And from out of nowhere, a pinstriped blue shape blindsided her. Heart pounding, Cheeta understood immediately what it meant. Her bloodred fingernails extended like talons as she made a last, desperate lunge for the Chair.
And an ostrich-hide boot stomped on her instep while a hard hip like a whale's jawbone knocked her down. An immaculate shoe sole flattened her nose.
And over the squeal of the Chair's springs adjusting to 185 pounds of human ego, a deep, masculine voice growled, "There's only one admiral on this bridge. And don't you forget it."
Cheeta Ching tried to struggle to her feet. But all around her sycophantic shoes had appeared, preventing her from rising.
"Don, where have you been?" the relieved producer asked.
"None of your business."
"Don, so great that you're here," said the chief news writer.
"Don Cooder is great, no matter where he is."
"Don, here's your script for the affiliates update," said the director.
"Don Cooder doesn't need a script to read headlines. Just tell me what they are and I'll wing it."
"Senator Ned Clancy issues denial on love-nest rumor," the director recited in an urgent voice. "Dr. Doom inaugurates toll-free death line. Scientists dub strange new AIDS-like disease HELP."
"Here's your lavaliere, Don."
"Will somebody please let me up?" Cheeta snapped.
"Quiet, Cheeta," the producer said coldly. "Just lay there until the commercial break."
The feet went away and the floor manager was calling out, "Quiet, please. Don Cooder headlines for affiliates! Five seconds! Four! Quiet!"
Then the voice of Don Cooder, pitched into a low resonant tone, began his clipped recital.
"Senator Ned Clancy issues denial on love-nest rumor. Dr. Doom inaugurates toll-free death line. Scientists dub strange new AIDS-like disease HELP. All that and more coming up soon, so stay with us."
Cheeta started to rise.
The stampeding feet returned.
"That was great, Don. You nailed it in one take."
"Fabulous ad-libbing, Don."
"Will somebody help me up," Cheeta said through clenched teeth. "I have my own show to prep."
She was ignored.
"Here's the script, Don."
"We're losing the bumper, Don."
"One minute to air, everybody!" the floor manager announced.
"Don, we'll lead with Dr. Doom and follow up with the love nest story," the director was saying.
"I think we should lead with the love-nest story, don't you?" Cooder shot back.
"Absolutely, Don," the director returned without skipping a beat. "But it's not written as a lead."
"I'll wing it."
"Fifteen seconds to air!" the floor manager called.
The feet went away again and Cheeta Ching tried again. Her expanded center of gravity was not helpful. She was on her back, and it felt like a cannonball had been placed on her stomach so that a trained elephant could sit on it.
Grimacing, Cheeta rolled over-and collapsed panting.
Out of the corner of her eye she spotted the red ON AIR sign flaring up.
"This is the BCN Evening News with Don Cooder," the stentorian voice of Don Cooder announced. "Tonight, beleaguered democratic senator Ned J. Clancy, married barely a year, is contending with rumors of marital infidelity. With us now is Washington reporter Trip Lutz."
Cheeta was on her hands and knees now, behind the anchor desk and out of camera range. And she felt as if she were being weighed down by an abdominal tumor the size of Rhode Island. She tried to crawl, but the floor manager caught her eye. He was on his knees waving a Magic Markered sign that said: STAY THERE FOR THE FIRST SECTION. PLEASE!
Cheeta flipped him the bird. She started crawling.
And an ostrich-hide cowboy boot came around to plant itself on the small of her back. Cheeta Ching went down hard. "Oof!"
And the hated voice of Don Cooder returned, saying, "Thank you, Trip. In other news . . ."
"Ugh," Cheeta said.
"The retired pathologist and self-styled 'thanatologist' known as Dr. Doom has discovered a fresh wrinkle in the tollfree number game: Dial and die."
"Uhh," Cheeta groaned.
"AT their lines are jammed for the second consecutive day in the wake of the controversial new service for the terminally ill."
"I think my water broke," Cheeta grunted.
"This just in," Cooder said. "Reliable sources tell BCN News that weekend anchor Cheeta Ching is at this moment giving birth at a location not far from here. Speaking on behalf of her colleagues here at the Broadcast Corporation of North America, we wish her Godspeed and a joyful labor."
And the boot heel pushed down harder.
Cheeta Ching's flat, reddening face slammed to the rug and turned sideways. Then she saw it. The line monitor, which showed the picture that millions of faithful BCN viewers were simultaneously watching in the privacy of their own homes.
The line monitor was as black as a virgin Etch-a-Sketch.
If there was one cardinal, inflexible rule in on-set broadcast journalism etiquette it was: Quiet on a live set.