“How long will it take you to effect repairs?”
The guide stood, brushing at his dirty clothes. Macha seemed to be eyeing him accusingly. “I can’t fix this. It would take days and the services of a fully equipped garage.” He checked his watch. “It would not matter if I could fix it. We do not need a truck now; we need a much faster means of transportation.”
“This is a bit of a mess, what?” Tree sounded discouraged.
Igor strode out into the empty road. “We will have to try and flag someone down, take his car if necessary.”
“Is that a form of subliminal influence?”
“You might say that. If I am not stopped for speeding we just might get to the studio in time.”
The first car to come roaring toward them nearly hit the wildly gesticulating guide, swerving to go around him at the last possible instant. Upon observing this encounter the three Boojums wordlessly climbed out of the van, lowering themselves to the ground with the aid of their powerful roottentacles. They proceeded to align themselves next to Igor and parallel to the pavement, each extending a tentacle outward in quaint mimicry of the guide’s thumbs-up posture.
“What are you doing? You are not supposed to reveal yourselves, remember?”
“We have relied too much on you already,” Crease informed him. “The technique does not appear complicated yet you have failed to make it work; therefore we feel compelled to attempt it ourselves.”
Igor’s lips tightened into a thin line. “Suit yourselves, but I do not think it will obtain transport for us any faster.”
He broke off as the whine of an approaching vehicle sounded from behind the next hill. The rugose beings imitating his gesture showed no inclination to return to the interior of the van. With a sigh he turned to face the unwary oncoming motorist, despairing of inducing anyone to stop anytime soon.
XIX
Carter had chosen an unimportant expository moment near the beginning of the third act to make his entrance. According to the script there would be only two performers on stage at the time and if he was lucky he would be able to take over before they realized what was happening. It seemed the most natural place in the story for a stranger to put in an unexpected appearance and he’d prepared his improvisational dialogue accordingly.
Much depended on whether his startled fellow actors would react professionally or simply panic. He was relying on the immediacy of live TV to keep them in line, but there was no guarantee. Therefore he planned to say as much as he could as quickly as possible.
As the show progressed he saw Pucahuaman, Apu Tupa, and Fewick leave the control booth. Bored, no doubt, or intent on other business. Excitement stirred within him. Without anyone on the set to recognize him he might be able to talk until the next commercial before studio security personnel reacted.
Odd that all his training as an actor had led him finally to a role fraught with far more meaning than any he’d ever envisioned. He was about to give the most important performance of his life and he doubted it would last more than a few minutes.
It might also be his last performance.
“You ready, good-lookin’?” Ashwood was a comforting, maternal presence nearby. Well, not entirely maternal, he reminded himself. “I just want you to know that no matter how this turns out, you got more guts than anybody I ever knew.”
“You’re just saying that to bolster my nerve.”
“It’s workin’, ain’t it?” She grinned at him.
He rose and made his way to the edge of the back-drop, easing it forward just enough to let him slip past at the critical moment. Their hiding place lay to the right of the stage and no one was looking in that direction. No doubt the Boojums had already taken control of the uplink facilities and were patiently awaiting his appearance.
“Seriously, Jason, it’s been my pleasure to have made your acquaintance. Maybe Security’ll just stun you. I couldn’t tell if the guards we saw earlier were packin’ guns or those funny-lookin’ tubes. I’d feel a lot more comfortable if this was a bank you were fixin’ to break into. Then I’d know for sure.”
He had to smile. “Getting nostalgic?”
“Only for a .38.”
According to the script a quick change of sets was scheduled for the commercial break between the second and third acts. As technicians swarmed over the stage positioning scenery and props, he hoped to mix with them without being noticed, thereby putting himself in position to step before the cameras right on cue.
He was surprised how relaxed he was, how prepared he felt. What he was about to attempt wasn’t unlike live theater, one of his enduring loves for which he was never chosen. Well, this time he’d gone ahead and cast himself, and nobody was going to fire him until he’d delivered his lines.
Of course as Ashwood had so succinctly pointed out, they could still fire at him.
“So you see,” the young actress not twenty feet from where he was standing was declaiming melodramatically, “how that Spanish corporation has nearly ruined us, despite all we have done for them, despite my father having given his life for the good of the company.” She turned away from the matronly woman who was playing opposite her.
“Because of that, because of them, now I won’t be able to marry Edward.” She began to sob.
“I am so sorry, my dear.” The older actress walked to her mark behind a writing desk and picked up the letter opener lying there. “If only your brother Jack were here. He would know what to do about these lying cowards. But unfortunately he—”
“There’s no need to panic, Aunt Dora,” insisted the tall, self-possessed actor who strode out onto the stage. He had the presence of, if not an Olivier, at least a Hoffman. “I was able to change my travel plans at the last minute. Now I’m here where I belong, ready to help my family.”
Both actresses gaped at him. In the context of the story line, their astonishment and surprise seemed perfectly natural.
The older woman started to turn to the director for an explanation, realized that everything she was doing was going out live, and to her everlasting credit and Carter’s undying delight managed to stutter without breaking character, “I … I beg your pardon?”
As if he’d rehearsed it all week Carter strode across the set and settled into a chair opposite the two women. “I canceled my flight. Just made it back from the airport.” He stared straight into the actress’s eyes and said with a grin, “You didn’t expect me, did you?”
The two women exchanged a look. Then the younger smiled at the older. They’d been told how important tonight’s show was. Obviously this was the old actors’ gag of throwing a ringer into the production in an attempt to rattle them. Always good for a few laughs. The expression on this new guy’s face as much as confirmed their suspicions. Well, it hadn’t quite worked. They were in on it now and they’d play along until the next break.
Which was what Carter had been counting on all along.
He stayed perfectly in character as the girl’s older brother, his dialogue based on what he’d been able to divine from his hasty examination of the evening’s script. It was laced with plenty of pro-Spanish sentiment, designed to mesh smoothly with the Boojums’ manipulation of the Contisuyuns’ mind machinery.
“It turns out that the Spanish government corporation wasn’t responsible for your father’s death after all,” Carter declared encouragingly.
“It wasn’t?” said the younger actress with becoming sincerity.
“Not at all. It’s the fault of those you thought were your friends all along, those strange Contisuyuns. I found out that they’ve been manipulating you and Aunt Dora and everyone else while trying to blame the Spaniards for nonexistent misdeeds. They’re at tempting to sow dissent and discord across Europe by stirring up unfounded hatred against the Spanish populace. It’s all part of a plot to gain revenge against people long dead.”
