"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.