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it.
That night's programming was setting up to be a good one. They had
rounded up a handful of wiccans, a man and four women, and coaxed
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them to come on the show to promote their peaceful nature cult. They
were on the set already, looking nervously at the black candles and
the pig-shaped altar. What they didn't know was their fellow guests
were unconstructed right-wing megaconservatives who didn't believe
women should even be taught to read. Kingston turned down the
audio monitor as he picked up the phone and punched the internal
extension.
"Ed, how's that test running?"
"Pretty well, sir!" the engineer shouted over the noises in the control
room. "I don't know what you've got at the other end, but the needles
are showing almost fifteen percent feed coming in on the line. Wow,
almost sixteen percent! . . . Sir, can I ask what kind of transmission
this feed is?" he asked in a worried voice.
"No, Ed, I'd rather you didn't," Kingston said, in a paternal voice. He
pulled a Cuban cigar out of the walnut humidor on his desk.
"Well, sir, if it's radioactive . . . I don't want to make a fuss, but my
wife and I want to have kids one day."
"I promise you, son," Kingston concentrated on getting the end
clipped off to his satisfaction. "This is nothing that would ever show
up on a Geiger counter. You still don't want to stick your fingers in it,
though."
"No, sir."
"Good boy. You got that transmission going in to the special power
storage like I told you?"
"Yes, sir," Ed's voice said, resignedly.
"What's the reading?"
"Almost sixteen percent."
"Very nice. I'm proud of you, son. Keep me posted." Kingston glanced
up at the clock as he depressed the plunger and dialed the operator.
"Charlene, I'm expecting a long-distance call. Put it right through,
won't you, honey? And don't listen in. If you do, you're fired."
* * *
The watcher's call came through on schedule, at a quarter to the hour.
Kingston had never met the man on the scene. He had been hired by
the friend of a friend of a friend. At least it sounded like a man. It
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could have been a woman with a deep voice. It was hard to tell,
because the voice was distorted by one of those gizmos that they used
on crime shows. Kingston didn't care, as long as the person made the
scheme work. Everything he was hoping for depended on it.
"Mr. Kingston?" the voice buzzed in his ear.
"That's me," the station owner said. "How's it going at your end?"
"All the technology is in place. There was no problem hiding the
mechanisms in among all the other electronics. What's two or three
more boxes or cables?"
"Exactly," Kingston said. He felt pretty pleased. This friend of a
friend had picked a smart one. "You need a feed from us this
evening?"
"A short one, just to test the mechanism again," said the voice. "I
need to rewire the transmission lines in the control room."
"Don't they already go there?" Kingston asked impatiently.
"They go to the switcher," the voice said. "I'm hooking it into my
conduit'schair ."
"Ahh," said Kingston. "I was wondering how you were making a
direct connection. The Law of Contagion says they have to touch."
"The first connection was too general. It blew out. This one will be a
lot better. I'm waiting until full dress rehearsal tomorrow afternoon
for a full test. By then, it will be too late for the concert to be
cancelled. After that, you can let the full power transfer rip. I promise
you you'll get a return feed beyond your wildest hopes."
"Marvelous," Kingston gloated, foreseeing his own power rising like
the sun. "The pipeline will bring in clouds of evil that will feed our
evil, and make us immortal! . . . Er, you didn't hear me say that."
"No, sir."
"How many people you say are coming to that concert?"
"A maximum of ninety thousand tickets. They're not all sold yet."
"You know," Kingston said, easing back in his chair, "I consider every
one of those empty seats a lost opportunity. Now, you're sure your
conduit doesn't know what it is we're doing?"
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"Not a clue." There was a hesitation. "Well, we've got one possible
hiccup. There's a couple of government agents on the job. They
actually suspect magic," the voice dropped to a whisper, "and it looks
like theyknow some, too."
"Really." Kingston's eyebrows went up, but he kept his voice from
reflecting the dismay he felt. Chances were slim that these
practitioners were his kind of people. "Don't worry. Give me a full
description of them."
The voice ticked off the physical details of a prim, blond
Englishwoman in a two-piece suit and a Southerner who wore ratty
clothes that were half hippie, half ex-GI. Kingston took notes.
"Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh," the owner said at last. "I'll take care of it.
Get back to me tomorrow." He hung up the phone and sauntered into
the control room.
The Trenton show was well under way. The male wiccan was trying to
defend his congregants from the leering megarightists. The women
had a few things to say for themselves, but kept getting shouted down
by the audience. One of the opposition was out of his chair, hefting
the overstuffed piece of furniture as if judging whether he could
actually throw it. It looked as though the first fight was about to break
out, when Trenton signalled for a station break. Kingston grinned.
That'd keep the television audience glued to their seats. They'd have to
stay tuned to see if punches flew.
After the police had cleared the combatants off the set, Trenton
stepped into the audience. Time for the night's rail against Fionna
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