"Any idiot can see it's Canada," Remo complained.
Don Cooder went on, obviously making it up as he went along. "For those just tuning in, at this hour, the known facts are these: U.S. TV blacked out for seven minutes. Cause: Unknown. Motive: Unknown. Suspicion: Somewhere in the U.S. heartland a pirate transmitter waiting patiently. For-what? No one knows."
Don Cooder paused, fixing the camera with his unblinking eyes. "For the story of those most affected by this, here's our national correspondent, Hale Storm."
The image changed to show the prettily handsome face of BCN national correspondent Hale Storm, looking as dashing as if he had stepped out of a soap opera-which he had. BCN had hired him from one of their own soaps in an effort to broaden their female audience base.
"What was the first thing to go through your mind when the blackout hit?" Storm asked an off-camera figure.
The face of Don Cooder, looking pensive, appeared. He was informal in a fawn-brown cardigan sweater.
"I was at the anchor desk-we call it the Chair around here-and had just read the lead-in headlines when the producer noticed the line monitor had gone black. At first, he thought it was an internal glitch, but I knew that couldn't be. Here at BCN we have the finest technical staff in television. I immediately pitched in and, sensing something more serious amiss, discovered that the other networks were black too."
"Very astute, Don."
Don Cooder offered his trademark forced smile and said, "Don Cooder has been in this news game a long time, man and boy. He can smell a story."
Chiun nudged Remo. "Why does he refer to himself in the third person?"
"Maybe he's schizo," Remo offered. "What I want to know is why are they interviewing each other. Shouldn't they be talking to the man in the street?"
"Why should they waste their time speaking with peasants?" Chiun wanted to know.
"Maybe because the story affected maybe sixty million people, and only a few dozen TV employees, that's why. These news guys all think they are the news."
"They are obviously very important," said Chiun.
"What makes you say that?"
"They all look very much like the President of Vice, who is an important person as well."
"Come to think of it, the Vice President does kinda look like he should be reading the news, not making it. And he's just like the network anchors. They're practically all airheads. They get paid a ton of money to just sit there and read."
Out of the corner of his eyes, Remo noticed Chiun's wispy beard tremble. And he knew he had made a mistake.
"They are paid how much to simply sit and read?"
"Uh, I forget," Remo said evasively.
"I will settle for a rough estimate."
"Oh, I heard Cooder gets oh, four or five."
"Thousands?"
"Millions."
"Millions! To simply read!"
"Cheeta isn't exactly paid in seashells, either, you know."
"That is different. She does not read mere news, but recites poetry in her lilting voice. She is a fountain of culture in a barbarian land. No amount of money can be too much for her."
"And she's just the weekend anchor."
Chiun's eyes narrowed. "Why are they called anchors?"
"Good question. Ask Smith next time we see him. He knows all kinds of useless stuff."
The taped interview with Don Cooder ended and the live Don Cooder returned to do a live interview with the national anchor who had just interviewed him. Then, Don Cooder interviewed the producer, the news director, and up on to the president of the news division, who vowed that this would never happen again, but if it did, BCN would be there to cover it. Round the clock, if need be.
How BCN could cover a disruption that would prevent them from broadcasting was not explained, and no one thought to point out the lapse in logic. Everyone spoke in crisp, authoritative sentences, wore expensive suits, and boasted perfect helmets of hair that could decorate storefront manikins. Some possibly had.
At the end of the broadcast, the camera closed in to frame Don Cooder's face and he said, "BCN Evening News pledges to keep you up to date on this developing story. Until next time," he added, giving the peace sign, "Rock on."
Immediately, a local anchor came on with a teaser for the eleven o'clock news.
"TV blacked out nationwide. The story at 11."
"Why do they do that?" Remo complained.
"Do what?"
"We just watched a half hour of national coverage and the local station immediately jumps in trying to get us to watch it all over again at eleven."
"I do not understand these American customs," Chiun sniffed. "I only know that I will have to wait until the weekend before beholding the sight of Cheeta the Beauteous."
"You'll make it."
The Master of Sinanju arose like a pale column of smoke. He had changed to evening white. "I will retire now," he said.
"Kinda early, isn't it?"
"Awake, I will only feel sadness. Perhaps in sleep I will dream of Cheeta the Fair."
"Does that mean I gotta resume boom box patrol?"
The Master of Sinanju paused at the door. He turned, his face stern.
"If I am dreaming of Cheeta, and rude voices awaken me, there will be heads adorning the gates by dawn."
"Trust me," said Remo. "You'll sleep peacefully if I have to sleep outside."
"I would not mind," said Chiun, padding off to his bedroom.
And hearing those chilly words, Remo's spirits fell.