicion that he looked ridiculous.

Benton and the rest of the men were just a little too straight-faced whenever they glanced

at him. The Brigadier winced as Huckle's fist thumped the table yet again. 'Three rigs gone

in a month. My company's losing millions.'

'I assure you, Mr Huckle, the Government is as concerned as you are.'

'If this keeps up there won't be a man willing to work out there...' Huckle broke off

as a particularly loud wail from the bagpipes drowned his words. 'Do we have to put up

with that hullaballoo?'

A tall soldier in the uniform of a Warrant Officer entered the little parlour. The

Brigadier turned to him thankfully.

'Mr Benton, any news of the Doctor?'

'Sorry, sir. Not a thing.'

Huckle scowled at the interruption. 'Who's the Doctor then?'

'Our Scientific Adviser. He ought to have materialised by now.'

The Brigadier glanced at the Doctor's calling device. 'Is this thing still working,

Benton?'

'Far as I know, sir.'

A further shuddering wail from upstairs made the Brigadier put a hand to his

temples. 'Mr Benton, please see if you can prevail upon our host to practice the bagpipes

when we are out.'

Benton grinned and turned to leave. At the window he paused. 'Look sir, there's the

Doctor now!'

As Benton left the room the Brigadier looked out of the window to see the Doctor,

Sarah and Harry climbing out of a muddy shooting brake. He turned to Huckle. 'Who's that

at the wheel?'

Huckle scowled. 'That is the Duke of Forgill. Owns pretty well everything around

here, except our shore base. He doesn't care for us one little bit.'

Seconds later the Doctor breezed into the room, Sarah, Harry and the Duke trailing

behind. The Brigadier tried to conceal his relief at seeing him again. 'Welcome back,

Doctor,' he said curtly.

The Doctor, who had no inhibitions about showing his feelings, slapped the

Brigadier on the back, shook him warmly by the hand and said, 'Hello, Brigadier, hello. I

say, I do like the local garb. Suits you, you know, suits you very well.' He gazed admiringly

at the Brigadier's kilt.

The Brigadier harrumphed, and said, 'Thank you, Doctor,' in an embarrassed way.

Sarah kept her face straight with a mighty effort. She didn't dare Iook at Harry.

'This is His Grace the Duke of Forgill,' she said. 'He very kindly gave us a lift.'

The Duke acknowledged the Brigadier's greeting with formal politeness, but it was

obvious that the oil man was the one who really interested him. 'I'm glad to have found you

here, Mr Huckle,' he said grimly. 'It's saved me a trip to your base. I'm afraid I have to

complain once more about the behaviour of the roughnecks who work for you. They've

been trespassing on my property again, and poaching too!'

Huckle reddened with anger but controlled himself with an effort. Unfortunately, he

knew there was probably some truth in the Duke's charges. The men who worked for him

were a tough, hard-bitten lot. If they fancied a bit of shooting or fishing on their days off,

they weren't likely to let a few antiquated game laws stand in their way. 'I'm sorry to hear

that, your Grace,' he spoke with forced politeness. 'My men have been warned. If any of

them are caught, they'll be discharged immediately.'

'Then let me add a warning of my own. If my game-keeper finds any of your men

trespassing, they won't be prosecuted—they'll be shot. And I assure you that's not idle

threat, Mr Huckle.'

Huckle didn't trust himself to reply. He turned to the Brigadier and said, 'I'll be

expecting you at the base then, Brigadier,' and marched out of the room.

The Duke looked sternly at the Brigadier. 'I trust the army isn't going to help these

oil people. Is that why you've been sent here?'

'No, sir: We're part of a special investigation team.'

'Investigating what?' There was a kind of unconscious arrogance in the Duke's

voice. He and his family have ruled here for so long, thought Sarah, they can't imagine

things changing.

The Brigadier's reply was respectful but firm. 'I'm afraid I can't disclose that, sir. Our

mission is of a rather confidential nature.'

'My family,' said the Duke coldly, 'has served Scotland for well over seven

centuries. That doesn't seem to count for much today. I'll leave you to your official secrets.'

With a nod of farewell he stumped off. They heard him calling out, 'Angus, where are you,

man? I've a wee gift for you in the boot of my car. Come and help me carry it!'

'Odd sort of chap,' remarked the Brigadier. 'Bit medieval in his ideas.'

'Well, at least he's a man of conviction,' said the Doctor. He suddenly remembered

his grievance. 'Now then, Brigadier, why did you bring me back? I trust you have a good

reason!'

The Brigadier gave him a brief report of the trouble off the Scottish coast. Recently,

a large number of off-shore oil-rigs had been set up to drill for North Sea oil. In the past few

weeks three of them had been totally destroyed, smashed into the sea by some incredible

force. The Doctor gazed at the Brigadier indignantly. 'Just a minute, Brigadier, just a

minute! Do you mean to say you've dragged me back seventeen million miles for this?

When I left you the syonic beam I expressly said it was only to be used in an emergency.'

'Doctor, this is an emergency!'

'Oil, an emergency?' said the Doctor disdainfully. 'It's high time this planet ceased

to be so dependent on a mineral slime. If you ask me...'

'Just one moment!' There was an edge to the Brigadier's voice that silenced even

the Doctor. 'It isn't only a question of the oil, though I won't deny that's important. These

rigs carry a large crew. So far three rigs have been destroyed—and there have been no

survivors. Don't you think we ought to solve this mystery before more men die?'

For a moment the two men glared at each other, while Sarah and Harry stood

forgotten, holding their breath. Then the Doctor spoke in a very different tone. 'Yes, of

course,' he said. 'You were quite right to send for me.'

One thing about the Doctor, thought Sarah, he never bothered about saving face.

When he was wrong he admitted it, and went on from there.

The Doctor rubbed his hands together briskly and looked round the room. 'Right

then,' he said. 'Where do we start?'

2 Murder on the Shore

They started, after a large and filling lunch, with a visit to the shore base of the oil

company. This was a small cluster of ultra-modern buildings, huddled together on a bleak

stretch of Scottish coast-line. Mr Huckle was obviously overjoyed to see them, if only

because it gave him a chance to discuss his worries. In a bright, luxurious, centrally-heated

office, lined with wall charts and cluttered with communications equipment, he showed

them the medical reports on the bodies taken from the sea after each disaster. It was a

grim story.

'Exposure and drowning,' said Huckle, passing a batch of reports over to Harry

Sullivan. 'Same cause of death each time.'

Harry Sullivan, who had been a Naval doctor before joining UNIT, skimmed rapidly

through the reports. 'No signs of violence?'

'A few minor injuries, but that's all. Nothing that couldn't have been caused by the

sea itself.'

'Where are the bodies now?'

Huckle grimaced, 'Most of them are still in the local mortuary.'

Harry shuffled the papers together. 'I'd like to take a look at them, if I may. And I'll

need a chance to study these reports in more detail. It may take a little time.'

The Brigadier said briskly, 'Very well, Sullivan, you cut along. We'll see you back at

H.Q.' As Harry began to leave, Sarah said, 'Wait Harry, I'll come with you as far as the

village. I'll interview some of the local people, see if they know anything they're not telling.'

Sarah was an experienced journalist, and knew that however closely guarded the secret,

there was usually someone willing to drop a hint or two, if only to show their own

cleverness. If the village people did know anything about what was going on, Sarah was

sure she could ferret it out.

Sarah and Harry went off. The Doctor didn't even seem to notice them go. He was

staring absorbedly at a wall-map which showed the position of the company's off-shore

rigs. Three of them were marked by sinister black crosses. There were many more rigs on

the map, unharmed as yet, but obviously in the same danger as those that had vanished.

A model oil-rig stood on Huckle's desk. The Brigadier picked it up and examined it

curiously. 'These things always remind me of spiders in Wellington boots.'

Huckle took the model from him. 'Correction, Brigadier—spiders in concrete boots,'

he said firmly. 'Thousands of tons of it. These rigs are supposed to be unsinkable.'

'That's what they said about the Bismarck,' said the Doctor. 'And we all know what

happened there! Have you considered seismic disturbance—an undersea earthquake?'

Huckle pointed to the markings which showed the estimated size of the oil field.

'We spent a fortune proving the Waverly Field geologically sound. Everything is constantly

checked for stability. Winds, currents, the slightest movement of the sea bed, all charted

and recorded. Our instruments showed nothing.'

The Doctor wandered across to the elaborate RT set that stood in one corner. 'And

before every disaster there was a complete radio blackout?'

'That's right. Either there was nothing on the set, or all we got was a sort of

electronic burble.'

'No other craft in the vicinity? Nothing suspicious?'

'Difficult to be sure,' said Huckle frankly. 'After all, it was at night. As far as we

know, the sea was calm and empty.'

'Correction, Mr Huckle,' the Doctor mimicked Huckle's phrase of a moment before.

'The sea may be calm—but it's never empty.'

Even as the Doctor spoke a vast dark shape was slipping through the sea, heading

towards its next target—another oil-rig.

Sarah Jane Smith spent a sociable afternoon chatting to as many people as she

could in the little village of Tulloch. It was hard going at first. The village people were polite

enough, but they tended to be reserved, unwilling to open up to a stranger. But Sarah had

got a foot in quite a few doors in her time as a journalist, and she managed to get most of

them talking in the end. Now, an hour or so later, she was discussing her harvest of gossip

over tea and scones with Angus MacRanald, burly landlord of the village inn.

Away from his bagpipes, Angus was pleasant enough, a little on the dour side, but

an occasional twinkle in his eye showed that his grimness was mostly an act. Sarah was

taking a mischievous delight in showing off how much she had learned.

'And they. say in the village that you're the seventh son of a seventh son, that you

have the second sight!'

Angus gave a noncommittal grunt. 'Aye, mebbe. Yon fellow the Doctor now. He

looks like a man who could see round a corner or two.'

Sarah thought there might be something to the story of Angus's powers after all. It

hadn't taken him long to spot something unusual about the Doctor. And since answering

questions about the Doctor was always a tricky business, Sarah did her best to change the

subject. She glanced round the room and saw a new addition since the morning.

Dominating one wall was a vast, many-antlered stag's head, staring down at her with

bulbous glassy eyes that seemed almost alive. 'That's a fine looking specimen!'

Angus nodded proudly. 'Aye, yon's a twelve-pointer. The Duke himself presented it

to me this very day.'

Sarah nodded, remembering that she'd seen it in the back of the shooting brake.

'He's a strange man, the Duke, isn't he?'

'He's my hereditary chieftain,' Angus sounded reproving. 'The MacRanald, Chief of

the Clan.'

'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude. It's just that—well, after he picked us up he

scarcely spoke a word all the way into the village. He seemed so—preoccupied.'

Angus sighed. 'It's true enough, he's no' the Duke I remember. He's been a

different man since the oil people came. All his servants left him, you see. There was more

money to be earned at the base. Forgill Castle's an empty, cold-hearted house these days.

I havena' set foot there in a long time. I wouldna' care to now, and that's a fact.' There was

deep sadness in Angus's voice, and Sarah felt a shiver of unease. She looked round the

room. She couldn't rid herself of the strangest feeling that she was being watched. She

glanced quickly round, but saw only the oddly-gleaming eyes of the stag as it gazed

indifferently down at her.

(Not far away, in a hidden control-room, a claw-like hand reached forward to touch

a control. Immediately the scene in the inn parlour appeared on a glowing monitor screen.

The alien hand touched another control, and the voices of Sarah and Angus came through,

faint but clear.)

Sarah shivered and looked away from the stag's head. 'Mr MacRanald, is it true

you predicted disaster for the oil company? They say in the village you had a vision.'

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