"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.
"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."