"Hell yes. What is it?"

"Give me a couple of days?" He waited.

"Yeah," Gene said finally. "Okay."

"One more thing."

"What?"

"You know Dan O'Brian?"

A brief pause. Jim could hear the Rolodex between his boss's ears clicking. "Dan O'Brian. Right. Chief ranger your area. What about him?"

"He mouthed off about drilling for oil in ANWR. They're trying to force him into retirement."

"So? Should have kept his mouth shut."

"Agreed, but otherwise he's a good man. We work well together. I'd hate to have to break in some newbie. Can you call somebody, make some noise?"

"I can call several."

"I owe you."

"Maybe. Maybe not. We'll see after the next time we talk."

"Gotcha," Jim said, grinning. He hung up, and grabbed his jacket and hat on his way out the door.

It was as clear and calm this morning as it had been the night before, the big high pressure system hanging over interior Alaska strong enough to keep it that way for the next three to four days. He had done preflight and refueled the Cessna with the shield on its side the night before. All he had to do was roll her out, and he was in the air five minutes later. He was on the ground in Niniltna in less than an hour, taxiing up to the hangar that served as headquarters for George Perry's two-plane air taxi service. George was there, pulling the backseat from his Super Cub and loading the back with mailbags. "Thank God for the U.S. Postal Service," he said in greeting.

A U.S. Postal Service mail contract had been the savior of more than one Bush air taxi running on duct tape and the owner's sweat. "What's with all the packages going out?"

George grinned. "Christmas returns."

"Oh." The only Christmas presents Jim sent were to his parents, usually something out of a catalog. In return, he got a card accompanied by a baseball cap with the logo of whatever sports team his father was currently following, and a box of his mother's homemade fudge. The fudge, he ate immediately. The cap usually went to the first kid he saw in the next village he flew into. The card lasted longer than either of them.

"What's up?" George said. "Somebody get uppity enough to require the personal attention of the law?"

Jim gave a noncommittal grunt. George had heard that grunt before, and he changed the subject. "See you at Bernie's later?"

"I don't know. Depends on if I have to make a run."

"Try." George grinned. "I hear somebody made a successful winter assault on Big Bump."

"Ah. It's Middle Finger time."

"You got it."

"George?"

"What?"

"Tell me about weather in the Park."

George cocked a quizzical eyebrow.

"Pilot to pilot," Jim said.

George's take was that it was typical Interior weather—a lot of cold, clear days in the winter and a lot of hot, clear days in the summer, if you didn't count the blizzards and the forest fires, respectively. "We're in between the Alaska Range and the Chugach Range," George told him, "with the Quilaks at our backs, and we're far enough away from all of them to keep us CAVU more often than not. So what's all this about?"