"To do what?" Remo asked suspiciously.
"To stay alive long enough to see that the boy who will soon issue from Cheeta Ching's mighty womb is properly trained in the art of Sinanju."
"I'm glad you brought that up," Remo said. "I've been wanting to clear the air."
"This is easily done. Simply leave the room and the air will clear itself. Heh heh heh." Closing his eyes, the Master of Sinanju rocked in time with his own cackling. "Heh heh heh."
"Why are you on my case all of a sudden?" Remo asked, barely masking the hurt in his voice.
"Since you have become testy with unwarranted jealousy," Chiun returned.
"Jealous? Me? Of what?"
"Of the boy who is about to be born."
"One," Remo said. "You don't know it's a boy. Cheeta's not saying."
"A grandfather knows these things."
"Two, it'll be a cold day when I'm jealous . . . Wait a minute--did you say grandfather?"
"Merely an expression," said Chiun, looking away. "Think nothing of it."
Remo hesitated. For nine months now, ever since Cheeta Ching had announced her pregnancy after a brief interlude with the Master of Sinanju, Remo had believed the child was Chiun's. Chiun had not discouraged this belief. After all, Chiun had been infatuated with the Korean anchorwoman for over a decade now. And Cheeta had been trying to become pregnant by her husband-with a noticeable lack of success-for years. It all added up, although no one was speaking on the record.
"Let me get this straight," Remo pressed. "Are you saying you're not the father?"
"I am not saying that," Chiun said evasively.
"Then you're not denying that you're the father?"
"Cheeta would not be with child were it not for my grace and wisdom."
"Then you are the father!"
Chiun lifted his bearded chin proudly. "I admit nothing. Cheeta is a married woman. I will not shame her with rumors. Nor will I be lured into making rash statements by jealous persons."
Remo's dark eyes narrowed. The Master of Sinanju made a show of arranging his riotous kimono skirts.
"I am not jealous," Remo repeated.
"No? Then why are you running hither and yon, snuffing Emperor Smith's enemies as if there were no tomorrow? You are hardly ever home anymore."
Remo made a violent, sweeping gesture that took in the entire room. "You call this pile of stone home?"
"You will be fortunate indeed if your next emperor bestows upon you a castle," Chiun said aridly.
"This isn't a castle," Remo said hotly. "It's a freaking church turned into condos and foisted off on you by Smith. I can't believe you fell for his lame sales pitch. He tells you it's a castle with a great meditation room. This is the steeple, for crying out loud!"
"It is true," Chiun said in an injured tone, "that this castle is not as large as I would have liked, but this is a new country and sadly deprived of royalty. Its castles are lamentably few. I was forced to settle."
"I got news for you, you settled for a freaking church-turned-condo."
"Also," Chiun added, "there was the urgent need to prepare a suitable dwelling for the boy who is to be born."
"If Cheeta and her brat move in, I'm moving out."
"I would not trust you to change the diapers of a son of pure Korean blood," Chiun sniffed disdainfully, "you who would not grant a starving child the boon of sending him home to the sea, but instead let him be eaten by wild wolves."
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."
"Is this is the end of the world?" Chiun squeaked. His voice betrayed rare fear. "Have the ignorant whites succeeded in ending their so-called civilization? Oh, now I will never hold Cheeta's beautiful boy in my arms."
"Don't panic yet. Listen."
"We are controlling transmission .... We will control the horizontal .... We will control the vertical .... We can change the focus to a soft blur . . . "
The TV screen remained black, the NO SIGNAL message unwavering.
"Or sharpen it to crystal clarity . . . ."
"Wait a minute," Remo said suddenly. "I recognize this. It's the opening to an old TV show, The Outer Limits."
"I see only blackness," Chiun said, frowning.
"We're getting the audio signal. But no video."
"I do not know this audio-video mumbo jumbo," Chiun spat.
Remo tried changing the channel. Every station was the same. Even the New Hampshire and Rhode Island stations which they normally couldn't get or which came in full of snow. There was no difference in picture quality.
Chiun's eye went to a wall clock whose second hand moved in time to the cartoon cat's eyes and wagging tail. "It has already started!"
"Relax. This is a reception problem. If we can't pick it up, I'll bet no one can."
As Remo ran up and down the channels, the sonorous voice had fallen silent. Static hissed steadily.
"Well?" Chiun said impatiently.
"Hold it. What do you think I am?"
"A white. Therefore one who understands machines."
"Well, I don't understand this machine. Every channel is the same." Then the voice began speaking again.
"Do not attempt to adjust the picture."
"Something's wrong," Remo said slowly.
"Yes! I cannot watch television."
"No, this Outer Limits thing is back on, but I'm on a different channel now."
"The trouble is not in your-"
Remo switched channels.
" set. We control the-"
"-horizontal. We con-"
"-rol the vertical. "
"This is weird," Remo muttered. "Whatever's doing this, it's on every channel."
"I can see this!" Chiun wailed, beseeching the ceiling with upraised arms. "I wish to see Cheeta instead."
"Uh-oh," Remo muttered.
Chiun dropped his arms. "What?"
Remo hesitated. A few months ago, there had been a grave Cuban-American crisis. The Havana government, in retaliation for what it wrongly believed was a latter-day Bay of Pigs invasion, had stepped up its government broadcast power and overwhelmed all TV in south Florida. As it happened, the counterattack had interrupted a Cheeta Ching newscast-thereby incurring the bitter enmity of the Master of Sinanju. The matter had been resolved without Chiun having fulfilled his vow to decapitate the Cuban leader. If it were happening again, Remo knew there would be no stopping Chiun this time.
"Maybe I should call Smith about this," Remo said quickly.
"Yes! Yes! Call Smith. Smith will know. Ask if he has had word of Cheeta. Ask if he will tape all news of Cheeta, that I might miss none of it."
"All right, all right. Let me dial in peace."
There was a wall phone and Remo picked up the receiver, one eye on the Master of Sinanju, who stood before the blank-faced TV set as if looking upon an injured pet. His eyes were stricken.
Remo was about to press down on the one button-the foolproof code by which he could reach his superior-when abruptly the screech-owl sound of Cheeta Ching's voice filled the kitchen.
"This is the BCN Evening News with Don Cooder. Cheeta Ching reporting. Don is off tonight."
"Cheeta!" Chiun crowed. "It is Cheeta! My ancestors have heard me. My prayers have been answered."
"If they have," Remo growled, "they must have a heck of a lot of pull with the FCC."
"Hush."
Remo left the phone and came to Chiun's side.
"Tonight," Cheeta Ching was saying, "BCN Evening News was blacked out nationwide just as a search for missing anchor Don Cooder was called off."
"You lying witch!" a voice cried from offstage. "You said your water broke!"
"Wasn't that Cooder's voice?" Remo said.
"Hush!"
"As yet," Cheeta continued unperturbed, "no clear understanding of the electronic disturbance has been ascertained. There are reports, unconfirmed at this time, that the broadcast blackout was not confined to BCN."
"It wasn't my fault!" Don Cooder's disembodied voice cried.
"That was Cooder," said Remo. "Where is he?"
"Remo!"
"In our efforts to stay on top of the headlines, BCN has video of the unprecedented phenomenon."
The screen went black except for the NO SIGNAL message, and the sonorous voice repeated its monotone mantra: There is nothing wrong with your television set . . . . "
"Remo," Chiun squeaked. "The TV is broken again!"
"No, this is a tape."
"But why are they showing this?"
"It's the headline for the night. What else are they going to show? Don Cooder standing around with nothing to do?"
"They could show Cheeta's beauteous face, dwelling on her perfect nose, her lips so-"
"Vampire-like."
"Philistine!"
The wall phone rang suddenly and Remo said, "Karnac predicts that's Smitty."
"Tell him I am out."
"Sure thing," said Remo, picking up the receiver. "Sinanju diaper service," he recited. "You soil 'em and we'll boil 'em."
A voice that sounded the way bitter lemons smell said, "Remo. Smith here."
Remo stepped out into the hall, the receiver cord uncoiling behind him. He eased the door closed. "Tell me this isn't Cuba all over again," he whispered.
"Remo, I do not know what it is. But for nearly seven minutes broadcast television was knocked off the air from Yellowknife to Acapulco."
"Could the Cubans do that?"
"Theoretically, with a powerful enough transmitter, they could. But that is not what appears to have happened. Except for cable owners and satellite dish receivers, on-air television signals did not reach their affiliates, and somehow the affiliate signals were blocked before they could be received by home sets."
"Is that what the 'no signal' message meant?"
"Yes. I want you and Chiun to stand by."
"I wasn't having any luck getting hold of Dr. Doom, anyway."
"I must remind you that he is not yet an assignment-and certainly not a problem of this magnitude."
"Problem? There was no TV for a few minutes. Big hairy deal. The worst thing that could have happened was for everybody to go to the john at once and mess up the plumbing."
Smith's humorless voice was clipped. "Remo, stand by. I must gather more information. Just stand by."
The line clicked. Remo returned to the kitchen to hang up and look in on Chiun.
Cheeta Ching was going on and on in her screechy voice. As Remo listened, he realized she was simply repeating the essential story: Broadcast TV had been blacked out. No one knew why. It was a three sentence story, but like a stuck phonograph record, she couldn't get off it.
From time to time, a hand would appear in the background, waving or shaking a fist. It apparently came from a figure who was presumably flat on the floor, and from the occasional glimpse of a human form being prevented from rising into camera range by kneeling stage hands.
"Looks li
ke Cooder finally Wigged out on camera," Remo remarked. "They must have pulled Cheeta in as a substitute anchor."
"Hush."
Twenty minutes later, after Cheeta had had on-air conversations with virtually every BCN correspondent, all saying the same thing-which is to say, nothing--Cheeta Ching fixed the viewers with her dull, sharklike eyes and smiled without sincerity.
"In other news, I'm happy to report that my pregnancy continues on schedule with all signs pointing to an imminent delivery. Stay with BCN News for further updates and bulletins on this momentous developing story. This is Cheeta Ching reporting."
"Which momentous story?" Remo asked. "The blackout or the baby?"
"Oh, Remo do not be ridiculous. Of course it is the baby."
"That's what I was afraid of," said Remo, rolling his eyes ceilingward.
Chapter 3
Dr. Harold W. Smith rarely watched television.
Even when it was new, he seldom spent more than a passing hour a month watching television. He much preferred radio. With radio, it was possible to do something constructive and listen at the same time. To a lifelong workaholic like Harold Smith, the demands television put on a person's full attention meant only one thing: TV would not last. It was a fad, a vehicle for novelty programs like wrestling matches and roller derbys, soon to pass.
So back in the so-called Golden Age of Television-the early 1950s, when he would come home from his long days at the then-new Central Intelligence Agency, Harold Smith would ignore the tiny round-screened television despite the serious dent it had made in his government salary, and he would turn on the radio instead. Why bother watching a broadcaster reading the news off a script when radio commentators performed the same service and stimulated the imagination at the same time?
Yet millions did. Further proof that TV would not last.
But it was not long before the television shows expanded to thirty minutes and began including footage of events. And as music tastes changed and rock and roll seemed to more and more crowd out the tasteful standards Harold Smith enjoyed, he listened less and less to his old console Atwater Kent-a graduation gift from his uncle Ormond.
Reluctantly he retired it into the attic.
Grudgingly Harold Smith fell into the habit of watching TV news. The Huntley-Brinkley Report had been his favorite-although Howard K. Smith-no relation-had also been good. He was able to stomach Harry Reasoner, despite his unseemly frivolity.
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