Saint Vidicon to the Rescue

Chapter 21

Tony, however, did. After listening to the whole story from Intelligence, he stood up and paced the room, an idea forming inside his own mind—a perverse idea, but the whole situation they were in was perverse, and what was it that Father Vidicon had told him? Sometimes you had to fight perversity with perversity?

Well, the idea was far-fetched, but it just might work. All he needed was a few answers from the studio and a few directions from Intelligence.

“Can you tell me how to”—he paused, trying to find the right word—“operate Mac? I need to have him ask the director a few questions.”

Intelligence nodded and led him to a control panel at the front of the room, complete with microphone and sound system.

“Hey.” Mac leaned over to Beth and gently poked her shoulder.

“What?” she asked, irritated, but not with him.

“I have an idea. Have any of the cloaked group tried to operate the equipment yet? Like the cameras, anything like that?”

Beth frowned. “I don’t think so.” She turned to her headset. “Bill, have any of our crew been replaced by members of the organization?” She waited for his reply, then turned to Mac. “No, they haven’t. Why?”

“That means they can’t operate the equipment. They’ve probably never even been in a TV studio; otherwise, they would have come back to the control room and tried to run it from here. They could have run through the whole place, but they’ve stayed in the studio.”

“What’s your point?” Beth asked. “If you’ve got an idea, let’s hear it.”

By now Tony knew the power of saying you were sent by someone else—someone respected. His message would be even more powerful if they thought he was that person himself. Not Father Vidicon, of course—that would be unthinkable, and they probably didn’t know who he was anyway. But something Intelligence had told him—some of the totally outrageous theories they had—gave him an idea.

“Have you got a phone book?” Mac asked, and Beth handed him one with a curious glance. She watched him flip through the book and find an address; then, before he could think twice, he leaned in front of her and punched up the studio intercom on the large control box in front of her, adjusting the microphone so that it pointed at him. Inisde Mac, Tony prayed that the TIC TOCTians were as superstitious as they were suspicious.

In as deep and booming a voice as he could manage, Mac spoke, his voice echoing through the studio. “This is the ghost of Abraham Lincoln.”

The cultists all looked shocked; several of them gasped. He had guessed right—none of them knew about the surround-sound intercom the architect had insisted on building into the studio.

“I, too, was assassinated by beings from another world,” he announced, and had to fight seriously to stop himself from laughing.

Beth stared. This was a Mac she had never seen.

One of the cloaked men sitting behind a phone jumped up and cried out, “I knew it!”

“I have appeared to you today to give you this dire warning,” Mac intoned. “The threat of Alien Attack is upon us. Save the Union as I fought to save it! You must stop them from destroying us all!”

The cloaked group gave a cheer, and the leader fell to his knees, awed and inspired. “Tell us what you know, great leader, and we will save our world!”

“Go to the place where their first ship has landed, cloaked and disguised as a tall building in the downtown area.” He proceeded to give them the address, and they proceeded to write it down. Then Mac boomed, “Farewell!”

The leader stood up, addressing his fellow TIC TOCTIANS. “Our time has come! Let’s save the world!!”

They cheered and followed him out of the room, out of the building, and into their cars.

The mayor’s staff watched them go. The mayor simply smiled at the camera, and said, “Well, folks, it’s not what I usually think of as educational, but hey—entertainment is also a necessary part of life.”

“That’s right, Your Honor,” Stan chimed in, then turned to address the audience as well. “And now for the moment you’ve all been waiting for: part 2 of Lord of the Dance.”

“And we’re out in five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one!” Beth cried joyfully. “We’re off the air! Take the phone number off the screen, I never want to see it again!”

Tony was amazed that it had worked. By all accounts it shouldn’t have. No one was that dumb—but perversity was perversity, and saints be praised, it was over.

At least, one particular saint be praised.

“Where did you send them?” Intelligence asked.

“The police station.” Tony shrugged. “They’ll barge in waving their guns, and the police can deal with them from there.”

Intelligence smiled and watched the camera crew celebrate by running off to the break room.

“How did you ever think of anything like that?” an admiring Beth asked Mac.

“Like what?” Mac seemed genuinely puzzled.

Beth sighed and followed him out of the studio. Sometimes the man’s modesty was infuriating.

Tony knew his job wasn’t done yet. He still had to get inside the engineering room. Still being in Mac’s body allowed him to check out Master Control from outside the equipment. If there was nothing wrong there, he could hop back into the cables and check it out from the other end. He turned back to Intelligence.

“Can I ask a favor?”

Ten minutes later they were at the door to Master Control. Tony—or rather Mac—knocked, but there was no reply. He tried the handle; it was unlocked, so he stepped in.

The room was a mess. Tapes lay scattered on the floor, extension cords were knotted and jumbled, and all seemed to be plugged into one socket—full to bursting—yet none of them were plugged into anything on the other end. Ripped and crumpled script pages were strewn across every surface, and stale pieces of potato chips, donuts, and other ant traps were littered everywhere.

But the most telling sign of who had been there was the can of dark, sticky, acidic cola that lay on its side on the control board, the liquid oozing out all over the keys and into the circuits.

Mac gave a cry of anguish, and Tony knew who had been there. It was obvious. No engineer would have ever left soda near equipment that expensive, or dumped tapes on the floor like that. It would have cost him his job. Cola could ruin electronic equipment.

This had to be the work of Finagle.

Of course, whoever he had sent this time was nowhere to be found, though Tony/Mac searched the room thoroughly. The culprit must have left as Mac was turning the door handle, and Tony now had no doubt as to who had arranged to have the TIC TOCT group volunteer to answer the phones tonight.

No matter the plot, it had been successfully foiled. And to Tony’s great surprize, it had not even required fighting some sort of horrible monster. He had to admit it had been refreshing. Unusual, but nice.

Mac went back to the control room and unknowingly dropped Tony off in the audio booth, since the lights on the switcher were all gone and Tony assumed that the gnomes had gone back to the fridge to party. He said good-bye to Intelligence and the others, most of whom were still arguing in the outer room, slipped back into the bloodstream, rode out to Mac’s fingertips, and sank into the CD player as the man reached out to check the theme music.

After apologizing to a gnome for landing on him, then getting caught up in running fast enough to keep the CD spinning until the gnome regained his feet, Tony headed back toward the fridge. A few wrong turns and a quick tour through the computer editing systems later, he was guided back to the fridge by a young female editing gnome, rather round around the middle, where he thanked Bea and Bob and the others, who thanked him in turn (some even asked for his autograph). After a few minutes of relaxing on a loaf of bread, drinking freshly tapped cola from the keg, and diving into the red Jell-O for a refreshing swim, he felt that strange and wonderful sensation that he was going home.

On the next date, Tony’s reserve frightened Sandy. He was as courteous and cheerful as ever, but there was something a little forced about it, some strange holding back. Of course, it didn’t help that they’d been watching a Wagner opera, but when they arrived at her building, and Sandy forced brightness, saying, “Come on in,” and Tony hesitated, she took the bull by the horns. “What’s the matter?”

“The clinches aren’t my strong suit, are they?” Tony looked like a man waiting for a noose.

Sandy stared in surprize. Then she said, “You’re fantastic. But a girl’s got a right to say no when she isn’t in the mood, doesn’t she?”

“Of course.” Tony leaned forward for a kiss.

Relieved, Sandy leaned forward, too—after all, she was a step higher than he was—but was amazed how cool his kiss was, and how brief. “Good night, then,” he said, and turned away.

“Hey!” She stepped down to catch his arm. “I didn’t say I wasn’t in the mood tonight.”

Tony turned back, surprized. “Are you?”

Sandy gazed at him a moment, then said, “Not a nice question to ask. How about you do your best to persuade me?”

Tony smiled, and for the first time that night, it was a real smile. “All I ask is a notice telling me it’s open season.”

“Then don’t forget your rifle,” Sandy retorted. “Coffee?”

The next night, however, she definitely wasn’t in the mood—or the next, or the next. They fell into an easy rhythm of going out to a movie or ballet or opera on weekends and sitting together talking at Nepenthe on the weekdays when neither of them had to work late—but after the first three nights when Sandy thanked him for a great evening at the door to her building, he started asking the cab to wait again. It was like their first few dates but without the suspense, and it went on and on. Sandy began to feel doom hovering once more.

Finally, one evening, she screwed up her courage while he was getting the coffee, and when he brought it back, she said, “Something’s wrong.”

“Yeah.” Tony set her cup down in front of her and sat down. “We’re being so virtuous a person would think we’re married.”

Sandy stared, then gave a laugh that made people at nearby tables look up. Tony grinned with relief. Sandy clapped a hand over her mouth, throttled the laugh down to giggles, and said, “That’s why I’m not too sure about getting married.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Tony said.

Sandy stared at him in shock and felt as though a lump of cold lead were growing inside her.

“It doesn’t have to be like that.” Tony reached forward to clasp her hand. “If we do marry, we’ll have to work at keeping the romance in it. I’ve seen enough of my married friends to know that.”

“Marriage isn’t supposed to be work,” Sandy said.

“Yeah.” Tony’s smile was rueful. “ ‘They got married and lived happily ever after,’ right? Only they didn’t. They had their ups and downs, same as everyone. A wise old man—well, older—told me your courtship lasts your whole life.”

“Then what’s the point in getting married?” Sandy demanded.

“It’s a hunting license,” Tony explained. “You don’t have to feel guilty when the courtship succeeds.”

Sandy sat still, thinking that over. Then she said, “So you felt guilty?”

“Only once,” Tony said.

Sandy hadn’t known she could feel smug and ashamed at the same time. Then she realized the silliness of it and leaned forward. “Should I feel guilty about making you feel guilty?”

Tony smiled. “Let’s put it this way—I also felt proud.”

“Oh, that you were such a real stud, huh?’

“No—that I’d made you happy.”

Sandy stared into his eyes for a moment, then said, very seriously, “If you asked again, I might say yes.”

Tony stared, feeling as though he were a conductor for a high-voltage current. When it ebbed a bit, he managed to say, “Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” Sandy said.

Tony kept staring, stunned. Then she could see the energy building in him, knew he was about to give a yell that would have shamed a Rebel, and smiled again. “Drink your coffee.”

He managed to hold in the yell and gulped the rest of his cappuccino. Then Sandy took him home to celebrate their engagement.