NZ1 - Doctor Who and Shada

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DOCTOR WHO

AND SHADA

Based on the BBC television serial by Douglas Adams

PAUL SCOONES

A TSV BOOK

published by

the New Zealand

Doctor Who Fan Club

A TSV Book

Published by the New Zealand Doctor Who Fan Club, 2006

New Zealand Doctor Who Fan Club

PO Box 7061, Wellesley Street,

Auckland 1141, New Zealand

www.doctorwho.org.nz

First published in 1989 by JPS Books

Second edition published in 1991 by TSV Books

Last print edition published in 2001

This is an unofficial and unauthorised fan publication. No profits have been

derived from this book. No attempt has been made to supersede the

copyrights held by the BBC or any other persons or organisations.

Reproduction of the text of this e-book for resale or distribution is prohibited.

Cover illustration by Alistair Hughes

Respectfully dedicated to the memory of

Douglas Adams and Graham Williams

Contents

Prologue 5

1 Professor Chronotis 7

2 The Worshipful and Ancient Law of Gallifrey 13

3 In Search of the Book 19

4 The Sphere 24

5 Skagra 30

6 Dead Man 38

7 The Krargs 43

8 Think Tank 50

9 Skagra’s Plan 58

10 Shada 63

11 Into the Vortex 71

12 Battle of the Minds 78

Epilogue 83

Author’s Note

Of all the many serials that were developed by the BBC Doctor Who production office but,

for one reason or another, never made it to our television screens Shada is perhaps the

most deserving of recognition as an ‘official’ Doctor Who story. It was not through an in-

ability to make the scripts work, or a failure to fit in with the direction of the series that

kept this story from a television broadcast. Had the story not been pulled due to industrial

action after over a third had been filmed or recorded, Shada would certainly have taken its

rightful place as the final, six-part story of the seventeenth season, broadcast following The

Horns of Nimon.

It is in recognition of this story’s unique status - as one that should have been part of the

television series - that it has been included in this set of novelisations covering the televi-

sion serials that have not been published by either Target Books or Virgin Publishing.

Readers noticing certain similarities between names, locations and dialogue appearing

in this book and in Douglas Adams’ 1987 novel Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency

should be aware that Shada came first. Adams never permitted Target to novelise this (or

his other two stories: The Pirate Planet and City of Death) and later reused aspects of his

Doctor Who stories in his original fiction..

Shada was originally the first novelisation produced as part of this set of five books. I

first attempted an adaptation in the mid-eighties, working from the detailed ‘Archive’ syn-

opsis in Doctor Who Monthly issue 81 (October 1983). In 1988 Jon Preddle transcribed a

video reconstruction of the surviving scenes linked with text from the scripts that had been

produced by UK fans. The novelisation, adapted from Jon’s transcript, was published in

1989, launching this series of books covering the ‘unnovelised’ stories.

Later, the acquisition of copies of the rehearsal scripts (the same version of the scripts

that were subsequently reproduced in the 1992 BBC Video Shada box set) prompted a

complete rewrite, published in 1991.

For this new version (produced ten years to the month after the previous edition), I have

taken the opportunity to revise the book, incorporating a large number of minor changes.

Many grateful thanks are due to Jon Preddle for his invaluable help and advice with all

three editions of this book.

Paul Scoones

October 2001

Prologue

The space station revolved slowly in orbit around a large red sun in a system devoid of

planetary bodies. The station was a simple construction consisting of a hexagonal hub

joined to an outer circular ring by three struts. This was Think Tank, the research station of

the Institute for Advanced Science Studies.

The station was occupied by just six men, each a top-ranked intellectual in their chosen

field of scientific study. The six distinguished scientists were at present all participating in

an experiment that was taking place in a chamber located at the very centre of the station’s

hub.

The men were sitting silently and motionlessly; eyes closed and their arms resting by

their sides. They were seated in contoured couches positioned against each side of a large

hexagonal white cone. On the apex of the cone rested a dull, silver-grey sphere, slightly

larger than a basketball.

Five of the men were each dressed in plain white tunics and trousers. The front of each

of the tunics was decorated with a symbol consisting of a black triangle inside a coloured

circle. The sixth man’s clothes lacked the symbol, singling him out from his colleagues.

His high forehead, square jaw-line and a scar, running down his right cheek, also marked

him out as somehow different. He seemed to possess a particular air of arrogance and su-

periority.

For some time now, the six scientists had remained at rest. The tableau was marred

only by the faint yet audible hum of the computer banks positioned against the walls of the

chamber, and the constant clicking of a large electronic countdown display mounted on the

wall. The timer was counting down seconds, displayed as Roman numerals: ‘… XXX,

XXIX, XXVIII, XXVII, XXVI…’

With fifteen seconds left on the counter, the man who was different reacted suddenly.

His eyes snapped open and, burning with a powerful intelligence, explored everything

within his field of vision although his head remained motionless. His gaze finally came to

rest on the counter as the final few seconds clicked away: ‘… V, IV, III, III, II, I…’

At the moment the countdown reached zero, lights on the computer consoles came on,

and the other five men immediately began to tremble violently. Their faces contorted in si-

lent screams as their bodies endured terrible spasms. Despite their paroxysms, the five re-

mained fixed in their seats, their backs pressed to the cone as if glued in place.

The sixth man remained calm and relaxed, apparently unconcerned for the plight of his

colleagues. He carefully got to his feet and impassively studied his colleagues as they con-

tinued to writhe in silent agony. He moved across to a computer console and flicked an ar-

ray of switches. Immediately, the men stopped shaking and slumped in their seats.

The timer was still clicking away, only now it was counting up: ‘… XXV, XXVI,

XXVII…’

A thin, confused babble of voices filled the room originating from the sphere posi-

tioned above the five scientists’ heads. A hint of a satisfied smile played briefly across the

sixth man’s features. With brisk efficiency, he performed a cursory check on each of the

men before crossing to another console and operated more controls. The babbling abruptly

ceased. Then he moved back the first console and abruptly ripped out a number of fuses

and cables in a brief shower of sparks. The counter halted.

The man then turned his attention to the sphere. He stretched out his right arm and the

sphere rose from its perch, and hovered across the room to settle on his palm. He smiled

once more, and then strode out of the chamber through a sliding door.

As the door hissed shut behind him, a pre-programmed sequence on the console acti-

vated, and a voice blared from a small speaker. ‘This is a recorded message. The Institute

for Advanced Science Studies is under strict quarantine. Do not approach. Do not ap-

proach. Everything is under our control.’ The recording briefly fell silent, then, after a

thirty second pause, repeated itself: ‘This is a recorded message...

Holding the sphere, the man strode purposefully along a passageway within one of the

station’s three connecting struts, then along a curved white walled corridor in the station’s

outer ring. He stopped at a door marked ‘Shuttle Craft’. The door opened to reveal a large

hangar bay housing a sleek silver spacecraft. The man boarded the ship via a ramp, which

then retracted into the hull.

On the upper surface of a section of the space station’s outer ring, a hatch slid back and the

spacecraft rose to the surface of the station on an elevator platform. The craft disengaged

from the station and swooped gracefully away from the proximity of the space wheel. A

cluster of engines at the rear of the ship fired, and it shot away into the distance with a fan-

tastic spurt of speed.

In the central chamber, the five remaining scientists came to life. They rose to their feet

with difficulty, and unsteadily attempted to walk, staggering and stumbling around the

chamber, oblivious to the repeating quarantine message playing on in the background. One

of the men lost his balance and collapsed in an uncoordinated heap on the floor. The others

continued their macabre dance, failing to even acknowledge his plight. They appeared to

be unaware of either each other or their surroundings. It was as though they had lost their

minds.

Professor Chronotis

On a bright if not particularly warm October day a young man wearing jeans and a pale-

coloured jacket cycled up to the gates of St Cedd’s, one of the colleges of England’s Cam-

bridge University. Slowing to a halt, he dismounted and parked his bicycle in the racks be-

fore walking into First Court. He pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket, and checked the

room number scrawled on it. Looking around purposefully, he walked on into Second

Court, where he approached a passer-by.

‘Excuse me. Do you know where P-14 is?’ he inquired.

‘Yes - it’s over there,’ answered the passer-by, indicating the second floor of the old,

ivy-covered building in the far corner of the courtyard.

The young man thanked the passer-by and hurried off.

An elderly man opened the front door of his rooms and entered a large wood-panelled

study, containing a collection of well-worn antique furniture. Sturdy bookshelves lined the

walls, crammed to capacity with untidy rows of dusty, leather-bound volumes of varying

sizes and colours. A table was also stacked high with books and papers.

Pushing a pile of papers aside, the old man set his leather brief case down on the table

and removed a slim brown paper package from it. He tipped up his case and emptied a

clutter of files crammed with papers on to the table. Several slipped off onto the floor, and

he let them stay there.

The old man removed his coat, hat and scarf. Beneath these garments he wore a grey

tweed suit that had evidently seen better decades. Apart from a few grey wisps, his hair

and thick beard were white and his face and hands were deeply lined with the passage of

time. Small, half- frame glasses rested on the end of his beaky nose.

His attention was suddenly drawn to an unusual object. He peered over his half-frames

at the battered blue police box that incongruously occupied one corner of the room. He

grunted slightly and, clearly not at all put out by its presence, then turned his attention to

the brown paper package in his hands. After a moment’s consideration, he placed the par-

cel carefully on the table and wandered off to the adjoining kitchen.

As he was about to leave the room, there was a knock at the front door. ‘Come in!’ the

old man called, and continued into his kitchen.

The door opened and the young man entered, momentarily glancing up at the number

on the door to reassure him that this was indeed room P-14. He looked into the room just

in time to glimpse the old man’s back as he retreated into the kitchen.

‘Excuse the muddle,’ the old man called to him. ‘Creative disarray, you know.’

The young man looked around the study clearly bemused. ‘Professor Chronotis?’ he

ventured, after some hesitation.

‘Tea?’ came the reply from the kitchen.

‘Oh. Yes, thanks.’

The old man, Professor Chronotis, shuffled back into the study. ‘Just put the kettle on,’

he explained kindly, rubbing his hands together.

‘Er, Professor Chronotis,’ the young man continued uneasily, ‘I don’t know if you re-

member me. We met at a faculty party a few weeks ago. It’s Chris Parsons.’

‘Oh yes, yes,’ the Professor nodded, and shook the young student’s hand. ‘Enjoy those

faculty do’s, do you?’

Chris Parsons shrugged noncommittally. ‘Well, you know...’

‘Lots of boring old dons talking away at each other, never listen to a word any-body

else says.’

‘Well, yes,’ Chris agreed. ‘You said that...’

‘Talk, talk, talk,’ Chronotis continued. ‘Never listen.’

‘No, well... I hope I’m not taking up your valuable…’

‘Time?’ the Professor ventured. ‘No, no. When you get to my age, you’ll find that time

doesn’t matter too much. Not that I expect you will get to my age,’ he added, and stooped

to lift a handful of books from a nearby table.

‘Oh really?’ Chris humoured him.

Chronotis looked up from studying the book titles. ‘Yes. I remember saying to the last

Master of College but one, young Professor Frencham... or was it the last but two? May

have been three.’

‘Three,’ echoed Chris, slightly surprised.

The Professor continued unperturbed by his listener’s scepticism. ‘Yes. Nice young

chap. Died rather tragically at the age of ninety. Run over by a coach and pair.’

‘What was it you said to him?’ Chris persisted.

‘Oh, I don’t know. Long time ago you know.’

‘Yes,’ replied Chris doubtfully, and decided it was high time he steered the conversa-

tion back towards the reason for his visit. ‘Er, Professor, when we met, you were kind

enough to say that if I dropped round, you would lend me some of your books on carbon

dating.’

‘Oh yes. Happy to.’ The kettle whistled from the kitchen and the Professor dumped his

handful of books back on the table. ‘Ah, there’s the kettle.’ He shuffled off into the

kitchen. ‘You’ll find the books you want at the far end of the bookshelf. Third shelf

down.’

Chris called out his thanks, and made for the bookshelves. He paused momentarily,

taking in for the first time the police box standing in the corner of the room. He stared at it

in complete bewilderment for a moment, and then recalled his real purpose. Chris counted

three shelves down the bookshelves and pulled out a book from the end of the row. He

flicked through the pages briefly and noticed that it was written in an entirely unrecognis-

able text. He was about to return it to the shelf when it occurred to him that it was far too

light for its size and thickness.

The Professor’s voice drifted through from the kitchen. ‘Or is it the second shelf

down? Second, I think. Anyway, take what you want.’

Chris looked up one shelf, and immediately spied the titles he sought. Nodding with

satisfaction, he pulled out two volumes.

‘Milk?’ called the Professor from the kitchen.

‘Oh,’ said Chris, suddenly remembering the offer of tea. ‘Yes please.’

‘One lump or two?’

‘Two, please.’

‘Sugar?’

‘What?’ said Chris, startled.

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1 2 1 DOCTOR WHO AND SHADA Based on the BBC television serial by Douglas Adams PAUL SCOONES A TSV BOOK published by the New Zealand Doctor Who Fan Club 2 A TSV Book Published by the New Zealand Doctor Who Fan Club, 2006 New Zealand Doctor Who Fan C...

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