"They must not have aired that one yet," Remo said quickly. "I was the stunt double for the guy with the pointy ears."
Sheryl's eyes widened. "Not Leonard Nimoy?"
The name sounded familiar so Remo said, "Yes." He regretted it instantly.
"Leonard Nimoy's going to be in a Next Generation episode? Wow!"
"It was just a cameo role," Remo said, glancing into the file folder and the glossary of movie terms Smith had provided. "I was actually the stunt cameo double."
"I never heard of such a thing."
"I pioneered the concept," Remo said soberly. "It was quite an honor. I have my heart set on an Oscar."
"You mean an Emmy. Oscars are for films, not TV."
"That's what I meant. An Emmy. I almost got an Oscar, but some guy named Smith beat me out of it." Sheryl nodded.
"Too bad," she said. "But count yourself lucky. Unit publicists don't get Emmys or Oscars or any of that stuff. Actually, this is my first film. Until last week I was a cue-card girl at one of our TV stations here. It's such a hot potato that an experienced publicist wouldn't touch it, so I applied and here I am."
"Because of the union trouble?"
"You know it. You'll see when we get out to the location. We'll be running the gauntlet. But it's worth it. This film is going to be my ticket out of Yuma."
"Is it that bad?" Remo asked as they passed through the city and out into the desert. Remo saw lettuce beds on either side of the dusty road. They were the same beds he had seen from the air.
"It's a big, growing city, but it's in the middle of nowhere. Always has been, always will be. Uh-oh." Remo had been watching Sheryl's chiseled-in-sandstone profile as they talked. He looked out the windshield to see what had brought the frown to her pretty face. The road ahead was a swirl of boiling dust. Visible through it were the backs of several ponderous tracked machines. They were barely moving.
"Are those tanks?" Remo asked.
"Tanks they are. Hang on. I'm going to try to get around these dusty brutes."
Sheryl sent the car onto the soft shoulder of the road and crept around the tanks. They had stopped now, exhaling fumes into the settling dust. Remo rolled up his window.
As they sped past, Remo watched the inscrutable faces of the tank drivers that poked up from the drivers compartments.
"Unfriendly fellows, aren't they?" Sheryl said.
"Who are they?"
"Those are the Chinese extras."
"I hate to be the one to rain on anyone's fantasy, but those guys are Japanese."
"Almost everyone on the shoot is Japanese. As for the extras, who's going to notice or care?"
"You'd think a Japanese production would be more picky about details like that. Won't Red Christmas play over there too?"
"You're right. I hadn't thought of that. But that's not my problem. I handle all U. S. publicity. Bronzini hired me himself Although so far, there hasn't been much for me to do, which is why I'm making gofer runs half the time. No offense."
"None taken. Is Bronzini as big a jerk as I've heard he is?"
"I've barely spoken two words to him. But he reminds me of Grundy. He's just like him. Except for the headband. But you know, it's funny, I read everything I could on the fella before I started, and he's swearing up and down that he'd never do another Grundy movie. So I show up the first day, and what is it? A Grundy movie! They just call the character Mac. Go figure."
"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.