Doctor Who_ The Paradise of Death - Barry Letts [1]
‘May I point out, Chairman – ’
‘Sssh! I want to hear this.’
Freeth sank back onto his overstuffed overwide seat.
The half-Cockney half-Yankee voice continued relentlessly, ‘...only ten minutes walk from Hampstead station, you can find the experience of a lifetime!’
A great deal was promised: Space Rides to take the breath away; light-sabre duels with the Robot of Death; challenges from the Mars Gladiator to beat; fabulous prizes to be won...
‘... but best of all, the Monsters from Outer Space!
Twenty-one alien creatures, so perfect in every detail, you’ll have to believe that they’re real! Come to SPACE
WORLD – the great day out for all the family!’
As Tragan switched off the final dramatic sting of electronic sound, he glanced at Freeth. It was apparent that his ill-temper had vanished.
‘Not bad. Not bad at all,’ his orotund voice boomed out.
‘Surprisingly good, in fact. Young Kitson is learning. I could have wished that they had mentioned the name of the corporation, though. That is, after all, the object of the exercise.’
‘Perhaps we should have called it the Parakon Corporation Space Park.’ It was difficult to tell whether Tragan’s suggestion was intended seriously.
‘Like a sponsored horse race, you mean? It lacks a certain je ne sais quoi, I would say. Wouldn’t you agree?’
‘If it did the job – ’
‘Ah well, you’re a pragmatist, of course,’ interrupted Freeth. ‘The finer feelings are a closed book to you.’ He chuckled comfortably. ‘It must be the effect of consorting with those ghastly little pets of yours.’
Tragan looked at him with hooded eyes. ‘You’d have been in a fine pickle without them last time.’
‘Mm. A nasty moment. I’m duly grateful.’ Freeth selected another chocolate with meticulous care. ‘A pity about the screaming – and the blood,’ he added.
‘Most enjoyable, though.’
‘True, true.’ Freeth popped in a coconut delight and chumped it up with relish. ‘It left us with something of a mess to clear up, that’s all,’ he said, a touch indistinctly.
Sarah Jane Smith was fed-up. Or was she? With a grumbling squeak, the sash window of her little studio flat allowed itself to be pushed up far enough for her to lean out and enjoy the fresh breeze coming from the Heath.
She gazed across the greenery at the immense structure which dwarfed the trees on the night skyline, and felt again the spasm of frustrated irritation which had become so familiar. Outrageous even to think of building that thing.
Who wants a space rocket in their back yard?
She returned to the matter in hand. Perhaps fed-up wasn’t quite the word. Disgruntled? No, not that; but not particularly gruntled either. She giggled at the word and took a couple of deep breaths, savouring the spring smell of the trees beneath her.
What was she on about, for heaven’s sake? Only a couple of years after taking the plunge into... into the murky waters of London journalism, she was... She pulled herself up, irritated by the cliché (murky waters, indeed!) and looked for a suitably wet thought to redeem the suspect metaphor. ‘There is a tide in the affairs of men – ’ Oh yes, and what about women? ‘– leads on to fortune?’ Well, she wasn’t doing too badly. A flat in Hampstead, no less. Well.
an attic. And writers were supposed to starve in attics, weren’t they?
Not that she was exactly starving, of course. A feature writer on a glossy woman’s mag might not have found the pot at the end of the rainbow, in spite of the rumours, but she could always find a bob a two for a handful of rice. So what was it?
Was it that she had no project at the moment? Even the prospect of visiting some of the loveliest countryside in England had failed to get her excited about Clorinda’s only suggestion. All power to the women who were muscling in on the age-old male world of sheepdog trials but... No. Her lack of interest was a symptom, not a cause.
Did she want a man? ‘Well, since you ask, Sarah dear, no, not at the moment.’ (First sign of madness, talking to yourself, that’s what they used to say at school.) Huh!
Overgrown schoolboys