Even with an antenna set up in the bushes outside the entrance, the set could only pull in a few local channels. Fortunately, for a third-world country Peru boasted a surprisingly robust domestic television industry. There was more than enough available programming to be representational.
“You say that this ‘television’ is everywhere watched?” An amused Apu Tupa considered the cartoon which currently filled the screen.
“Not yet everywhere,” Fewick informed him. “But you’ll have saturation coverage in Spain, the rest of Europe, and America. That’s what you want.”
“It won’ work,” said Da Rimini. “How you gonna get people in England to watch the same program as people in Spain?”
Fewick smiled. “Europe now has widespread satellite television coverage. A transmission from one country can be viewed simultaneously everywhere else. If a sufficiently popular live broadcast can be developed it will be watched unaltered in every country at the same time.”
“Sure, but how you gonna get local TV stations to carry it?”
“By offering financial incentives they cannot refuse. You forget that the Contisuyuns’ Inca ancestors filled this cavern with considerable wealth. I think that if we offer to pay independent European channels to carry the broadcasts, instead of asking them to pay the producers, as is the usual arrangement, they will be eager to accept. Even if the broadcast is not to their liking they will be unable to bring themselves to decline the opportunity to reap enormous profits at little personal risk. Stations in America have been doing exactly that with religious programming for many years.”
Da Rimini was still skeptical. “Jus’ because we put somethin’ on the air don’ mean people are gonna watch it.”
“No indeed. We must therefore develop a carrier, a means of infection if you will, that is at least minimally attractive to a widely based audience. Something people in many different countries will enjoy watching. Something with universal appeal.”
“A comedy show,” Blanco Fernández suggested.
“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.
