“Hence,” he said, “the need to be able to dictate what is played on Radio Three at certain times; it’s my way of programming a number of other computers running my musical language in strategic positions all over the world. The consequences of the wrong thing being played at the wrong time can be catastrophic. For instance, the recent stock market slump was the result of some foolish person deciding to broadcast “The Ride of the Valkyries” at half-past five on a Friday afternoon. I didn’t compose that, by the way, but by pure chance it’s perfectly intelligible to one of my computers as an urgent command to sell short-dated Government stocks. I’m only thankful it wasn’t the overture to
There was a very long silence, disturbed only by the assistant cameraman humming “I Did It My Way”, during which the Professor drank the rest of his tea. Then Jane rallied the remaining shreds of her mental forces and asked a question.
“So where does that leave us?”
“That depends,” said the Professor, “on you. If you and your friends would be happy to forget all about what I’ve just told you, I can continue with my work until it’s finished; after that, I intend to retire and keep bees. If you refuse, of course, I shall have to do my best to carry on regardless. No doubt you will broadcast your discovery to the world, and although I will naturally use all my considerable influence and power to prevent you, you may possibly be believed, and then the world will have to make up its mind what it wants to do with me. I cannot be killed, or even bruised. I can do incalculable damage before I’m got rid of—all I have to do to cause an immediate recession is to pick up the telephone and ask the BBC to play “Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” at three-fifteen tomorrow afternoon. It will take hundreds of years of poverty and darkness to dismantle the structures that I have built, and the immediate result of my overthrow—for want of a better word—will be the destruction of the economies of the free world…”
“Not you as well,” Jane said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing,” Jane said wearily. “Go on.”
But the Professor was interested. “You said not me as well,” he said. “Can I take it that you know about the Vanderdecker policy?”
“Yes,” said Jane. “Do you?”
“Most certainly,” said the Professor. “It’s one of my most worrying problems.”
“One of your problems?” Jane repeated.
“Assuredly,” Montalban replied. “You see, one of the first things I did after the South Sea Bubble collapsed was to buy up the Lombard National Bank.”
♦
Danny Bennett felt better. He had found a television.
Although no umbilical cord connected him to the instrument, he could feel its reviving power soaking into him, like the sun on Patmos only without the risk of sunburn. Admittedly, there was nothing on except “The Magic Roundabout” but that was better than no telly at all. As he sat and communed with his medium, an idea was germinating inside his brain, its roots cracking the thin, tight shell and groping forcefully for moisture and minerals. He could give the story to someone else.
Rather out of character? Very much so. A bit like Neil Armstrong saying to Buzz Aldrin, “You do it, I think I’ll stay in and do the ironing,” but the fact remains that Danny was seriously considering it. For all his Bafta-lust, he knew that this was a story that had to be made, and if he couldn’t make it himself, he had no option but to give it to someone else. But who?
There was Moira Urquhart; no, not really. Danny would gladly have given his jewel to the common enemy of man, but not this story to Moira. She lacked vision. She would probably try and work cuddly animals into it, and that would clutter up its flawless symmetry. Moira worked cuddly animals into everything, even ninety-second clips for “Newsnight” about the European Monetary System. Not Moira, then.
Or there was Paul. Let Paul do it. Good old Paul. The Cirencester Group would really love that, because that way the story could break once and for all and nobody would take the slightest bit of notice. Such was Paul’s skill at grabbing the attention of the viewer that if he told you your ears were on fire you’d be so bored with the topic you wouldn’t bother putting them out. Not Paul.
Which meant it would have to be Diana; a pity but there it was. Just then, Danny noticed that Zebedee and Dougal had yielded place to the news, and there was Diana on the screen, surrounded by fallen masonry, telling the folks back home about the situation in Lebanon. Since Danny didn’t have the Beirut phone-book and had little confidence in Lebanese Directory Enquiries, that ruled her out. Not Diana either. Not, apparently, anybody.
He stood up and switched the television off. There must be something he could do, but he had no idea what it was.
“Hello, Danny,” said a voice behind him, and there was Jane, holding a cup of tea and a Viennese finger. “Would you like a cup?”
“No.” Danny said. “Look, when are we going to get out of here?”
