The security guard allowed them to pass and Chiun got in front, his clenched hands held before him like an anxious hen.
"Cheeta will be overjoyed to see me," he squeaked.
Remo caught up and whispered, "Remember-let me do all the talking."
There was a palpable aura of depression in the corridors. Normally, Remo knew, a news operation was a bustling place. Here, staff moved slowly, faces white, eyes dispirited.
They passed the newsroom, visible through a curving pane of glass. It was dark, lit only by a handful of TV monitors. Only a few were working. A bunch of people were watching one in particular. Remo recognized the MTV logo up in one corner.
A man with rolled-up shirtsleeves ran in, waving wire service copy.
"Three more people have died of that new HELP virus out in California!" he shouted.
"So what?" a colorless voice shot back.
"But it's news!"
"If we can't put it out, it's trivia."
Remo and Chiun moved on.
A young woman in Levi's stepped out of an office, hugging a sheaf of papers to her chest.
The Master of Sinanju beamed. "Direct us, O television person, to the illustrious Cheeta Ching."
"I don't know where she is," the woman said. "Please excuse me. I have to get these to Don Cooder. It's his overnight ratings."
"We're going that way," Remo said helpfully. "We'll take it."
The girl hesitated and clutched her rating reports more tightly.
Remo smiled his disarming best and flashed his FCC card.
"It's okay. I know the numbers before anyone does."
"I guess it's all right . . ."
Remo took the reports and asked, "Which way to Cooder's office?"
The girl pointed down the corridor. "Take a left, then another left, then-"
Remove rolled his eyes. "Just give me a number."
The girl raised four fingers and said, "Five."
"His name on the door?"
"Of course," she said, walking off. "It's in Mr. Cooder's contract."
Remo took the lead, wondering what was going on. No one seemed aware that Cheeta Ching had been kidnapped. As he tried to figure out if this was good or bad, he began counting lefts.
The door marked DON COODER was at the fifth left, There was a star on it.
Beside it was a door marked CHEETA CHING. It had a star on it too-a smaller star.
The door was locked. As the Master of Sinanju cleared his throat nervously, Remo knocked.
There was no answer. Chiun put an ear to the panel, face collapsing.
"Guess she's hasn't shown up for the day," Remo said innocently.
Chiun stood looking at the door, frowning.
"She is an early riser. Why is she not here . . . ?"
"Maybe Cooder can tell us," Remo said quickly, thinking any port in a storm. He rapped on Cooder's door. "Remember, behave."
"I have given my promise . . ." Chiun said thinly.
"Get lost!" a voice snarled from behind the door.
"Ratings reports," Remo shouted. "Get 'em while they're hot."
The door flew open and the wild-eyed face of Don Cooder appeared. "How'd I do on the flyover?" he asked, reaching out like a starving man to snag the reports. Remo backpedaled, simultaneously flashing his FCC ID card.
"In the tank," he said, holding the ratings out of Cooder's clutching grasp. "Gotta talk to you about this TV blackout."
Don Cooder flashed his trademark smile. It looked as if every muscle in his body except his lips were concentrated on forming that thin-upped grimace. "Is it important? I'm powerful busy."
"How important is the fact that all TV is blacked out?"
"It is?"
"Don't you know?" Remo asked.
"Right now, it doesn't matter."
"Why not?"
Cooder checked his watch. "I don't go on until 6:30."
"That's one way of looking at it. Look, we want to talk to you about this blackout thing."
"All right. As long as it's off the record. I hate being interviewed. People always ask me about my ego-make that alleged ego."
They stepped into an office that made Remo think of an overgrown child's den. The wall were covered with posters of famous movie cowboys. Remo recognized one. It showed Tom Mix, six feet tall and all his bodily wounds marked and labeled.