"I take it you belong to neither category," Sheryl remarked dryly.
"I am obviously Korean," Chiun said testily.
"I did notice that you can handle your L's," Sheryl said. "I guess people from your side of the world notice the difference better than we Americans." She pulled the van into the shadow of a sandhill.
"A worm would notice the difference. A grasshopper would notice. An American possibly would have to have it explained to him. Twice."
"Well, come on. Let's find Bronzini. It shouldn't be hard. He'll be the one with barbells in each hand."
As they stepped from the van, a red-and-white Bell Ranger helicopter lifted over a ridge and orbited the arroyo. It settled down in the clearing, rotors kicking up sand. A door popped open.
"That's the camera ship and there's his Bronzeness, making another spectacular entrance," Sheryl pointed out. Two men stepped from the helicopter.
"I must interview him. At once," Chiun said firmly.
"Wait a sec. You don't just walk up to him. First, I have to clear it with Jiro. Then he has to take it up with His Bronzeness. He tells me, and I tell you. That's the way it works around here."
"He will speak to me," said Chiun, storming for the helicopter, where the two men stood engaged in earnest conversation. The Master of Sinanju ignored the shorter man, and accosted the taller one.
"I am Chiun, famous author," he said in a loud voice. "The readers of my magazine are clamoring for an answer to the most pressing issue of the day. Namely, how can you expect to have any properly colored persons take your movie seriously if you insult their intelligence with Japanese pretending to be Chinese?"
Bill "Sunny Joe" Roam looked down at the querulous face and said, "You're barking up the wrong tree, chief."
"Something I can do for you?" Bartholomew Bronzini asked, his face quirked with amusement. He looked down at a ten-gallon hat that might have belonged to a rodeo clown.
Sheryl Rose broke in.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Bronzini," she said hastily. "He got away from me. This is Mr. Chiun, from Star File magazine. "
"Now you call him Mr. Bronzini," Chiun said huffily. "A moment ago he was His Bronzeness."
Sheryl's eyes widened in horror. But before Bronzini could react, the little Asian stepped back so he could see past his hat brim.
"You!" the Master of Sinanju gasped. Quickly he composed his features and executed a formal, if stiff, bow. "I am surprised to see you here, great one," he said guardedly.
"I'm still getting used to it myself," Bronzini grunted. "Mind if we do this later? The interview, I mean."
"As you wish," said Chiun, bowing once more. He held his hat before him in working fingers.
As the two men trudged off, Sheryl stepped in front of the Master of Sinanju and put her hands on her hips. "You never, ever approach a star of Mr. Bronzini's magnitude again," she scolded. "And you don't repeat anything I tell you off the record."
"He is amazing," Chiun said, watching Bronzini walk away.
"He's very powerful. He could make or break my career. I hope you can regain your composure when he okays the interview. If he ever does."
"He is the very image of Alexander." Sheryl blinked.
"Alexander?"
"Now I understand," Chiun said, gesturing to the array of soldiers and military equipment that ringed the arroyo. "No wonder he makes films such as these. They remind him of his glory days. It is sad that he should have come to this, however."
"Come to what? Who's Alexander?"
"The Great," said Chiun.
Sheryl pursed her lips. "Yes ... ?" she prompted. "The great what?"
Chiun's eye met Sheryl's. "Alexander the Great."
"What on earth are you going on about?"
"That man," Chiun said as he watched Bronzini's retreating back, "is the reincarnation of Alexander the Great. What else would explain his mania for reenacting the fury of battle?"
"Oh, I'd say the twenty million dollars they pay him per film might have something to do with it."
"He looks exactly like Alexander," Chiun went on. "The straight nose. The sleepy eyes. The sneering mouth."
"Actually, I always thought of him as having Elvis Presley lips," Sheryl remarked. "And I take it you knew Alexander personally."
"No, but one of my ancestors did. I wonder if Bronzini would remember."
"I doubt it."
"Good. That way he cannot bear a grudge against my house. "
"Okay, I'll string along a little further. What house?" Chiun's hazel eyes narrowed.
"I am forbidden to say, for I am here under cover. But one of my ancestors slew Alexander."
"Really? Fancy that."
"Oh, it was nothing personal, I assure you. I am glad that I met this Bronzini. And I look forward to speaking with him at length. It is very seldom that one encounters the truly great in the modern world."
"Well, this is fascinating," Sheryl said distantly as she looked around the location, "but why don't we get started on the interviews? Let's see ... who can we set up first? I don't see Jiro. Bronzini's personal technical adviser won't be here till tomorrow. You already met Sunny Joe, our stunt coordinator. That was him with Bronzini. "
"Yes," Chiun said quickly. "I would like to interview one of the stunt persons."
"Anyone in particular?"
"Yes. The name is Remo."
"Remo. Remo Durok? You want to start with him?"
"Yes, please upset it."
"Set it up, you mean."
"I mean what I say. Let others interpret it as they will. "
"Remo doesn't have a speaking role. He's really unimportant. "
"Can I quote you?" Chiun asked.
"No! Don't quote me about anything!"
"I will promise that if you take me to Remo." Chiun beamed.
Sheryl looked around, biting her lower lip. "I don't see him anywhere. Let's head back to base camp. Someone must know where he is."
At base camp, they were serving lunch in an orange-and-white-striped mess tent. Crewmen and extras lined up at a food-dispensing trunk.
"Let's see what's for lunch, shall we?" Sheryl suggested. Chiun sniffed the air.
"It is rice," he said.
"How do you know that?"
"They are Japanese. They eat rice. It is the only thing about them I do not detest."
"Did your editor know about your ... uh ... attitude toward the Japanese when he sent you to this shoot?"
"He is barely literate. Besides, I am not hungry."
"Suit yourself. Let's see if there's anything we can do. Maybe there's something going on in the director's office. "
The director's office was the last in a line of Nishitsu RV's. It was emblazoned with the Red Christmas logo, a Christmas tree bedecked with hand grenades and crossed ammunition belts superimposed over a mushroom cloud. Sheryl knocked on the door. Getting no answer, she turned to Chiun. "Guess it won't do any harm to poke our heads in."
She opened the door and let Chiun go first.
The Master of Sinanju found himself in a sparsely , furnished interior. The walls were covered with long rice-paper strips on which Japanese ideographs made vertical lines. Papers lay on a desk.
"Not as neat as I expected," Sheryl noted.
"The Japanese never show their true faces in public. This rat's nest you see is how they are when they think no one is looking."
"I've seen worse," Sheryl said, looking around. "I guess this here's a copy of the script." She opened it up. "Now, don't this beat all? It's in Japanese too. Maybe there's an English translation somewhere about."
Chiun went from strip to strip, reading. "These are accountings of provisions," he told Sheryl.
"Doesn't surprise me none. It takes a lot to mount a movie of this scale. It's practically an epic."
"Many weapons, much ammunition, and supplies. They have a great deal of rice."
"They eat a lot of rice. You know that."