Doctor Who_ The Paradise of Death - Barry Letts [94]
‘Oh. my God,’ said Sarah. ‘They’re tipping the bodies into that machine!’
‘A processing plant,’ said the Doctor. ‘And look, coming out the other end, all neatly bagged and labelled... Well, what do you think it is?’
‘I don’t think I want to know,’ said Sarah.
‘Fertilizer,’ said the Doctor.
The Doctor told them what he thought had happened. The President must have handed over to his son about the time that it was becoming apparent that the normal sources of nitrogenous plant food was becoming too depleted throughout the Federation for the operation to continue.
Freeth, probably by the chance discovery of a warring planet, hit on this macabre solution to the problem. The protein of animal flesh was an ideal source of nitrogen.
The trouble was that there could never be enough for a self-sustaining operation. Every world growing rapine would inevitably be reduced to desert in the end. Hence the constant search for new worlds to supply the greed of Parakon.
‘You were right, Doctor,’ said Onya. ‘When the President finds out that this, this nightmare is how his dream has ended... Give me that disc. I must go to him at once.’
She hurried away, as the Doctor tidily replaced all the other discs which he had been using earlier.
‘But why do they keep a record of it all?’ said Sarah. ‘It’s evidence against them.’
‘Why did President Nixon keep the Watergate tapes?
Why did the Nazis keep neat registers of the horrors that they perpetrated? They think they’re all-powerful –
invulnerable.’
As he spoke, a distorted and muffled voice sounded from somewhere below the Doctor’s waist: ‘Trap One, Trap One, this is Greyhound. Do you read me? Over.’
‘Oh, for Pete’s sake,’ said the Doctor, his hand diving into his pocket and producing what appeared to be a small button with a hole in the middle. Glancing round at the oblivious researchers sitting nearby, he spoke softly into it.
‘Hello, Brigadier. Yes, I can hear you. Over.’
‘Trap One, Greyhound. All in order? Over.’ The Brigadier’s voice sounded tiny and thin, like one of Mickey Mouse’s chipmunk friends.
‘As far as we can tell, yes, everything is in order and quite probably tickety-boo. Over.’
‘Trap One, Greyhound. Approaching perimeter. Dashed windy up here. Maintaining radio silence. Out.’
The Doctor put the receiver back in his pocket. ‘He does so love playing soldiers,’ he said.
That’s not fair, thought Sarah. ‘He’s not exactly playing at the moment, is he?’ she said.
The Doctor gave her a startled look. ‘True, true. Sorry.
Sorry, Lethbridge-Stewart. Right then, we’d better join in. Action stations, Sarah Jane Smith. Now, the object of the exercise is to find out where friend Freeth is lurking – ’
But he was saved the trouble of searching for, as he spoke, a voice like the voice of God boomed through the hall.
‘Stay where you are! Put your hands in the air! You are surrounded!’
Sarah’s hands shot up. All over the Data Store, figures rose to their feet, hands in the air. The only exception was the Doctor who turned casually towards the main door, where a figure stood flanked by two Security men.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Tragan,’ he called out. ‘The very man! I wonder if you could help us? We’re looking for Chairman Freeth. Have you any idea where he might be?’
Chapter Thirty-One
Freeth was at this moment playing the dutiful son.
Even if Onya had carried out her original plan and flown straight to the palace, she would probably have missed the President, for this was the day on which he fulfilled one of his few remaining public functions, bestowing his official presence on the final evening of the Games. Freeth always joined him, as a discreet reminder to the watching multitude of where the real power lay; though he always made sure that there was a conspicuously armed guard nearby, as a deterrent in case the reminder was too provocative.
As always, the President greeted him with joy. In his turn, he affected the half-mocking tone which stood for affection in his dealings with his parent.