"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 when 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.
"Mr. Chiun to see you, Don," the receptionist called over her shoulder so loudly the Master of Sinanju winced with the gracelessness of it all.
"Send him in," a pleasantly grumpy voice called from an open office.
Head erect, Chiun floated into the room. He bowed to the young man who sat at a corner desk. He looked like a koala bear that had been rolled in brown sugar. Chiun saw that the illusion was helped by noticeable beard stubble. He suddenly noticed the walls. They were covered with posters of famous people. Nearly nude women wrestlers predominated. Chiun averted his eyes from the wanton display.
"Sit down, sit down," the man said diffidently.
"You are Donald McDavid, the famous editor?" Chiun inquired.
"And you must be Chiun. Happy to meet you."
"Chiun, the author," Chiun corrected with a finger.
"Milburn gave me your clips this morning. I've been looking them over. Very interesting."
"You like them?"
"The pictures are nice," Donald McDavid said.
"Pictures?" Chiun asked, wondering if he should have introduced himself as Chiun the author and artist.
He accepted a manila folder filled with magazine clippings. The photographs showed scenes from American films. The copy, however, appeared to be excerpts from a Korean personal-hygiene manual. Was Smith mad? Insulting him with such tripe?
"You do write in English, don't you?" McDavid asked as a curly-haired young man came in with a tray containing a Dr. Pepper and a mug of black coffee.
"Of course," Chiun said.
"Good, because I can't read Chinese, and neither can our readers. They're fussy about stuff like that. We'd get letters."
"This is Korean," Chiun told McDavid as he sipped his coffee experimentally. He fingered an ice cube from his Dr Pepper and plopped it into the coffee. He let both sit.
"I can't read Korean either," he said dryly.