The Velvet Voice Affair

by Robert Hart Davis

  "Only to confirm what Mark has already told you, sir. The natives stop working and drift off into daydreams every so often, yet seem perfectly normal as soon as their attention is recaptured."

  "Hmm. You have no hint of the reason?"

  "No, sir."

  "Well, keep working on it. Anything else?"

  "Only that this place is full of snakes."

  "Snakes?"

  "Yes, sir. A great big one over a dozen feet long just tried to eat me. If Mark hadn't been there to rescue me, I would be inside his stomach now."

  Alexander Waverly's voice showed no surprise. He said mildly, "Good for Mr. Slate. I would hate to lose a top agent to a snake. I will be awaiting further report from you."

  April stared at the pen-communicator. When no more was forthcoming, said, "Yes, sir," and snappishly broke the connection.

  Putting away the pen, she said, "A girl certainly doesn't get much sympathy in this business."

  "He knows you're all right under my protection," Mark Slate said modestly.

  "Fathead," April muttered under her breath.

  When they arrived back at the village, April had a bath in the inn's one and only bathtub and put on a plain but attractive print dress. By then it was nearing dinner time. She rapped on Mark Slate's door.

  When there was no answer, she rapped again, waited a minute and rapped a third time. Deciding he must be in the bar, she was turning away when the door finally opened. Slate peered out at her.

  "Were you napping?" she asked.

  "No, just sitting."

  "Oh," she said. "It took you so long to answer the door, I thought you must have been asleep."

  Slate looked surprised. "I answered it as soon as you knocked."

  April frowned at him. "I had to knock three times, Mark."

  He gave a smiling shrug. "You should practice knocking louder. I only heard the last one. What's up?"

  "Nothing urgent. I just thought you might like to take me to dinner."

  "Sure," he said, moving into the hall and closing the door behind him. "What is today?"

  "Saturday."

  "Then it's steak on the menu. Lupe's a pretty good cook."

  They went out into the tavern together and took a corner table. Lupe seemed to have no employees, because in addition to her bartending duties she acted as waitress and cook. This didn't put a great strain on her, however, because the inn's dinner business was very small.

  Only three other customers, all male, came in during the whole dinner hour.

  The steak picado was delicious. Afterward they sat sipping a homemade banana wine which was a specialty of the house, and which was the only liquor aside from tequila, mescal and beer offered for sale.

  "We may as well spend the evening here," Slate suggested. "There isn't anywhere else to go in town."

  "It's all right with me," April told him. "My tastes are simple."

  They remained at the same corner table. By eight the place was packed, but the customers had come only to drink, not to eat. Apparently San Cecilians were used to dining early and to eating at home.

  The clientele was predominantly male, but a few women were sprinkled through the crowd. All seemed to be either wives or sweethearts of male customers. There were no unescorted women.

  "It's Lupe's TV set which draws them in," Slate said. "It's really their only form of entertainment. Eight is the magic hour."

  When April Dancer raised her eyebrows inquiringly, Slate said, "Programming doesn't go around the clock. TV is relatively new in Lombodia and there's only one broadcasting studio. Lupe hasn't had the set on previously, because after the five-o'clock news broadcast, there are no programs on until eight."

  April glanced toward the set and saw that Lupe was just switching it on.

  Up to now April and Slate had been animatedly discussing everything from the strange periodic preoccupation of the natives to the latest New York shows. For the first time since they had sat down to dinner together, Slate momentarily shifted his attention from her to glance at the television screen. He made a face and turned back to her.

  "Repeat of an old Our Miss Brooks show," he said. "I've seen it."

  April glanced at the screen and realized she had seen it also. Apparently it was new to the other customers, though, because when she looked around, she saw that every other eye in the place except Lupe's was glued to the screen. Lupe, behind the bar, was staring with irritation at Miguel, who was seated on a bar stool and was paying no attention to her.

  Turning back to Slate, she said in a low voice, "Will they object if we continue talking?"

  "We'd better keep our voices down," he said in an equally low voice. "They're all TV addicts."

  The teaser ended at that moment and a commercial came on. April would have expected general conversation to resume at that point, but to her surprise the attentive silence actually seemed to deepen.

  It was a singing commercial, sung by a dark, beautiful, husky-voiced woman with strangely arresting eyes. April knew immediately that this must be the woman whom Mark Slate had told her so intrigued male viewers.

  She was of indeterminate age. She might have been twenty-five or forty. She was one of those ageless women who retain their beauty until they are actually old, April decided with a touch of envy. Her slim but voluptuous figure was encased in a low-cut black sheath which fitted her beautifully.

  She was sexy, April Dancer had to admit.

  The commercial started with a full shot of the woman standing before a white drop which outlined her black-clad figure in detail. An intimate smile formed on her face as she began to sing. Then the camera slowly panned in on her as she sang until only her hypnotic eyes filled the Screen as she reached the last note. The jingle she sang was as far from poetry as those which are inflicted on American viewing audiences, but it was so insistently demanding of attention that it was impossible not to listen.

  The words of the jingle went:

  Munch, munch, munch,

  Crunch, crunch, crunch,

  Eat' em singly or by the bunch.

  Dip 'em, then lip 'em and gobble

  'em down:

  Lito's Fritos are the best in town.

  The tune accompanying the jingle was like a clarion call from heaven, impossible to ignore, impossible to blank from the mind. As it ended, the camera pulled back until the woman was shown at full length again, she smiled seductively and repeated it. Altogether she sang it three times, her face growing in the camera until only her hypnotic eyes showed each time.

  April recognized the tune as the one Miguel had been humming in the car, and which he had later been humming as he leaned against the ladder in the banana grove and stared into space. A monstrous suspicion began to grow in her mind.

  Tearing her gaze from the screen, she glanced around the room. Every male eye in the place was fixed on the screen in fascination. None of the women were looking at it, however. They were all frowning at their escorts with a mixture of puzzlement and jealousy.

  When the commercial ended, many of the men's eyes drifted away from the screen and simply stared into space. April got the impression that even those still looking at the screen were unaware that the show had resumed. They all seemed lost in their own thoughts.

  She turned her head toward Mark Slate and found him still gazing at the screen.

  "Mark," she said.

  His fingers drummed rhythmically on the table top. "Munch, munch, munch," he crooned in a low voice. "Eat 'em singly or by the bunch."

  To her horror April realized that Slate had succumbed to the strange epidemic after all. She hadn't guessed it sooner simply because up until this moment she had managed to engross his full attention every instant she had been with him.

  "Mark!" April said sharply. Starting, he glanced at her.

  "Let's get out of here," she said. "I want to talk to you."

  "Sure," he said agreeably, rising from his chair and tossing a couple of bills on the table. "There's nowhere else to go, t
hough, unless you'll settle for a romantic walk in the moonlight."

  "That's what I had in mind," she said, rising and picking up her purse.

  No one paid any attention to their departure.

  Outside the air was balmy and there was a bright, tropical full moon. They strolled a few yards down the street and stopped in the shadows of an adobe hut. April gazed up at the moon.

  "Beautiful, isn't it?" she said. Slate made no answer. When she glanced at him, he wasn't looking at the moon, but was staring blankly into space.

  She had brought him outside only partly because she wanted to talk to him. She had also wanted to make a little test.

  "Mark," she said softly.

  There was no answer. He merely continued to stare off into space as though he were alone.

  In a conversational tone April said, "Mr. Waverly has taken up sky-diving. Every Sunday afternoon he parachutes into the Hudson River wearing a pink bathing suit. "

  Slate said nothing.

  "Randy Kovac is engaged to a forty-year-old stripper," April said. "Napoleon Solo is to be best man and will wear a sequined dress suit he borrowed from Liberace."

  No reaction.

  "Illya Kuryakin resigned from U.N.C.L.E. and entered a monastery in Tibet as a monk," April said.

  In a low voice Slate began to hum a lilting tune.

  "Mark!" April nearly yelled. With a start Slate turned to face her. "I was listening," he said defensively. "You said---" His eyes grew round. "Mr. Waverly is taking up what?"

  "Never mind," she said. "I was just testing to see how far away from reality you were."

  "What do you mean?" he said with a frown.

  "Aren't you even aware that you're suffering from the same mental malady as the natives?"

  His expression became puzzled."Me?"

  "You," she assured him. "It took me a time to realize it, because you didn't happen to go into a trance until a few minutes ago. Apparently that's because victims drift off into daydreams only when their minds become momentarily idle, and yours hasn't had a chance to drift since I arrived. You've been constantly distracted from dwelling on your inner thoughts ever since I arrived."

  "Distracted from my inner thoughts?"

  "Uh-huh. When I first walked into Lupe's, I dropped my suitcase and the noise made you look at me. You were busy introducing me to your friends and showing me my room for the next few minutes. Then, when you went back to the barroom to wait while I changed, Lupe's outburst at Miguel kept you from retreating into your own mind again. After that you had to concentrate on your driving when we drove to the banana grove, and our conversation about my Geneva trip further distracted you.

  "We continued to have steady conversation all the time we were there, except while you were be-heading that snake, and that incident wasn't the sort you're likely to drift off into a daydream in the middle of. We kept up a steady conversation all the way back from the village, all through dinner and right up to that TV commercial. Don't you see?"

  "I see that you're admitting you talk a lot," Slate said. "Otherwise you're escaping me."

  April said patiently, "That woman on TV is exercising mass hypnotism. By repetition she's implanted that silly jingle in everybody's mind until they can't get it out. It keeps running through their minds all day long whenever there is nothing else to distract their attention. As long as you're actively conversing with someone, or doing something which requires close concentration, like driving a car, you don't think of it. But the moment you relax, the tune starts running through your mind again and you drift off into a daydream."

  Mark Slate gave his jaw a thoughtful rub. "It's pretty catchy," he admitted. "Now that you mention it, I do find myself humming it frequently. But I wasn't aware---"

  His voice drifted off and he stared past her shoulder with a preoccupied expression on his face. She gave him a light slap and he blinked.

  "You're right," he said with awe. "Because we were talking about the tune, I drifted off and started mentally humming it again right in the middle of our conversation. You've guessed the answer to the puzzle. Everybody in this country is going around mentally humming that blasted commercial. Working at a routine job like banana picking, it's easy to let your thoughts wander, and the next thing you know, you're standing there, staring into space and humming. No wonder production has gone down the drain."

  "It doesn't seem to affect women," April said. "Only men."

  "Women don't watch her. Probably they're a little jealous of her. Why couldn't I have guessed the answer two weeks ago, the first time I saw that gal on TV?"

  "Because you're a man," April told him. "Men are never as suspicious of beautiful women as other women are. The insidious thing about this technique is that no one realizes he's been brainwashed. Even as intelligent as you are, you never realized anything was wrong with you, did you?"

  Slate groaned. "Do you suppose I'm condemned to think about that silly jingle every time I let my attention wander for the rest of my life?"

  "We'll have an U.N.C.L.E. psychiatrist do some counter-brain- washing," April said. "Since we have the answer to the puzzle, there's no point in sticking around here any longer. Let's drive to Vina Rosa tonight and catch a plane for New York."

  "Right," Slate said decisively.

  "Let's go pack right now."

  The customers in the barroom were all still engrossed in the television show when they reentered. No one paid any attention to them. Slate stopped at the bar to settle their accounts with Lupe and tell the proprietress they were checking out. April went on to her room and began packing.

  Fifteen minutes later, when April had finished packing and had carried her suitcase into Slate's room, she found him sitting on the bed, staring into space. His open suitcase lay on the bed, half packed, and he held a pair of socks in his hand.

  With a sigh she shook his shoulder.

  He looked up, surprised, then smiled sheepishly.

  "It got to me again," he said. "Better help me pack, then keep talking to me all the way to New York."

  Mark Slate was the only one seated in the conference room at New York's U.N.C.L.E. headquarters. Standing in a circle around him were Alexander Waverly, young Randy Kovac, April and a plump, placid looking man of middle-age who wore gold-rimmed glasses.

  "You suggest hypnosis then, Dr. Brow?” Mr. Waverly said.

  "If the patient is willing," the psychiatrist said. "And if he can be hypnotized. Not everyone can."

  Randy Kovac said dubiously, "Mr. Slate is pretty strong-minded."

  "Strong-minded people make the best subjects," Dr. Brow informed him. "It requires concentration to accept hypnosis. How do you feel about it, Mr. Slate?"

  Mark Slate was gazing preoccupiedly at April's left foot. He didn't answer.

  "Mark!" April said.

  Slate blinked, then glanced at the doctor. "Oh, yes, sir. I heard you. Sure, I'm willing, if you think it will work."

  The doctor moved before him, took a dime from his pocket and held it before the seated man's eyes. "Just concentrate on this dime, Mr. Slate. Try to blank your mind of everything but the dime. Can you do that?"

  "Yes, sir," Slate said. "I'm thinking only of the dime."

  The doctor held the coin so that light from an overhead lamp reflected in Slate's eyes, then slowly began to twist it back and forth.

  In a soothing voice he said, "Keep watching, Mr. Slate. Concentrate as hard as you can. Now keep your eyes on the dime, but stop thinking about it. Instead concentrate on what I am saying."

  "All right," Slate agreed.

  "You will hear and pay attention only to my voice, Mr. Slate. Keep concentrating on it and listen very carefully. You are becoming sleepy. Very, very sleepy. How do you feel?"

  "Sleepy," Slate said tonelessly. The doctor dropped the dime in his pocket and passed a hand before the seated man's eyes. The eyes stared straight ahead, unblinking.

  "Remarkable," the psychiatrist said. "One of the quickest hypnotic trances I have ever i
nduced. This man has extreme powers of concentration. Can you hear me, Mr. Slate?"

  "Yes."

  "Place your right hand on top of your head."

  Slate placed his right hand on top of his head. Catching a movement from the corner of her eye, April glanced at Randy Kovac. The teen-ager was staring blankly straight ahead and had his hand on top of his head also.

  "You may drop your arm to your side," Dr. Brow said.

  Both Slate and Randy dropped their arms.

  "Now, Mr. Slate, there is a certain singing commercial with which you are familiar concerning a product called Lito's Fritos. Do you know what I am talking about?"

  "Yes," Slate said tonelessly. "Sing it, please."

  In an excellent baritone Slate sang, "Munch, munch, munch-crunch, crunch, crunch; eat 'em singly or by the bunch---Dip 'em, then lip 'em and gobble 'em down; Lito's Fritos are the best in town."

  "Good heavens!" Mr. Waverly said under his breath. "Imagine having that running through your mind twenty-four hours a day. It's the ultimate secret weapon!"

  Dr. Brow frowned at him and Waverly looked apologetic.

  "That is the last time you will ever sing that jingle," the psychiatrist said. "When you awaken, you will remember neither the words nor the tune. Do you understand?"

  "Yes. I will remember neither the words nor the tune."

  Dr. Brow snapped his fingers in front of Slate's face. Slate blinked and glanced around curiously.

  The psychiatrist said, "Will you sing the Lito's Fritos commercial for us, Mr. Slate?"

  Slate looked at him puzzledly. "What commercial?"

  Dr. Brow threw Waverly a satisfied smile. April cleared her throat and jerked a thumb at Randy Kovac. Everyone looked that way. The boy still stood staring blankly straight ahead.

  "Apparently Mr. Kovac is another excellent subject," Mr. Waverly said. "Bring him out of that, please, doctor."

  The psychiatrist snapped his fingers in front of Randy's face. The boy blinked, then glanced at Mark Slate.

  "Is he under?" he inquired.

  "Under and up again," Waverly informed him. "You decided to accompany him on the trip."