"Cable is spelled with a C."
"No, Kable was spelled with a damn C. And you gotta add somethin' dignified."
"Like what?"
"Do Ah gotta come up with all the brilliant stuff in this operation? A dignified word. Try to get the word 'news' into it some more."
"Twice?"
"Why not? We're the news that is news. The newsy news."
"How does Newsworthy News sound?"
"Sounds dang dignified. Everything people say Ah ain't. Haw. Listen, gotta go. Dixie here's gettin' that dewy look about her. Ah want us up and runnin' in a yeah. Got that?"
"A year? You want a national news network in a year?"
"Yeah. Normally Ah'd of given you only six months. But I can't on account of Ah'm embarkin' on a round the world cruise, just me and mah forty footer-and Trixie and Dixie and Hortense."
"Hortense?"
"Somebody's gotta do the scullery stuff. Ah told mah attorney to write you all the checks you want. If Ah come back in a yeah and find Ah'm dead broke and there's nothin' to show for it, Ah'm gonna take that expensive anchor of yours, tie you and him both to the real anchor, and drop you-all in white water. Catch mah drift?"
"If it can be done, you'll have it, Mr. Burner."
And so the race to launch the first national news network had begun, run by a man who had almost unlimited capital and nothing to lose.
When the first commercial Satcom satellite went up, Dave Sinnott purchased a transponder.
Then he had an office building behind WETT headquarters razed to the ground and a satellite dish farm laid out in neat white rows, like ridiculous but very attentive sunflowers.
KNNN quadrupled its anchor staff, broadcasting twenty-four hours a day, just reading news. It was rough, it was hectic-and it carried over its original local audience just from the sheer ineptitude of it all.
"The locals love it," he was informed in a staff meeting. "They're laughing twice as much."
"It's not supposed to be funny now!" Sinnott complained.
"And they're asking after the anchor."
"Which one?"
"Well, the one with the flukes mostly, but we're getting fan mail on the readers too."
Dave Sinnott sighed, giving in to the inevitable. "Put it up again," he said weakly. "No, scratch that. Make it part of our logo. Burner'll like that."
After six months, Sinnott received a staticky call that had been patched through from the sloop, Audacious.
"This heah's Jed," the familiar boisterous voice announced.
"Where are you?" Sinnott asked.
"Becalmed off the Cape of Good Hope. Just like Vasco Da Gama, except he didn't have a lot of broads yappin' in his ear day and night. Listen, Ah been listenin' to the shortwave broadcasts. Folks is laughin' at me. What you're doin' up there?"
"We're in all fifty states, twenty-four hours a day. By satellite. No wires."
"They're sayin' Ah'm losin' a cool million a week."
"In another six months, we'll be all turned around."
"If you hadn't a said that, Ah was gonna turn mahself around and come wring your neck. You got six months, boy, or you're gonna have barnacles all over your back teeth. You and that anchor."
"There are sixteen of them now, Mr. Burner."
Dave Sinnott redoubled his efforts. He created bureaus in seven states. And all over Canada. That only added to the roughness of the broadcasts as miscued remote reporters were caught picking their noses on camera, and anchors could be heard belching and farting.
Once, an aging anchor stroked out on camera. Ratings roared. Millions turned in to his replacement hoping for a repeat performance.
Then Sinnott hit upon an idea worthy of his boss. The skies were full of satellites beaming network newsfeeds to affiliates for use on their local broadcasts, and these same transponders would relay local news clips for network use. Except the networks refused to release their clips until after their 7 p.m. feeds. In other words, the affiliates were expected to pitch in to help the networks and in return they got stale leftovers.
It was the era of the ninety-minute local newscast. News was booming. Local stations from Dry Rot, Georgia to Bunghole, Oregon were fielding news crews equipped with microwave vans and satellite uplink capability. And even then they were starved for pictures.
So KNNN offered them instant access to their feeds. Free. In return for reciprocal access to theirs.
It was unheard-of. It was absurd. Everyone expected a hitch or trick or catch. There wasn't one.
Once KNNN hooked a few affiliates here and there, the others came like lemmings. And the networks howled. But there was nothing they could do. Everyone was satellite dependent. And every hour of every day, the transponders relayed raw transmissions up and down, between cities, among states and across oceans, feeding a growing insatiable appetite for the news.
There was no stopping it.
By midyear, KNNN News became the most watched news program in human history-not necessarily because of its content.
While broadcast news grew increasingly slick, polished, and show bizzy, KNNN News offered a relaxed alternative. Down Home news. It became their official slogan.
At the end of the twelfth month, Jed Burner docked, dropped anchor, and was airlifted to KNNN Headquarters on West Peachtree.
He hardly recognized the place. It was a beehive of activity. People were running around, frantic and white-faced.
"What in hell's goin' on?" he roared.
"We've gone black," a harried voice cried.
Jed Burner brightened. "Damn fine. And right on schedule."
"It's the third time this month!"
"Now we're talkin'!"
He burst into the station manager's office.
"Ah heard the good news, boy."
Dave Sinnott stopped shouting into the phone long enough to ask, "What good news?"
"We're in the black!"
"No, we've gone black. It's not the same thing."
Jed Burner puffed furious cigar smoke. "Explain it to a li'l ole country boy."
"We've lost our uplink to the satellite transponder."
"You ain't doin' so good," he warned.
"We can't get the TV signal up."
"Yeah . . . ?"
"That means it can't come down to the earth stations for rebroadcast!"
"We're dead, then?"
"No. We lose our picture a lot, actually."
"How about our financial picture?"
"We turned a profit two months ago. Everbody's watching us, from the White House on down to the outhouse."
"They laughin'?"
"Maybe some."
"They stickin' with us?"
"Not for long," Sinnott admitted.
"We're losin' ratin's, then?"
"That's not how it works anymore, Mr. Burner. People don't watch TV like they used to. They don't just sit and watch a show. They skip around, graze a little here and there. Channel surfing, they call it. We're perfect for that. As soon as five thousand people turn us off, there's another six tuning us in."
"What's that mean?"
"It means," said Sinnott, his chest puffing up in justifiable pride, "that on any given week, anyone with a satellite dish or a cable box is watching us. Everyone. "
Jed Burner seized his cigar as the thought sunk in. He made faces. The thought appeared to be sinking more slowly than it should.
"Don't you realize that this means?" Sinnott blurted. "You can sell this station for a bundle."
"Sell! Are you loco? Ah ain't sellin' mah pride and joy. And what's more, you're fired for suggestin' such a dastardly thing."
"Fired? I made KNNN what it is today."
Jed Burner poked his station manager in the chest with his cigar. "With mah money. And Ah'll pay you six figures a yeah to go live out your lucky-dog life in obscurity. From now on, KNNN was mah idea, mah vision, mah-"
"But that's not fair!"
"Son, life ain't fair, but it was mah money that done it. That's all that counts in life. Who's signin' the damn checks. Now be a smart fella and take mah generous offer."