Doctor Who: The Infinity Race by Simon Messingham

Author:Simon Messingham
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub, mobi
Tags: Science-Fiction:Doctor Who
ISBN: 9780563538639
Publisher: BBC Worldwide
Published: 2002-11-01T10:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

117

Somehow she kept talking these fawning idiots into coming up personally rather than fob her off on comm-links. Why wouldn’t the wretched woman get the message? He was: TOO BUSY!

He had better things to do. Monitor the progress of the race for one.

He glanced up at the impressive, super-slick vidscreens hanging in his office. This was the real blood of Selonart, not that pallid theatrical stage-stuff dreamed up in the conspiracies of strangers. If she and the Doctor had something to sort, let them sort it. Leave him to deal with what was important.

Each yacht was represented on its own screen, ploughing through the surf at incredible speeds. Another showed a graphical representation of their relative positions. Marius noted wryly that the Bronstein vessel was widening the gap between itself and its followers. Unusual. Nice turn up for the books. Keeps the money spinning. Already the odds were lengthening, and shortening and doing their business.

The plaudits were still coming in from the sponsors. This was without doubt the most majestic, the most exciting and the most profitable Selonart race in imperial history. It was the greatest race ever.

He was to be well rewarded. He would retire on those rewards; get off this planet forever. Go somewhere. . . dry.

The problems of Stage One were just history. A bit of fun. He was a great Governor. He would be remembered as the best Governor. Maybe he should go out and make a speech.

The screens flicked off, as if someone had pulled the plug. Darkness and then loud hissing static.

Oh Christ, he thought. Not again. Please, not again.

Not everything had gone. There was a phone on his desk; a landline for the sponsors installed almost as a joke to cater for the impossibility of a repeat of the original blackout. There was a little light on the top of it blinking an angry red.

The Governor did not know it but the Fourteenth Selonart Trans-Global Regatta was over.

Mikron Systems ComSat #451 drifted around the globe of Selonart. Streams of data whirred and pumped through its systems. It processed them as unemotionally and as smugly as it had for a month. Lights blinked on its shell as it transmitted its unscrambled data to the waiting masses gathered greedily further out into space: partying in their packed orbital hotels.

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