"Well, I can't tell a thing from these clips, but that's your byline on them, and Milburn says you come highly recommended. So you're hired."
"In my field, I am the best," Chiun assured him. "I've spoken with the publicity people on Red Christmas. They're not real high on letting anyone on set so early. But Bronzini overruled them. So you're in. I've put together some assignment sheets. We'll want an interview with Bronzini, as well as a set-visit piece, a director's profile, and whatever else you can get. See who's on the set when you get there. Talk to them. We'll sort it out when you get back."
Chiun leafed through the assignment sheets. His eyes narrowed when he saw the payment rates.
"Do you publish poetry?" he asked suddenly.
"No one publishes poetry anymore."
"I do not speak of common American poetry, but the finest Korean poetry. Ung."
"God bless you."
Chiun's face expressed indignation. "Ung is its name," he said. "I have recently been composing an ode to the melting snowcap on Mount Paektusan. That is a Korean mountain. It is currently 6,089 stanzas long."
"Six thousand stanzas! At a dollar a word, it will eat up half the yearly budget on one of our magazines."
"Yes," Chiun said hopefully.
"Sorry. We don't publish poetry." McDavid indicated a corkboard on the wall over his desk.
Chiun peered up at it. Rows of cover proofs hung from hooks. The latest Star File cover showed a halfnude white female draped over a spaceship. Beside it was a magazine called Fantasmagoria. A man in a driedskin mask was butchering a young woman on that cover. It looked very real, and Chiun wondered if it was for cannibals. Beside that was something called Gorehound, which Chiun took to be aimed at pit bulls. Or possibly their owners. And next to that was Stellar Action Heroes. "Do people read these?" Chiun sniffed.
"Most just look at the pictures. That reminds me. I'd better give you a few issues so you know our house style. Write in the present tense. Lots of quotes."
Chiun accepted a stack of magazines. He surreptitiously slipped Smith's folder of spurious clippings into the stack.
"I will give these my undivided attention," Chiun promised.
"Fine," said Donald McDavid, reaching for his coffee. He took a sip.
"Ugh. It's cold," he said. He tried the Dr Pepper and pronounced it flat.
Leaning back in his chair, Donald McDavid called through the door, "Eddie, can you get me a milk?"
"Milk is bad for you," Chiun pointed out. "It suffocates the blood vessels."
"I'm working on my first heart attack," Donald MeDavid said. "One last thing. We buy all rights."
"That is your privilege," said Chiun, adding, "My right to vote is yours for a dollar a word."
Donald McDavid burst out laughing as he accepted a glass of milk from his assistant. He sipped it experimentally, made a face, and reached for a salt shaker that stood beside the telephone. As Chiun watched in horror, he salted his milk and drained it down without stopping.
"I'll want your first copy on my desk in two weeks," he said, wiping milk from a nearly invisible mustache.
"In case you are not here then, who is your next of kin?" Chiun asked.
Outside the building, Chiun hailed a taxi. The driver took him to LaGuardia Airport. At his terminal, Chiun counted out the fare in coins.
"What, no tip?" the driver barked.
"Thank you for reminding me," Chiun said. He handed the driver a stack of magazines.
"Gorehound!" the driver called after him. "What the hell am I supposed to do with these?"
"Study them. Learn from them. Perhaps you too may rise to the exalted station where a dollar a word is your lot in life."
Chapter 9
Jiro Isuzu was very, very apologetic.
"So very sorry," he said. He bowed from the waist, his eyes downcast. The wind was picking up, blowing loose desert sand into his dry mask of a face. Remo wondered if his downcast eyes reflected humility or the need to protect them from the abrasive sand. They stood in the shelter of the base-camp tents.
"They acted like they plumb owned the road," Sheryl shouted.
"Japanese extra not speak Engrish," Isuzu said. "I wirr reprimand them in crear terms."
"So what about my car?" Sheryl asked sternly. "Studio wirr reimburse. You may have car of choice. If you wirr accept a Nishitsu wagon, we will throw in furr option package."
"All right," Sheryl said in a half-mollified voice. "But I don't want one of your Ninjas. I hear they tip whenever the wind changes direction."
"Excerrent. And I am again sorry for your inconvenience. Now, if you prease, there is a problem for you to dear with. A correspondent from Star Fire magazine is on way. I did not want press, but Bronzini san insist. Stuck. You take care of this man, okay?"
"Good. I'd like to do something other than the daily Fedex run."
"Shooting schedule moved up, by the way. Camera rorr tomorrow."
"Tomorrow is two days before Christmas. This isn't going to sit well with the crew."
"You forget, crew Japanese. Not care about Christmas. If American crew unhappy, they may find work ersewhere. Firming begin tomorrow."
At that, Jiro Isuzu walked off. His spine didn't waver a millimeter from the vertical.
"What American crew?" Sheryl muttered. "There's Bronzini, the military technical adviser, the stunt coordinator, and little old me." She sighed. "Well," she said to Remo, "now you've met Jiro. Quite a piece of work, isn't he?"
"Nishitsu makes cars?" Remo asked blankly.
"They make everything. And they act like they hung the moon and optioned the sun. Well, I guess I've got a reporter to contend with. See you around the set."
"Where do I find the . . ." Remo looked into his folder. ". . . stunt coordinator?"
"You got me," Sheryl said, starting for one of the striped tents. "Find an A. D. with a walkie-talkie and ask for Sunny Joe."
Remo looked around. The tents had been set up in a shallow arroyo created by bulldozers. One was still throwing up sand to form bulkwarks against the wind. Men rushed in all directions, like ants. Every one of them was Japanese.
Remo collared one with a walkie-talkie.