Doctor Who_ The Paradise of Death - Barry Letts [31]
‘Ssh!’ she added, drawing back into the shadows. Jeremy peered over her head down the avenue. Two men were coming towards them from the direction of the central square. As they approached, he could hear what the very thin one was saying.
‘... and be prepared to return at once to pick up Chairman Freeth. He may need to leave in a hurry.’
‘Yes, Vice-Chairman Tragan.’
‘It’s that one who took Mr Grebber away. I’m going to follow him,’ Sarah breathed into Jeremy’s ear as the men went by. She started to move forward.
‘No, wait!’ hissed Jeremy, grabbing her arm. ‘They’re stopping.’
They had stopped by the last spaceship on the opposite side of the avenue. Jeremy could still just hear them.
Tragan was speaking again. ‘Shouldn’t we feed the guards before we go, Crestin? You know what they can be like when they’re hungry.’
As his companion replied, he held out an arm towards the spaceship. The doors slid back and the two figures were silhouetted against the brightness from inside.
‘They’ve had two cats apiece, a labrador and a cocker spaniel,’ said Crestin. ‘They’re quite satisfied.’
‘They don’t sound very satisfied to me,’ responded Tragan as he led the way inside; and, indeed, faintly across the deserted way, they could hear an unearthly howling.
‘The rotten lot,’ said Jeremy.
‘What did I tell you?’ said Sarah, ferreting in her pocket.
‘Here, take this.’
‘What is it?’
‘I wrote down the Brig’s phone numbers. You go and ring him. Get him here. ASAP.’
‘Whatter how much?’
‘For Pete’s sake! Get a move on!’
Before Jeremy could stop her, she was gone, sprinting across the broad avenue, up the ramp and into the ship; and as Jeremy watched in paralysed horror, the doors slid smoothly closed behind her, leaving no crack of light to show that there was anybody inside.
Chapter Eleven
Freeth fussed over his guests like a middle class hostess with social pretensions who had been surprised by a visit from royalty. The earnest discussion as to the precise degree of dryness the Doctor preferred in his sherry and the connoisseurship displayed over the Brigadier’s choice of whisky formed a lengthy prologue to the disclosure of the long awaited facts which Freeth had promised.
These turned out to be something of a disappointment.
It seemed that Freeth, holding the position of Interplanetary Ambassador of the planet Parakon, as well as that of chairman of its sole commercial corporation. had for some time been secretly negotiating a trade agreement with the leaders of the world community.
‘Secret negotiations? About a funfair?’ said the Brigadier, not convinced.
Before Freeth could reply. the Doctor spoke. ‘Is that good Scotch, Lethbridge-Stewart?’
What was he on about now, thought the Brigadier.
impatiently. ‘Best drop of malt I’ve tasted since my grandfather died,’ he said. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘And this sherry can only be described as noble,’ replied the Doctor. ‘Mr Freeth wants to get us on his side.’
Freeth laughed appreciatively, little drops of minty Campari spluttering from between his thick lips. ‘I said you were a clever-clogs, Doctor,’ he said. ‘I’ll go further.
You’re a smartypants. Do go on.’
‘He knows how wary the human tribe is of foreigners,’
the Doctor continued to the Brigadier. ‘What sort of welcome do you think a gang of alien carpetbaggers from outer space would get?’
Freeth took this insult as an example of the purest wit.
Wiping his eyes as he strove to control his mirth, he managed to speak at last.
‘Not quite the expression I might have used myself, Doctor, but fundamentally you’ve hit it. On the button. Or even the nose.’
He went on to describe the benefits a treaty could bring to Earth: a valuable new export market for a new product, large enough to satisfy every country participating; cheap imports of every kind; the banishment of hunger. Indeed, the advanced technologies on offer would guarantee a life of ease and luxury to the vast majority of the world’s population.
‘We want to share the paradise we have on Parakon,’ he concluded. ‘However, you can