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ack of the hall distracted it. A group of Jamarians rushed up to Tzorogol, glaring at Vicki and Albrellian.
"They killed Szaratak!" one of them exclaimed. "We tried to catch them, but -"
"Did you get the information?" Tzorogol snapped.
The Jamarian nodded, and handed Tzorogol a small control unit made out of curved metal and green glass. "Every weapon has been dismantled and scanned, and every computer databank downloaded. All the information is in there."
"You underestimate us," Tzorogol snarled at the Doctor. "We're aware that it's knowledge we need, not information, so we're going to auction the information we've collected, sell it to the highest bidder - and we have all the potential bidders gathered here, at the Armageddon Convention." It held up the control unit. "Everything we've learned is in here - details of every weapon system and every stardrive in every ship on the moon. Every single scrap of information. We'll sell it in exchange for ships, and weapons, and defensive systems, and we'll take our revenge for all of the slights, the insults and the insinuations. We'll show everyone that we don't just serve drinks and do accounts and run bureaucracies. We're going to be a force to be reckoned with from now on!"
The Doctor gazed at the object with interest. "A telepathic storage unit," he said. "Very interesting: at the touch of a button, all the information contained in the unit is instantly transmitted into the mind of whoever is holding it. I seem to recognize the design as Vilp - I presume that you stole it from an envoy's room here at the Convention. I congratulate you - it appears that you have thought of everything."
"Not quite," a hesitant voice said from one side. Before anybody could move, William Shakespeare pushed past Braxiatel and snatched the control unit from Tzorogol's hand. Tzorogol lunged at him, but he backed out of the way. The other Jamarians weren't sure what to do. Two of them lowered their horns, ready to skewer Shakespeare. He, in his tu
