In some ways, writing an unabashed crowd-pleaser set in the Sixth Doctor's era is easier than doing it for any other slice of Who. You can't really do Revenge Of Vengeance On Varos; bringing the Valeyard back already would be taking the piss; and this came out in 1998, so Evelyn Smythe didn't exist yet. What does that leave? Sabalom Glitz, and Frobisher. Chuck them both in and you're pretty much sorted. Not that McIntee stops there; this is a world as thoroughly meshed in Who lore as the most fervent fan could wish, a spacefaring civilisation littered with jethryk, vraxoin, even a bit of spectrox. There's tech from Dronid, and appearances by everyone from Drahvins and Taran androids to, as per the cover, the Ogrons. Who are one of the less satisfying elements, if I'm honest; even before sensibilities shifted over the past 23 (!) years, there's an awkward tension in the way they're simultaneously played as a people emerging from colonisation by callous galactic powers, a genuine threat in their own right, and a bunch of comic relief idiots. Mercifully, they don't play a large enough role for this to spoil the whole book; McIntee is too busy bouncing from riff to nod to truly terrible pun (about bouncing, as it happens). So there's a little nod where the Doctor, watching the premiere of Star Wars*, can't think why Moff Tarkin looks so familiar; another sees Frobisher, in his usual penguin form, wondering whether instead of all this tiring shapeshifting he couldn't just disguise himself with a rubber glove on his head. Although of the two, Star Wars probably looms larger than Aardman; there are tractor beams and boarding actions; a rogue turned entrepreneur with distinct Lando vibes; and odd couple bounty hunters. Drawn, because McIntee isn't just indulging himself with other people's creations, from his own pet alien races, the Tzun and Veltrochni. The latter, like the city where the buildings are constantly moving about, are a reminder of how much higher Who's FX budget was in the books – you're not going to get much screentime on the BBC for "a brown reptilian with red and black mottling, about eight feet tall, whose knee joints were at the back of his legs". The plot underlying all these bells and whistles is as slight as they come – a heist, various double-crosses, all of it slightly undermined by the fact that the villain, conniving head of an intelligence agency, is far flatter than being called Niccolo M (for Mandell) would suggest. But despite the fact that McIntee was best known for his thoroughly researched Earth stories (and would be writing the pure historical in my dream season), somehow I didn't currently fancy the other unread one of his I have on the shelf (the Albigensian Crusade: even more depressing than the 2020s!). Whereas this wafer-thin entertainment was just what the Doctor ordered. Plus, props for testing the Mary Whitehouse Experience theory that 'felch' exists on a swearing frequency too high for most people to hear or complain about. And how was it not already lodged in my head that the Tzun homeworld is called S'Arl?
*It is also authentically bloody Sixth that he should say he prefers the Special Edition, the arse.