The prime directive was far, far more important than on-set etiquette.
And so Cheeta Ching took a deep breath and, steeling herself, let out a shriek calculated to scale a salmon.
In the ringing aftermath, Don Cooder barked, "This just in. Cheeta Ching has given birth to a healthy . . ." Cooder cocked an ear for the answer.
"We're in black!" Cheeta shrieked.
All eyes swung to the line monitor.
It was nestled in the cluster of monitors that displayed incoming satellite feeds, previews of about-to be-aired reports, and waiting commercials. The other monitors were busily cutting between segments. But the line monitor, the crucial monitoring terminal, was like a glassy black eye.
A black eye that would be seen by sponsors and network brass alike. A black eye that would cause viewers all over the country to fidget, grumble, and grope for their remotes.
A black eye that would be tomorrow's headlines if it wasn't corrected in time.
"Don't just stand there!" Cooder shouted. "Put up color bars!"
In the control room, the technical director worked the switcher frantically. "Color bars up!" he shouted.
"No, they're not! Hit it again."
The technical director, his eyes widening as the seconds-each one worth over a thousand dollars in commercial airtime-ticked away, shouted, "How's that?"
The producer blinked at the line monitor. "N.G."
"We're going to get creamed in the ratings," Cooder said in a voice twisted with raw emotion.
"No, we're not," the floor manager said matter-of-factly.
"Huh?"
"The other networks. They're black too."
The monitors marked ANC, MBC, and Vox all showed black.
Relief washed over the newsroom as the truth sank in.
"Must be sunspots or something," a stage hand muttered.
"Right, sunspots."
"I never heard of sunspots blacking out TV like this," the technical director said doubtfully.
Telephones began ringing all over the set. In the circle of offices around the Bridge. All over the building.
The word came in. It wasn't a local phenomenon. Broadcast television had gone to black all up and down the East Coast.
"What a story," someone said.
"Let's get on this, troops," Don Cooder said, tearing off his IFB earpiece and storming about the Bridge like an admiral in red suspenders. "Work the phones. How big is this story?"
As it turned out, very big.
"There's no TV in Illinois," a woman at the satellite desk reported.
"St. Louis is black, Don," a reporter added.
"Montana is without reception," chimed in another correspondent.
"How can anyone tell?" said Cooder, who was from Texas.
"LA is down too. And San Francisco."
"It's nationwide!" Cooder crowed. "And it's our new lead story. We'll lead with 'Sunspots Suppress Television Across Nation.' "
"But we don't know it's actually sunspots," the director pointed out.
"It's good enough for the lead. We can always update. Get our science editor on it."
"Feldmeyer? He's on vacation, remember?"
"Then get the backup."
"There isn't one. We lost our backup in the last round of budget cuts."
Don Cooder squared his magnificently photogenic shoulders. It was not for nothing that TV Guide had dubbed him the "Anchor of Steel."
"What do we have for video on this thing?"
The news director blinked. He pointed to the line monitor.
"Just this. A dead screen."
"We can't broadcast a dead screen," Cooder complained.
"We are broadcasting a dead screen. That's the story."
Don Cooder blinked. His perpetual glower darkened. His eyes, which People magazine had described as "cathoderay blue," reverted to the Texas sunsquint of his field reporter days.
"We can't go on the air with this," he mumbled. "A dead screen is terrible television. Folks will turn us off."
"Don, get a grip. We can't go on the air. Period."
"No one can break this story until the air clears?" Don Cooder demanded.
"Right, Don."