Doctor Who_ The Paradise of Death - Barry Letts [60]
‘Come on, Rasco. Drig-time!’ she added, pushing the heavy bulk of her partner onto the red-lit dance floor.
As Heldal abandoned himself to the mind-numbing sensual beat, he called back to Sarah his final thought on the matter. It might have been drowned in the cacophony of the drigdrig, but Sarah heard it as clearly as if it were resonating through the silent caverns of one of the alien moons.
‘Forget him,’ she heard Heldal say. ‘He’s dead.’
Chapter Twenty
‘He’s what? Speak up, Tragan!’
Albin Dogar couldn’t help a small shudder of panic which overlayed his fear of the Vice-Chairman as he heard the plummy tones of Chairman Freeth himself, albeit distorted by their storm-tossed flight through space.
‘I said that the President invited them both to dinner,’
replied Tragan, his face roughened by minute purple pimples.
‘And you did nothing to stop them going?’
‘How would you expect me to do that? Are you ready to show our hand?’
‘No, no, of course not,’ said Freeth, ‘But this is terrible news. They might tell him anything at all. You must do something. Don’t wait until I have landed. Do something now.’
The Sub-Controller watched, appalled but fascinated, as Tragan’s face started to bubble.
‘By all means,’ said the Vice-Chairman. ‘What would you suggest?’
Freeth’s voice hardened. ‘You are in charge of security, Tragan. Do your job.’
The bubbling violently increased.
‘And Tragan, before anything else, in case we have to advance our plans, neutralize the Presidential Guard. But legally. Do you hear me? It must be done legally. Get rid of that meddler Rudley. They’re nothing without him.’
The bubbling was dying down. A rosy flush was sweeping Tragan’s skin. ‘That has already been attended to. Chairman,’ he said.
‘So you can do something right. The moon is made of green cheese!’ The rich chuckle was lost in a burst of static.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Never mind. Then all you have to do is to limit the damage occasioned by your earlier bungling. I suggest you get on with it’
Tragan’s eyes were cold and unmoving in his erupting face. ‘I have your permission to do whatever is necessary?’
Was there a longer pause than the usual transmission gap before the Chairman answered? ‘Very well,’ he said, and switched off.
Dogar watched fearfully, lest he should be the surrogate target of the Vice-Chairman’s wrath. But to his surprise, Tragan’s face smoothed to a gentle ripple. He rose to his feet, stretched and said in his flattest voice, ‘Good. Very good. It’s quite time this charade was put to an end.’
The Sub-Controller watched him to the door and sighed with relief. He could safely leave the rest of the night to the Senior Supervisor. At last he could go home.
His satisfaction vanished as he pictured his wife waiting for him. His bowels turned to water again. She’d never believe his excuse. She never did.
The old boy toddling off like that at least gave them a chance to regroup, discuss tactics and all that sort of thing, thought the Brigadier, firmly pushing away the almost empty decanter. Got to keep a clear head, he thought muzzily.
‘Even on their own terms,’ the Doctor was saying,
‘there’s one thing missing from the paradise equation, Lethbridge-Stewart.’
‘A good Highland malt?’
The Doctor ignored his attempted humour. ‘It could be expressed in several different ways,’ he went on. ‘Nothing for nothing and precious little for sixpence, as King Lear very nearly said; there’s no such thing as a free lunch, as he might have said if he’d thought of it; or the higher the fewer.’
The Brigadier sighed. ‘You’ve lost me,’ he said.
‘How can they keep taking all these riches from the soil if they never put anything back? The more they take, the less there’ll be. The equation doesn’t balance.