Chapter 13: Desperate Measures

It was 10:43 in the morning when it happened. Carlos Alvirez was preparing to flip the record when an old friend entered the booth. He gasped. He knew immediately that something was up.

"What is it?" he asked immediately, hope and fear in his eyes.

"Relax," said the man. "There's not another revolution if that's what you're wondering."

Carlos knew that as part of a Whiteglove cell, he could be called on at any time to support the cause. He also knew that it was no accident he was recruited. He worked at a radio station, and just like telegram operators and mailmen, his help would be incredibly important if another war broke out.

"Then this is just a friendly visit?" asked Carlos, seeming almost disappointed.

"Not exactly," said the man, smiling. "I have a record I need you to play."

"Is this important?" asked Carlos. "I'm only supposed to play the regime approved stuff. I could lose my job."

"Trust me," said the man. "It's important."

Something about the way he said it made Carlos believe him with all his heart. He nodded resolutely. Whatever this is, I have to take the risk, he thought. Depending on what he was asked to play, he might not just lose his job. If this was some kind of Whiteglove coded message and the regime traced it back to him, he could be jailed or shot. Carlos gulped and took the record in his hands. It was pristine, and must have been freshly recorded. He double checked that the radio transmitter was still hooked up and the broadcasting light was still lit, and then put the record in the player.

"My name is Red," said a female voice.

"And I'm Blue," said a male voice.

"And we're going to be your guides today through a unique and enlightening experience."

"But we have to warn you," said the male voice, "The music that you're about to hear will have extreme effects on you if you're not used to it. You may briefly lose the ability to see or hear. If you're currently operating an automobile or doing any other dangerous activity, stop right now, or turn the radio off."

"At the same time," said the female voice, "I have to stress that what you're about to experience isn't inherently harmful or dangerous in any way. Experiencing it for the first time can be scary, but we'll be right here to guide you the entire time."

"So sit back and relax," said the male voice, "and prepare to be introduced to the single greatest scientific discovery of our time."

The music began to play. It was a single violin, and it wasn't a recognizable piece, but its sprightly staccato notes evoked a dark and mysterious energy.

Miles away, Donald Canardino sat in a cafe drinking coffee and spilled nearly the entire cup on his suit when he heard Minnie's voice.

"Don't turn that off!" he shouted to the owner of the cafe, who had been adjusting the dial on the radio. His mind raced. His first thought had been to try to contain it. If knowledge of fourth dimensional abilities got out, there would be chaos. But if this was on the radio, there was no use trying to detain everyone who heard it. At least if he heard it he could assess the damage and give an informed report.

Miles away still, George had sat down at his writing desk and was preparing to try his hand at poetry for the first time since he had lost access to the songs. He had a rough idea of a first verse, but he didn't want to call Miss Claire in to dictate it to her just yet. Idly, he switched on the radio in hopes that Boch or Mossart would give him some inspiration.

From the first three notes, George already knew what had happened. He had been planning on relying on the regime to get him access to the music again somehow, either through them developing it independently or via Minnie through one of their spies. He had never dreamed it would be so soon, and so easy. The world he knew and loved came rushing back as a hundred thousand ballrooms spread out around him in every direction. It was like waking up from a dream.

Minnie's voice overlapped with the music as the piece began again from the top. George felt his heart race.

"What you're probably starting to experience is a fourth spatial dimension, that exists parallel to our own. It affects every part of our lives, but we usually can't see it or manipulate it very easily. The music you're hearing right now gives you access to a nearly infinite number of worlds that you normally wouldn't be able to see."

"But rest assured," said Mickey, "They are real. If you've started to lose your vision, don't panic. That's just your brain trying to process more information than you've ever had access to before in your life. You'll adjust in just a moment."

"The worlds you can see in other slices affect our own world, but not always in ways that make sense to us. Memories, dreams, thoughts, and emotions are physical objects or properties of physical objects in certain slices. If you can navigate to other slices, you can learn things about the world that might seem supernatural to people who don't have access to the fourth dimension."

"Don't expect to get it right away," said Mickey. "This is a lot to take in, but we'll be here with you the whole way."

George was mostly ignoring the voices in favor of drinking in the ocean of information he had been deprived of for so long. Usually, he was looking for something in particular, but right now, he just let his body drift aimlessly through the ballrooms in freefall. Music and assorted sounds rushed past his ears rapidly, and he let himself truly relax, taking it all in passively. For the first time in weeks, he was content. George didn't even notice the hot tears streaming down his face.

Donald had heard enough. The cafe was plunged into an uproar of confused and frightened voices, as patrons and workers alike tried to figure out what was happening. There were screams and shouts, and one person was rolling on the floor in a panic. Two others had pressed their back to the radio and were trying to restrain a man who had attempted to turn it off.

Donald didn't go blind, having heard the music dozens of times by now. He was experienced now at ignoring the tug of the fourth dimension when it tried to fill his senses. The only sounds he cared about were Mickey and Minnie's voices, but by now he had gotten a sense of the damage, and it was time for action. If they were at the radio station broadcasting live, then the game was over. The regime would have them. But he had to act now.

Donald crashed out of the cafe and rushed over to his automobile. He looked around and noticed an odd scene. The vast majority of people were going about their days like nothing was the matter, but it was immediately obvious which businesses had a radio on. Inside a barbershop across the street, people were in various states of panic and a few had stumbled out of the building to check if anyone outside knew what was going on. They were met with only the confused glances of people taking strolls and walking dogs.

Donald drove as fast as he could to the Intelligence Bureau and impatiently gave his code to several layers of checkpoints. Security had massively tightened since the escape, and now that was working against him. He needed to get to the director for authorization to get a radio message to every available agent. Even if they had already left the radio station, this would narrow the search down a lot. This isn't like them, thought Donald, stepping through the third checkpoint. This isn't careful, it's bold. What changed? What am I missing?

After what seemed like hours, but was probably only about five minutes, George started to notice a pattern. The landscape of the various ballrooms and orchestras had changed significantly since he had last listened, but that was to be expected. Once he had acclimated to all of the changes, he realized at once what was happening. When he had been tasked with finding the recipients of the music by Donald, George had begun to hear what it sounded like for someone to notice the fourth dimension for the first time. Now he heard it a thousandfold. It was the sound of people moving limbs they had never moved before and flexing muscles they never knew they had. It was the sound of jellyfish growing fins and learning to swim after a lifetime of floating in the surf. It was fear and excitement and confusion and mixed into one. George heard people's minds racing and their hearts pounding. New fourth dimensional music listeners popped up like bubbles in a pot coming to a boil.

The rational part of his brain wanted to take this opportunity to plan and scheme, but instead, George simply sat back and let his mind wander. There was a tremendous beauty to it, and it reminded him of the sounds of spring. So many minds waking up and being born into a new world all at once. So many people realizing how small their world had been before. If everybody knew how blind they were, would things be different? George stumbled across a scene that quite nearly answered his question.

It was clear from a few of the orchestras that what he was hearing was a young couple awakening in their bed together. Still half asleep, they had absentmindedly switched on the radio on their bedside table. When the music thrust them into the fourth dimension, the two happened to be facing just the right way so that the only thing they were observing was each other. Tentatively at first, they reached out on this new plane of existence. To George, it sounded like a hundred little piccolos chirping notes at each other. Another couple hundred wind chimes began to add their notes to the exchange. The couple was conversing, but not in a way they ever had before. They were composing a duet thousands of notes at a time.

Many of the other new listeners were afraid at first, but these two didn't seem afraid, and George realized they must both still think they were dreaming. Their back and forth was a wave of fresh new experience, like a spring rain. As they fully awoke, the fear never came, almost as if they recognized that the dream they were having was more real than the reality they were used to. In the nominal plane, they were both still laying on their backs, with their eyes closed. To anyone but George, they would appear to be still asleep, but their conversation grew steadily faster and more exciting. They were communicating on a level few ever had. This is it, thought George. This is the world I want. A world of true connection.

The idea came to him like a crack of thunder. George knew what he wanted, and now he knew exactly how to achieve it. But it would all hinge on Mickey and Minnie. He couldn't do it alone, he needed Donald. George felt a tinge of sadness. In the new world he sought to create, what would become of Donald? He gritted his teeth. I won't abandon him, he thought, but even as he considered this, he wondered how much say he even had in the matter.

When Donald finally got to the director, he was frantic and panting from having sprinted up a flight of stairs. The director frowned at him.

"What is it, Canardino?"

"They're broadcasting it," said Donald breathlessly. "They're putting the music on the radio and telling people what it does."

"Slow down," said the director, "who's broadcasting what?"

"Mickey and Minnie Mouse are on the radio right now! We need to get agents to all the radio towers within range of the capital. If we're lucky they'll still be there."

The director didn't entirely understand the gravity of the situation, but he could tell by Donald's tone and expression that there was not time to waste. He had to act now. He called in a receptionist and scribbled a message for her to relay by telegram and radio. As the message was being relayed, Donald spoke with the director about containing the damage.

"It might already be too late," he admitted. "There are thousands of people with radios. Maybe tens of thousands. It'll be hard to cover something like this up."

"We don't need to," said the director. "We just need to control it. You said the music gives some kind of power to the people who hear it. Are the people who heard this broadcast capable of using that power now?"

"No," said Donald. "From what I've been told by my consultant, it takes time to get used to using the power, and it only lasts two days before you need new music. The people who heard it today aren't threats yet, but they could rapidly become so."

"What are you most worried about," asked the director. "What do you think is going to happen?"

"I'm worried about a Whiteglove rebellion," said Donald. "The existence of this technology calls into question the regime's power, and that sort of thing gets people excited. Everyone who heard the broadcast is now potentially a new insurgent."

"Then our priority should be restoring faith in the regime. We need to change the optics of the situation. Did the broadcast indicate who it was coming from?"

"No," said Donald. "They didn't say anything about Whitegloves, and they didn't even use their real names. They went by 'Blue' and 'Red'."

"Good," said the director. "Then we'll seize the towers and take credit for the broadcast. We can say it was an experiment in a new technology we're developing for military use and that there won't be another broadcast until the research is finished. If the people think we're responsible for it we can prevent a rebellion."

"That'll do for the short term," said Donald, "But the Whitegloves will take credit for the broadcast too."

"You think they're behind it?"

"I do," said Donald, "but it doesn't matter if they are or not. It matters what people believe."

"What do you suggest we do?" asked the director.

"We need to hit them hard and fast. Capture Mr. and Mrs. Mouse, and cut off all the resources that the Whitegloves have access to. Mass arrests of known Whiteglove cells. Confiscate all of their business assets and supply caches. We need to get ahead of this or it's going to get out of hand fast."

The director nodded. "Very well."

Carlos Alvirez regretted not going home when he had the chance. He supposed they would have found him at home too, but at least it would have given him more plausible deniability. About an hour after he put the record on the radio, a dozen men in suits swarmed into the studio. One of them pulled a revolver and ordered him against the wall. The others carefully loaded every record into a crate and blocked the only two entrances to the building. It was going to be a long day.

Mickey and Minnie watched his interrogation from a dozen difference slices and exchanged nervous glances. They were sitting in a dusty old house that hadn't been lived in for some time, because in truth it wasn't a house. It was a kind of safehouse, made to look like an abandoned property with boarded up doors and windows. In the event that someone were to pry away the boards and kick down the door, the basement of the house had a trapdoor located behind some shelves that led to a long underground tunnel.

The arrangement was as secure as Mama could think to make it. The house itself was located in Brix, an incredibly small town with no civilization to speak of for several miles. Every one of the thirty eight people who lived in Brix was a loyal Whiteglove, and there was only a single small dirt road that led to it. A mile from the town, an old man sat on his porch and looked out along the road, ready at any moment to radio a warning to the town. The only real risk was when Minnie and Mickey had to drive into the nearby city to make a new record.

"They're moving faster than we thought," noted Minnie.

"That'll be Donald," said Mickey. "He's not underestimating us. And we shouldn't underestimate him either."

"I just thought we'd have a few more days before they sent secret police to the radio stations."

"It was going to happen eventually," said Mickey. "The question is what do we do now?"

Minnie grimaced. "I didn't want to start a war," she said.

"I know," said Mickey, putting his arm around her.

"But if I put my foot down and say no violence, then we lose our advantage. The people who heard the broadcast are ready for more. They're probably telling their friends about it right now. If we broadcast again, we'll get far more people."

"It's a hard choice," admitted Mickey.

"I have to choose. Even not choosing is a choice."

Mickey nodded stoically. Minnie made her decision.

"We take the radio towers back. By force."

It didn't take more than a day to get word to Mama and begin the next day's operation. They had already prepared that day's record, and it was only a question of assembling enough insurgents and arming them. Minnie could tell the Whitegloves had already been on the move even before she gave the order. The regime had come down hard and they were scrambling to respond. Minnie had always suspected that the Whitegloves were more active than they seemed, but it wasn't until she surveyed the state of things from the fourth dimension that she realized just how much had been going on under her nose.

Just a few days ago, there had been one hundred and two secret weapon and supply stockpiles controlled by the Whitegloves. After the first broadcast, the regime had captured eighty six of them. Hundreds of Whiteglove agents were being arrested each day, and the ones that weren't useful for providing information were being disappeared by means of a firing squad. The country was already at war. Her broadcast had seen to that.

Even so, Minnie didn't sleep at all the night before the operation. Mickey awoke in the early morning and pleaded with her to rest, but she stated honestly that she couldn't. There was a harsh seriousness to her now that Mickey had never seen. When it was about time, she turned her attention away from the nominal slice and into every slice connected to the radio towers.

"You don't need to watch," said Mickey.

"I do," said Minnie. "I'm not going to order people to die and then turn a blind eye."

"But watching from the fourth dimension is more than just watching," said Mickey. "You'll be experiencing the bloodshed from every angle. It's not healthy."

"Neither is dying," said Minnie coldly.

Mickey grimaced, but nodded. She noticed he was watching too.

Whiteglove soldiers in plain clothes walked briskly towards each radio station at 8:00 in the morning. They wore long coats, and kept one hand tucked under the coat as they approached. In a few of the radio stations, the secret police had posted a sentry outside to warn them of any suspicious activity. Only one of the sentries noticed the men closing in, and scrambled inside, knowing immediately what the long coats were for. The Whitegloves soldiers saw him rush into the building and the leader turned to the others.

"Go. Now!"

Minnie cringed as the shooting started. The Whitegloves crashed through the door and unloaded the clips of their submachine guns with reckless abandon. The secret police agents barely had time to draw their weapons, and most were gunned down immediately. A few found cover to crouch behind, and prosecuted an extended firefight until they ran out of ammo. The other stations were taken in a similar manner.

Minnie was only half interested in how the operation was going, as she knew it would succeed, at least for now. She kept her focus on the casualties. After having her life uprooted and being forced to go on the run because of the secret police, Minnie didn't think she would feel so much sympathy for them, but it was hard not to. When they lay dying on the floor in a growing pool of blood, they weren't secret police agents. Their minds weren't on following orders or silencing dissidents. They were just scared children, screaming and crying with what strength they had left. Secret police agents, Whiteglove soldiers, and bystanders working at the radio stations fell to the ground in the exact same way when the bullets struck them. Minnie was sobbing.

Mickey's arms were around her, but she didn't notice, her mind racing with the explosive imagery of dozens of dead and dying men, and a few women. It was horror like she had never known, and when the last of the shooting stopped, she felt sick and dizzy. After an hour of taking in the aftermath, Minnie just felt empty.

The Whitegloves wasted no time in carrying out the operation. As soon as they had cleared the radio station, they started the broadcast, not even hesitating to clean the blood off of their clothes. By 8:32 every radio station was broadcasting the sound of Mickey and Minnie's voices.

"The music you're about to hear is like the piece that was played two days ago," said Mickey. "It'll allow you to see other slices of reality. We once again warn you not to do anything dangerous if this is your first time listening, as you may experience temporary blindness or deafness."

"We would also like to point out that unlike what you may have heard, this music is not produced by the regime or by the Whitegloves. This music belongs to humanity. The music and the abilities that go along with it belong to all of you."

George didn't hear Donald come in the door, and barely noticed when Miss Claire shouted that she had let him in. He was reveling in the violin music that refreshed his senses and thanking God that he had enough time left to make his plan work.

"Come on," said Donald as he entered the room, "You can listen to the rest at the intelligence building. I had them set up a recording in case this happened again. They'll deliver the record in an hour or so."

"Why would I go to the intelligence building?"

"So you can meet the rest of the team. I told the director that your expertise would be valuable to the physicists and musicologists. You'll be trying to reverse engineer the music, and no one knows how it works better than you."

"No one except them," said George, gesturing at the radio.

Donald cocked his head. "I'm afraid they declined my offer to join the team. Seeing as they're not available, you're the next best option."

"What if I could deliver them to you?"

Donald's eyes widened. "You know where they are?"

"I do."

"Then tell me," said Donald.

"Here's the thing," answered George. "They'll be ready for us this time. It's not going to be as simple as last time."

"What do you mean?"

"They're well defended and in a secluded area. If we send too many agents they'll notice."

"Well defended? By Whitegloves?"

Donald already knew the only way they could have recaptured the radio stations was with Whiteglove help, but hearing George confirm it was comforting.

"If you want to capture them alive," said George, "You need to corner them without alerting them."

"What are you suggesting?"

"We can't go about this the way you'd usually do it. No matter how you approach, they'll see you coming. But I have a countermeasure."

Donald raised his eyebrows. "A countermeasure?"

"I can disguise our approach. It's not easy, but I can change our unique identifying signatures in the ballrooms they're most likely to check."

Donald immediately caught on to the doubt in his voice. "You can't disguise us in all of the ballrooms?"

George sighed. "As far as I can tell, it's an infinite spectrum. There's no way to disguise yourself in every ballroom."

"Fine," said Donald. "Then you'll disguise a team of twenty agents and we'll arrest them immediately."

"It doesn't work like that. The more people I try to disguise, the more fraught the plan is. We have to rely on stealth, not numbers."

"Five agents?" asked Donald hopefully.

"Just the two of us."

Donald thought about this with a stern expression and crossed his arms. He didn't like the idea for more reasons than one. Not only did he worry about catching a stray bullet from one of Mickey and Minnie's Whiteglove bodyguards, he also questioned George's motivations. Surely a brainy academic who has been blind his whole life shouldn't be so excited to charge outnumbered into a gunfight. His talents would be much better spent in the lab with the physicists, and surely he must know that, thought Donald.

"Disguise me and I'll go alone," said Donald, squinting his eyes.

"No," said George. "You don't know enough about the fourth dimension. If I'm learning new abilities, then so are they. You can't face them alone."

"This plan is insane," said Donald, watching carefully as George's face sunk.

Whatever he's planning, I'll figure it out soon enough, thought Donald.

"But maybe that's why it'll work," he added.

George smiled.

It was two o'clock in the morning when they set out on foot. Donald had driven them to a town about five miles from where George said they were hiding. Apparently he had been cloaking their presence as they drove, but Donald wondered if even that was true. He hoped that George wasn't leading him into some kind of trap.

George made his way through the thick underbrush surprisingly well, making Donald feel like the blind one in the dim starlight. Donald had elected against bringing a flashlight or a lantern out of an abundance of caution but after stepping in several mud puddles he started to regret it. George was using his fourth dimensional senses to avoid the branches and thorn bushes that Donald kept stumbling into, but his superhuman abilities could do nothing about the bugs. He slapped the back of his neck and cursed into the darkness.

"Keep your voice down, we're almost there," spat Donald, nervously touching the holster of his pistol.

"I know, it's just that I'm not used to being somewhere so… rural."

"This was your idea."

"I know," grumbled George.

Eventually, the two emerged from the woods outside the tiny collection of buildings where Mickey and Minnie were hiding. George took a second to nurse his bug bites and try to rub the mud off of his shoes. Donald squinted through the darkness, trying to see if there were any guards. George noticed his apprehension and touched his arm.

"There are no sentries here," he said. "They're all at the edge of town. See that building there? There's no one inside but them."

Donald nodded solemnly, and drew his weapon. Despite what George had said, the two moved towards the house in a sort of crouch walk, trying to keep from being spotted and avoid making too much noise. As they came to the front door, Donald frowned. It looked abandoned, more like a shack than a house, but the door was locked.

"Which room are they in?" whispered Donald.

"First floor bedroom. It'll be the second room on the left. They're asleep."

"The way I see it, we can either get in by breaking a window or kicking down a door, and either one is going to wake them up with the noise."

"You've got a gun, and there's only one entrance to the bedroom," said George. "As long as we're fast we'll have them cornered."

Donald narrowed his eyes. This too was suspicious. George, the academic afraid of bugs, was suddenly suggesting they kick down a door and storm a building together. If there was a trap, he was surely springing it now. Still, there was no choice but to spring it and think on the fly. He nodded his assent, and then counted down from three with his fingers.

Donald breathed a sigh of relief when the door burst open on his first kick. It wasn't uncommon for doors to take a few kicks before the hinge gave out, but this one was rotted and in a state of disrepair. It snapped away from the doorframe with a startling crunch, and Donald wasted no time before sprinting into the building. He didn't even check if George was still behind him before bursting through the entrance to the first floor bedroom.

Just as he entered, Mickey finished lighting the gas lantern by the bed with a match. The room filled with an orange glow, and Mickey, Minnie, and Donald took a second to take in the scene. Mickey and Minnie saw the familiar shape of a man with a pistol aimed at them. Donald saw the couple sitting up in an uncomfortable looking bed, squinting in horror and frozen in place.

"Don't move," he said, just as George came into the doorway, breathing heavily.

The couple said nothing, but as their eyes adjusted and their minds caught up to the reality of their situation, Donald could tell their thoughts just by looking at them. Mickey was panicking, looking desperately for an escape, his every muscle tensed. Donald expected Minnie's face to betray a similar fear, but as her initial surprise faded, he saw it replaced only by a cold fury. Her stern glare wasn't a bluff. It was the gaze of a predator preparing to pounce. Donald knew immediately that he had made a mistake.

What happened next was over in a few seconds, but felt like an eternity to Donald and George. From Mickey's perspective, Donald suddenly collapsed into a lifeless heap on the floor, and George fell to his knees, clutching his head. From Donald's perspective, it was as if he had been plunged suddenly into an ocean of flashing lights and was thrown about by the waves. His ears filled with a cacophonous din that allowed no room for thought. Even his sense of taste and smell were assaulted by what seemed to be an ever changing stream of random sensations, sweet, sour, rancid, and everything in between.

Only George and Minnie knew what was really happening. Minnie was waging a war on a thousand fronts against the two men at the door. In one slice, where she took the form of a kind of sea anemone, her dozen orange arms battered against her foe. In another, she rolled as a swarm of boulders against him, and in yet another, bolts of lightning cascaded from her. Alone, these attacks were merely specks of dust on a chalkboard, but used together in hundreds of precisely the right slices, the effect was dramatic. The chalkboard was splashed with gallons of multicolored paint. Donald and George were being bombarded with signals of every shape and size, which their brains happily turned into sensory information.

It was the most overwhelming experience Donald had ever suffered, and it left him unable to think, move, or perceive anything around him. He trembled slightly on the floor as his brain worked overtime to process all of the information it was being sent from a hundred different sources. George, on the other hand, knew instantly what was happening. He didn't see the attack first as sensory data like Donald did, but heard a series of melodies in the fourth dimension that alerted him to what she was trying. Fortunately, George knew that in order for the attack to work, the notes had to have just the right configuration. He began to play his own music. It was simply a question of playing the complementary notes to hers, and the destructive interference would cancel out the effect. Still, writing music on the fly while being assaulted with a blast of stimuli wasn't easy. He was struggling to catch up.

"I need help!" stammered Minnie, while Mickey looked on in horror.

"What's happening?" he asked, looking from her to the two men and then back.

"I'm targeting their sensory slices with random noise. But Goofenberg is fighting it. I don't know that I can hold him. Grab the gun and join me in the fourth dimension!"

George was adapting well to the attack considering it was the first time he had ever considered it as a possibility. As Minnie started to devote less mental energy to debilitating Donald and more to him, he realized that he wasn't using the full potential of his abilities. She had gotten the drop on him and was pressing her advantage, but she had probably expected he wouldn't be fighting back. If he continued like he was, she would overwhelm him. Thinking quickly, he devoted some of his own mental energy to composing music that would attack her senses as well. It wasn't much, but it seemed to scare her into a moment of hesitation which allowed him to cancel out much of her attack. George staggered to his feet just as Mickey grabbed the pistol from Donald's body and pointed it at him.

"Wait!" screamed George, "I just wanna talk!"

Mickey and Minnie froze. Minnie continued her assault on Donald but withdrew her tendrils and wings and geometric prisms that been slamming full force into George. From her perspective, his counter music had taken the form of dodging and grappling with his own appendages. Mickey kept the gun trained on George.

"Talk," spat Mickey.

"He can't hear us," said George, gesturing to his companion, "So I can tell you that I'm on your side. I want to help you."

"How is trying to arrest us helping?" asked Minnie, standing up from the bed and moving behind Mickey.

"You don't have an idea of how this is going to end, do you?" asked George.

Mickey and Minnie looked at each other in the dim light of the lantern.

"What do you mean?" asked Mickey.

"I mean you're just reacting. You don't really have a plan. Taking the radio towers won't stop the regime, and the regime will never stop until you're both dead or in a cell."

"We don't have much of a choice, thanks to you," said Mickey.

"But you do. I know how this can all end peacefully. It's a solution I don't think you've considered."

"You're gonna ask us to surrender?" asked Mickey.

"Far from it. I'm gonna ask you to overthrow the regime the only way you can. They've got more people, more infrastructure, and more guns, so you'll never win with a war, but there's a way you can overthrow them without all that."

"The music is powerful," admitted Minnie, "But it can't cause people to overthrow the regime if they don't want to. I don't know what you're suggesting."

"I'm suggesting you hold an election."

Mickey audibly laughed, unable to bear the absurdity of the situation.

"I'm serious."

"An election," said Mickey, his voice sarcastic, "why didn't I think of that."

"You've got the means to make it work now," argued George.

"It'll never work," said Mickey. "There are a hundred different reasons it'll never work. First off, the regime would never allow it. They'll execute or arrest anyone who even talks about it. And secondly, even if they did allow it, they would just rig it. If the regime won, we'd never know for sure if the election was fair."

"That's why it'll work this time," said George. "We've got a foolproof way to know what people's real vote is."

Minnie gasped. "He's right."

"What are you talking about?"

Minnie turned to her husband. "I can think of at least two ways it could be done. On certain slices you can see how positively or negatively people feel about the regime or the Whitegloves. If you counted it up, it would be like a passive vote."

"That's not enough," said Mickey. "People won't overthrow the regime just because they see that most people don't want it. They need some kind of push."

"The other way it could be done is an active vote," said Minnie. "There are fourth dimensional objects that could be manipulated to ensure that every person gets exactly one vote."

"But that means every person would have to be able to use the music, right?" asked Mickey.

Minnie nodded.

"You've got to be able to see that this is the only way," said George. "If you continue like you're going, you'll lose. This is the only chance you have of surviving."

"You make it sound easy," said Minnie. "For something like this to work, we'll need millions of people to be proficient in using the music."

"Not to mention organizing all of those people to vote on the same day," added Mickey.

"It won't be easy," admitted George, "but you have no other choice."

"Why should we trust you?" asked Mickey. "You've done nothing but try to capture us."

"It doesn't matter if you trust me," said George. "If you come up with a better plan, by all means, do that instead. But you're running out of time."

George meant it in a general sense, but Minnie did a quick scan of nearby individuals and noticed a large number of automobiles traveling down the road that led to the town. Donald hadn't even needed to radio for backup, they already had orders to close in as soon as the clock struck 2:30. Minnie cursed under her breath.

"We need to go," she said to Mickey. She paused for a second and then turned to George. "What are you going to do? Are you coming with us?"

"No," said George. "If I leave they'll punish Sophie. I'm more useful away from the action anyway. I'll try to help out where I can, but I'm begging you to take my advice. This election is the only play we have."

Minnie was struck by his use of "we", but simply nodded solemnly and then followed Mickey as he led her by the hand out of the room.

George noticed that Minnie had released her grip on Donald and quickly laid his body on the ground. For added realism as Donald began to regain his senses, George performed a similar attack on himself, mildly overstimulating his hearing, touch, smell, and taste. Donald clutched his head and cursed as he felt around for his missing pistol.

"Where have they gone? What happened?"

George sat up slowly. "They got away."