“Plague? You mean you’re doing dandruff research?” Lew groped.
“I refer,” Googooian said in implacable tones, “to the greatest menace in the world today!”
“What menace? Cuba? Nepal? Lebanon?”
“Think of it!” Googooian’s eyes lit with a messianic fervor. “No more commercials, no more sitcoms, no quizzes, no panels, no more pomaded heads huddled together, staring with vacuous, counterfeit smiles from flickering screens, no more idiotic dialogue, no more cardboard characterizations, no more creaking plots, no more moronic villains and sweepstake-winning heroes, no more mummified sex appeal, no more relatives of producers posing as Thespians—”
“Are you try to say—no more television?” Lew choked the words out.
“In approximately seven hours,” Googooian stated firmly, “TV broadcasting will come to a halt. Worldwide! Forever!”
“You’re out of your mind!” Lew blurted. “That’s impossible!”
“Is it!” Googooian smiled sardonically. “I believe otherwise. You’ve heard of the Van Allen Radiation belts?”
“Is that like those suspenders that glow in the dark?” Lew hazarded.
“Not quite. They are layers of high energy charged particles two thousand and twelve thousand miles above the Earth, respectively. They are of interest here only in that the Googooian Belt will in some ways resemble them. I have prepared a rocket, sir, housed here in the volcano’s crater, which, when fired, will ascend to an altitude of fifteen hundred miles, and there assume an orbit which will carry it over every point on the planet in the first fifty revolutions—about seventy-two hours. As it travels, it will release a steady stream of very specially charged particles—particles which will emit electromagnetic impulses creating a powerful static interference across the entire broadcast band. Every station on the planet will be drowned in a pure noise signal. TV, sir, is dead!”
“You can’t!” Lew protested. “What will all those people do, left with twenty-two hours a day of leisure time on their hands? What will the sponsors do with all that ad money? Society as we know it will collapse!”
“You’ve been brainwashed.” George spoke up coldly. “You and the rest of those FBI smarties down there. If you know so much, why have you been poking around the island for six months without finding us?”
“We haven’t—I mean, I did—I mean—oh, what’s the use?” Lew buried his face in his hands. “I’m a failure,” his muffled voice stated mournfully. “And Clabbinger was counting on me!—”
Googooian came over to pat him consolingly on the shoulder. “Why not lend a hand with the gear?” he suggested in a fatherly tone. “Afterward you’ll feel better, knowing you played a part in the liberation of man from electronic tyranny.”
“Never!” Lew yelled. “First, I’ll—” He broke off as a chirping voice rasped in his left ear:
Operative LJ, Clabbinger here. I see you’ve moved inland to a point at the approximate center of the island. I’m expecting to pick up a pulse from that signaler any time now, pinpointing that target. Keep up the good work! Over and out.”
Lew Jantry’s heart took a great leap, then settled down to a steady thudding. He’d totally forgotten the signaler, but his course was plain. All he had to do was reach the button with his fingertips and send out the pulse that would bring a megatonner screaming in on the hidden launch pad. Googooian’s mad scheme would go up in radioactive gas.
And Lew Jantry along with it.
“You knew,” he whispered. “Clabbinger, you monster, you knew all along it was a suicide mission!”
“Ah, beginning to have some second thoughts, eh?” Googooian said cheerfully. “Beginning to see that you’re a mere dupe of the vested interests that are reducing the nation to a common level of imbecility, eliminating literacy, callousing esthetic sensibilities, and imposing a shabby standard of mercantile expedience and conformity to a false and superficial ideal of synthetic glamour!”
“Something like that,” Lew muttered. His fingers inched their way toward the concealed signaler.
“If you’ll give me your parole, I’ll untie you,” the ex-actor proposed. “George and I could really use some help with the last-minute details.”
“Well . . . ” Lew stalled. His finger touched the button. He gritted his teeth—and stiffened as the pickup behind his left ear clicked suddenly.
“Hello?” a brisk voice chirped. “Oh, it’s you, Simenov . . . uh-huh, in about six hours . . . Of course it’ll work! Why do you lousy Commies hire American technicians if you don’t have confidence?” There was a lengthy pause. “Look, you have your programming ready, that’s all! I’ll guarantee we’ll blanket every channel of television on the planet. The Commie line will be coming out of every TV set on the North and South American continents. And there’s no possible way they can stop it! Not with a transmitter sunk below the Mohorovicic Discontinuity in an insulated vault, powered by the core heat. Not when you’re using the whole planet’s fluid interior as an antenna. It’s all set! Stop worrying and synchronize watches. We throw the switches at six A.M. on the dot!” There was a sharp click! followed by silence.
“Ye Gods!” Lew mumbled. “Two targets—and only one bomb!” He swallowed hard, his thoughts racing.
“Googooian,” he barked. “Are you sure this invention of yours will blanket all television, not just part of it?”
“Absolutely!”
“What about a super-powerful station?”
Googooian chuckled. “All the better. The particles will absorb and re-radiate as noise any impinging electromagnetic radiation. The more energetic, the better.”
“Sold!” Lew said. “I’ll help you! Get these ropes off and let’s get going!”
6
The eastern sky was heralding dawn with a glory of purple and crimson when Lew, Googooian, George, and Baby Lou retired to the blockhouse carved deep in the flank of the mountain, and grouped themselves around the rocket control console. Solemnly, the aging actor-turned-researcher depressed the firing button. A low rumble passed through the solid rock.
On the closed-circuit screen, the crater mouth erupted through which a needle prow emerged, rising slowly at first, then more swiftly, mounting toward the cloud-dotted sky, trailing fire and thunder.
“She’s off!” Googooian chortled as the others clapped him on the back, laughing merrily—all but Lew Jantry. Glumly, he watched the ship disappear into the high haze.
“Cheer up, lad,” Googooian called. “It’s all for the best. You’ll see!”
“Look what we’ll be missing!” George called cheerfully as he switched on the forty-eight-inch full color three-D set. The screen blinked, flickered, firmed into an image of a woman with a face like an oversized Pekinese.
” . . . Dear Sally Sweetbreads, this viewer writes,” a high-pitched nasal intoned. “I never miss your show, which is the cause of the trouble between my husband and me. He says it breaks his scene when you give some of that clinical-type advice just at the most romantic moment. Signed, Perplexed. Well, Perplexed, assuming you don’t want to change husbands”—the plump features compressed into a leer—”I’d suggest you rearrange the bedroom. And now—”
“That’s not all we’ll be missing,” Lew snarled. “When the depression this thing causes hits, we’ll miss everything from meals to martinis. There’ll be millions out of work! Tax revenue will drop to zero! The government may collapse—and we’ll be stuck here, on this infernal island!”
“Tsk,” Googooian said. “My analysis suggests that the creative energies released from thralldom to television mania will produce an upsurge in every facet of our culture. There’ll be a flowering of science and the arts to rival the Renaissance. Of course, there may be a short period of readjustment—say a decade. But no matter. We’ll be quite happy here. The entire interior of the mountain is honeycombed with facilities: luxurious quarters, a nuclear power plant, well-shielded, a ten-year stockpile of gourmet food to supplement the native diet, a vast library of books and music.”
On the screen, a loose-lipped young man with intent eyes leaned toward a jawless woman in a grotesque hat.
“Mrs. Wiltoff, would you just tell us in your own words how it feels to be the wife of the man scheduled to be gassed tomorrow on a nationwide hookup for the brutal slaying of the nine chorus girls whose pictures you are now admiring?”
“Well, Bob,” the interviewee started; abruptly, the image flickered, turned to a flapping pattern of diagonal lines. A new picture burned into focus over it. A thick-necked man with small eyes looked out of the screen.
“Capitalist swine,” he began in a glutinous voice—and was drowned under a deluge of white blips which danced across the tube face, swiftly coalescing into a solid rectangle of glare. A roar like Niagara swelled to blot out the sound.
“Hooray!” Googooian capered madly, embracing his teammates, while Lew wandered disconsolately to the blockhouse door. From the tiny balcony overhanging the interior of the volcano, he looked down into the fire-blackened silo from which the rocket had emerged minutes before. There was a step beside him.
“Thanks for helping Pop,” Baby Lou said. “I expected you to try something, but you didn’t. Maybe I was wrong about you being a CIA man.”