"The fiend swore to eradicate all television for seven hours, but ceased after only five. This is not how one strikes fear into an enemy nation. Therefore, he is irrational."
"Sound like inescapable logic to me," Remo said dryly.
"Thank you," said Chiun.
Remo rolled his eyes.
Smith said, "I find it difficult to believe this is a Canadian operation, even though all evidence points to a Canadian transmission site."
"Do not forget the vile-tongued spy, Banning," Chiun added.
"I have not. But I wonder if Banning were not a red herring?"
"He was a Scot. A white Scot. They are a cunning race--cunning and stingy. Worse than Canadians."
"Did we ever work for the Scots?" asked Remo.
"Who do you mean we, white thing?"
"Jed Burner is not Canadian," said Smith slowly. "Neither is Layne Fondue. Yet the finger of suspicion has pointed to them, to Dieter Banning, and via planted fax transmissions, to KNNN and MBC both."
"You saying that Audion been throwing suspicion on everyone he could?"
"It is obvious. And his targets might point to the identity of the terrorist."
"Who does that leave . . ."
Remo's voice trailed off. A light jumped into his deep-set eyes.
Before his mouth could open, a voice jumped from the silent TV screen that was still broadcasting black.
"This is a special report. Captain Audion speaking. "
Remo and Chiun hurried to the set.
The screen head was still black. Then, the blackness shrank and retreated, until the picture showed a television set perched on the broad shoulders of a figure wearing blue pinstripes.
The TV screen was blacked out except for the NO SIGNAL.
Then a hand reached up into the frame and turned a knob.
The TV screen within the TV screen winked on, showing a rugged face that was known to millions of television watchers across the nation.
"Hear ye! Hear ye! Cheeta Ching, broadcast anchorette, is about to have a cow. That's right, folks, her water has broken. Stay tuned."
"Aiieee! The unmitigated fiend! He has shown his face and now must die!"
Chapter 30
Don Cooder had locked his office door against the constant demands of his staff. They were forever pestering him at all hours, the shameless syncophants. So he had established a locked-office period, usually around three in the afternoon. He called it Sanity Maintenance Time.
His staff had other names: Nap Time, Fetal Position Hour, and Don's Thumb-sucking Break.
The truth was that it was at three in the afternoon that Don Cooder touched up the gray in his hair. If the aphorism that TV news is about hair, not journalism, is true, Don Cooder had a take on it no one else in television ever dreamed of. Where other anchors used Grecian Formula to take the gray out of their hair, he had a special formula to salt his virile black locks with mature gray.
Another anchor might have been proud of his luxurious helmet of jet-black hair. Not Don Cooder. He had inherited the Chair from the most distinguished anchor of the last two decades, Dalt Conklin, the affable and avuncular Uncle Dalt whose shoes Don Cooder had been trying to fill for ten years now.
From day one, the critics had been merciless in their unfair comparisons. The public changed channels in droves. His own staff had a pool betting on the week he would be let go.
After only two years in the Chair, Cooder had come to a ego-deflating realization. He would never, ever, no matter how low he pitched his voice or faked a catch in his voice, fill Dalt Conklin's shoes.
So he decided to copy his hair instead. The gray was painted in slowly over the months until his hemorrhaging ratings stabilized. Another year was spent in perfecting the perfect salt-and-pepper mixture.
Cooder had created a calendar chart for each week in the year. A photo of his black-to-gray hair ratio in the Sunday slot and his Nielson and Arbitron ratings scribbled over Saturday.
When he found the perfect balance, it was just a matter of holding it stable.
And so now, in his eleventh year anchoring the BCN Evening News, Don Cooder sat at his desk, an illuminated makeup mirror propped in front of him, touching up his artfully placed gray streaks with a slender brush.
A knock brought a scowl to his craggy face.
"Go way, I'm maintaining my sanity!"
"Turn on the TV. Turn on your TV." It was his news director.
Cooder reached for the instant-on button of his desk TV set and saw his own face staring back at him-framed in a TV set framed in his TV screen.
"This is Captain Audion of the Video Rangers," a voice, very much like his own, was saying. "Greetings Earthlings!"
Don Cooder shot bolt upright in his chair.
"That's not me! That's not me! It's a frame! We've got to get the word out."
"We can't," the BCN news director shouted through the locked door. "We're in black; everyone is in black."
"There's gotta be a way. My whole career, my credibility, my reputation for honesty and sincerity is about to-"
The clatter of his bottle of hair color dropping to the floor brought a question from the other side of the door.
"You all right, Don?"
"Knocked over a Diet Coke in my excitement. Nothing to worry about."
"What are you going to do, Don?"
Don Cooder strode over to his office window, looking down Seventh Avenue toward Times Square.