Doctor Who: Target - Novelisations [156] - The Paradise of Death by Barry Letts

Author:Barry Letts
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Science-Fiction - Doctor Who
ISBN: 9780426204138
Publisher: Target Books
Published: 1994-05-14T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

Albin Dogar, Sub-Controller (S) of the Entertainments Division of the Parakon Corporation, was usually left alone to get on with his job in peace. Alone, that is, apart from the five hundred and twenty-three silent figures each monitoring the output of a computer terminal – each of which, receiving the transmissions from over two thousand implants in a planetary region, was programmed to recognize overheard phrases which might be considered damaging to the corporation or treasonable to the state – and the two hundred and fifty-two with ER headsets, fingers fluttering over banks of controls as they followed the trail of those allocated particular surveillance.

An occasional routine visit from Controller (S) was to be expected, of course – when he could bear to tear himself away from his ER fantasy life buckling a swash as a space-pirate in the olden days. But that was all: unless something went wrong.

So when Vice-Chairman Tragan himself turned up, just when Dogar had decided it was safe to go home to his supper, he felt as guilty as he did when his wife walked in on him as he was indulging in a clandestine ER visit to the Outworlder Sensuorum. (The things those Shlanfurones got up to with their multi-jointed toes!) Not that he had anything to be guilty about, he assured himself, trying to control his shaking hands. The surveillance of Captain Rudley was bang on course. He switched through to the relevant channel, which he had been checking personally throughout the evening.

‘He’s with two of the outworlders from Earth, Vice-Chairman, they’re on their way to a drinking party. Young people – both Parakonians and outworlders. Upper and upper-middle class. Fourteenth Sector.’ llragan’s face was rolling gently under the folds of skin.

‘Are you in touch at the moment?’

‘Well, no. They’re in his flycar. On their way, as I said.’

Dogar wiped the sweat from his forehead. ‘But we have a transmitter at the party.’

‘I should hope so.’ The Vice-Chairman sounded almost genial. A mottle of rosy pink spots flashed briefly across his cheeks.

‘A young Pellonian by the name of Rasco Heldal,’ continued Dogar, encouraged. ‘A very recent implant. He was in hospital last week for an infected tusk to be removed.’

‘So he doesn’t know he’s transmitting?’

‘No, sir.’

‘So much the better. Warn the Fourteenth Sector patrol to stand by ready to arrest Rudley for speaking treason.’

Dogar blinked uncertainly. ‘But suppose he doesn’t?’

The Vice-Chairman’s face rippled. ‘No wonder you’re stuck in middle management, Dogar,’ he said. ‘You really must learn to be more creative. Don’t worry. Master Rudley is going to regret his little display of “lower upper-middle class” arrogance.’

The President was getting tired – and the Brigadier was getting bored. They’d got the general idea, hadn’t they?

Why did the Doctor have to keep on and on at the poor old codger? ‘If everything is automated,’ the Doctor was saying, ‘nobody needs to work. Is that part of the paradise?’

‘Some choose to work,’ answered the President. ‘We need a few to keep things turning over. It’s a way of increasing one’s capital: and ultimately one’s status.

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