“Will you ever come back?” Carter asked as they changed lanes to avoid a slow-moving truck. “Will we ever see you again? You could teach us so much, help us deal with our problems.”
Crease was sympathetic but firm. “That would constitute the same kind of interference, albeit on a more benign level, as that intended by the Contisuyuns. No, you must develop in your own way, at your own pace. For us to provide assistance would be … unaesthetic. Not to mention psychologically damaging to the majority of your kind. Sorry.”
“Perhaps someday,” Tree added, “you or the Contisuyuns or some other race will reach a level where we can interact as friends and equals. It would be nice to have someone to play cards with.”
“We’ll make it,” Carter said confidently. “You’ll see. We’ll get there.”
“That would be ripping, old sport. Simply ripping.” Crease caressed his shoulder encouragingly. “Of course, you’ll first have to do something about this visual fungus you call television or it’ll rot your brains. That much is self-evident even to casual visitors such as ourselves.”
XX
Spain dominated the next day’s news, topped by the final score of the European championship game: Barcelona 3, Liverpool 2. According to Igor, who eagerly perused the sports pages, it had been the best championship game in a decade, full of unrelenting action and great plays. Rioting was mentioned only in the context of a small-scale confrontation which had taken place outside the stadium proper and was reported to have involved some bad paella whose inimical influence was of gastrointestinal rather than subliminal origin.
As for any lingering irrational anti-Spanish fervor, it vanished in the euphoria generated by the determined, gutsy performance of the Spanish national team and its injured goalkeeper. The rest of Europe applauded the Spaniards’ excellence … with the exception of certain parts of England, which had lost.
The primetime evening news also had a piece on the destruction by mysterious explosion and fire of the old McCarie film studio complex south of Edinburgh. There were pictures, reports from still dazed eyewitnesses, reassuring pontificating by the police and fire chiefs, reminiscences by actors who had worked there during the studio’s cinematic heyday, and clips from the films and television shows which had been produced at the site.
The report concluded with a somewhat jumbled interview with the studio’s owners, the Fernández brothers of Peru. They announced that since the complex had been insured, they expected to suffer no significant financial loss. They were in fact philosophical about the damage and enthusiastic about returning home. Having been bitten by the entertainment bug they intended to build a new studio of their own for film and television production on the outskirts of the city of Miraflores. Based on the success of their telenovela Day Becomes Tomorrow they foresaw no difficulty in raising the necessary financing.
Upon conclusion of the brief interview the Scottish commentator ventured a snide aside about novices who enter the entertainment industry with delusions of grandeur. He then segued smoothly into a story about a berserk grandmum who was presently holding her landlord’s family at gunpoint in Berkshire, demanding that she be allowed to keep her pedigreed Pekinese in her one-bedroom flat no matter how much he do-dooed on the owner’s front stoop.
“Maybe,” said Igor with a slight smile, “the Fernández brothers can introduce the Contisuyuns to the delights of the soft-drink business.”
Ashwood lounged on the cottage couch. “I think folks like Pucahuaman and Apu Tupa will manage to take care of themselves.”
“They’re adaptable.” Carter was watching Grinsaw and Macha chase each other around the living room. “They’ve demonstrated that already. If nothing else they can go into the antiquities racket. They must know where a lot of stuff in Peru is buried.” He turned to the guide.
“If you think you can see our friends safely back to their ship by yourself, Igor, Marjorie and I would sure appreciate it. We’ve had about enough traipsing around and this saving-the-world stuff is damn tiring. I want to spend a week at La Costa and then get back to work.”
The diminutive Peruvian smiled. “By all means, go back to the States. I will take care of things and perhaps someday I will visit you there.”
Shorty slid a pair of root-tentacles around Carter’s shoulders. “We have great hopes for you chaps. Left to yourselves I think you will mature, as will the Contisuyuns on their own world.”
They parted at the airport. Carter and Ashwood headed first-class to Los Angeles while Igor and his Boojum “cargo” boarded a chartered jet for the long flight back to Peru. Igor refused to leave until he’d extracted a promise from his friends to return to his beloved Manú someday so that he could give them a proper tour of its unmatched animal and plant life, his naturalist’s commentary undisturbed by interstellar distractions.
Manaus was fascinating, but the little Spanish that Carter had picked up during his previous travels did him no good in the only country in South America where the official language was Portuguese.
He was relaxing in his cabana, listening to the hypnotic hum of the ceiling fans while waiting for the iced tropical drink he’d ordered from room service to arrive. They’d just wrapped final location shooting on Death Dealers of the Amazon except for a day of background shots to be taken around the city, and he was luxuriating in the completion of a crummy job well done. Maybe he wasn’t doing Henry IV, but he was learning to live with the compensations.
The script had actually been less illiterate than the majority of its ilk, with a few lines a normal adult human being wouldn’t be embarrassed to be seen uttering in public. And Marjorie Ashwood had been there to lend a sympathetic ear to his complaints. As the nominal star of the tropical opus he’d used his leverage to get her hired on as head of wardrobe. Since both the male and female leads were called upon to perform largely in various states of undress, the picture was practically a vacation for her.
“You’re just gonna have to get used to bein’ young, rich, famous, and handsome,” she told him. “And if you hang in there, maybe by the time you’re old and wrinkled you’ll start gettin’ some respect from your peers … not to mention all those nice juicy character roles.
“Just remember that Gable once tried to play the premier of Ireland, complete with accent, and that it nearly destroyed his career.”
There was a knock and he rose to open the door. When he saw who was standing in the portal he almost slammed it shut. Only the sheer overpowering beauty of his visitor prevented him from doing so.
“Don’ look so shocked.” Francesca da Rimini’s smile was as wide and beautiful as the Amazon River itself. There was no hint of hostility in her tone, no threat in her manner. “It’s not like we don’ know each other.”
“Yes, do let us come in,” said the man standing next to her. Bruton Fewick wore Carrera sunglasses, white tropical Italian silks, and a mildly outrageous straw fedora. The familiar shape of a big orange tomcat pressed against his left ankle.
Carter ignored him, as any man would, in favor of Da Rimini. The rough-hewn giantess of Cuzco had been transformed into a pillar of feminine magnificence, a cross between a contemporary sex kitten and a Scavullo model. Unable to resist, he stepped aside and followed her with his eyes as she took a seat on the rattan couch, crossing her legs with frictionless precision. Fewick flopped down in a nearby chair while Moe set to exploring the room.
“I’ve always said that the only drawback to the tropics is the heat.” Carter’s old nemesis wiped sweat from his forehead. “Well, aren’t you going to offer us something to drink?”
“There’s a pitcher on the way and I think there’re extra glasses in the cupboard.” He blinked at Da Rimini. “What are you two doing here? I don’t understand.”
“Then you are in good company, my friend, because there are many things we do not understand ourselves. As for example how you managed to slip into the studio in Edinburgh and successfully undo in a few minutes what the Contisuyuns had been working on for months.”
Carter glanced warily toward the door. “Speaking of the Contisuyuns, where are they?”
Fewick’s fingers fluttered indifferently in the cabana’s cooled air. “In Peru. Most of them went to work for the Fernández brothers.”
“I thought that’s where you’d be too, digging up every tomb in the country.”
Fewick sighed deeply. “Do you really think that after everything that’s happened I could be satisfied with a return to a profession as dull and desiccated as archaeology?”
“I thought you loved it.”
“Nonsense! It’s boring, dirty work. I only went into it because I thought it might make my parents respect me.” He made a face. “Though it sometimes still strikes me strange how soon after our failed enterprise in Scotland I lost all desire to pursue my research any further. Be assured that I am much happier now, not to mention more pleasant to be around. I had not realized how single-mindedly I had been driven by an ambition I barely understood.”
The drinks arrived. Carter signed the chit, passed out glasses, and poured for his visitors. He was not quite ready yet to think of them as guests.
“So what have you been doing since?” he asked conversationally.
“It was most unexpected.” Fewick sipped at his glass, looking content. “After the great, albeit abbreviated commercial success of Day Becomes Tomorrow I found myself, as executive producer, inundated with offers to produce other programs.”
“But you’ve got no previous experience in the television business.”
