"No fooling?" Randy said in awe. "You mean I was hypnotized too?"
"Yeah," Slate said. "You must be as strong-minded as I am."
April said dryly, "Your strength of mind is exceeded only by your becoming modesty, Mark."
Alexander Waverly broke off the small talk by saying, "Thank you, doctor. Mr. Slate and Miss Dancer, I will see you both in my office now."
FOUR
VALLEY OF THE DAMNED
A few minutes later April and Slate sat before Mr. Waverly's enormous oval desk. Randy Kovac, who had trailed along, hovered discreetly near the door, hoping he wouldn't be sent from the room. Waverly glanced at him and decided to let him stay.
Leaning back in his chair, Waverly formed his fingertips into a pointed arch.
"Research has come up with some interesting information on TV station CIX in Vina Rosa," he said. "The station is owned by Lombodia Airwaves, Inc., which is also a producer of commercial films and tapes. Lombodia Airwaves in turn is owned by a dummy company which we are reasonably certain is controlled by THRUSH."
"THRUSH again," Slate said sourly. "We might have known."
"The president of Lombodia Airwaves is an ex-Hollywood director named Sancho Moreno," Waverly continued. "He was blackballed in Hollywood some years back because of subversive activities in connection with an organization we have since discovered was a THRUSH front. There is excellent evidence that he is a top THRUSH agent."
April said, "Did Research come up with anything on the woman hypnotist who sings the Fritos commercial?"
"Considerable. She is, as you guessed, a professional hypnotist. Some years back she had a nightclub act in which she hypnotized the entire audience and then made members flap their arms and quack like ducks and do other such nonsense. Her name is Consuelo Cortez."
After absorbing this, April asked, "What do you suppose their purpose is in drumming this jingle into the brains of the poor Lombodians? What will it get them to send Lombodia into an economic slump?"
"We can only conjecture at this point," Waverly said. "But I suspect they are merely experimenting with the effect of the jingle at present. Probably the eventual plan is to flood the air waves of the more developed nations with it. Can you imagine what the economic effect would be on the United States if its productive capacity suddenly dropped twenty-five percent because its production workers were all daydreaming about Lito's Fritos?"
Randy Kovac ventured farther into the room. "Depression," he said. "A spiral effect would set in, just like during the great depression of the thirties. We studied that in Economics II. When production fans off, there has to be layoffs. Layoffs mean less purchasing power, which means fewer sales. This results in more layoffs and the thing keeps spiraling downward until you have mass unemployment and thousands of businesses going bankrupt because they have lost their customers."
"I didn't realize you were such a student of economics, Mr. Kovac," Waverly said dryly. "But you have capsuled the danger admirably. This program must be stopped at all costs."
"What are your plans, sir?" Slate asked.
"You and Miss Dancer will return to Lombodia at once and sabotage this insidious plan. The method I leave to you. But it must be sabotaged. Understand?"
Both Slate and April said, "Yes, sir."
"One more thing, Mr. Slate," Waverly said.
"Yes, sir?"
"Do not under any circumstances listen to or watch any more television commercials."
Vina Rosa was a rather languid community of about fifty thousand, considerably larger geographically than you would expect of a town that size because it had grown outward instead of upward like most American cities. The homes, for the most part, were old-fashioned and were constructed of either frame or adobe brick. A few modern ranch-style houses of stucco had been built by newcomers, mainly by the executives of American owned rubber and fruit companies. There were few apartment houses, and none of them were more than six-unit buildings or more than two stories tall. As the population grew, the city planners didn't think in terms of high-rise buildings. They simply cleared more of the jungle and built more one-story houses.
The only large industries were rubber and fruit processing plants.
April's and Slate's plane landed at eleven in the morning. They taxied to the Hotel La Paz, the city's tallest building---it towered four stories above the street---and managed to get adjoining rooms, on the second floor.
When they were settled, they went downstairs to lunch in the hotel dining room.
When they had given their orders, Slate said to the waiter, "Do you happen to know if Station CIX allows visitors?"
"The television studio? Yes, senor. They have a conducted tour each Tuesday from three to four."
"Today?" Slate said.
"Yes, senor." The waiter glanced at a wall clock. "The tour will start in about three hours."
Slate glanced at April. "Feel like a tour, senorita?"
April Dancer smiled at him. "We're tourists, aren't we? Why not?"
Lombodia Airwaves, Inc. was an example of the spendthrift use of land in Vina Rosa resulting from the unlimited amount of land available around it, providing you had the energy and resources to clear away jungle growth. There was the equivalent of a square city block surrounded by a ten-foot-high wire mesh fence. A quarter of that space would have served, because the enclosure contained only a half dozen one-story frame buildings, all square and flat-topped, with graveled walks running between them.
The free-wheeling use of land was all the more striking because the studio was located in a busy commercial section of town with a main street fronting it.
April and Slate were both dressed as tourists. Slate wore one of his Carnaby Street suits with a checkered vest and a red tie. He had on a narrow-brimmed fedora with a small red feather in its band and carried a camera slung from his shoulder.
April was dressed as a tourist trying to look like a native. She wore thong sandals on stockingless feet, a red dirndl and a white peasant blouse which exposed her slim shoulders. Her hair was done in a style no Lombodian woman ever wore, though. She had it tied into a pony tail by a red ribbon. For a purse she carried a straw handbag.
Their taxi let them out in front of the main gate to the studio. There was a guard on the gate and three other couples were waiting to take the conducted tour. By their dress and speech two of the couples seemed to be Lombodians. The third pair were well-dressed, middle-aged Americans.
April and Slate were requested by the guard to sign a guest book. April signed first. There were several columns, all of which had to be filled in, the guard informed them. The book asked for name, local address, occupation and, for foreigners, home address and the reason for being in Lombodia.
It seemed rather detailed information to give just to go on a studio tour, but April dutifully filled it in. Under "occupation" she had the impulse to write "spy" but decided to put down "secretary" instead. Under "reason for being in Lombodia" she wrote, "Vacation."
The American couple, she noted, were a Mr. and Mrs. George Bishop, originally of Miami, now residents of Vina Rosa. George Bishop had entered that he was vice president of a local fruit packing firm; his wife had listed herself as a housewife.
She watched over Mark Slate's shoulder as he registered. He listed himself as a salesman.
By the time Slate had finished registering, their studio guide had appeared. He was a lean, wire-haired man of about thirty who wore a welcoming smile which failed to reach his eyes. The latter were as cold and expressionless as clams on the half-shell.
"My name is Pedro Martinez," he announced in a rather flat voice. "I will be your guide on this tour. Please stick together and do not stray off by yourselves. This way, please."
He turned and led the way toward the first building. The tour members fell in behind him in double file, April and Slate bringing up the rear of the column.
"I would hate to meet our guide in a dark alley," Slate whispered to April. "Pedro is a hood if I ev
er saw one. Notice that bulge under his arm?"
"Uh-huh," April said, "He's carrying a gun. Odd for a studio guide."
"Not with THRUSH in the offing," Slate said. "And I smell THRUSH strong and clear around here."
The first building was the administration building. There was a central hall with offices off each side of it. Pedro Martinez announced the purpose of each office as they came to it and opened each door to let the group peer in.
April overheard Mrs. Bishop whisper to her husband, "This isn't what I wanted to see. It's just offices. I want to see where they make films and where they broadcast. "
April sympathized with her. So far the tour wasn't very inspiring.
Her interest quickened when they paused before the door of a large office halfway along the hall and Pedro announced that this was the office of company president Sancho Moreno.
The door had a transparent upper pane. Their guide didn't open this door, but through the glass they could see a thick-shouldered, heavy featured man with beetling black brows seated behind a desk.
When they reached the end of the hall and started out the door opposite the one by which they had come in, April glanced back. The beetle-browed Moreno came from his office at that moment, glanced their way, then turned in the other direction to exit from the building by the door through which the tour group had entered.
The next building they visited was the broadcasting studio. There was one large studio room and two small ones. Only one of the small ones was in use at the moment, for a newscast. Through a glass viewing panel they watched the newscaster read his lines from a teleprompter and simultaneously they saw his image and heard his voice coming from a monitor in the hall.
The guide showed them through the large studio room, which was vacant, took them into the control room and explained what the sound and video engineers did there.
As they exited from the building, April saw Sancho Moreno just entering the next nearest one.
Their guide announced, "We will now visit the area where films and tapes are shot. I must caution you to be quiet if any shooting is going on."
He led the way toward the building into which the company president had disappeared, but walked right past its entrance toward the next building.
Fruit company executive George Bishop said, "Hey, what's in there?"
"Research," the guide said briefly. "Off-limits."
April and Slate exchanged glances. As the guide led the way into the next building, they waited until the third couple had disappeared inside and the door had closed behind them, then turned and walked quickly back to the building they had just passed.
Mark Slate eased the door open and glanced into an empty hallway. He slipped inside and motioned for April to follow. There were several doors off either side of the hall, some open, some closed.
Slate eased his head around the edge of the nearest open door and found it to be a vacant office. Crossing the hall to a closed door, he pressed his ear to it, then made a gesture to April indicating that someone was inside.
Dropping to his knees, he peered through the keyhole for several seconds. When he rose, he whispered, "Sancho Moreno talking to some guy."
April bent to peer through the keyhole and found a desk in her field of vision. A thin, cadaverous man with a skull-like face and thick-lensed glasses which enormously magnified his eyes sat behind a desk facing her. This side of the desk, profile to her, sat the beetle-browed Sancho Moreno.
She could hear the rumbling of Moreno's voice, but the door was too thick for her to make out what he was saying. His tone and expression indicated dissatisfaction with something or somebody, though.
Slapping his hand on the desk, Moreno heaved to his feet, snapped something at the skull-faced man and started for the door.
April came erect, made a frantic gesture to Slate and ran toward the next closed door on tiptoe. There was no time to check to see if the room was occupied. There was time only to push the door open and dart inside.
Mark Slate crowded in behind her and swung the door nearly closed, leaving only a crack. Glancing around, April saw that they had made a lucky choice of a hiding place. They were in a small storeroom whose shelves were loaded with cleaning supplies. Light came from a single narrow window near the ceiling.
In a low voice Slate said, "He walked by and went into the room next door."
He was easing the door open again when April tapped his shoulder. When he looked around, she silently gestured with her thumb at a grill ventilator set high in the wall between the storeroom and the room next door.
Slate gently clicked the door shut and glanced around the storeroom. A large cardboard case labeled Paper Towels caught his eye. Standing it on end, he started to drag it beneath the ventilator grill, then winced and halted at the rasping noise it made on the floor. Throwing an apprehensive look at the ventilator grill, he listened.
April listened too. They could hear a low sound of conversation coming through the grill from the room next door, but apparently the rasping sound hadn't been heard over there.
Slate gestured April to get on the other side of the case. Together they lifted it clear of the floor and eased it down again beneath the ventilator.
The upper end of the case was about three feet by two. Slate lightly vaulted up on it, then held his hand to April to pull her up too. They stood side-by-side, his arm steadying her around the waist, and peered through the ventilator grill.
The room next door was large and there was a long table facing the windows. Three men, their profiles to April and Slate sat at the table with note pads before them and pencils in their hands. They had identically low foreheads and wore identically vacant expressions, yet all seemed to be concentrating painfully. Occasionally one or the other would jot down a word or two.
Behind them stood Sancho Moreno and a gross, hairy man carrying a riding whip. Moreno was examining a couple of sheets of paper bearing what looked like penciled scrawls.
"Is this all they've turned out in a week?" he rumbled in disgust. "This stuff isn't even comprehensible. It sounds like the drooling of an idiot."
"Well, they are mentally retarded," the man with the whip said. "It's what you wanted. Why don't you hire some real writers and musicians?"
"Professionals couldn't turn out the sort of stuff we want," Moreno said impatiently. "It takes a retarded mind. This is a slow process, but they always come through eventually. Maybe you haven't been keeping them at it hard enough."
The hairy man flicked his whip through the air. "I lay it on every time that concentrated look disappears from their faces. Which is often. They can't follow a train of thought very long at a stretch."
Sancho Moreno crumpled up the papers he had been examining and tossed them into a waste basket next to the long table. He was turning toward the door when it opened. The thin, cadaverous man Moreno had been talking to in the other office led in a hulking, blank-eyed man wearing a vacuous grin.
The hairy man with the whip glowered at the new arrival.
"Another graduate from the home for the mentally retarded?" he said in disgust. "My God, I'm beginning to feel like a zoo keeper. He looks even more stupid than the others."
"He is," the skull-faced man said with an air of pride. "The processing section grades him as a sublevel moron."
"Does he know what he's supposed to do?" Moreno asked.
"Oh, yes. He's completed orientation, including his full two weeks of listening to singing commercials. Carlos, what is your job?"
The hulking man turned his vacuous grin at the man with thick glasses. "Duh---write some singing commercials."
"Put him to work," Moreno ordered the man with the whip. "Barth, see if Consuelo is in her office and send her in."
"Yes, sir," the skull-faced man said.
As the cadaverous Barth went out, the hairy man led Carlos over to, the long table, made him sit, placed a note pad before him and handed him a pencil.
"Start to work," he ordered.
"Every time you let your mind wander, you get this."
He brought his riding whip down across the man's shoulders with a light but stinging flick. The hulking man pouted and looked up with tear-filled eyes.
"Why you hit Carlos?" he asked reproachfully. "I work good. You see."
"You'd better," the hairy man told him.
He glanced at the other workers, gave the table a threatening crack with the whip and turned away.
The door reopened and a slim but voluptuous woman entered. April recognized her as the woman of the televised singing commercial.
In person Consuelo Cortez was just as seductive looking as she had been on the screen. She still wore black, but now it was a simple street dress with a high neck instead of an evening gown. Her dark complexion was flawless.
April Dancer still was unable to judge her age, but she decided it couldn't be over thirty with a complexion like that.
There was one difference in her in person. Without the intimate smile she had shown on camera, her face was strangely expressionless and her eyes were as flat as some predatory beast's.
She said in her husky voice, "You wanted to see me, Sancho?"
"Yes," Moreno said. "I've received word from Central Headquarters to speed this operation up. They've decided not to wait until we have six commercials in the can. They want us to shoot the two we have aside from the Lito's Fritos jingle and ship them as soon as possible."
The woman frowned. "That will only be three."
"The schedule has been moved up. They can't wait until we've taped all six. It may be weeks before this idiot crew of writers manages to turn out three more acceptable ones. Orders are to tape the two others we have and ship them to Wescott and Coombs immediately, so that they can begin to appear on American networks."
The name Wescott and Coombs was familiar to April. It was a Madison Avenue advertising agency. She was thinking that it would interest Mr. Waverly to know that Wescott and Coombs was a THRUSH subsidiary, when the door behind them suddenly opened.
Their tour guide, the cold-eyed Pedro Martinez, stood in the doorway. When April and Slate glanced around, his hand darted beneath his coat and came out again holding a thirty-eight caliber automatic. Slate, with his arm about April's waist, had no chance to reach for his U.N.C.L.E. gun.
The Velvet Voice Affair Page 4
