Doctor Who: The Leisure Hive

 

The deckchair attendant shivered in the cold wind off the sea, and cursed fof the thousandth time yet another chilly English June. It was going to rain again any minute, he complained to his friend the candyfloss seller. That's all they needed to complete a perfectly miserable day. Anyone with a ha'porth of sense was sure to be in the cinemas or the pubs or the amusement arcades. The beach was deserted. Who'd be fool enough to rent a deckchair in weather like this?

He pulled his coat collar up round his ears, leaned on the iron balustrade of the promenade, and surveyed the row of beach huts.

Then something caught his eye.

That was odd. There was a police box at the end of the row of beach huts. Funny he'd never noticed it before. And he thought he knew Brighton beach like the back of his hand. What was a police box doing on the sand? Didn't make sense. Coppers'd get their feet wet when the tide came in.

In front of the police box he could see a deckchair. Not one of his unfortunately - wrong colour-so perhaps they'd brought it with them. And there was a fellow slumped in the chair, with a brightly coloured beachball and a buckel and space by his side. He was wearing an overcoat, a large hat pulled over his eyes, and a long scarf wrapped round his neck. The deckchair attendant approved. Very sensible way to dress for a day on beach. Thats what makes this country great, he thought nostalgically - a steadfast refusal to be deterred by facts. You come to the seaside for the day and, regardless of whether there's six feet of snow along the prom and icebergs are floating down from Hove, regardless of the fact that you're cold, miserable and your boots are beginning to let in water, you come and sit on the beach. Even if it kills you. And with this wind it probably will.

Wait a minute. There was someone else out there. A girl. And what looked like-no, it couldn't be. He could have sworn it was a metal fox terrier. A new breed, perhaps.

Mind you, he said to his friend the candyfloss seller, when you consider miniature dachshunds, I suppose anything's possible.

The Doctor was sulking, Romana decided. He couldn't possibly be asleep - not in this freezing wind. He'd got the co-ordinates of the TARD1S all wrong yet again and just because she had remarked on this-in a perfectly friendly manner-he had gone into a huff. She picked up a stone and threw it violently into the slate-coloured sea.

There must be somewhere in this whole galaxy,' she remarked to K9, 'where one can enjoy a proper holiday without being frozen to death.'

There is, mistress.'

'I'm delighted to hear it.'

Taking this as an invitation to exercise his memory banks, K9 began to recall the list of recreational facilities available on the galaxy over a period of two or three thousand years.

Romana picked up the beachball and disconsolately began to bounce it.

'Yegros-alpha,' droned K9, approaching the end of the list. 'Speciality - atavistic therapy of primitive asteroid. Zaakros: galaxy's largest flora collection, including 819 carnivorous species. Zeen-4: historical re-enactments—'

Re-enactments?'

'You choose what episode in history you want to see re-enacted or take part in yourself. One proviso, however.'

'What?'

'Re-enactment of twentieth century Earth history forbidden: considered to be too violent.'

'Quite right,' said Romana, angrily smacking the beachball, so that it bounced head high. 'That's always the problem with Earth. They never do anything constructive.'

'Sea bathing, mistress.'

'?'

'Traditional Earth exercise when at the seaside.'

'You try it then,' said Romana. She threw the beachball into the sea. 'Fetch.'

The brightly coloured ball bobbed about in the surf about ten yards out. Obedient as ever, K9 trundled down the damp sand and into the water.

There was a loud hiss. A flash. A cloud of blue smoke. And K9 began to sink as seawater seeped through the joins in his metal skin.

'Oh, no! K9!' called Romana. 'I'm coming!' She took off her shoes and plunged into the surf.

The Doctor woke up to discover an indignant Romana, with wet feet and a sorry-looking K9 in her arms, standing over him.

'Look what you've done!' she stormed. 'You've not only got our holiday dates wrong-you've forgotten to update the programme for K9's seawater defences. He's water-logged.'

She shook the dog-shaped computer. The Doctor could hear water sloshing around inside the metal animal. But he had problems of his own.

'It's the second time I've missed the opening of the Brighton Pavilion,' he complained.

'What are you going to do about K9?' demanded Romana.

'I'll fix him some time.' The Doctor yawned. 'It's this sea air,' he explained apologetically. 'Oh, well, I'll try setting the co-ordinates again.'

He rose to his feet and began to fold up his deckchair.

I've got a better idea,' said Romana. 'Before he got soaked K9 gave me a complete list of recreational facilities in this galaxy.'

The Doctor was struggling with the deckchair and didn't reply. He had always liked Earth; it was his favourite planet. But he had to admit that some of their artefacts, like deckchairs and motor mowers and telephones, seemed to be designed with malice aforethought - rather than with the intention of making life easier for everyone. There was, he reflected, a streak of technological sadism amongst Earthlings.

'I like the sound of Argolis.'

'Argolis?' the Doctor muttered indistinctly. He was sucking his finger, having squashed it in the wooden frame of the deckchair.

'First of the Leisure Planets. With a recreational centre called the Leisure Hive. And an Experiential Grid.'

'What's that when it's at home?' enquired the Doctor.

It offers variable environments designed to stimulate physical, psychic and intellectual regeneration,' explained Romana, parroting K9.

'Sounds like Morecambe on a bad day... Ow!'

'Oh, give me that.' Romana put down K9 and disentangled the Doctor from the deckchair, which she then neatly folded up. 'Come on,' she said. 'Argolis next stop.'

She entered the TARDIS followed by the Doctor, grumbling, with K9 tucked under his arm.

The deckchair attendant rubbed his eyes. 'I don't believe it,' he said to his friend the candyfloss seller. 'That police box. It's just vanished.'

'Flaming hooligans,' replied the other gloomily. 'That's who I blame. And comprehensive education. And free school milk. I knew it'd end badly.'

'You don't understand,' protested the deckchair attendant. 'It vanished. Disappeared. Into thin air.'

But the candyfloss seller wasn't listening. He had just spotted a lone Japanese tourist burdened with cameras and three small children and it was a well-known fact in Brighton that the Japanese found candyfloss irresistible.

Nothing prepared you for the miracle of Argolis. Everyone's first reaction on arriving on the planet was the same-sheer gawping wonder. Even the most experienced space travellers were reduced to open-mouthed bumpkins, unable to believe their eyes.

One of the great hyperspace lines brought you into the orbit of the planet. There you changed to a shuttle in which you descended to the surface. On landing, you pressed the button on the android stewardess, which automatically signed you off the shuttle's passenger log, then you stepped out of the craft onto a moving hover pavement. Thjs carried you gently, silently, up a long tunnel, the walls of which were a uniform dove grey. The tunnel was suffused with a subdued light. The effect was faintly claustrophobic, But not for long. It wasn't enough to cause any distress. At last the pavement deposited you in the first great observation hall of the Leisure Hive.

The contrast with the tunnel was breathtaking. It was like emerging from a womb and stepping onto an immense stage. All around you was glass. You stood inside a huge inverted bowl. Outside you could see the pitted surface of the planet stretching away to the horizon, while overhead arched an immensity of sky. The effect was as if you had been suddenly immersed in a sea of light and colour. Brilliant light Incredible colour No rainbows anywhere in the galaxy ever boasted such colours. They flowed over the observation hall in endless, ever-changing waves.

It was only later, when you learned something of the history of the planet, that you realized that the colours which you found so intoxicating were the colours of death... The death of the planet...

Warfare came as naturally as breathing to the Argolin-and about as early in their history. The moment the first hairy, vaguely humanoid creature stood upright on the surface of the planet he grasped in his hand a flint. Before long he discovered how to chip one side of the stone, so that it became as sharp as a razor. Next he tied the flint securely to a heavy stick. Whereupon he promptly struck another Argolin over the head with it.

Thus the first Argolin battleaxe was invented.

Other inventions followed —the spear, the bow, the laser pistol, the intercontinental missile.

Of course not all the other tribes on the planet were equally warlike. Mostly they were quite peaceful. Too busy for war, they occupied themselves inventing such things as the wheel, music, antiseptic surgical techniques, and agriculture.

Since the Argolin were only a small tribe, the others tended to ignore them, or at least keep out of their way if that was possible. And then someone (a non-Argolin) invented a reliable means of transport, and it wasn't. Once the Argolin could move freely about the planet, then, like lice or the common cold, they began to crop up everywhere.

It was therefore only a matter of time before their warriors subdued all the other tribes. Once established as masters of their world, they immediately renamed it-with typical arrogance-after themselves. (Until then it had been known as Xxbrmm after which almost anything was an improvement.) For a century or two the Argolin teetered uneasily on the brink of peace. They were at a loose end: they had killed or enslaved all the other tribes; what else was there left for them to conquer?

Peace was an anathema. Peace was against the Argolin ethos. Peace was bad for you: it made you flabby, weakened your moral fibre, and rotted your teeth. Peace must be avoided at all costs.

The problem was-how? With no one left to fight, what alternative was there?

A group of Argolin elders discussed the matter for a decade or two. Then they came up with a solution which, typical of the race, was both practical and absurd. They evolved a complex and quite useless set of rules and rituals which were intended to govern every aspect of their lives. It was decreed that an Argolin should wear certain colours on a particular day, eat certain foods, wash himself or herself in a particular manner, wear certain insignias, and so on. Their entire life was to be devoted to keeping up with those ever-changing rituals. Failure to observe them, no matter how ludicrous they might be, came to be regarded as an insult by another Argolin. Insults could only be exculpated through mortal combat, which was conducted under another set of complex rituals.

The tournament and the duel therefore became a substitute for war. Indeed, it became a way of life, or death, for every adult Argolin. They killed each other with an enthusiasm and determination the subject races could only applaud.

At the height of what came to be called the Golden Age of Heroic Combat most male Argolin had at least a dozen duels pending, not to mention various courtly tournaments at which they were expected to shed blood, their own, or someone else's. Female Argolin were not forgotten either. Once past childbeanng age, they were required to avenge the slights and insults accumulated over twenty years. A woman could inherit a backlog of a hundred or more unfought duels, and she was expected to devote her declining years to fighting them. Those elderly females who survived tended to be scarred veterans of numberless combats, and were used to frighten Argolin children instead of the traditional bogeyman.

The principles of chivalry and the exploits of Argolin heroes were celebrated in a thousand ballads and verse sagas, with which Argolin knights were wont to regale themselves whilst recovering from wounds, or merely resting between tournaments.

The Saga of Herell the Hapless and Mako the Mighty was typical of the genre. Herell, a young knight newly initiated into the rituals of chivalry, was challenged to a duel by Mako, a one-legged giant. He had lost his leg several years before in a previous duel. Herell decided the odds were unfair. Not only was Mako ten years his senior, but since the chosen weapons were to be huge two-handed swords, Mako's lack of mobility placed him at an immediate disadvantage.

Only the most agile could hope to succeed with such weapons. Before the moment of combat Herell therefore hewed off his own left leg and, sword in both hands, hopped painfully towards his opponent. When Mako's squire pointed out that his master was minus a
right
leg and the advantage was still not equally balanced, Herell angrily struck off his other leg and prepared to fight on two bloody stumps. Mako, not to be outdone, cut off his own left leg. Both combatants died of shock and loss of blood without striking a blow at each other.