“That’s Da Rimini.” Ashwood took the picture from Carter’s fingers. “I’d recognize the batty bitch anywhere. But she looks different somehow.”

“Professional makeup.” Carter sat down on the couch, glad to be back in the hotel. It was hot and sticky outside, standard Manhattan summer weather. It reminded him of the Manu. “She’s actually performing in their broadcasts. I didn’t know she had any acting ability.”

Ashwood sniffed. “The kind of ability she needs is all up front, and that she’s got. Besides, if the Contisuyuns can make whoever’s watchin’ their drivel believe what they want ’em to believe, convincin’ their audience that Da Rimini’s an actress must be a cinch.” She crumpled the photo. “Where’re they taping?”

“They’re not,” Carter told her. “They’re broadcasting live via satellite, and not from here. In Europe.”

Ashwood was only slightly surprised. “Makes sense, I suppose, since it’s the Spaniards they want to take revenge against.”

“Not only the Spaniards. Their transponder’s footprint covers most of Europe, and they send out simultaneous translations in a dozen languages. They’re not taking any chances.” Something warm brushed against his ankles and he looked down to see Macha and Grinsaw peering out from beneath the couch. The sight made him smile.

It was still a mystery to him how two such similar animals had managed to evolve on two entirely different worlds. The notion of convergent evolution was not one that often cropped up at the parties he attended and so he was largely ignorant of the concept. He’d intended to discuss it further with the Boojums, but somehow never got around to bringing the subject up.

Besides, there were more pressing matters to attend to.

“I would’ve come across that sooner,” he said, indicating the photo, “if I’d started with stills from European operations.”

“So where are they working out of?” Ashwood asked him. “Madrid? London?”

“You won’t believe it. Obviously they wanted to stay as far out of the public eye as possible while still having access to trained technical support. They couldn’t do that at someplace like Cinecitta or the BBC.” The odor of anchovies hung powerfully in the air.

“So how do we stop ’em? Go in with guns blazing?”

“We prefer to avoid that sort of thing,” said Crease. “It would be much more efficacious if we could accompany their established program with some countervailing subliminals of our own design, thereby counteracting the effects of their work. All that we need is temporary control of the instrumentation they are using. Regardless of how they have adapted our technology I doubt it is beyond our understanding. It should not be difficult to make the necessary adjustments.”

Carter frowned. “I don’t see how we can do that. If we go busting into their facilities the first thing that’ll happen is they’ll go off the air. We wouldn’t have a signal to make use of.”

“Piffle.” Shorty shuffled over to a window. “We shall manage. We will deal with the technical difficulties if you can handle your fellow humans.”

“You may not think so,” Ashwood said evenly, “but y’all have the easier end of it.”

“We must not dally,” Crease warned them. “The more often they broadcast, the more ingrained becomes whatever message they are transmitting and the more difficult its effects will be to counter.”

XVII

It was easier to charter a jet out of Manhattan than it had been from Lima, but more difficult to get into Scotland than it had been New York. Nor did Igor, who was the specialist in such matters, think it would be a good idea to try and bribe the phlegmatic customs official who barred their exit from the airport. They could not afford to waste valuable time trying to explain their situation to a magistrate.

So they had to remain close to the airport while their botanical specimens were placed in quarantine and properly fumigated. Meanwhile Carter’s worst suspicions were confirmed when Igor discovered Inca Cola for sale at the airport snack shop. The Fernández brothers had wasted no time.

An anxious week passed, but the Boojums appeared to have survived their experience undetected and unharmed.

“Bit of a peculiar sensation,” Tree was saying. “It made us itch a little, but caused no damage. We have the ability to seal our pores against chemical intrusion.”

“Personally I found it rather refreshing,” Shorty said. “I have no more love for the local parasites than did the officials who sprayed us.”

“And they didn’t suspect you were anything other than mindless vegetables?” Ashwood asked.

“Not in the slightest,” said Crease. “They went about their tasks with considerable indifference.”

They were resting comfortably in the walled backyard of the rustic farmhouse Carter had rented, one of many such facilities available to visitors to the Edinburgh area. In the distance ancient stone walls crisscrossed gently rounded heather-swathed hills, keeping cattle and neighbors from coming to blows just as they had for hundreds of years.

In the industrial suburbs of the city fifteen miles to the south lay the private production and broadcast facilities of Atahualpa Ltd. The Contisuyuns had named their company after the Inca emperor who had been treacherously slain by Pizarro’s men.

“Cheeky of them,” was Shorty’s observation.

The first thing they did after moving into the cottage was to watch the next primetime episode of Day Becomes Tomorrow. Carter found it excessively maudlin but competently directed and acted, as would inevitably be the case with any professionally produced British show. Because he had been alerted to watch out for it he was also aware of the subtle manipulation of his thoughts and emotions the show engendered. Anyone ignorant of what the Contisuyuns were up to would simply think they had been powerfully affected by a well-made program. As the Boojums pointed out, the effect was subtle and difficult to detect.

“Folks are used to being manipulated by TV.” Ashwood turned from the set as the closing commercial came on. “They’ll soak up the Contisuyuns’ message without realizing what’s being done to them.” She shuddered. “If it’s been goin’ on like this for weeks then the whole European audience ought to be well and truly primed for whatever the Contisuyuns have in mind.”

“I tried to resist,” Igor added, “but even in English the story drew me in and held me. A good telenovela will always do that, but there was more to this. One could sense what was happening, but only if one had been forewarned.” He gazed at his companions. “Suddenly I have this vague dislike of anything Spanish.”

Ashwood nodded. “It works, all right.”

“You know,” Carter said wistfully, “I thought Da Rimini was pretty good.”

“Why shouldn’t she be?” Ashwood snapped. “She sure as hell acted up a storm for you back in Cuzco.”

Except for Da Rimini, the show’s cast was made up of professional British performers. Neither of the Fernández brothers, Fewick, or Trang Ho had put in an appearance, but there was ample evidence of their complicity. The latter two were listed in the closing credits as executive producers, while the brothers were named as principal sponsors.

Everywhere they went they were assaulted by signs advertising the new taste sensation, Inca Cola. Out of curiosity, Carter bought a six-pack and brought it back to the cottage. Everyone tried it, including the Boojums, and declared it to be astoundingly ordinary. Its success in Britain in the absence of any distinguishing taste therefore constituted further proof of the effectiveness of the Contisuyuns’ subtle transmissions.

“It helps, you know,” Tree said, “that your kind is so susceptible to this type of suggestion.”

Carter nodded. “When I was shopping I asked several people how they felt about Spain and the Spaniards. Not a subject likely to come up in casual, everyday conversation. You wouldn’t believe how hostile some of the responses were. Yet when I asked them why they felt that way not one could tell me. It puzzled them to have it pointed out.”

“There’s more to it than that,” Ashwood muttered. “They’ve got somethin’ besides stirrin’ up anti-Spanish sentiment in mind.”

“We should proceed carefully,” Igor warned his companions, “lest we alarm them and they react by moving their operations somewhere less accessible.”

The revelation arrived, conveniently enough, with the morning Daily Express. It was Igor who noticed the item, which his American friends had passed over.

“Here it is. This coming Saturday. How could I have forgotten, even with everything that has happened to us? Madre de Dios, today is already Tuesday! We have very little time in which to act.”

Carter and Ashwood crowded around the guide, who held up the back section of the newspaper so all could see. Even the two cats seemed intrigued.

“I read the whole damn rag from front to back.” Ashwood leaned over his shoulder. “Nothin’ I saw set off any mental alarms.”

“Did you read the sports section?”

She gave him a funny look. “Why would I bother with the sports pages?”

Igor tapped the article which had caught his attention. Carter glanced at it and nodded sagely.

“I still don’t get it,” Ashwood said.

“Liverpool and Barcelona are playing Saturday in Barcelona for the European soccer championship,” the guide explained. “British football fans have a reputation for violence. In addition to them the stadium will be packed with fans from all over the Continent. With Day Becomes Tomorrow having primed an anti-Spanish fuse from here to Greece, the slightest spark could set off a major riot.”

“Which could escalate beyond the bounds of sport,” Carter added, for once being a step ahead of her. “And it says in the local TV guide that the show is running a one-hour special this Thursday night. Obviously the Contisuyuns have been pointing toward this.”