"The man is making no sense," snapped Smith, changing the channel.
Don Cooder was on BCN, his voice cracking with emotion.
"Unconfirmed reports have it that ANC anchor Dieter Banning-a personal friend of mine despite our friendly rivalry for ratings-lies dead tonight, a victim of the faceless, voiceless, thoughtless unknown who calls himself Captain Audion. We here at BCN salute our fallen comrade in arms and say to this cowardly terrorist, the glassy eye of BCN is searching for you. Speaking for the management here, we will never accede to your ransom demand of our beloved Cheeta Ching. And in memory of Cheeta-not that we don't expect her to be returned safely to us-in lieu of our usual closing credits, we will run a retrospective of Cheeta's most recent work. Until our regular newscast tonight, this is Don Cooder, saying 'Courage.' "
A commercial for a home-use pregnancy test kit narrated by Cheeta Ching came on, followed by another for woman's aspirin and a third in which Cheeta extolled the virtues of an intimate moisturizing product.
Only when the BCN copyright notice came on did Harold Smith realize the parade of commercials constituted the Cheeta Ching retrospective.
Face reddening, Smith switched channels. It was scandalous what went out over the air these days.
Chapter 25
Cheeta Ching watched the parade of her commercials that followed Don Cooder's live broadcast in a room that was only slightly larger than the cot to which she had been handcuffed.
The room was lit by a 25-watt bulb on a frayed drop cord. The TV was a tiny portable set and no amount of adjusting could balance out the contrast. Either the tube was going or the power was dimming.
"You jealous bastard!" she shrieked at the screen.
Then she fell back on the bed and let out a shriek of another kind.
The Braxton-Hicks contractions were more closely spaced now.
A rude wooden door rattled, and a man shoved in.
"Y'all right?" a muffled voice asked worriedly.
"I have hot flashes, cold flashes, and heartburn I can feel clear up to my uvula," Cheeta spat. "I'm constipated, my ankles are swollen by preclampsia, and my contractions are making my tonsils pucker, so you'd better let me go, buster!"
"No chance."
Cheeta Ching sat up like the Bride of Frankenstein with a bowling ball lodged in her stomach. Her hair and eyes were wild.
The man in the doorway was dressed in a TV-screen-blue bodysuit with an silvery anchor stitched into a crest on his chest. Where his head should be was a large television set, topped by a pair of rabbit-ears antennae bent by contact with too-low ceilings. The screen was black and in the upper right-hand corner the words NO SIGNAL gleamed whitely.
"Who are you supposed to be?" Cheeta spat.
"Captain Audion."
"Captain Audacious, you mean." Cheeta fell back onto the pillow. "Uhhhrrr."
"Should Ah boil some watah, or somethin'?"
"They only do that in movies, you idiot! Get me a birthing chair!"
The light flickered momentarily and went out. When it returned, the wan glow was dimmer than before.
"Sorry," said the man with the TV-set head. "Power problem. Gotta go."
The door slammed, and as Cheeta Ching writhed on her cot, the mattress soaking up her cold sweat, her own voice was ringing surreally in her ears.
"Vagi-rinse. For the modern on-the-go woman who doesn't have time for yeast infections . . . "
"It wasn't supposed to happen like this!" she wailed.
Chapter 26
Folcroft Sanitarium was all but dark when Remo sent his rented car through the open wrought-iron gates.
In the passenger seat, the Master of Sinanju sat in grim silence, his face stone, his hazel eyes cold agates that seemed hot around the edges.
Remo knew that look. Chiun was seething. Only the complete lack of a solid lead had enabled Remo to talk him into leaving New York.
"Smitty will know what to do," Remo said as he pulled into a visitor's parking slot and turned off the ignition. They got out.
"It will be too late," Chiun intoned, his voice sere.
"Look, I'm sorry about Cheeta."
"You are not," Chiun snapped. "You are jealous of Cheeta, and of the son whose undiluted Koreanness threatens you."
They were walking through the hospital green corridors now. The security guard had passed them upon Remo's flashing an AMA inspector's card. Although they often visited Folcroft, the guard did not recognize them because Smith often rotated personnel.
"I don't feel threatened by a baby," Remo snapped back. "It's just that having Cheeta and the kid move in with us would be a mistake. Big time."
"Now, it may not even be," Chiun intoned in a dead hollow voice. It suddenly rose to a bitter keen. "O where is Cheeta now? What anguish frets her perfect features? What thoughts can she be thinking, alone, abandoned, deprived of the wise counsel of the one who brought her to fruition?"
"Oh, brother," Remo said as they stepped off the elevator and onto the second floor.
"Who will cut the cord!" Chiun shrieked to the ceiling.
Harold Smith poked his gray head out of his halfopen office, his face drained of color.
"What was that sound?" he gasped.
"Chiun was just wondering who will cut Cheeta's cord," Remo said dryly.
"Some witless white, no doubt," Chiun muttered darkly. Then, his voice calmer, he said, "Hail, Emperor Smith."
Distaste showed on Harold Smith's lemony face. "I wish you would not call me that, Master Chiun. I am not an emperor."
"Only your lack of ambition stands between you and the Eagle Throne," Chiun whispered. "Speak the word, and this mindless charade called the right to vote will be yours to abolish by royal decree."
Harold Smith returned to his desk and his computer.
"Any progress?" Remo asked, closing the door after him.