"Of course, gentlemen," Whateley said. "No one believes in evil that they can't see. If it doesn't come neatly packaged and labeled, as in the case of your rival, Thrush, everyone tends to ignore it. It's very difficult to combat something that one is ignoring." He chuckled again.
Napoleon watched Whateley closely while keeping a pleasant smile on his face. "I understand your father had just the opposite problem. People believed in an evil that didn't exist, and were willing to lynch him for it."
Whateley shrugged skeletally. "People were more ready to believe in things of the spirit fifty years ago," he said. "Not to mention that father contributed heavily to his own legend; he was positively delighted at the opportunity to appear exotically evil. I'm afraid that I seem to have inherited the tendency." He swirled his cape dramatically.
Napoleon smiled understandingly.
"Of course," Whateley continued, eyeing the U.N.C.L.E. agents speculatively, "there is always the possibility that the local residents were right. The old gods were not a benevolent sort. A man who could invoke their aid would be a powerful figure of evil indeed."
"Old gods?" Napoleon inquired.
"Yes, Mr. Solo. There were gods before Jehovah, and humanity did not always give even lip-service to the current ideals of brotherhood and tolerance. What does a god who has lost his worshippers do, Mr. Solo? He can no longer act, but, being immortal, he cannot die, either. He exists in a formless limbo. There are gods waiting there, Mr. Solo; beings so powerful, and so evil, that all mankind might not withstand them if they returned."
Napoleon nodded noncommittally. "I have a feeling," he said, "that the people of Midford would be willing to believe in the old gods. They are certainly willing enough to believe that U.N.C.L.E. is in league with the devil."
Whateley looked interested. "That seems unusual. You're generally regarded as being on the, ah, other side, aren't you? Certainly you don't appear very diabolical. Why would anyone consider you evil?"
"We haven't found a reason," Napoleon said. "That's why I wanted to talk to you. As the object of a hate campaign of your own, I thought you might be able to shed some light on the subject."
Whateley shook his head. "I'm afraid not; the reason for the dislike of the Whateleys is all too plain. Is this U.N.C.L.E. phobia a recent phenomenon?"
"Apparently. In fact, we're beginning to suspect that it's not natural; that a drug of some kind may be involved."
Whateley chuckled again, and Illya involuntarily shivered. "Or perhaps an evil spell, Mr. Solo? An enchantment? I didn't realize that secret agents were so sensitive about their images."
Napoleon looked hurt. "Unlike some organizations," he explained, "we occasionally must depend on public good will. But whatever the problem is, we'll manage to get it solved." He attempted to look confident and succeeded in appearing slightly fatuous.
"You mean that both of you are in Midford simply to find out why people don't like U.N.C.L.E.? I should think there would be more serious calls on your time. I suppose I could sell you some advertising time on my TV station and you could get a good public relations firm to handle the case. That sort of thing does wonders for General Motors, I understand."
"I'm afraid our budget would never stand for it." Napoleon sighed dramatically. "We sometimes have trouble when our hotel bill lists an extra for a TV set in the room; if we can't afford to watch it, I'm sure we could never afford to buy time on it."
"That shouldn't bother you in Midford," Whateley suggested. "The facilities of the local hotel are not the most up-to-date."
"We aren't staying at the hotel, though," Napoleon said.
"The manager is one of the townspeople who dislikes U.N.C.L.E. Currently we're staying with Rita's cousin, but..." He let his voice trail off.
"That's an inconvenient base of operations," Whateley said. "It's really quite distant from Midford." He paused thoughtfully. "Why don't you accept my hospitality? I have a fine house not too far from town; there's just Flavia and myself and a small domestic staff. With a few lovely exceptions," he bowed toward Rita, "we don't have visitors. I'm afraid the Whateleys are still not considered a part of the community."
Napoleon studied the offer. "It might be best, if we wouldn't disturb you."
"Not at all, not at all." Whateley smiled, and Napoleon discovered that his smile could be as sinister as his chuckle. 'I'm sure Miss Berman can vouch for my character, if you have any lingering doubts."
Rita nodded agreeably. "You'll like it there. If you want to look up any more local history, I'm sure the Whateley library contains at least as many volumes as the university library; perhaps more."
Whateley smiled in what might be construed as delight. "Are you fellow bibliophiles? Delightful. I do have a quite extensive and, er, unusual library. You must avail yourselves of it."
"Very well," Napoleon agreed. "What time tomorrow should we arrive?"
"It's still early," Whateley responded, pulling a huge gold watch from a vest pocket and glancing at it. "You could easily come back with me as soon as we've finished the meal."
Napoleon shook his head. "I don't think we should. I'm afraid Mr. Thompson might be somewhat annoyed by all the packing and moving at this late hour. He's been very considerate, and I wouldn't want to disturb him."
"I see," said Whateley. "Having met Lem Thompson, I can well understand. Tomorrow, then; any time that suits your convenience. You come, too," he said, turning to Rita. "Flavia wanted to ask you something about costumes for the pageant."
Rita nodded, and Whateley stalked away from the table, paused momentarily at the door to whirl his cape about his shoulders in a theatrical gesture, and departed into the night.
"He forgot to get anything to eat," Illya commented.
"True," Napoleon agreed. "I think he was too interested in maneuvering us into accepting his invitation to stay with him."
"Perhaps," said Illya. "But you were working just as hard to maneuver him into issuing the invitation, and it didn't spoil your appetite."
"You noticed, did you? Well, it takes a devious mind to know one. I'd like to be able to keep an eye on Jabez Whateley. Your idea of subliminal suggestions, his new TV station and his showing up here so conveniently: it all strikes me as a pretty healthy coincidence."
Illya nodded. "If he isn't involved, his place sounds like a good base. If he is, then it will be easier to keep an eye on him while he thinks he's keeping an eye on us. Of course, he isn't stupid. We suspect him, but he knows that we suspect him, and since we know that he knows…"
"Never mind," Napoleon said as he rose and picked up the check. "You know, we really are beginning to think alike.
"Incidentally, how many hours a day does Whateley's television station broadcast?" Napoleon asked as Rita swung the car into Lem Thompson's driveway.
"About twelve, I think," she replied.
"What time does it go off the air?"
Rita shrugged. "That depends on what part of the country you live in. Here in Midford, it goes off at midnight."
Illya looked baffled. "It broadcasts to different areas at different times?"
"Not really," Rita explained. "It's just that part of the area is on Eastern Standard time, and part of it is on Central Standard. Then there's one section on Central Daylight, but that's the same as Eastern Standard. I think." She paused and frowned thoughtfully. "Over by Hunterton you get into Eastern Daylight in the summer, but I think they've switched back to Eastern Standard now. Then a few farmers still set their clocks on Sun Time, which is a half hour faster than Central Standard. Or is it a half hour slower?" She paused again.