"Together, we will reform this wicked land, where the rich live off the sweat of the poor and consider unemployment of nine percent to be just fine and ten percent below the poverty level to be acceptable. Where none can walk down the streets of a major city at night without fear, and probably not without being mugged or raped or shot. Our courts are courts of law but seldom of justice. In much of our land the color of your skin or the nation of your ancestry determines what job you can get or who you can marry or where you can live. The conservative churches preach that affluence is divine will and poverty is punishment, and want to limit even more any freedom of action. The liberal churches fund faroff violent revolutions and argue whether God and the devil really exist."
His voice dropped again to a conversational tone. "And so we must play by the old rules. We must pretend to be like them, self-righteous hypocrites who, like the ancient Pharisees, are so sure of their own infallability that they allow no freedom, allow no divergence from their views, and build million-dollar temples, not to God, but to themselves, while the evils of the world proliferate.
"Well, we're going to put a stop to that.
"If affluence is the mark of divine will, we must first be affluent. I know the sacrifices that you all have made— that we all have made—to come this far, but we can only give so much. They smile and they chuckle at us and they call us a 'cult'—just another crazy California cult. But two nights from tonight, at about this time, right here on this porch, we will show them who is on God's side. Most of the equipment is already installed. Tomorrow we will work like beavers to establish the rest. It has cost almost all of our resources, but it won't matter.
"Two nights from tonight, over there to one side, will sit a trailer with a giant electronic dish. And from that dish, what goes on here will be beamed to twenty million homes across the country, live by satellite. The Blessed Art Thou network, which reaches all those homes, has reacted to our persecutions by granting us four solid hours. Those four hours will revolutionize the world! At the end of that time, we shall have our money and we shall be, in one sweep, a national force and movement!" His voice began to rise once more. "The power of God through me will reach out through that dish and flow into space and down into the living rooms of America. All who see shall become in one night our sisters and brothers.
"And it is only the beginning! Within months, we will have our own channel, available free and live to all, and broadcasting continuously. We will sweep this nation— and we will sweep the old clean, and with the new we will then bring the entire world to the glories of God's true kingdom!"
There was much joy and applause at this. Joe joined in, secretly wondering just what in the world the man was talking about. He'd seen the religious channels now and again. Sometimes they were interesting, sometimes dull, but they hardly had the kind of effect Dacaro was not only talking about but basically guaranteeing. Money, sure—put some slick show-business personalities on for an hour's telethon to buy cough medicine for giraffes with sore throats and you'd haul in a million bucks. But real conversions? A national movement in one night? What the hell was he talking about?
The services went on for another two hours, sometimes with Dacaro, sometimes with others, including the Baroness herself, looking very much the radiant porn queen she once had been, despite the unflattering robe.
The theology seemed remarkably bland in some ways. Not once was Christ, or Allah, or any other specific deity even mentioned, only God or the Lord and the Devil, of course. The believers here were the holy people, the ones chosen by God to cleanse and sweep the nation and the world. Anything done in the name of the True Path was holy, including, although this was never spelled out, lying, cheating, stealing, or anything else. Even murder, Joe thought, remembering the previous night.
Anything done with, or between, the Elect, as they were called, was holy as well. Apparently this included sex of any kind, since "the Lord's beautiful gift of animal nature" was alluded to. It certainly wasn't the kind of message that would make the Blessed Art Thou network donate four hours of its time, but this was the Elect speaking to the Elect from a very secure area. It certainly wasn't the message Dacaro preached as a guest on the show Macore had caught, nor was it likely to be the message he broadcast two nights hence. This was the real stuff.
The Baron did not put in an appearance and apparently rarely did so. He was, however, the One True Prophet of God, sent by God to Earth to remove all of the old false, mistaken, and perverted messages that came before, and give the true will of God to the world. A return to the Garden of Eden was promised, and to imitate Eden was the goal of them all; for, once they joined the Elect, all their past sins were forgiven and even original sin was washed away.
It was still not any different at its core from a thousand other California—and other—cults, and Joe couldn't see how it could do much better than the more successful of the rest. Many had become quite large, quite rich, and even respectable, but none had ever really attained the kind of power Dacaro was talking about. It was easy to dismiss his promises on that alone, if it hadn't been for the fact that Dacaro was a master sorcerer, backed and supported by the greatest mind in sorcery of two worlds.
Dacaro had been right about one thing—they'd come very far very fast. It was hard to believe that it was only a Lunar month since the man who now made these bold claims had been a prisoner in a magic Lamp in Ruddygore's vaults and had never heard of television and satellites and even business suits.
Many remained after the service, but Joe, damp and cold, decided to leave with the early crowd. He felt a great deal of relief at not tripping over his own robe, and even more when he exited the compound perimeter without challenge. There was still the chance that someone might mistake him for the woman he'd twinned, and he wanted security and safety, if at all possible, and quickly.
Almost at the town, he hung back a bit, then went off into the woods toward the prearranged but out-of-the-way meeting place. It had been decided to rendezvous there to be met by Poquah and taken to transportation, rather than risk a pickup in town, just in case one of them ran into trouble.
Joe was the first to arrive, and had enough time to begin to worry that perhaps the others had indeed run into trouble. Finally there was a crackling in the brush, and he took refuge behind a tree.
"Forty gross of pink flamingos," whispered an unfamiliar voice. He sighed and whispered back, "Thirty-six gross of Buddhas with clock in stomach," and stepped out.
"Oh, nuts, it's a woman again," said the unfamiliar newcomer. She was small, slightly built, certainly no more than fourteen or fifteen, and her robe was much too big.
"Yeah, what else? Murphy's Law—whatever can go wrong will go wrong. I assume that's you, Ti?"
"Yes, it's me. You know, it's nice to have secure legs and no pain, but I'd really forgotten what it was like to feel the damp and chill."
More sounds, another newcomer, and this one had a robe that fitted. Still, the passwords were exchanged and Marge relaxed and became her Kauri self once more.
She eagerly told them about her encounter with Father O'Grady, and hoped that it meant what she thought it did. Tiana seemed slightly disappointed to discover that she really didn't figure in the rhyme at all, but it was still heartening to find the elements coming together.
"Well, as Macore says, we now have the puzzle in place," Marge noted. "The trick is to solve it in just the right order."
"That is less a trick than it seems," Poquah said, suddenly appearing in the midst of them and making them all jump. He had one hell of a power when he cared to use it.
"Damn! Don't do that!" Joe gulped, catching his breath. "I assume you heard Marge's story?"
"Indeed, yes. A practiced demonologist improbably and implausibly set down incur midst, just when we need one. This is the hand that Providence has now specifically provided us. Come—let us go back to the trailer and compare notes on tonight. Perhaps, with the help of our thief, we can now assemble our plan and perha
ps understand theirs."
Macore listened with intense concentration as each of the three told what he or she had seen and heard and about Father O'Grady as well. Then he thought long and hard and made notes in a small notebook he'd bought, occasionally asking esoteric-sounding questions on things like computers and television transmissions.
Finally he said, "Okay, I think I got what they're going to try. Let me float it past you and see if there's anything fundamentally wrong with my thinking."
"Shoot," Joe invited him.
"Okay, now as I understand it, we've got a demonic presence, at least Hiccarph grade, plugged into the house. Right? And we've got a world-class sorcerer in Dacaro sort of as a bridge between the demon and audience. Now remember my trick with the electric gadget in Ruddygore's vault? Put them together and it's obvious."
"I'm afraid it is not obvious to me," Tiana told him, and the others nodded.
He sighed. "You're real suckers, you know that? You gotta think like them to get inside them. Okay, at its heart, its lowest common denominator, what's a spell? Energy, right?"
"I'm with you so far," Marge said. "Go on." "So where does the energy for a spell come from? It doesn't come from nowhere—it comes from the energy that's all around us. Heat, light, you name it. We convert a tiny part of that into another form, like that microwave oven over there or the TV. We do it by sheer will, by a talent or power we're born with to varying degrees, and they do it with transformers and all that other mechanical stuff, but it's all the same in the end. Now, you undo a spell basically by converting the spell energy back into its original form. Got me?"
"You make it sound so simple," Tiana said acidly.
"Well, no matter, that's what happens. You want a doctor's thesis or something with three syllables or less? Okay, now this might not be a hundred percent right, or even close, but it's as right as what I just said about spells. This television thing. It takes light energy from what's reflected off its source and turns it into some other kind of energy in the camera. Then it's sent in little jiggles to this sender, which changes it again and shoots it up to this man-made moon. Am I right so far?"
"An oversimplification, but, yes," Poquah agreed. "So, it gets bounced back down to any receiver that's tuned to it, changed back into its previous form, then back into the form before that, and finally, in the TV, changes back to light that hits the viewer. Never mind if that's really right, the point is energy at the source is transformed just like a spell and directed by machines until it not only hits someplace else but can be infinitely duplicated—and exactly duplicated—at every receiver and finally at every TV that turns to that channel. Don't you see that's what he's gonna do? He's gonna broadcast a spell that'll take on anybody who tunes in, even for a minute!"
"It's not possible," Poquah objected. "For one thing, the energy is quite weak when received, compared to what is transmitted."
"Oh, yeah? But the signal, the mathematics of energy, is still complete and intact. So how do they get it back to strength for all those TVs?"
"They—they amplify it at the receiver and again at the set," Poquah responded, and for the first time he seemed to betray some emotion. "Good heavens! It's so insane it just might work!"
"It's going to have to be a pretty simple spell," Marge noted, "if he's going to get them in the middle of changing channels."
"Two spells, then, overlaid," Tiana suggested. "One so brief that it might take hold in a single second and have but a single command—stop and watch. And a second, a long and complex spell that would deliver those viewers to the Baron's hands. An instant conversion which might also compel them to call in. Once identified, the Elect would be sent out to give them all the instructions, theology, and orders. If what Macore suggests is really possible, they could even get follow-up spells one by one over the telephone."
Joe shivered, although he now felt warm and dry. "So that's where he gets his figure. All those cable viewers switching around randomly during the four-hour time slot; hit 'em for a second and you got them. Maybe not twenty million, but over a million sure, maybe lots more. Lots of money immediately, the conversions of family members and friends later—maybe even by just calling them to the phone. Wow! It's a hell of a plot!"
"But such a spell would have to take into account line fluctuations, differing power levels, and means of transforming the energy, all sorts of things," Poquah noted, trying to find a way to prove they were wrong. "A spell that could automatically adjust to that would be so infinitely complex that no human mind could grasp the figures, let alone play with them to get it right."
"Computers," Joe reminded him. "First Boquillas learned computers. Then he researched cults. I bet he had the idea from the first time he ever watched TV back in the first days in Switzerland. He studied computers, knowing that only they could do this kind of math—and even then he'd have to program them himself. They don't come with Wizardcalc."
"He must have worked it all out with his usual mathematical precision," Marge added. "He came here because this place is most tolerant of religions and most tolerant even of aberrant ones. You said he traveled through the south, where the most famous television preachers are located, then came here and got a job in the computer industry. That must have given him a computer big and powerful enough to solve his final problems."
"Yeah, but he couldn't practice the spells. He got his local power, the Satanist, but he needed more. He needed Dacaro and he needed to block Ruddygore to make it all work, so he went to his old allies in Hell to get their cooperation. I'm sure he wasn't any too popular down there, but this plan probably knocked their little demonic socks off," Joe agreed. "They were the bridge between home and here. Hell decided on this Master of the Dead and got him all the best magic spells in exchange for a little help—never mind what it's for, old boy—it doesn't concern Husaquahr, only Earth. You can have Husaquahr. It would never even cross his mind that, if they take Earth, it means the final battle and the end of both worlds."
"So now we have it," the Imir said cautiously. "The total picture. We know exactly what they are going to do, and how, and when, and even where. We now also have all the elements of our own puzzle guide—the Oracle's rhyme—in place. We will talk to this priest tomorrow when he's sobered up—if he ever sobers up. Macore?"
"Marge? Or Gimlet? What about this porch? Is it solid or does it have a crawlspace underneath?" the thief asked.
Marge looked at the pixie, who shrugged.
"Joe—didn't your Hawaiian priestess say something about trapdoors rigged in the porch?"
"Uh—yeah. Come to think of it, she did. I'd forgotten."
"All right, then. I've got a potential solution to the puzzle, but it's gonna be pretty damned hard on some folks, I'm afraid."
They all leaned eagerly forward. "What is it?"
"I can't tell you. Even when it's happening, I can't tell you, because it's possible, even likely, that it will require some of you to get caught. Poquah, I'll need a way around that barrier spell."
"That is not too difficult. It will be even easier if we can examine both of our were friends here while still weres and find the point of commonality."
It turned out that the only thing the two bodies seemed to have in common that could not be explained as normal was a small polyp inside the left armpit. Poquah was satisfied. "Behold the sign of the true Elect," he told them. "A very nice touch. Who would notice?" He turned to Macore. "It is not even truly sorcerous in nature, only in origin. It will be rather simple to give you one, even right now."
"Okay, then do it," Macore said. "Tomorrow, I'm going to have to ask you to erase any knowledge or memory of my very existence in this world from Joe and Tiana's minds."
"Huh? Why?" Joe wanted to know.
"I told you—no clues. If they catch you, the less they know the better. As for why not do the same to the fairy folk, it's because their minds can't be as easily dissected by Pathies as yours, and also because it's damned near impossible to do on you all with
out it being noticed, or am I wrong?"
"That is correct," Poquah agreed.
"Wait a minute," Tiana put in. "Do you mean that only you will know this plan in full? And if anything happens to you, the plan fails?"
"No. Poquah already knows the added elements you don't, although I'm gonna have to explain it all to him to show him how it puts itself together. I think he'll deal quickly with any fairy folk to avoid any chance of them using their power against him. Why not? He only needs to keep you all on ice until he broadcasts and then it won't make any difference."
"You are certain you can get in there?" the Imir asked him.
"Why not? I got into Ruddygore's vaults. Compared to that, this is a piece of cake."
"You are sure this will work?" Marge asked worriedly. "Of course not. Nothing's ever a hundred percent. But it all fits in and clicks with the people we have and the rhyme we got, not to mention the other information we've acquired. I do, however, have one backup, if it all falls down. It's not a sure thing, either, and it's sure not part of the Oracle's script; but since I got the idea from Dacaro, it should work."
"From Dacaro!" Marge exclaimed.
"Yeah, but don't worry about it. I doubt if I'll need it. The important thing is this—you're all gonna have specific jobs to do. Every one of you. They'll all be dangerous, but so will mine. I usually work solo, but the Baron's expecting a mob and some specific characters as well, and we have to provide them. Sorry about that, but that's why some of you might get caught. If so, don't worry what happens to you, so long as you don't go and get yourselves killed. Given a choice, surrender. Either we'll bail you out or it won't matter anyway."
"Sounds like a cheery thought," Marge noted. "Still, you don't think they don't know about the porch and the trapdoors, do you, Macore? I mean, they'll probably have people under there and run the dogs through and everything."
"Yeah, they probably will, on Monday night. But I won't be there on Monday night." He clapped his hands together in anticipation. "We'll all start this tomorrow night," he told them, then looked over at the pixie. "Gimlet, old goil, I don't even understand the contraption, but can you type?"
Vengeance of the Dancing Gods Page 24
