From a reasonably distant view, the extinct volcano bore an astonishing resemblance to an extinct volcano, though something was slightly clumsy about it that you could not quite reach, like listening to Linda Ronstadt singing Cole Porter.   If you came closer, in a speedboat perhaps, like the two people hurtling towards the island in the dwindling day, the imposing falsity of it grew to the point where the woman in the boat was inevitably reminded of the notion that America had no imperial ambitions in the world. This was particularly ironic because the man beside her not only had similar imperial ambitions, he at least had the courtesy to revel in them.

She looked straight ahead at the high cliff looming up, and a flutter of anxiety came over her for a moment, though she knew somehow that it was all going to be fine.   One look at Dr. Spoyle -- with his commanding mien and his firm grip on the steering wheel -- and she was comforted.   She turned back to look at the wake behind them,   her bikini increasingly soaked in the spray from the salt sea. Dr. Spoyle looked at her and thought sadly to himself: ÒHalle Berry, not Ursula AndressÓ.   Such was the story of the times. And the purpose of Care Island.

Abruptly a shaft of deeper darkness appeared in the cliff wall ahead of them.    Cutting through the crashing waves, the speedboat rushed into the black maw, and was swallowed up.

Dr. Spoyle cut the motor. They were momently blinded by the scanning searchlight that washed over them, and the churning sound of a hydraulic lift that suddenly raised them onto a vast platform swarming with people.   Waiting by the side of the lift pool were three uniformed figures: two men and one woman.   Dr. Spoyle acknowledged them with a nod, and helped his bikini-clad companion onto the platform.

One of the two men,   who was dressed like, and bore the appearance of, a sinister Zen master, stepped forward. ÒWelcome back, Dr. Spoyle.Ó

Spoyle said sternly, ÒSo, Malincorne, what is your report? Were you able to fix the de-magaziner?Ó

Malincorne replied with a smile on his face, trying not to appear too proud. ÒYes, Doctor. You were of course right. It was far too simple and obvious merely to eviscerate the content of all the magazines in the Western world, instead we followed your orders and used the ÒMarketobombÓ which shortened all the articles to bite sized chunks, removed all the big words, and scrunched the text in between the inserts and the fake articles that had been bought by advertisers. Much more subtle, and much more horrible.Ó

ÒAnd the Aniston virus?Ó

ÒWe are still working on it. Our problem is that the original is so vanishingly untalented that we are finding replication difficult. But the team believes that within a week we will have it solved, and then every article in the Western world -- and at least 35% of the Eastern world -- will contain some reference to Jennifer Aniston.Ó

"Mwwahhahahah!!!!" Even Dr. Spoyle shuddered as he laughed at his own diabolical powers!