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Inside the cinderblock building the base operator, a fat man with a reedy, wheezing voice that sounded as if it were being squeezed through a concertina, looked surprised to see him. He was wearing a down vest col-

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ored neon orange, baggy brown trousers, and a hunt­ing cap with the flaps down. When he breathed, steam billowed out of him like a chimney. He spent several minutes eyeing Chiun's satin brocade robe and Remo's short-sleeved T-shirt before catching what Remo was saying.

". . . chart or something?"

"What's that, boys?"

"I said, did the guy who just flew out of here leave any kind of a chart?"

The base op heaved himself out of his chair with a visible struggle and lumbered creakily toward a stained formica counter top, where a clipboard an­chored by a paper cup full of cold and greasy coffee lay.

"Yeah. Right here," he said, holding the clipboard at arm's length and squinting. "Foxx, that the name?"

"That's him."

"Says here he filed for Deaver. Only Deaver's closed." He slapped the board back on the counter.

"What's a deaver?"

The fat man chuckled. "Guess you're not a flyer," he said. "Deaver's an airport. Near Clayton, South Dakota."

Suddenly Remo remembered the cases of procaine Posie said were being shipped regularly to South Da­kota. "Is Deaver in the Black Hills?"

The base op wheezed out a sickly chortle. "That it is," he said, shaking his head. "That's some crazy pi­lot, flying out in this weather. For the Black Hills, yet. Hear it's near thirty below there. Snow up to your waist. I told him, but these flyboys'll do anything with a lick or two of whiskey in 'em." He shrugged. "It's his plane, I guess."

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"We've got to get over there," Remo said. "Is there a pilot who can take us anywhere near Deaver air­port?"

The base op's wheezing chuckle blossomed into a mirthful roar, his belly rolling. "Listen, son. There isn't a pilot in the country'lf fly you out of this. And most of South Dakota's so bad, nothing but a penguin's got a chance out there. I told that Foxx fella Deaver's closed and he'd have to land somewheres in a field or some­thing, most likely, but he gone on ahead anyway. Hate to say it, but I won't be surprised if he don't make it." He touched Remo lightly on the shoulder. "Take my advice, son. Stay inside. Whatever bravery you been drinkin' or smokin' that got you to come out here in that tee-shirt's going to give you a good case of pneu­monia 'fore long. Go home." There was compassion in his eyes, kindly eyes that had watched a hundred good pilots flame out in the air and hurtle to their deaths in moments of youthful impulsiveness.

Suddenly Remo remembered the guests at Shan­gri-la. "Can I use your phone?" he asked. "There are some people stuck in a house near here with no phones and no electricity. I want to call the police."

The base op wheezed. "You city boys're always panicking. Electricity goes out all the time in these parts. And the phones are down all over. The one here ain't working, neither."

"But you've got a radio or something, haven't you?" Remo persisted. "Foxx made his flight plans with somebody."

"The FAA don't take kindly to using the radio for a thing like this. And they ain't no cops, anyway, can get out here tonight. Your friends're going to be just fine, son. Just snowed in a while. Their phones'll be work-

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ing in the morning, same as mine. I'll call the police then, if you want, but they'll probably beat me to it themselves."

"But the lines were cut," Remo explained. "And everybody at Shangri-la was acting like they were going to die. . . ."

The base op huffed disdainfully. "You talking about that fancy place up the road?" He made a rude ges­ture. "Bunch of spoiled city folks, that's what they are. Used to having everything they want, more'n likely. ! heard they was all dope fiends, anyway."

Maybe the man was right, Remo thought. Maybe the hysterical doomsaying of the guests at the clinic was no more than the whining of a bunch of spoiled brats used to having their every whim satisfied imme­diately. "Okay," he said to the base op. He gave the address of the house called Shangri-la. "I suppose it can wait till morning."

He would set things right as soon as he could. If he could find a phone that worked tonight, he would call Smitty. Smitty would take care of notifying the police about the people at Shangri-la. For the time being, though, he had to find Foxx.

"Hey, look out there!" the base op called in alarm.

Chiun, who hadn't been paying any attention to the exchange between Remo and the base op, was over by the door of the cinderblock building, raptly poking and prodding a rackful of skis. One of the bolts had come loose, and the skis were dangling precariously. With one tug, Chiun forced one of them out of the rack and sent the rest clattering to the floor.

"A strange utensil indeed," he remarked, in­specting the smooth polished wood of the ski.

"Now just a second there, old timer." the base op said, his rotund face clouding. "It took me near half

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a day to set up that there rack. I need those skis."

"I'll pay for any damage," Remo said quickly. The germ of an idea was growing. "Say, what do you use these for, anyway?"

The base op lumbered darkly toward the pile of skis and inspected them. "These here are cross-country skis," he said. "I come to work in 'em. My old clunker Olds wouldn't make it out here in this weather if I filled her full of diamonds. Keep some extra pairs around in case somebody needs 'em. Out here we're used to bad winters." He was puffing and grunting as he bent over to inspect the fallen rack. "Well, no harm done, I 'spect. Just a hell of a lot of trouble to stick this thing back up." He waddled slowly back to the counter, where he produced a hammer and rummaged for nails.

"No problem," Remo said. He located the fallen nails on the floor, aligned the rack with the holes in the wall, and pressed the nails back into place. By the time the base op arrived with his tools, the rack was re­paired.

"Well, that was mighty nice of you," he said, his face regaining its kindliness. "How'd you do that so fast?" "

"It was nothing," Chiun said.

"I'd like to buy a couple of pairs from you," Remo said.

The base op laughed. "You planning on skiing to South Dakota?"

"Maybe," Remo said. "I'll give you a thousand dol­lars for two pairs." He pulled out his wallet.

The base op blinked with surprise. "That's a pretty nice piece of change, boy."

"It's worth it to me. Will you take it?"

"Well, I don't know ... I don't feel right sending

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you and the old fella out in the weather like this, Why don't you wait til! the storm breaks? I'll get a good pilot to fly you over to Deaver in the morning."

"I can't wait till morning," Remo said. "Is it a deal?"

"Well . . ." After some thought, the base op reached out and took the bills. "It still don't seem right," he said. But Remo was already fitting the skis onto Chiun's tiny feet.

The old man grinned ecstatically. "Skates," he said, his eyes sparkling.

"Skis. We'll cover ground faster than we could on foot."

The base op held up a pudgy hand. "No, I know this is a free country and all, but traveling to South Dakota on skis is just plain ridic'lous. I can't stop you from kill­ing yourself, sonny, but you got to think of the old fella here. He'll never make it."

Chiun stood up, wobbled for a second, then clapped to the door. "How do they work?" he asked, obviously thrilled with his new toy.

"You've got to push yourself along with these," Remo said, holding up a pair of poles. But it was too late. Chiun was already out the door and picking up speed fast, sliding around the small building at eight revolutions a minute.