Remo threw up his hands in surrender. "What does this have to do with that ghoul, Gregorian?"
Chiun's evasive gaze suddenly locked with Remo's. "Just as the young depend upon those who have more wisdom than they to end their lives in times of difficulty," he said, "so too do the old."
"You saying that euthanasia is okay?"
"No. Not okay. Merely preferable."
"To what?"
"To granny dumping, for example, a cruel practice in this barbarian land you love so much."
"I would never dump you."
"That is not the question," Chiun shot back. "If I lay broken in body and mind, pleading for a gracious snuffing, you would deny me the clean blow that would send my essence winging into the peace of the Void?"
"That's easy. Yeah. I would not kill you. No way."
Chiun's face fell. "Then I have failed you, and you are not worthy to change a single precious diaper."
"Good," Remo said, folding his arms. "I'm glad that's settled, because I don't change diapers."
"And if you were wise, you would leave this man Gregorian alone. He has done nothing to you."
"Hey, he's probably our next assignment."
"Which you have been hectoring Emperor Smith into granting you. If only to still your beseeching tongue."
"Smith dislikes him as much as I do. He's exactly what the organization was set up to deal with. The guy found a technicality in the law that lets him get away with killing every halt and lame basket case who can't-"
"Commit suicide for themselves?"
"That's not what I mean. And he only kills women. You ever notice that? Never men. I just got refused because I'm a man. You heard it."
The Master of Sinanju sniffed delicately. "Perhaps when my time comes and the pain is unendurable, I will call upon this Dr. Boon to ease me into the Void with dignity and grace."
"Doom. They call him Dr. Doom," Remo snapped.
"He has been misnamed by cretins. He is truly Dr. Boon."
"Forget it," said Remo, rising from his mat. "I'm going for a walk. I need some fresh air."
"Since you are unwilling to bestow upon me the gift of a graceful snuffing out in my time of future need, perhaps you will find it in your cold white heart to turn on the television set for one of my venerable years. It is nearly time for Cheeta Ching."
"This is a weekday. Cheeta's only on weekends," said Remo, snatching up the TV clicker and pointing it at the TV.
"You are forgetting her special program, which is not on until later. But Cheeta will soon give birth. I am certain this joyous event will be the first thing that Don Cooder speaks of. I would watch him-but only for tidings of Cheeta."
"Suit yourself," said Remo, turning on the TV. It was twenty-eight minutes past six. "And, speaking of that barracuda, isn't she way overdue? Like into her ten or eleventh month?"
"The perfect child is not produced in a mere nine months," Chiun said, his tone dismissive. "The Great Wang was in gestation for fifty weeks. Cheeta is only doing her duty properly."
"If you ask me," Remo said as the set warmed up, "she's waiting until sweeps month starts."
"Sweeps?"
"Next week May sweeps begin. And-" Remo stopped. He looked at the screen. It was black as a bat's daydream of nirvana. In the upper righthand corner the words No SIGNAL showed thin and pale.
On his mat the Master of Sinanju started.
"Remo! What is wrong!"
"I dunno," said Remo, dropping to his knees. He tried changing the channel manually. On every channel, he found the same unrelieved blackness and the same NO SIGNAL legend. "Damn, it's on all channels."
Chiun was beside himself now. "Remo, I cannot miss Cheeta. "
Remo adjusted the contrast knob. The NO SIGNAL came and went. "Something must be wrong with the set," he said.
"Quickly, bring the other device from the lower floor."
"Tell you what since it's ninety seconds to Don Cooder, how about we just go downstairs and watch it in the privacy of the kitchen?"
"Is there nothing you would do for me, who have exalted you to greatness?" Chiun said huffily.
"Turn on the TV for you? Yes. Cook dinner? Some days. Rush downstairs and drag a twenty-two-inch Trinitron up a flight of steps? Maybe on your next birthday."
"Ingrate!" sniffed Chiun, throwing off all semblance of age and feebleness. He became a silky flash that disappeared down the stairs like a specter of lavender, crimson, and gold.
Out of curiosity, Remo followed him down.
The Master of Sinanju had turned on the downstairs TV, which was set on an island in the middle of a spacious kitchen.
"Remo! Remo! Come see, come see!"
Remo stepped in and saw the same thing the upstairs TV had showed-a block of broadcast tar.
The TV was speaking.
"Do not adjust the picture. "
"Remo, what does this mean?" Chiun demanded.
"Could be an early warning bulletin or something," Remo muttered.
"The problem is not in your set . . . . "
"Definitely not a reception problem. They're saying so."