Doctor Who_ The Paradise of Death - Barry Letts [51]
In the event, however, he found himself sitting down to a table which in all respects could have been a table at his club. Instead of the eating tongs or hinged chopsticks the Doctor had proposed as likely, they were using perfectly normal cutlery – knives, forks and spoons of gleaming silver – and drinking from crystal cut glass; and the food was very much what he would have chosen himself: smoked salmon (surely not) which melted in the mouth, followed by roast beef (eh?) cooked on the spit it would seem, a sublime apple tart and a cheese more Stiltonesque than Leicestershire had ever seen.
Having been brought up to believe that it was not the done thing to comment on the food one was given, he was surprised to find that the Doctor had no such qualms.
‘I must congratulate you, President,’ he said, ‘on the pains you have taken to make us feel at home. We have been told that your emissaries have been visiting us on Earth for over thirty years; their meticulous work is evident in every mouthful we’ve eaten. To have produced such a superb meal which is not only Earth style but also English is – subtle.’
Subtle? What’s the man talking about? thought the Brigadier. But the President (who had nibbled a token amount of each dish and occasionally sipped a glass of water) understood at once. He laughed a creaky laugh. ‘We make no secret of our methods,’ he said. ‘To honour a guest in this way is not incompatible with our commercial intentions. But why should we be ashamed of that? To conclude a successful negotiation with Earth would be to our advantage, certainly, but Earth herself would also be immeasurably the gainer.’
The Doctor glanced at the Brigadier, who was pouring himself a glass of port. He looked up. The dark haired woman whom the President had called Onya, who had been playing the part of butler, was ushering the remaining servants from the room. Apart from Onya herself and the green-uniformed guards at the door, they were alone. Ah, the Brigadier thought, time to get down to business. He cleared his throat to give himself time to surface from the mellow befuddlement induced by the succession of excellent wines he had drunk.
‘Yes, well,’ he said. ‘Forgive me, sir, but would you mind explaining exactly how we should all benefit from your, er, philanthropy?’ Blast, he thought; sounded sarcastic, gone too far.
The President frowned. ‘I understood that the discussions at the United Nations were progressing well,’
he said.
‘Yes. Yes, they are. It’s just that, er...’
The Doctor came smoothly to his rescue. ‘We have been promised a paradise, President,’ he said. ‘But I must admit, we’re a little short on detail. Background information, you might call it.’
The President relaxed. He leant back in his wheelchair and smiled. ‘I’m proud to say that it was my grandfather who brought back the rapine-seed in the first place,’ he said. ‘He was a trader, space-hopping for new markets and new products. He spotted the potential of rapine straightaway.’
Rapine? What the devil was rapine? Had he missed something the old goat had said?
‘And it’s on, er, rapine that the paradise is built?’ asked the Doctor.
Good. The Doctor was equally foxed.
The President said, ‘Exactly.’
The Doctor said, ‘I see.’
The Brigadier thought, blowed if I do. He passed the port to the Doctor. The Doctor, whose glass was full, passed it straight on to the President. The President passed it back to the Brigadier; and the Brigadier topped up his glass. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but I don’t understand.’
‘Let me show you something,’ said the President. With a slight movement of his hand, he adjusted a control on the arm of his wheelchair. It turned; and he rolled across the broad expanse of polished wood towards the window. The Brigadier hastily put down his glass and followed, accompanied by the Doctor.
‘Tell me, Brigadier,’ said the President, as he activated another control which drew back the heavy green curtains,
‘tell