The next day, everyone in the newsroom had nice things to say about his hair.
"New haircut, Dieter?"
"Perhaps," said Dieter, who had dug out an old photo of Edward R. Murrow and fought his hair into a close approximation of the late TV journalist's understated hairstyle.
No one ever commented on the resemblance. But Dieter Banning's ratings went steadily up in the coming months, until his was the undisputably top-rated newscast. While other anchors primped, moussed, augmented and fried their follicles with industrial-strength blow dryers, Dieter Banning's low-maintenance coif was sending out a nightly subliminal message that whispered "Trust me," and almost everyone credited his well-bred manner of speaking.
Dieter Banning had been at his desk when his network went down for the second time in twelve hours. The ANC program director barged in.
"Dieter. We're down again."
"Son of a bitch!"
"It's that Captain Audion again!"
"Shit!"
"All the other networks are black too."
Banning shrugged and said, "Shit happens."
"What do we do?"
"Well," he said with wry unconcern, "we were promised a seven-hour blackout, so I imagine that gives us seven hours to prepare our evening broadcast."
"But the network is losing a fortune. The brass is foaming at the mouth."
Banning smiled coolly. "Get pictures."
Dieter Banning was still at his desk when the excitement started three hours later.
"Is there a problem?" he asked a passing clerk. People had been racing by him for the last last five minutes, howling and frantic, and Dieter Banning thought their stark faces looked more drained of blood than usual. They were often that way, these Americans. Temperamentally unable to handle the pressure of daily news gathering. Here it was nearly noon, and Dieter Banning had already written his five-line lead for the 6:30 feed. He was quite proud of it. The prose almost scanned.
"We're under attack!"
"Oh, don't be so bloody melodramatic," Banning rejoined. "So, Middle America is bereft of a few lame game shows and downmarket tabloid programs and soap operas. The world still spins on its axis, eh?"
"You don't understand. Two security guards are dead! And an FBI SWAT team has been called in."
Dieter Banning blinked, and stood up, his face paling. His legs, under his kilt, paled too.
"Attack! By whom?"
"No one knows."
"We are a news gathering organization. Shouldn't someone know by now?"
Then a voice shouted, "Here he comes!"
ANC security was provided by Purolator guards. The marble lobby was usually thick with them, day and night. A nightly newscast was a convenient target for any desperate attention-seeking person with the firepower to bluff his way to the anchor desk. It had happened. Not at ANC, but at other networks and not a few local stations.
There were contingency measures in place if a terrorist or other criminal attempted to hijack Worldly News Nitely.
The first was simple: Shoot the terrorist dead. Dead terrorists don't commit much mischief, and rarely sued.
Obviously, this terrorist was resisting being shot. Pity.
The second line of defense was to go black. There was a master switch that would shut down all transmissions, both broadcast and cable, and replace it with a technical difficulties sign. This would buy time for negotiations, not to mention insuring that ANC got the exclusive footage.
Here at least, luck was with ANC. They were already black.
The third contingency plan was to go to the bunker. The ANC studios were a designated community fallout shelter, and the basement was well stocked with provisions in the now-unlikely event of a thermonuclear exchange. It boasted a door that could have been hung on a bank vault.
It's clearly time, Dieter Banning decided as security guards began giving back, firing wildly, before the unseen intruder, to seek out the bunker.
"Excuse me," he asked a cowering intern, "which way to the bunker?"
The cowering intern said nothing. Possibly the gunfire was drowning out his inquiry, so Dieter Banning restated the question in his brand of perfectly enunciated Americanized English.
"Excuse me you stupid bitch, but where the hell can I find the fucking bunker!"
The woman burst into tears and pointed toward a fire door. "Follow the yellow arrow," she sobbed.
"Thank you," said Banning, hurriedly exiting the newsroom. He found the yellow arrow, which led to another yellow arrow, which pointed down a seldom-used flight of steps. At the bottom of the steps there was another fire door.
Dieter Banning almost lost his kilt at the door. The kilt pin snagged the latchbar. He pulled free and went on. It was one of the biggest secrets in the news industry that the ANC anchor desk hid the clan tartan worn by the male Bannings of Ottowa since they came to the New World in 1853.
The bunker was around the first bend in the corridor, a yawning cavern of stainless steel and whitepainted brick.
It was empty, so Banning stepped over the sill and pulled the ponderous door behind him.
It was quite dark, but after a moment's fumbling he found a light switch.
Outside, someone was pounding on the door.
Banning gave the wheel a spin, securing the door from intruders. To be polite, Banning called through the door.
"Yes. Who is it please?"
"Ned Doppler. That you, Dieter?"
"Do you have bunker privileges, Ned?"
"It's in my contract."
"Got it on you?"