“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.”
“Don’t give us a lot of time to do anything.” Ashwood was watching Tree, who stood swaying next to an open window. “Well? Do our resident veggies have any brilliant suggestions? Have you been listening to any of this?”
“We hear everything, madam,” said Tree.
“Quite.” Crease was examining the remnants of the human’s breakfast. “Somehow we must gain control of the broadcast facilities. Our aim should be not to cancel the proposed transmission but to reprogram it to suit our own ends. We must counteract the Contisuyuns’ litany of bellicosity with counterveiling subliminal reassurances. This should not take long; a few minutes of broadcast time accompanied by an appropriately reinforcing delivery would be sufficient.”
“Might as well ask for a couple of hours,” Ashwood grumbled. “They ain’t gonna let us or anybody else rewrite their script.”
“First we have to get inside.” Carter looked thoughtful. “We ought to be able to manage that as long as we can avoid Da Rimini, Fewick, and the others. The local technicians won’t know us from Adam.”
“What about the rhubarbs-who-came-before?” She jerked a finger in the Boojums’ direction.
“We can arrive at the last minute concealed in the delivery vehicle you have rented,” Shorty replied, “and remain motionless and out of sight until it is time to reprogram the instrumentation. We will deal with those humans who are in control of the transmission in the same manner as we dealt with the Contisuyuns at Nazca. No one will be injured.” The Boojum pivoted toward Carter. “It is imperative that while the altered suggestiveness is being broadcast it be supported by appropriate verbal accompaniment.”
“In other words, the story line that’s going out has to be altered to match your subliminals?”
“Quite. Otherwise the contrast between what the human audience feels and what it sees and hears will negate our efforts. It would be as if the visual portion of one of your commercials were broadcast in tandem with the sound track from an advertisement for an entirely different product. No harm will result, but neither will we have succeeded in repairing the emotional damage or counteracting the prejudice the Contisuyuns have engendered. Should we attempt this and fail we may temporarily frustrate their quest for revenge, but we will have sacrificed the element of surprise. They could resume their assault elsewhere, possibly with a different approach.
“No, we must succeed the first time.”
Carter straightened proudly. “Improvisation’s always been one of my strong points. You take care of the electronics and I’ll handle the story line.”
“Jolly good,” said Crease.
“You’re out of the mind they’ll blow away,” Ashwood insisted.
He put a hand on her shoulder. “Marjorie, I can do this. Remember, they broadcast live. By the time anyone important enough gives the order to cut the satellite link the Boojums will have done their job. And I’ll have done mine.”
“What about the rest of the cast, the other actors? Won’t they just stop dead in their tracks when another performer shows up unannounced and starts spouting lines that aren’t in the script?”
“Not if I can come up with viable dialogue. If they’re competent actors they’ll adapt. They won’t have any choice because they’re live. Until somebody says cut or wrap they’ll keep going, just like the technicians and the people up in the booth.
“Everyone will be looking at everyone else. The director will think my appearance is a producer’s gimmick, the actors will think it’s a ploy of the director, and rather than blow the show they’ll all wing it rather than go to black. I’m figuring they’ll hang with it at least until the next commercial. I only have to stay on for a few minutes.”
“You’re goin’ to get your fool self shot.”
“I don’t think so, Marjorie. They may have guards posted at the entrance, but there shouldn’t be any on the set.”
She was still reluctant. “You’re all crazy. Suppose when you drive up to the gate somebody wants to take a look in the van?”
