Brain Storm by Richard Sapir, Warren Murphy

and there was a sub-stitute anchorman in her chair, a man with a consol-ing baritone and all the range of expression of a Ken doll. "No one is claiming responsibility for the gruesome death of Dominic 'Grips' Scubisci, but the firefight that took the lives of two of Anselmo Scubisci's right-hand men was clearly the work of a rival organized-crime faction. Most likely, insiders say, the Patriconne Syndicate. No word from Don Anselmo on the death of his brother, but we have learned that the Manhattan godfather is holding Bernardo Patriconne personally responsible for the brutal murder."
    Chiun listened to the report from a lotus position in the center of the living room. He tipped his birdlike head pensively. "First they say there is no news, and then they report the no news. If no one is speaking, then to whom are these idiots talking?"
    "To each other mostly," said Remo from his spot on the room's only chair. He had eschewed the floor tonight. "They make up the news and usually attribute it to some unnamed source. It's some sort of First Amendment dodge. I guess it protects them from lawsuits or something."
    "Incredible," Chiun said, shaking his hairless head in disgust. 44I did not hear your name mentioned once in the report. Is there not one of these numbered amendments that requires these cretins to speak the truth?"
    "If there was, it'd put most of these guys out of business," Remo said.
    Chiun listened for another minute with growing anger while a flawless Sinanju assassination was credited to a group of rank amateurs with guns. At last his patience was exhausted.
    "I will have no more of it," he announced.
    The Master of Sinanju rose like a puff of angry green steam and crossed over to the television. He was about to slap the Off button with a furious palm when Remo suddenly sat up at attention.
    "Hold it, Chiun," he said, raising an impatient hand.
    The news anchor had segued into the next story.
    Remo saw the image of a crowded bank interior, taken from above, as if from stationary security cameras.
    Chiun looked at the screen and then back to Remo.
    "Have you developed an even greater taste for inanity?" he asked blandly.
    Remo was sitting forward in his chair, his brow furrowed in concern. "That's Smitty," Remo said, pointing to the screen.
    At the back of the still image, through the stationary bank crowd, the profile of Dr. Harold W. Smith could be clearly discerned. He was standing before a desk at which a man was squatting inexplicably over a chair.
    "No, you are not watching still images," the anchorman said with cloying playfulness. His producer had told the anchorman to use a light touch with the viewers during the next fluff piece. He managed to be both condescending and overbearing at the same time. "This was the scene at the Butler Bank of New York today as over one hundred patrons and startled bank employees had their assets, quite literally, frozen."
    The camera began panning. Remo was surprised to see that it wasn't a stationary picture, frozen on a single image. Instead, it was the scene below that seemed locked in space. The camera stopped, completing its programmed arc, but Remo could still make out the pinched features of the CURE director.
    Even with the imperfect clarity of the television screen—which was limited by the number of pix-els—Remo's sharp eyes spotted that of all the people, Smith alone wasn't completely immobile.
    Though it wasn't enough to attract attention. A second later, a few normally moving figures came into camera range.
    The anchor continued. "A daring daylight robbery turned into a payday to those lucky enough to be caught in the cross hairs of a band of modern-day Robin Hoods. No, these robbers didn't steal from the rich and give to the poor. They stole from themselves. Network correspondent Gallic Uckbridge in New York has more."
    The reporter on the scene described the Dynamic Interface System as the screen showed the robbers stuffing cash into people's