Judge 6.2: The Icy Eye

Tonight, act three, the startling conclusion of Judge 6: No Fear of Flying! Part 1 aired on June 16th and Part 2 aired on June 23^rd. Ricochet Silent Radio’s stock in trade is delivering sounds you can’t hear, describing images you can’t see! It all leads to a climax as a shadowy coven of the world’s tech overlords gathers in northern England, supposedly for a high-profile, prestigious electronic media event. But something deeply sinister is going on.

(Voice of Judge Mental): We made our way across Britain, braving my crazy ex-girlfriend, various other would-be assassins, a death ray, an airship explosion, and persistently warm beer. My fellow traveler and fellow target is Andrew “Limey” Moulton, the kind-hearted gardener who famously gave away his billions. It made him one of the best-liked men in England. It never seems to protect me from getting slugged over the head.

I woke up in a hotel in Leeds, in an actual bed for the first time since I left the States. That was only a half-week ago, but it felt like a half-lifetime. I went downstairs to the breakfast room off the lobby. Andrew Moulton hadn’t come down yet, so I had coffee and started a proper English breakfast. It was great. We overthrew these people? What were we thinking? The radio was playing in the background. To my surprise, Andrew came in from the street and entered the lobby.

“Where were you?”

“I was out. Sunday church. Of course. Never missed it yet, wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” It was an opportunity for conversation that, in retrospect, I regret not taking.

He’d passed the front desk on the way in. “By the way, they have a package for you.” The elderly Pakistani behind the counter handed it to me, a book-sized parcel. As he did, he crinkled his nose disapprovingly. The paper wrapping smelled strongly of perfume. And I remembered whose.

The address was handwritten; the postmark was nearby. If it were plastic explosives, I’d have been dead already. I cautiously unwrapped…a VHS tape and a note.

“You. Judge. Mental. Man. I’ll give u a clue cause you clearly need one. Xxx PL.”

Andrew, with a gardener’s sense of scent, raised an eyebrow at the wrapping paper and asked, “So does she mean that to be signed by Phoebe Latimer or Psycho Logical?”

“There ceased to be a difference a long time ago.”

“A trap?” I mused. “Almost certainly”, Andrew replied.

“It’s a chance worth taking. First, we need to see the tape.”

“No one seems to have a working VHS player anymore. Besides, it’s Sunday, and this is Leeds, Judge, not London. Nothing’s open, and…wait, I was just at a place that might help us.”

At the rectory of a local church, where Andrew had spotted an aging low-def TV with a tape slot, we saw the tape, teacups in hand. It was no message or manifesto; it was an off-the-air June 1983 recording of a BBC Panorama interview with Sir Alec Tilden, grandfather of the current Lord Tilden, only a day before his death. It offered overly generous glimpses of the roads and approaches into the grand homes of Ilkley, the northern branch of the Tilden estates, in a less security-conscious age. “Smartly avoid the misdirection,” I murmured, “We’re not stupid, Phoebe.”

But we were immediately transfixed by brief glimpses of Sir Alec’s patronage of the sciences in Yorkshire, as he was filmed personally operating the tape transfer of a remaining handful of Britain’s earliest videotapes at Bradford’s national film and TV museum, set to open the next day. Andrew knew the historical moment. “But he died that very night - of natural causes, they say.”

“We have to see that reel of tape, the one on that steampunk video recorder, but how? It was hard enough finding a machine to play this one.”

“I know the only place that can. Tonight—at the museum.”

I felt time closing in. “We can’t wait that long. We’ll have to get in there before the crowds do.”

At the agreed minute he knocked on my hotel room door, just as I was tying my tie. Andrew Moulton, normally understated, was dressed razor-sharp, ready for a posh social event. I asked, “So how do we make our arrival? Bugatti Veyron? Bentley? Rolls?”

He gave me that photogenic Moulton smile. “If we walk back to the train station, there’s a bus to Bradford City Centre in eighteen minutes. Two pounds twenty; three bucks or so. Let’s get a move on.”

Forty-five minutes later, as we climbed off the bus, we were finally in Bradford, standing in front of Britain’s National Museum for Science and Media, an enormous, sprawling modern building. It was nearly nightfall, and the first impression was dazzling with artificial lights. The forecourt was already jammed with TV satellite control vans, security vehicles, and catering service trucks delivering food and drink. Although the official festivities were still an hour away, a crowd, invited or not, was already formed.

We walked around to the back of the main building, passing through a botanical garden. “Catherine Moulton Memorial Garden of Remembrance.” An elderly guard was stationed at the museum’s service door. When he saw Andrew, his face lit up. “Glory be, it’s you, sir! What can I do for you, Mr. Moulton?”

I knew instinctively that Andrew would be a terribly reluctant and inexperienced liar, but we had no other choice. He affected a jaunty cheer. “Jenkins, old boy! You’re looking well. My American friend and I are speaking at the event tonight. No harm in us getting upstairs a little early, is there?”

But old Jenkins hesitated. “No sir, of course there isn’t, but I have to ask permission of the museum director. You understand.” But he didn’t reach for the phone. I signaled Andrew to give us some space and I moved in closer. “What’s the problem, Mr. Jenkins?”

He whispered conspiratorially, “The director is locked in the Curatorial Affairs office ‘aving a booze-up with Waltraud, the office intern.” He didn’t want to scandalize Andrew.

“I see. Well, let the director have his fun. No need to bother Mr. Moulton about it. Just let us in—we’re on the list—and no one’s the wiser.” Which he did. We took the elevator to the fourth floor. There was VERA, the Vision Electronic Recording Apparatus, an entire glassed-in room of Fifties electronics and machinery. A new plaque at the door read, “Preserved by bequest of Tilden Trusts.”

There was no time to lose. At any moment we could be stopped, or worse. It took several minutes for Andrew to set up and thread the complicated antique.

Passersby working the event could see us through the glass, so I picked up a clipboard and we pretended to be having a friendly conversation.

“I’m surprised your family was involved with the birth of radio.”

“Not so strange, really. Your RCA, your Radio Corporation of America trust, was co-founded by the United Fruit Company. Their scattered South American plantations were often beyond telegraph range, just as ours were. They joined AT&T and General Electric to take over the US Navy’s control of American wireless patents.”

“Like a scene out of The Godfather.”

“Godfather II, actually,” he gently corrected me.

We got the tape running at 200 inches a second, and a picture appeared. It was a silent video sequence from 1958 of a man holding an ancient phonograph record and talking about it. I groaned. “What’s this?” Andrew pointed to a wall-mounted display that had what appeared to be the same disc. Its label was a single word, “Falkirk.”

“We don’t need to go to Scotland. Look”, I pointed to another exhibit room across the corridor. Across the glass, it was titled The FALKIRK: The World’s Earliest Television Apparatus. We rushed across the hallway and got the door open.

Neither of us had ever seen anything like this. The so-called television looked like a wood lathe. A motor drove a phonograph and a geared long axle, with a brass wheel at both ends. Each wheel had a thin spiral of tiny lenses at its edge. Behind one wheel was a glass disk. Andrew, studying the controls, switched on Vision, and the neon disc glowed orange-pink. He switched on Motor, and the spiral edge, spinning faster and faster, traced out a blank image. I swung a big swiveling magnifying glass in front of it. “Okay,” I said, “Here we go.”

I lowered the phonograph tone arm onto the 78-rpm record, and to our amazement, a picture formed. A hand-drawn title read “1933-XI-05 Rad Lab.” We were seeing some kind of experiment being built, a gapped metal ring placed in glassware and sealed. There was a second tube made. They took more care with this one, made to a different design. Then the phonograph reached the end of the record, and the picture turned to static.

“What was that?”

“I don’t know, but I bet I know some people who do.” Our pals were in the noisy crowd held just outside. I pulled out my mobile phone and dialed Balzer’s number. “Matt, it’s urgent, please conference ‘em all in.” “Will do”, he said.

I propped my phone on the bracket supporting the magnifying lens. Starting the record again, “Hank,” I said, “I need to know. What are we looking at? Does this have to do with atomic radiation?” Hank Rhody was thoughtful. “Ah, doesn’t look like that at all. No, it’s electromagnetic radiation. That’s a cavity magnetron. What’s the date? You’re looking at the invention of radar.”

The final, odder-looking tube came on screen. “But that’s something I’ve never seen, never even heard of. Interesting. You can deduce the frequency…when we do, there’s your disorientation beam there.”

“Stand still. Don’t move.” Sir Astor Lenox, the thirteenth Lord of Tilden, held a snub-nosed .38 and looked like he knew how to use it - and fully intended to use it.

Andrew spoke up quietly. “Let the American go, Len. I’m the one you’re after.”

A woman’s voice spoke up and Lady Tilden, the former Phoebe Latimer, aka Psycho Logical, pushed past her husband. She motioned towards me. “But he’s the one I’m after.” She held a small glittering gun. She had a dark, glittering look on her face.

I was surprised but nonchalant. “Hi, Feeb, how’s it going?”

Andrew asked, “What was the point, Tilden? I don’t get it. What could you or anyone else gain from this reckless act of destruction? Where’s the money in it?”

“It’s right under your noses and you still don’t see it.”

“You intend to blackmail the world, so you won’t release it? Is that it?”

“Very well, since you’ll never leave this room, I don’t mind telling you. We have no intention of keeping our secret. On the contrary, detailed open-source plans will be released on the dark web, free of charge. More the merrier. The people on those TV screens, the ones that have been meeting for days, are heavily invested in replacing human aviators and automobile drivers with digital ones that won’t be subject to disorientation or temporary insanity.”

Out in the crowds behind police lines, Jason Rudert has been watching the whole thing on his phone. He spoke urgently, “CITRON, did you get all that? Send it immediately to M.I.5, Metropolitan Police, the Crown Prosecutor…and all the newspapers.”

“So that’s what killed the airship and nearly killed us.”

“Yes, a pity that your actual demise is going to be so ordinary. A pair of party guests were tragically killed by mistake when they breached a security perimeter and ended up sticking their noses where they didn’t belong.”

I gave his lordship all the respect he deserved. “Hey, Tildy, ya murdering creep, take a look at those big TV screens outside. Wonder where all those cops are headed?”

He sneered, “Oh, you’re not going to use that old trick.”

“Suit yourself,” I said, as the police kicked in the door and swarmed the room.

Half an hour later, the police were interrogating Lord and Lady Tilden behind closed doors. The big gala was called off. The whole gang of Ricochet Americans was let through the security barrier, and there was plenty to catch up on.

Thelonius reported, “The zeppelin crash was supposed to be their proof-of-concept for the tech crowd. What they’d really hoped for was downing our flight to London, but the weather was bad. The “beam” only works in clear skies at short range. So far.”

“Imagine if we’d had this in the Second World War. Or (shudders) the Germans.”

Percival nodded. “The intelligence agencies know all about it now.”

I'm a cynic. “I’ll bet you anything they already knew.”

On the big screen monitors, the news reporters are covering the sudden departure of dozens of VIPs who are boarding their private jets and departing with a hasty unanimity.

“Not wasting any time, are they?”

“Ships leaving the sinking rat. Oh, and speak of the devil--.”

Sir Astor Lenox Tilden, red in the face from anger, was led away by police, arrested already for involvement in the airship “accident.” There’d be more charges-a-plenty. He glared at us. It was then that Andrew said something mildly out of character.

“I know, you’d have gotten away with it if it hadn’t been for us meddling kids.”

It was starting to rain as the police forced Tilden into a black van and drove away.

Andrew checked his watch. “Honestly, brother adventurer, it’s been a marvelous Sunday, really it has, but it’s now 12:01 am Monday. As of one minute ago, I’m officially a retired pauper and self-employed gardener. Admittedly, by my own wish.”

“Come with us. We’re having a small party before hitting the road back to London.”

He shook his head; he’d made up his mind to leave early. “Too much to do tomorrow. The planting of fall berries, weeding, harvesting summer vegetables; July is a busy month in the garden.”

He smiled and put on his coat. “Come on back to Old Blighty, Judge. It’s usually not this hectic.” He donned a derby and touched the hat brim in a friendly salute, said “Cheerio,” and walked out the door, opening an umbrella into the light rain of a summer midnight. Before he vanished from sight, I could swear I heard him whistling.

I am certain I’ll see him again.

I had one last detail to resolve. Phoebe/Psycho was in the holding room near the museum exit, about to be led away by the police who’d just arrested her husband. No longer Lady Tilden, no longer Psycho Logical, she was angry, bewildered, and defeated. She was Phoebe again, fallen to Earth like a shapely Icarus.

“Please, Johnny,” she said. She looked at me imploringly, and for an unnerving moment I remembered how I once felt about her. To men, the hypnotic gaze of an attractive woman is nature’s original disorientation beam. “Will you wait for me?” she asked.

“No.”

“It was the easiest judgment call I ever made”.

THE END

(Musical conclusion fanfare)

(Announcer) We hope you’ve enjoyed Ricochet Silent Radio’s presentation of Judge 6: No Fear of Flying! If you missed any part of the show, here’s part I and part 2. Cast members included @Arahant, @HankRhody, @SamRhody, @Percival, @thelonius, @jasponrudert, @MattBalzer, @AndrewMiller, and @JudgeMental. Ricochet Silent Radio is a work of fiction. All words and actions attributed to the cast are fictional. This program conforms to the Honor Code of the Academy of Imaginary Media.

Stay tuned to Ricochet, where three chimes mean good times!

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