“Khong, no.” Everyone looked at Trang Ho. “You gotta have something that’ll make people want to tune in regularly. Something that’ll grip ’em without letting go. Real, vital television that can profoundly affect people’s daily lives. Something like Dallas or Dynasty. A soap opera.”

“Ah!” Manco Fernández’s eyes lit up. “La telenovela.”

“Exactly,” said the reporter.

“What makes you think we can get something of our own on the air?” Da Rimini wondered.

“Mr. Fewick already said. Getting something on TV isn’t a matter of being good, it’s a matter of money and who you know. It’ll be harder to translate all this treasure into real money than it will be to put on a broadcast.”

“We can help there,” Manco said eagerly. “We ship our own money and that of our friends out of the country all the time. We know art dealers and goldsmiths. It can be done. But that is not the most wonderful thing about this.”

Fewick’s brows drew together. “It’s not?”

“No. If we have a big show that we are paying for, it will look peculiar if we do not use it to sell something. The show must have a sponsor, if only as a cover for our real intentions.” He paused for emphasis. “What better than Inca Cola? When we have finished, it will be the most popular soft drink in all Europe!”

Trang Ho shrugged. “Why not?”

“You are all crazy,” Da Rimini decided suddenly. “So I mus’ be crazy too. Where do we start all this?”

“Assuming the Contisuyuns concur,” said Trang Ho, “we start where everybody starts in television: with a pilot episode. But we can’t do that here.” She tapped her chin with an index finger. “Let’s try New York. L.A. would be better, but I know more people in New York and there’s better access to Europe.

“I can serve as producer. I’ve done enough stories about them to know how to act. But nobody in the business will take me seriously unless I look like I have a heavyweight backing me.” She glanced meaningfully at Fewick.

“I hope your intent is to be more than merely amusing.”

“Absolutely. You’re well spoken, you look the part, you even have East Coast connections because of your family.”

“My ‘family,’” Fewick replied impassively, “does not watch television. In their opinion PBS barely scrapes the fringes of cultural respectability. Their idea of a light evening is to apply Freud to the plot of the last opera they saw.”

“So much the better,” said Trang Ho. “Nobody in television will know what you’re talking about but they’ll be afraid to admit their ignorance. That’s always a good approach. Now, I know people who can put us in touch with writers. We’ll do some lunches, start putting things together creatively while the Fernández brothers handle the finances and the Contisuyuns refine their instrumentation. This is going to be great! We’re going to throw Europe into turmoil and I’ll have an exclusive on the whole process from beginning to end.”

Fewick was shaking his head. “I suppose your idea of an ideal assignment would be to interview God and the Devil prior to the Final Conflict.”

“Only if they’d let me have an exclusive on the pictures,” the reporter replied.

“How are we going to get all this in place?” Manco asked.

“Charter … no, we’ll buy ourselves a plane,” Trang Ho announced. “That way we can go wherever we have to and transport any necessary equipment in complete secrecy.” She looked up at Apu Tupa, who had been listening intently. “How about it?”

“Your suggestions please me. Some of our number will remain here: soldiers to guard the base, technicians to try to repair the transmitter. If those who escaped return, it will be to an unfriendly reception. The rest of us will accompany you to fulfill our grand design. This will not be revenge as we conceived of it, but satisfactory it will be.” He gestured at the set.

“I know we will succeed. Yesterday I saw one of the things you call commercials. It was for something called Perrier. If this television is so powerful that it can persuade people to pay money for water, then we will have no trouble using it to implant our message in the easily malleable minds of its viewers.”

When all was in readiness, even to dressing the Contisuyun soldiers and technicians in contemporary clothes, the invasion force flew in the 727 purchased in the name of the Fernándezes’ company from Lima to Bogotá and then on to New York. Though he found the attire constraining, Pucahuaman looked particularly natty in his gray silk suit. While red was the color of Inca and therefore Contisuyun nobility, Trang Ho managed to convince him that a crimson suit would be a bit too conspicuous for the Big Apple, even for someone involved in TV.

They did not marvel at the steel and glass towers of Manhattan, having dwelled among more aesthetic structures on their own world. The ethnic olla podrida which swarmed through the streets, however, did impress them, since their ancestors had known only themselves and the viracochas. It had the additional benefit of allowing them all to blend in easily.

The Fernández brothers were more awed by their surroundings than the Contisuyuns, while Da Rimini was in seventh heaven. Finally she herself was in New York instead of just talking to people who had been there.

Fewick booked half a floor in a mid-range midtown hotel while Trang Ho confirmed the meeting which was to take place the next day with the writers her friend had contacted earlier. Fewick would accompany her, as would Apu Tupa and Pucahuaman. Both Contisuyuns had been studying their English and intended to participate without the aid of their conspicuous translators. Suspicious as always, Da Rimini insisted on being included.

“Just let me do most of the talking,” Trang Ho said as she relaxed in the spacious suite they’d chosen for the meeting.

“I dislike the notion,” Pucahuaman told her.

“Well, you aren’t commanding troops here. If you want to bring this off you’d better leave the details to me.”

Apu Tupa sipped at his drink, the taste of which he found most congenial, and attempted to reassure his commander. “All has gone well thus far. Allow the woman to proceed.” Pucahuaman grumbled but said nothing further.

The bell rang and Trang Ho rose to answer the door. “Just sit back and relax. Compared to the people you’ve met so far, these guys are going to seem strange to you. They just flew in from the Coast.”

“How should we act?” Apu Tupa was feeling slightly light-headed and very relaxed indeed.

“Confident, wealthy, and not too bright. Just like any other executive producers.” She opened the door.

The two men who entered were dressed in short-sleeved shirts and open jackets. One wore slacks and loafers, the other jeans, sneakers, and dark sunglasses. Apu Tupa whispered to Fewick.

“Why does the short one cover his eyes? The sun is not harsh in here.”

“It’s part of his tribal costume,” the archaeologist explained. Apu Tupa nodded understandingly.

Brief introductions identified the pair as Danny and Sid. The former unholstered a microcassette recorder while his partner placed a laptop computer on the dining table, plugged it in, and booted it up.

Danny was lean, blond, and possessed of incredible energy. Though he addressed himself to Trang Ho, he kept glancing in the Contisuyuns’ direction as he spoke.

“All right: what kind of show are we talking about here?” As his partner spoke, Sid waited with fingers poised over the laptop’s keys. Straight black hair fell to his shoulders and his expression almost as far. More than anything else he looked like a mortician preparing to record the vital statistics of the recently deceased.

“Come on, gimme some help here,” Danny urged his hosts. He had an irritating habit of snapping his fingers as he talked. “I mean, are we talking comedy, drama, what? We’re running on your time but I’m not one of those schmucks who get off on wasting other people’s money. Of course, if you’re not sure what you want to do,” he said eagerly, “we have some interesting original concepts of our own that—”

“Dramatic,” Trang Ho told him, interrupting. “And we want to do it live.”

“High concept.” A facile faux fey whistle of appreciation emerged from Danny’s lips as his partner tap-tapped on the laptop. “Feed me specifics, sugar.” He hesitated. “I mean, not that we don’t like doing originals, but to tell the truth we’re actually better at reworking and adapting than at coming up with new stuff. It’s a special talent, you know?”

The general had sat quietly for about as long as he was able. Ignoring Trang Ho’s warning look, he launched into the conversation with his heavily accented English.

“I am Pucahuaman. This is my advisor, Apu Tupa.”

“Right,” said Danny attentively.

“We come from another world to which our ancestors fled to escape death and torture.”

Trang Ho shut her eyes while Fewick inhaled sharply. As for the two writers, neither blinked.

“Death and torture, right. Good stuff.” The blond didn’t miss a beat. “You getting all this, Sid?”

“Yo.” The cadaver’s fingers flew in eerie silence over the laptop’s keyboard.

Encouraged, the general continued. “We have returned to take our revenge upon our ancient enemies, the Spaniards. All who try to stand in our way will suffer.”