A strange girl who knows far more than she should about the past - and the future...
Two worried teachers whose curiosity leads them to a deserted junk yard, an extraodinary police box and a mysterious traveller known only as the Doctor...
A fantastic journey through Space and Time ending in a terrifying adventure at the dawn of history...
ISBN 0 426 20144 2
DOCTOR WHO
AND AN
UNEARTHLY CHILD
* * *
Based on the BBC television serial by Anthony Coburn by arrangement with the British Broadcasting Corporation
* * *
TERRANCE DICKS
published by
The Paperback Division of
W. H. Allen & Co. Ltd
CONTENTS
Copyright
1 The Girl Who Was Different
2 Enter the Doctor
3 The TARDIS
4 The Dawn of Time
5 The Disappearance
6 The Cave of Skulls
7 The Knife
8 The Forest of Fear
9 Ambush
10 Captured
11 The Firemaker
12 Escape into Danger
A Target Book
Published in 1981
by the Paperback Division of W. H. Allen & Co. Ltd.
A Howard & Wyndham Company
44 Hill Street, London W1X 8LB
Copyright © Terrance Dicks and Anthony Coburn 1981
'Doctor Who' series copyright © British Broadcasting Corporation 1981
Typeset by V & M Graphics Ltd, Aylesbury, Bucks.
Printed in Great Britain by
Hunt Barnard Printing Ltd, Aylesbury, Bucks.
ISBN 0 426 201442
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
1
The Girl Who Was Different
A foggy winter's night, in a London back street: the little road was empty and silent. A tall figure loomed up out of the fog - the helmeted, caped figure of a policeman patrolling his beat.
He moved along the little street, trying shop doors, walked on past the shops to where the street ended in a high blank wall. There were high wooden gates in the wall, with a smaller, entry-gate set into one of them.
The policeman shone his torch onto the gates, holding the beam for a moment on a faded notice:
I. M. Foreman
Scrap Merchant.
There was another sign below the first, its lettering bright and fresh:
Private - Keep Out!
The policeman tried the entry-gate and it creaked open beneath his hand. He looked through, shining his torch around the little yard. There were no intruders. Just an incredible mixture of broken-down objects, old cupboards, bits of furniture, dismantled car engines, chipped marble statues with arms and legs and heads missing.
He turned the torch beam on a square blue shape in the far corner and saw with some astonishment the familiar shape of a police box. At that time police boxes were a common enough sight on the streets of London. Inside was a special telephone that police, or even members of the public, could use to summon help in an emergency.
An odd thing to find in a junk yard, thought the policeman. Maybe this particular one had become worn out and been sold off for scrap. There were rumours that all police boxes would eventually be phased out, that one day every constable would carry his own personal walkie-talkie radio. 'That'll be the day,' thought the policeman. Still, the junk-man must have bought the thing from somewhere; it was scarcely likely that he'd stolen it and lugged it off to his yard.
The policeman grinned, imagining the desk-sergeant's expression if he went back and asked if anyone had reported a missing police box. He paused for a moment listening - there seemed to be some kind of electronic hum. Probably some nearby generator - it was very faint.
Closing the little gate behind him, he went on his way, thinking of the mug of hot sweet tea and sausage sandwiches waiting at the end of his patrol.
The catch on the little gate must have been faulty. As the policeman moved away, it creaked slowly open again.
Next night, the policeman checked the yard again, but the police box had vanished. Later he learned that the strange old man who was the junk yard's new proprietor had vanished too, together with his grand-daughter, a pupil at the local school. Two teachers from the same school were missing as well.
In all the resultant fuss the policeman forgot all about the oddly sited police box. In time he came to think he must have imagined it. Even if he hadn't, it couldn't possibly have had anything to do with the disappearances. After all, you couldn't get four people into a police box - could you?
On the afternoon following the policeman's first visit to the junk yard, everything was normal at Coal Hill School. The long school day dragged to an end at last, and the long-awaited clangour of the school bell echoed through the stone-floored corridors.
As her history class hurried chattering towards the door, Barbara Wright came to a sudden decision.
'Susan!' she called.
A girl paused on her way to the door. She was tall for her age, with short dark hair framing a rather elfin face.
'Yes, Miss Wright?'
'Just wait here for a moment, and I'll go and get that book I promised you. I won't be long.'
'Yes, Miss Wright,' said Susan Foreman obediently. She went back to her desk and sat down. 'Can I play my radio while I'm waiting?'
'If it's not too loud.'
Barbara Wright went out of the classroom and strode along the corridor. At the sight of her, a group of scuffling, laughing children instinctively quietened down and began walking at a more sedate pace. Everyone knew Miss Wright didn't stand for any nonsense.
Someone had once said, rather unkindly, that Barbara Wright was a typical schoolmistress. She was dark-haired and slim, always neatly dressed, with a face that would have been even prettier without its habitual expression of rather mild disapproval.
There was undeniably some truth in the unkind remark. Barbara Wright had many good qualities, but she also had a strong conviction that she knew what was best, not only for herself but for everyone else. It suited her temperament to be in charge.
She went into the empty staff room - most of her colleagues were even quicker off the mark than the children - selected a thick volume from the shelves, and headed back towards the classroom. Half-way there she paused outside another door, marked 'Science Laboratory', hesitated for a moment, and then went inside.
As she'd hoped, Ian Chesterton was still there, pottering about his lab bench, apparently clearing up after some experiment. He was a cheerful, open-faced young man in the traditional sports jacket and flannels of the schoolmaster, about as different in temperament from Barbara Wright as could be imagined. Ian Chesterton took life as it came, going about his duties with casual efficiency and refusing to let anything worry him too much. Despite their differences, the two were very good friends, perhaps because Ian Chesterton was one of the few people in the school who saw the kindness beneath Barbara Wright's rather severe exterior. He was certainly the only one who ever dared to tease her.
He looked up as she came in. 'Oh, hello, Barbara. Not gone yet?'
'Obviously not.'
Ian groaned. 'Oh well, ask a silly question!' Barbara was frequently sharp-tongued, especially when tired or worried.
'I'm sorry,' said Barbara qu
ickly.
'It's all right, I'll forgive you - this time.'
She perched wearily on a laboratory stool. 'It's just that something's worrying me rather. I don't know what to make of it.'
It was unlike her to confess helplessness, and Ian was immediately concerned. 'What is it? Can I help?'
'Oh, it's one of the girls. Susan Foreman.'
Ian's eyes widened. 'Susan Foreman! You find her a problem too, do you?'
'I most certainly do!'
'And you don't know what to make of her?'
Barbara shook her head.
'Me neither,' said Ian ungrammatically. He looked thoughtful for a moment. 'How old is she, Barbara?'
'About fifteen.'
'Fifteen!' Ian ran his fingers through his already untidy hair. 'Do you know what she does? In my science classes, I mean?'
'No, what?'
'She lets out her knowledge a little bit at a time!' he said explosively. 'I think she doesn't want to embarrass me. That girl knows more science than I'll ever know. Is she doing the same thing in your history lessons?'
'Something very like it.'
'Your problem's the same as mine then? Whether we stay in business, or hand the class over to her...'
'No, not quite.'
'What then?'
Barbara Wright leaned forward on her stool. 'I'm sorry to unload all this on you, Ian, but I've got to talk to someone about it. I don't want to go to anyone official in case I get the girl into trouble. I suppose you're going to tell me I'm imagining things?'
'No, I'm not.' Ian turned down a Bunsen burner and began washing test tubes and glass Petri dishes in the laboratory sink, stacking them neatly in racks to dry. 'Go on.'
'Well, I told you how good she was at history? I had a talk with her, told her she ought to specialise. She'd be a natural for a university scholarship in a year or two, Oxford or Cambridge if she wanted.'
'How did she take it?'
'She was cautious about it, but she seemed quite interested...' Barbara paused. 'I told her it would mean a good deal of extra study, offered to work with her at home. The whole idea seemed to throw her into a kind of panic. She said it would be absolutely impossible because her grandfather didn't like strangers.'
'Bit of a lame excuse, isn't it?' said Ian thoughtfully. 'Who is her grandfather anyway? Isn't he supposed to be a doctor of some kind?'
Barbara nodded. 'Anyway, I didn't pursue the point, but the whole thing seemed to upset her somehow. Since then, her homework's been, I don't know, erratic - sometimes brilliant, sometimes terrible.'
'Yes, I know what you mean,' said Ian. 'She's been much the same with me.'
'Anyway, I finally got so worried and irritated with all this that I decided to have a talk to this grandfather of hers, and tell him he ought to take a bit more interest in her.'
Ian smiled to himself. It was very typical of Barbara to get herself worked up and go marching off to lecture some perfect stranger on his family responsibilities.
'Did you, indeed? What's the old boy like?'
'That's just it,' said Barbara worriedly. 'I got her address from the school secretary, 76 Totters Lane, and I went along there one evening.'
By now Ian was busily preparing a microscope slide from some mysterious solution in one of his test tubes, head bent absorbedly over his work.
'Oh Ian, do pay attention!' snapped Barbara.
'I am paying attention,' said Ian calmly. 'You went along there one evening. And?'
'There isn't anything there. It's just an old junk yard.'
'You must have got the wrong place.'
'It was the address the secretary gave me.'
'She must have got it wrong then,' said Ian infuriatingly.
'No, she didn't. I checked next day. Ian, there was a big wall on one side, a few houses and shops on the other, and nothing in between. And that nothing in the middle is the junk yard, 76 Totters Lane.'
Ian finished his slide and put it to one side. 'Bit of a mystery...? Still, there must be a simple answer somewhere. We'll just have to find out for ourselves, won't we?'
'Thanks for the we,' said Barbara gratefully. She looked at her watch. 'The poor girl's still waiting in my classroom. I'm lending her this book on the French Revolution.'
Ian looked at the bulky volume. 'What's she going to do - rewrite it? All right, what do we do? I doubt if it'll do any good to start firing questions at her.'
Barbara shook her head decisively. 'No, what I thought we'd do is drive to Totters Lane ahead of her, wait till she arrives, and see where she goes.'
'Got it all worked out, haven't you?' said Ian admiringly. 'All right!'
Barbara looked hesitantly at him. 'That is - if you're not doing anything...'
'No, I'm not doing anything,' said Ian reassuringly. 'Come on, let's go and take a look at this mystery girl.'
They went out of the laboratory, along the corridor, and into the classroom, which was empty except for Susan Foreman and the sound of rock and roll blaring from her transistor radio.
Barbara raised her voice. 'Susan?'
Susan looked up. 'Sorry, Miss Wright, I didn't hear you come in.'
'I'm not surprised.'
Susan's face was alight with interest. 'Aren't they fabulous?'
She looked every inch your average normal teenager, thought Barbara. But she wasn't. She wasn't...
'Aren't who fabulous?'
'John Smith and the Common Men. They've gone from number nineteen to number two in the charts, in just a week.'
'John Smith is the stage name of the Honourable Aubrey Waites,' said Ian solemnly. 'It's not so fashionable to be upper class these days. He started off as Chris Waites and the Carollers, didn't he?' Ian Chesterton wasn't exactly a pop fan, but he found it helped to keep in touch with the interests of his pupils, so he knew what they were talking about, at least some of the time.
Susan looked admiringly at him. 'You are surprising, Mr Chesterton. I wouldn't have expected you to know things like that.'
'I've an enquiring mind,' said Ian. 'And a sensitive ear,' he added drily.
'Sorry,' said Susan, and switched off the radio.
'Thanks!'
Susan looked at the bulky volume under Barbara Wright's arm. 'Is that the book you promised me?'
Barbara handed it over. 'Yes, here you are.'
'Thank you very much,' said Susan politely. 'I'm sure it will be very interesting. I'll return it tomorrow.'
'That's all right, you can keep it until you've finished it.'
'I'll have finished it by tomorrow,' said Susan calmly. 'Thank you, Miss Wright, goodnight. Goodnight, Mr Chesterton.'
Ian looked thoughtfully at her. There was something strange about Susan Foreman, despite all her apparent normality. Her speech was almost too pure, too precise, and she had a way of observing you cautiously all the time, as if you were a member of some interesting but potentially dangerous alien species. There was a distant, almost unearthly quality about her...
'Where do you live, Susan? I'm giving Miss Wright a lift home, and there's room for one more in the car. Since we've kept you late, it seems only fair you should get a lift as well. It'll soon be dark.'
'No thank you, Mr Chesterton. I like walking home in the dark. It's mysterious.' Susan put the radio and the book in her bag and turned towards the door.
'Be careful, Susan,' said Barbara. 'It looks as though there'll be fog again tonight. See you in the morning.'
'I expect so. Goodnight.'
The two teachers waited till her footsteps died away and then Ian took Barbara's arm. 'Right - car park, quick! We are about to solve the mystery of Susan Foreman!'
2
Enter the Doctor
As Ian's car turned slowly into Totters Lane, Barbara said, 'Park just over there, Ian. We'll have a good view of the gates, without being too close. We don't want her to see us.'
Ian couldn't help smiling at her unthinking bossiness. Obediently, he parked the car on the spot she'd
indicated, put on the handbrake, and switched off lights and engine. 'You'd better hope she doesn't! Sitting in a parked car like this might be a little hard to explain.'
Barbara gave him a disapproving look. 'She doesn't seem to have arrived yet.'
'Luckily, the fog wasn't too bad, or I'd never have found the place myself.'
Barbara pulled her coat collar higher around her neck, and said hesitantly, 'I suppose we are doing the right thing - aren't we?'
'You mean it's a bit hard to justify - indulging our idle curiosity?'
'But her homework...?'
'Bit of an excuse really, isn't it? The truth is, Barbara, we're both curious about Susan Foreman, and we won't be happy until we know some of the answers.'
'You can't just pass it off like that! If I thought I was just being a busybody, I'd go straight home. I thought you agreed there was something mysterious about her?'
Ian yawned. He'd shared Barbara's concern earlier, but now he was feeling increasingly doubtful about the whole thing. 'I suppose I did... Still, there's probably some perfectly simple explanation for it all.'
'Like what?'
'Well...' said Ian rather feebly. 'To begin with, the kid's obviously got a fantastically high IQ, near genius, I imagine.'
'And the gaps? The things she doesn't know?'
'Maybe she only concentrates on what interests her, ignores the rest.'
'It just isn't good enough, Ian. How do you explain an exceptionally intelligent teenage girl who doesn't know how many shillings there are in a pound?'
(At this time, the early 1960s, Britain was still sticking to her uniquely complicated monetary system - four farthings, or two halfpennies to the penny, twelve pence to the shilling, and twenty shillings to the pound.)
Ian stared at her. 'Really?'
Barbara nodded, remembering. Susan hadn't even seemed particularly put out by her ridiculous mistake.
'I'm sorry, Miss Wright, I thought you were on the decimal system by now.'
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