Warren Murphy: Terminal Transmission

"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.