Ari got up, pointing an accusing finger at 360 degrees of the compass. Slowly the crowd quieted down.
Splat!
Ari went down again. For a second, there was silence; then uproarious laughter; then splat, splat, splat, splat. Half a hundred times splat.
Snowballs flew into the crowd from every direction. The laughter stopped. The press tried to protect its expensive camera equipment. A few of the demonstrators tried to defend themselves with their own snowballs, but the only targets they found were each other.
The protest march was dissolving in a rout, and Remo, moving swiftly in a semicircular path around the roadway, could not remember having so much fun in a snowball fight since one wintry day back at the orphanage in Newark.
"That's the demonstration biz, Ari," he mumbled to himself.
He looked toward the end of the line of marchers and saw that the six men to whom Ari had given special instructions had peeled off and vanished.
Time to give Pierre LaRue help if he needed it.
Remo dropped his armful of snowballs and ran through the trees to find the big Frenchman.
LaRue needed no help. He was standing beside his bulldozer, and the dozer was parked in front of a ten-foot-by-twenty-foot, six-foot-tall snowdrift.
Remo pointed at the drift.
"You got them all?" he asked.
"Oui."
"All six of them?"
"Oui."
"Good," Remo said.
"Very good," Pierre said. "Little man, you not so bad."
"Thanks," Remo said. He went over to the huge snowdrift and shouted at it. "Don't worry. Somebody'll find you when you thaw out in the spring."
Before he joined LaRue in his walk back through the woods to Alpha Camp, Remo stopped to look at the tires on the Mountain High bus. He nodded. They matched the tread marks he had seen outside the forest cabin to which he had trailed Oscar Brack and one of his attackers.
When he looked back at the demonstration, it had degenerated into a big snowball party, with the marchers seeming to take out their fury on the outnumbered and always outmanned press corps. Mrs. Cicely Winston-Alright and Ari were standing to the side, talking, out of harm's way, and the whoop of police sirens coming down the road meant that Tulsa Torrent's formal security forces would soon have the area cleared.
He would have to talk again to the Mountain Highs, Remo decided, but doing it now might just draw too much attention. It would wait till morning.
He hoped everything would wait till morning.
He wanted some sleep.
But Harvey Quibble couldn't wait till morning.
Chapter Ten
"I saw it," Harvey Quibble squeaked. "I saw it with my own two eyes." He wheeled toward Remo, who was lounging on one of the chairs in the A-frame. "And you're not going to get away with it. No, sirree. Not as long as my name is Harvey Quibble."
"Will you calm down?" Roger Stacy said. He was standing behind the sofa, facing Quibble. Joey Webb, Pierre LaRue, and Chiun were on the other side of the room, shaking their heads in either disbelief or disgust.
"No, I will not calm down," said Quibble.
"I think if you've got a problem with O'Sylvan here, then you ought to work it out through channels. You're both federal employees," Stacy said, "and to tell the truth, I could do without either of you. Why don't you both hop a plane to Washington and petition the Supreme Court for a hearing?"
"Good idea," said Remo. "Quibble, you go first. I'll catch up with you in a couple of days."
The little mouselike figure jumped up and down in anger. The corner of his left eye began twitching.
"You may all think it's funny," he yelled, "but that person tonight attacked a group of innocent, unarmed, totally peaceful citizens while they were exercising their legitimate rights of free speech, public assembly, and petition and redress. That's what he did."
"How'd he do that?" Stacy asked.
"He threw snowballs at them," Quibble said.
"I threw snowballs at them," Remo agreed.
"Snowballs?" said Stacy.
"From ambush. So that nobody could see him and take his picture," Quibble said. "But I saw him. I, Harvey P. Quibble. And I have to tell you that this has nothing to do with his job description. I thought I had this all worked out, with his new classification and all, but now I see I'm going to have to take sterner measures."
"Cut my pay another seventy-five percent," Remo said.
"Is that all you have to say for yourself?" Stacy asked.
Remo answered in Korean.
Quibble said, "I warned you. What this man does is un-American. He even talks un-American."
"Why don't you translate it for Mr. Quibble?" Stacy asked Remo.
"He wouldn't like it."
"I demand to know what you said," Quibble said.
"It's a Korean proverb," Remo said.
"What does it mean?" asked Quibble.
"It means that the world is filled with people who will look at duck droppings and diamonds and fill their pockets with the duck droppings."
Joey Webb giggled. Pierre LaRue guffawed.
"Well, let me tell you, Mr. Know-it-all with your smart proverbs," sputtered Quibble, "this doesn't end here. I intend to see that you never get through your probationary period with the Forestry Service."
"Good," said Remo. "I miss the New York City subways."
Quibble left, followed a few minutes later by Pierre LaRue. When Stacy said good night, Remo followed him outside.
"Where'd you get that Harvey Quibble?" Remo asked.
Stacy shook his head. "The main company applied for some federal research funds. As soon as they got them, they got Harvey Quibble, too, to make sure that all the federal job regulations were obeyed. The company sent him up here and told me they wouldn't mind if he got lost in a snowdrift."
"He will if he keeps getting in my way," Remo said. "No sign of Oscar Brack?"
"Nothing," said Stacy.
"The reason we broke up that demonstration tonight was because the Mountain Highs were planning to start a forest fire," Remo said.
"Oh," said Stacy thoughtfully.
He rubbed his cheek, and even outdoors Remo noticed he smelled sweet.
"I thought you ought to know so you can keep your guards watching them."
"Good idea," said Stacy.
"The two dead men up at the copa-iba farm?"
"They carried no identification," Stacy said. "The police have taken prints and are trying to find something out through Washington."
"Keep on them," Remo said. "Knowing who they are could clear this up fast." He decided not to mention the dead lumberjack.
"Chances are they're just more Mountain Highs," Stacy said.
"Maybe," said Remo. "But I don't know. Guns wouldn't seem to be their way. Forest fires and marches, yes. But not guns. Not snakes in cars. Not bloody fights with Brack, wherever he is."
"We'll see," Stacy said. "If I hear anything, I'll let you know."
Chiun had decided that as pleasant as sleeping before the fireplace was, the traffic patterns made it impossible for him to get a wink, so he confiscated the floor in Remo's bedroom.
Joey Webb sat down beside Remo on the couch out in the main room. She touched his arm, and Remo felt a pleasantly warm sensation where her hand rested, a feeling that he had not known for a while. "What are you thinking about?" she asked.
"How much I hate women who ask me what I'm thinking about," he said.
"I deserved that," she said. "It's not much of a conversational gambit. I want to know who you are and why you're here."
"Can I sleep first?" Remo asked.
"No."
"You tell me your story, I'll tell you mine," Remo said. Maybe she would talk herself to sleep.