"And they're asking after the anchor."
"Which one?"
"Well, the one with the flukes mostly, but we're getting fan mail on the readers too."
Dave Sinnott sighed, giving in to the inevitable. "Put it up again," he said weakly. "No, scratch that. Make it part of our logo. Burner'll like that."
After six months, Sinnott received a staticky call that had been patched through from the sloop, Audacious.
"This heah's Jed," the familiar boisterous voice announced.
"Where are you?" Sinnott asked.
"Becalmed off the Cape of Good Hope. Just like Vasco Da Gama, except he didn't have a lot of broads yappin' in his ear day and night. Listen, Ah been listenin' to the shortwave broadcasts. Folks is laughin' at me. What you're doin' up there?"
"We're in all fifty states, twenty-four hours a day. By satellite. No wires."
"They're sayin' Ah'm losin' a cool million a week."
"In another six months, we'll be all turned around."
"If you hadn't a said that, Ah was gonna turn mahself around and come wring your neck. You got six months, boy, or you're gonna have barnacles all over your back teeth. You and that anchor."
"There are sixteen of them now, Mr. Burner."
Dave Sinnott redoubled his efforts. He created bureaus in seven states. And all over Canada. That only added to the roughness of the broadcasts as miscued remote reporters were caught picking their noses on camera, and anchors could be heard belching and farting.
Once, an aging anchor stroked out on camera. Ratings roared. Millions turned in to his replacement hoping for a repeat performance.
Then Sinnott hit upon an idea worthy of his boss. The skies were full of satellites beaming network newsfeeds to affiliates for use on their local broadcasts, and these same transponders would relay local news clips for network use. Except the networks refused to release their clips until after their 7 p.m. feeds. In other words, the affiliates were expected to pitch in to help the networks and in return they got stale leftovers.
It was the era of the ninety-minute local newscast. News was booming. Local stations from Dry Rot, Georgia to Bunghole, Oregon were fielding news crews equipped with microwave vans and satellite uplink capability. And even then they were starved for pictures.
So KNNN offered them instant access to their feeds. Free. In return for reciprocal access to theirs.
It was unheard-of. It was absurd. Everyone expected a hitch or trick or catch. There wasn't one.
Once KNNN hooked a few affiliates here and there, the others came like lemmings. And the networks howled. But there was nothing they could do. Everyone was satellite dependent. And every hour of every day, the transponders relayed raw transmissions up and down, between cities, among states and across oceans, feeding a growing insatiable appetite for the news.
There was no stopping it.
By midyear, KNNN News became the most watched news program in human history-not necessarily because of its content.
While broadcast news grew increasingly slick, polished, and show bizzy, KNNN News offered a relaxed alternative. Down Home news. It became their official slogan.
At the end of the twelfth month, Jed Burner docked, dropped anchor, and was airlifted to KNNN Headquarters on West Peachtree.
He hardly recognized the place. It was a beehive of activity. People were running around, frantic and white-faced.
"What in hell's goin' on?" he roared.
"We've gone black," a harried voice cried.
Jed Burner brightened. "Damn fine. And right on schedule."
"It's the third time this month!"
"Now we're talkin'!"
He burst into the station manager's office.
"Ah heard the good news, boy."
Dave Sinnott stopped shouting into the phone long enough to ask, "What good news?"
"We're in the black!"
"No, we've gone black. It's not the same thing."
Jed Burner puffed furious cigar smoke. "Explain it to a li'l ole country boy."
"We've lost our uplink to the satellite transponder."
"You ain't doin' so good," he warned.
"We can't get the TV signal up."
"Yeah . . . ?"
"That means it can't come down to the earth stations for rebroadcast!"
"We're dead, then?"
"No. We lose our picture a lot, actually."
"How about our financial picture?"
"We turned a profit two months ago. Everbody's watching us, from the White House on down to the outhouse."
"They laughin'?"
"Maybe some."
"They stickin' with us?"
"Not for long," Sinnott admitted.