An hour later, she had got the final trunk to the curb. "Perhaps you need assistance from a man," Chiun said. His head was tilted back so he could see over the floppy brim of a ten-gallon cowboy hat.
"Do you see any stray helpful males?" she asked him, looking around.
"No. Perhaps I should help?"
"Oh, I can handle it," Sheryl puffed, thinking: What a sweet little man. He looked positively frail enough to break in a stiff breeze. God knew what would happen if he tried to pitch in. He might have a heart attack or some such thing.
Finally she hoisted the last trunk into the back.
"Do you always travel with five steamer trunks?" she asked as she climbed behind the wheel, checking the rearview mirror to grimace at the dusty sweat-streaked mask her face had become.
"No. Normally it is fourteen."
As she drove away, Sheryl breathed a prayer of thankfulness that he had decided to travel light this time. "I'll bet you're excited about interviewing Bronzini," Sheryl said as they pulled onto the desert location twenty minutes later.
"Which one is he?" Chiun asked as base camp came into view. His hazel eyes narrowed at the sight of so many uniformed men.
"I don't see His Bronzeness at the moment," Sheryl said, looking around.
"I am unfamiliar with that form of address."
"It's just a little joke around the set. They call Bronzini the Bronze Bambino. Some of the trades refer to him as 'Your Bronzeness.' I thought everyone knew that."
"I do not. But then, I am not everyone," Chiun said haughtily, "I am Chiun."
"O-kay." Sheryl cranked down her window and spoke to a Japanese grip. "Where's Bronzini?"
"Overseeing setup on first unit," she was told. "Thanks," Sheryl said, setting the van in motion. They bounced and weaved into the vast arroyo where the tanks were arrayed. "This is where they'll be filming the main desert battle sequences between the Chinese invaders and the American defense forces," she explained. "Do you know the story line?"
"No," Chiun said distantly. He was looking at the milling Japanese. They stared back with suspicious eyes.
"Maybe you should take notes. Or do you use a tape recorder?"
"I use my infallible memory, which requires neither sharpening or batteries."
"Suit yourself."
"Why are those men wearing Chinese uniforms?"
"Those are the extras. They play the Chinese invasion force."
"But those are Japanese!" Chiun hissed.
"Do tell. Almost everyone on this set is Japanese."
"This is foolishness, Chiun sputtered. How can they expect people to believe their story when they have crafty Japanese pretending to be lazy Chinese?"
"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?"