Doctor Who: The Reign of Terror by Ian Marter

filled with a sense of irony that
he, Ian Chesterton, knew from history the truth of what Webster was
prophesying.
    'England must be ready for that day . .
. ' Webster said hoarsely, almost strangling Ian in his fierce
determination to convey his important message. 'There is a man here
... an Englishman in France, working to this end ... ' Webster
struggled on with failing breath. 'He must warn England when that day
draws near ... You understand, Chesterton?' Webster clutched at
Ian's shirt collar with his free hand. 'I was sent here to contact
the Englishman ... Take him back ... The day is near ... and
his information is vitally important ... Find him, Chesterton ...
Find him and tell him ... '
    Ian almost had to fight Webster off, so
fiercely did he cling to him in his death throes. 'I know that France
will ... ' he began.
    'Try to escape!' Webster burst out in
his face with a last heroic rally of his remaining strength. 'Promise
to find James ...James Stirling ... To England ... Promise . .
. !'
    'I do promise,' Ian vowed, flinching at
the bubbles of blood frothing out of Webster's chattering teeth.
'I'll find James Stirling and tell him to return to England with his
information. I understand, Webster, and I promise.'
    Barely alive, Webster released his
grasp round Ian's neck and lay in his arms, his breathing now
intermittent and shallow.
    'But Webster, how shall I find him?'
Ian suddenly asked, realising what an impossible thing he had
undertaken.
    There was a long silence and then
Webster opened his eyes for the last time. His lips moved but hardly
any sound emerged. Ian bent closer, barely able to distinguish the
feeble, breathy words.
    'Ask Jules ... Jules Renan ... The
sign of Le Chien Oris ... ' Ian repeated, watching for some
acknowledgement that he had understood Webster correctly.
    Webster's lips stopped moving and his
mouth hung open. His body gave a brief shudder and his head lolled
sideways. Ian gazed sadly at him for a moment and then lowered him
gently onto the pillows. He closed the sightless eyes and covered the
dead face with the blanket.

4 The Diggers
    The Doctor had been walking for several
hours through sparse woodlands, across hilly meadows covered in
buttercups and long grass and now along a narrow pot-holed road
running between tall rough hedgerows. At first he had started off at
a lively pace despite the ill effects of his ordeal in the burning
farmhouse, but now the heat and the humidity had slowed him down and
he frequently stopped to rest on his stick and mop his glistening
face. He had shed his frock-coat and slung it over his arm and as he
walked he slashed at the hedges to give vent to his irritation and
his anxiety about the fate of his granddaughter and her two friends.
    Approaching a sharp bend, he noticed a
number of crudely repaired patches in the road's stony surface.
Rounding the bend, he came upon a small gang of peasants
half-heartedly mending yet another pot-hole under the watchful eye of
a fat, bullying foreman dressed in ragged trousers, a sleeveless
jerkin, calico shirt and a torn straw hat. With his huge black beard
and a pistol sticking out of his belt the foreman resembled a pirate
captain. He also carried a bulging leather purse on his chubby hip.
..
    'Come on, you layabouts, you can work
faster than that,' the foreman was bellowing in his broad country
accent.
    The Doctor raised his stick in
greeting. 'Good day to you,' he cried, his thoroughbred French accent
sounding oddly pompous. 'What a pleasant day it is, is it not?'
    The gang stopped tinkering with the
road and glanced languidly at the cultured stranger. The Doctor
nodded and smiled affably. The gang
returned reluctantly to their labours.
    The foreman screwed up his eyes warily.
'I've seen better,' he growled surlily.
    The Doctor smiled again. 'Perhaps you
could help me? I am bound for Paris. I take it that I am still on the
correct road?'
    The foreman pulled a face at the word
'road' and spat into the hedge. 'You