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  "Just what I thought," Remo said. "The guy's a jerk." They cleared the line of tanks and the reason for the bottleneck became immediately apparent.

  "Oh, damn, they're out in full cry today, aren't they?" Sheryl said ironically.

  They stood two deep, their arms linked in front of an open chain-link fence that bisected the road. Remo wondered what a fence was doing out here in the desert, but the thought evaporated as the driver of the lead tank climbed down a track and started yelling at the picketers. He was screaming at them in Japanese. Remo didn't know Japanese, so he didn't understand what was being said. The protesters shouted back at the driver. They were making themselves perfectly understandable. They called the Japanese tank driver a gook and a slant-eyed chink. Obviously they couldn't tell a Chinese from a Japanese either.

  "The little Japanese fella sure looks like he's coming to a slow boil," Sheryl mused. "Just look at his neck get red. He is not a happy camper."

  "Wonder what he's going to do?" Remo asked as the driver clambered back into the tank. The tank engine started to run. Diesel exhaust spewed in noxious clouds. Jerkily the tank started inching forward.

  "Someone should be filming this," Sheryl said under her breath.

  Remo's eyes were on the tanks. "I don't think these guys are in any mood to back down," he said. "Which? The Japanese or the union folks?"

  "Both," Remo said worriedly as the tanks churned toward the line of protesters. The protesters linked arms defiantly. If anything, they shouted louder.

  As they inched past, the profiles of the drivers looked as determined and inflexible as robots. The tanks were now less than ten feet from the human bulwark.

  "I don't think they're bluffing," Sheryl said in a distressed voice.

  "I don't think anyone is bluffing," Remo said, suddenly grabbing the wheel. Shervl's foot was resting on the accelerator. Remo placed his foot over hers and pressed hard.

  The station wagon spurted ahead. Remo spun the wheel, sending the car skidding in front of the lead tank.

  "Hey! Are you trying to get us killed?" Sheryl yelled. "Hit the brake."

  "Are you loco!"

  Remo reached over and yanked the hand brake. The car lurched to a stop between the tank's rattling tracks and the linked pickets.

  Sheryl found herself on the tank side. She saw the tank looming up on her like a wall on wheels. The turret cannon slid over the car roof.

  "Oh, my God," she said, paralyzed. "They're plumb not stopping."

  Remo grabbed Sheryl and kicked his door open. He yanked her out of the seat and flung her to one side. Remo spun around and sized up the situation. The tank tracks were almost on top of the station wagon. Remo had a choice. He decided it would be quicker to stop the tank than to break up the protesters.

  As Sheryl gave an anguished cry, the churning tank started to climb the station-wagon flank. Thick windows crunched like glass in monster teeth. Metal squealed and folded.

  Remo slipped up to one side of the tank. It was tilted nose-up, and its multiton body slowly began to compress the light car down. Tires blew. The hood ruptured. Taking care not to be seen by the drivers of the other tanks, Remo took one tread in both hands while it was momentarily immobile. The track consisted of linked metal parts. Quickly Remo ran sensitive fingers along the segments. The tracks were really just a sophisticated chain of articulated steel segments, blocks, and rubber pads. He was looking for the weakest link.

  He found it. A block connection. He chopped at it. It took only one chop. The metal parted and Remo backpedaled because he knew what could happen when the track began to move again.

  The first sound was surprisingly like a pop. The second was a vicious whiplike rattle. The tank, stressed, had thrown its left track. The track lashed the concrete, creating a small crater that would have taken a jackhammer two minutes to excavate.

  Rolling on only one track, the tank shifted suddenly. Balanced precariously atop the station wagon, it began listing to port. Remo stepped in and gave it a push.

  The driver realized his problem too late. The tank toppled. It went over on its turret like a big brown turtle. The driver tried to scramble free, but all he succeeded in doing was to push his head out of his cockpit so that when the tank went over, it hit the ground sooner than it would have. He hung out of the pit, upside down. He didn't move.

  Remo slipped under the tank and felt the man's pulse. It was thready. Concussion. Remo pulled him free and stretched him out on the road.

  "Is he dead?" Sheryl asked in horror. The picketers stood back, their eyes shocked. They said nothing.

  "No, but he needs medical attention," Remo said. Sheryl was about to say something when the other tank drivers marched up, and one roughly pushed her to one side. Remo came to his feet as if sprung and grabbed her attacker by the arm.

  "Hey! What's your problem?" he demanded.

  The Japanese hissed something Remo didn't catch and slid one foot between Remo's legs. Recognizing the beginning move of an infantile ju-jitsu maneuver, Remo allowed a cool disarming smile to warp his face. The Japanese kicked. And fell over. Remo had moved his legs aside so swiftly that his opponent's foot missed.

  Remo unconcernedly stepped on his chest on his way to Sheryl's side.

  "You okay?" hi asked quietly.

  "No, I am not all right. What the hell is going on here?" she raged. "They were going to run those union people right over. And look at the car. They pulverized it. That's my car, too, not a studio loaner."

  The other drivers quietly lifted their unconscious comrade onto the back of the second tank. One of them shouted to the others. The one Remo had incapacitated picked himself up and, casting an angry glance in Remo's direction, hurried to his machine with disciplined alacrity.

  The tanks started up again. This time they crawled around the disabled tank and the ruin that had been Sheryl's station wagon.

  "Oh, my God. They're going to do it again," Sheryl moaned.

  "Everyone link arms!" one of the picketers shouted. "We'll show them how Americans stand up to bullies." Not every protester obeyed. A few retreated.

  Remo dived into the picketers.

  "I've got no time to argue with you people," he said. "Another place and time, maybe. But not today." He grabbed wrists and squeezed nerves. Union members yelled and screamed as if stung. But they ran in the direction Remo propelled them. In moments, the gateway was clear of human obstruction.

  The tanks wound around the road and through the open fence. Once the first one passed, no one had the stomach to get in their way again. The line seemed to go on forever. The drivers looked neither to the right nor to the left. They might have been components of their tanks, and not the operators.

  "This is crazy," Sheryl said in an incredulous voice. "What got into them? This is only a movie."

  "Tell them that," Remo said. 5heryl spanked dust off her hat.

  "You did a nice job of breaking up those picketers, by the way," she said. "I'd swear they would have run them down like yellow dogs."

  "I wonder," Remo said.

  "Wonder what?"

  "I wonder if we're not on the wrong side of this dispute."

  He was watching the chocolate rump of the last tank as it spilled sand from its rolling tracks. It looked as inexorable as the wheel of fate.

  "Well, come on, then. We'll have to hoof it on to base camp. Jiro's going to hear about this."

  "Who's Jiro?"

  "Jiro Isuzu. The executive producer. He's a stiffnecked SOB. Makes those tank guys seem like little old ladies. Except Jiro's so polite you want to bust him in the mouth sometimes. I know I do."

  Chapter 8

  "Please, Master of Sinanju," Harold Smith said in a dry, cracked voice. "It's nearly three A.M. We can continue negotiations tomorrow."

  "No," replied the Master of Sinanju. "We are nearly done. Why break off such delicate talks now, when we are so close to an understanding?"

  Dr. Harold W. Smith didn't feel close to an understanding. He felt
close to exhaustion. For nearly nineteen hours the Master of Sinanju had led him through the most Byzantine contract negotiations of their long and difficult association. It would have been difficult enough, Smith thought, but they were conducting these negotiations on the hard floor of Smith's office because, as Chiun explained it, although Smith was the emperor and Chiun merely the royal assassin, in honest negotiations, all such distinctions were dispensed with. Smith could not sit on what Chiun insisted was his throne, and Chiun would not stand. So they sat. Without food, without water, and without bathroom breaks.

  After nearly all night, Chiun still looked as fresh as an origami sunflower. Smith's leaden face was the color of a clam's shell. He felt dead. Except his stomach. The combination of no food and nervous distress had triggered a flow of stomach acid and was eating into his peptic ulcer. If this didn't end soon, Smith feared, he would have no stomach lining left.

  "This year," Chiun recited, looking at the half-curled scroll that was held to the floor by tiny jade weights, "we have agreed to a modest ten-percent increase in the gold payment. In consideration of the new situation."

  "Explain to me again why I must pay more gold if the new arrangement does not require you to accompany Remo on his assignments," Smith said dully. "Shouldn't that realistically mean less service on my part?"

  Chiun raised a wise finger. "Less service from the Master of Sinanju, yes. But more service from Remo. You will be working him harder; therefore he is worth more."

  "But shouldn't we first deduct the additional expense you insisted upon when we originally settled on your expanded role and then negotiate Remo's price?"

  Chiun shook his aged head. "No. For those are the terms of the old contract. Since we are entering into an entirely new arrangement, they will only cloud the issue."

  "I feel the issue is already clouded," Smith said unhappily. His patrician face looked like a lemon that had been sucked of all moisture.

  "Then let me clarify it for you," Chiun went on, adding in a low voice, "once again. Ten percent more gold for Remo's added burden. And then, in the form of precious stones and bolts of silk and weights of rice, there is my new fee."

  "If you are not taking part in Remo's missions," Smith wondered, "what is your part? I completely fail to understand."

  "While Remo is enjoying the broadening effects of travel to exotic far-off lands like Arizona-"

  "Arizona is a western state," Smith interjected sharply. "It is hardly exotic."

  ". . . far-off western states, exotic by Korean standards," Chiun continued, "to partake of their splendid sights . . ."

  "A desert. It's in the center of wilderness and desolation. "

  ". . . meeting famous personalities, such as Bartholomew Banzini . . ."

  Smith sighed. "Bronzini. And I wish you would stop throwing that back in my face. It was your idea that Remo undertake the Santa Claus assignment alone."

  "A mistake on my part," Chiun allowed. "I am willing to admit it-if you will make certain concessions."

  "I cannot-repeat, cannot-get you on that movie set," Smith said firmly. "You must understand the security problems. It's a closed set."

  Chiun's parchment face fell into a frown.

  "I understand. We will speak no more of it."

  Smith's tensed shoulders loosened. They tightened again when Chiun resumed speaking.

  "The stipulated amount is to cover my new added burdens."

  Smith loosened his Dartmouth tie. "New burdens?"

  "The burdens I assumed during Remo's last assignment," Chiun said, knowing that the unloosened tie was the first crack in the man's stubborn armor.

  "You stayed home," Smith protested.

  Chiun raised a solemn finger. Its long nail gleamed. "And worried," Chiun said morosely.

  The yellow pencil in Smith's bony fingers snapped.

  "Perhaps there is a way," he groaned. "There must be. "

  Chiun's agate-hard eyes glistened. "There is always a way," he intoned. "For a ruler as resourceful as you."

  "Allow me to use the telephone."

  "I will waive the no-telephone rule," Chiun said magnanimously. "Provided it furthers swift resolution of our talks."

  Smith started to push himself to his feet. He froze. He looked down at his crossed legs in constipated bewilderment.

  "They won't move," he croaked. "They must have fallen asleep."

  "You did not feel them falling asleep?" Chiun asked.

  "No. Can you help me?"

  "Certainly," said Chiun, rising. He stepped past.

  Smiths offered hand and to his desk, where he reached for the telephone. He paused. "Which telephone instrument do you wish?" he inquired.

  "I really wish to be helped to my feet," Smith said.

  "In good time. You required a telephone. Let us deal with your paramount desire first, then the lesser ones." Smith wanted to tell the Master of Sinanju-no, he wanted to scream at the Master of Sinanju-that right at this moment, more than anything else he desired the use of his legs. But he knew that Chiun would only evade the issue. He saw the telephone as the most direct indirect path to his goal.

  "Give me the ordinary phone," Smith said.

  The Master of Sinanju ignored the dialless red telephone that was Smith's direct line to the White House and lifted the more elaborate office telephone. He placed it at Smith's angular knees with a magnificent flourish. Smith lifted the receiver and began dialing.

  "Hello, Milburn?" he said. "Yes, I know it's three o'clock, but this could not wait until morning. Please do not shout. This is Harold."

  Chiun cocked a delicate ear in the direction of the conversation.

  "Your cousin Harold," Smith repeated. "Yes, that Cousin Harold. I have a very big favor to ask of you. Are you still publishing those ... er, magazines? Good. I have a person here who is interested in writing for you."

  "Tell him I am an accomplished poet," Chiun hissed, not understanding what this had to do with going to Arizona, but hoping that Smith knew what he was doing and had not cracked from the strain of negotiations.

  "No, Milburn. I know you don't publish poetry. This man is very versatile. If you can provide him with a press pass to his latest film, I am certain he can get an interview with Bartholomew Bronzini."

  Chiun smiled happily. Smith had not cracked. Although he was babbling.

  "I didn't realize there was no such thing as a press pass to get on a movie set. Oh, is that how it works? Yes, well, if you can work out the details, I can guarantee that Bronzini will accept. My friend is very, very hard to refuse."

  Chiun beamed. He gave Smith the American A-okay symbol. Smith put his finger in his ear to hear better. Chiun wondered if that was a mystic countersign or an expression of annoyance.

  "His name is Chiun," Smith went on. "That is his first name. I think." Smith looked up.

  "It is my name," Chiun told him. "I am not a Bob or a John or a Charlie who requires an additional name so that no one will confuse him with other persons.'

  "It is his pen name," Smith said, fearful of extending an already too-involved conversation. "Yes, thank you. He'll be there."

  Smith hung up with nerveless fingers.

  "It is all arranged," he said. "You'll have to go through the formality of an interview."

  "Of course. I am certain if these people want me to write their movie script, they must be assured of my unsurpassed talents to undertake so illustrious a task."

  "No, no, you don't understand. You won't be writing any such thing. My cousin Milburn publishes movie fan magazines. You will be going to the set of Red Christmas as a correspondent for one of their magazines."

  "I will be writing letters?" Chiun squeaked. "To whom?"

  "Not that kind of correspondent. I will be glad to explain this to you in greater detail if you will just help me to my feet."

  "At once, Emperor," Chiun said happily. He knelt before Smith and inserted long fingers into the back of Smith's knees.

  "I feel nothing," Smith said wh
en Chiun's hands withdrew.

  "That is good," Chiun assured him.

  "It is?"

  "It means that when I lift you, there will be no pain." And there wasn't. Smith didn't even feel the usual creaking in his arthritic knee when Chiun assisted him to his feet and into his leather chair. Relieved, Smith briefed the Master of Sinanju on his job interview. Then, going to his computer terminal, he began inputting through the keyboard.

  "What are you doing?" Chiun asked.

  "The editor who will interview you requires clips of your past articles."

  "I have written no articles. Only poetry. Shall I go home and bring them?"

  "No, don't even mention your poetry. My computer is faxing him copies of your articles, which will be fabrications, of course."

  When Chiun opened his mouth as if to protest, Smith added hastily, "It will get you to Arizona faster."

  "I will submit myself to your greater judgment."

  "Good," said Smith as he shut down his computer. "Tickets will be waiting for you at the local airport. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm oing to stretch out on the couch and try to get some sleep."

  "Very well, Emperor," said the Master of Sinanju, bowing as he slipped from the room in monklike silence. Smith wondered why the Master of Sinanju left without the formalities of farewell he usually overindulged in.

  He found out ten minutes later when, just as he was about to drop off, he got a charley horse in his right leg.

  "Argghh!" Smith howled. The pain increased until he thought he could not stand it anymore. Then his other leg began to clench up.

  The cab deposited the Master of Sinanju at the address on lower Park Avenue. He took the elevator to the eighth floor and turned right until he saw the red-and-blue neon sign that said STAR FILE GROUP.

  Chiun's nose wrinkled. Was this a magazine publisher or a Chinese restaurant?

  Chiun approached the receptionist's desk and bowed. "I am Chiun, the author," he said gravely.