Remo smiled into her eyes and she tried to smile back.

"You're Dr. Webb?" he asked.

She offered him her hand, and he shook it. Stacy hung back, like a shy, lovesick teenager.

"Call me Joey," she said, still holding on to his hand.

"I'm Remo," he said.

"That's a very unusual name," she said.

Remo smiled at her again. Smith's taste in foster daughters impressed him.

"I wouldn't know," he said. "I've had it all my life."

"Where'd your parents get it?"

"I don't know. I don't remember. They both died when I was very young."

Joey Webb caught her breath.

"That's very interesting," she said. "I was an orphan, too."

"Small world," Remo said.

Stacy cleared his throat, and Joey shook her head quickly as though suddenly startled awake.

"Oh," she said, "I'm being rude."

She turned and nodded toward a stocky, strong-looking man standing beside her. He was tenderly holding a freshly bandaged arm.

"This is Oscar. Oscar Brack," she said. "He's the man who runs the day-to-day operations of this project."

The two men nodded at each other.

"And you know Roger," Joey said.

"It's made my day," Remo said.

Stacy swallowed, and Joey Webb restrained a smile.

Remo thought quickly. He didn't know yet who was who and what was what, but he might make more sparks fly if he alienated everybody. That wound on Brack's arm didn't have to mean a thing; he could have arranged to have himself shot at to remove suspicion. And Smith himself said that he had not seen Joey Webb for many years; for whatever reason, she might be involved with trying to sabotage her own project. Since Stacy hadn't given his real identity away, he might as well take advantage of it.

Joey was talking to him. "Roger says that you're a tree reclamation technician?"

"That's right," Remo said.

"What exactly do you do?"

"Damned if I know," Remo said. "Guess I just keep my eye on you so you don't go messing up the forest."

"You guess?" Brack said. "You don't know?"

"I never got closer to a tree than a dog-leash away before I got this job," Remo said.

He could see Joey's attitude change immediately. It was obvious that this was a woman who took her trees seriously. She had folded her arms under her breasts and was staring coldly at Remo.

Remo chuckled.

"What's so funny?" she said.

"I was just thinking about what my uncle told me," Remo said.

"And what was that, O'Sylvan?" Brack asked.

"Well, you've got to remember that my uncle is a pretty smart guy. He got me this job. My very first one."

"I see," Joey said, slowly drumming her long ringers on her upper arms.

"Yeah," Remo said. "My uncle, he's a ward leader back in Jersey City, and one day when I was twelve years old, he said to me, 'Remo, there's more graft to be made in trees than there is anywhere else in government. Except maybe being a cop or a judge.' That's what he told me."

Remo chuckled again.

Joey looked as if she were about to throw up and burst into tears at the same time. Coldly she turned away from Remo and hurried back to her room, slamming the door behind her.

Joey Webb walked into the center of her room, her fists clenched hard at her sides. Her face turned as red as her hair, and finally she unleashed her temper by throwing a very unladylike roundhouse right at a lampshade.

Pow. She hit it solid. The lamp spun off the end table and fell unbroken, into an overstuffed chair.

She let it lie there.

"Damn," she muttered. "Damn, damn, and damn."

She jumped onto her bed and covered her head with a pillow, not moving, trying not to think.

There was a knock at the door. She ignored it; whoever it was would go away. She did not want to see anyone or talk to anyone. Not even to faithful old Oscar Brack. It had been a lousy day, preceded by a disastrous month. She didn't know what bothered her most: that someone was trying to destroy the copa-ibas or that someone had killed her fiance, Danny.

She thought of the snake attack and with a twinge of guilt realized how lucky she was that she had decided at the last moment not to go with Danny.

He had called her from the copa-iba stand and told her that he had finally discovered who was trying to destroy the trees, and why. He would be along to pick her up in a few minutes, he said. Then they were going off to warn Tulsa Torrent authorities about what he'd learned. He was afraid to use any of the telephones in the camp.

But he never arrived, and she missed him, and she was upset that this project that her father had given his life for was possibly going down the drain; the final straw was that lunatic Remo O'Sylvan.

The knock on the door was louder this time, and reluctantly she decided that whoever was there wasn't going to go away.

"Come in if you have to," she called out.

Brack and Stacy came into the room. Brack looked around, saw the upset lamp, and went over and returned it to its place on the table.

Joey got off the bed and walked to the window. Stacy sat on the edge of the bed — God, how she hated that, she thought — and Oscar sat in the chair.

"Are you all right?" Oscar asked.

Joey nodded. "I guess so. What do you want?" she asked in general, and then specifically to Stacy, "What do you want?"

Stacy looked nervous. "I don't know. Oscar said he wanted to talk to us after O'Sylvan left, so here I am. What's on your mind, Brack?"

Joey looked at Brack. For a moment their eyes met. She could tell from the look in his eyes that the sturdy man was in great pain from his gunshot wound.

"Oscar?" she said.

"Yeah, Brack, what is it?" Stacy demanded.

The sturdy sixty-year-old Brack glowered at the man who was officially his boss. There was no mistaking the contempt in the look; it was a look that said Stacy wasn't smart enough, tough enough, or man enough to have the job he held, a job that Oscar Brack had wanted for almost ten years.

"I just want to know, Stacy, what it is you're doing around here. Danny dead, accidents to the machinery up with the copa-ibas, people shooting at us... what are you doing about it?"

"A lot," Stacy said.

"Such as," Brack persisted.

"Well, first of all, I don't know that I have to answer to you. Remember, Tulsa Torrent put me in charge of the show up here, not you. I'm sure if they thought you could do this job better, you'd have this job."

"I'm not interested in the goddamn job; I'm interested in us staying alive — Joey, me, and those trees."

Joey just watched the conversation. She had always refused to take sides in the fight that had been simmering between the two men for as long as she could remember.

"What are you doing about keeping us alive?" Brack demanded.

"Everything that can possibly be done," Stacy said. He had raised himself into an erect position on the edge of the bed.

There was a long, ugly silence.

"Which means you're doing nothing," Brack said.

"No, it doesn't mean I'm doing nothing. I've beefed up security all over the area; I've posted new warning signs to keep out trespassers; and I'm putting in television monitors to keep an eye on things."

"Great," Brack sneered. "We're getting shot at, and you're hanging up signs and television sets. Swell."

There was more silence before Joey spoke.

"What about this O'Sylvan, Roger?" she said. "Did you really have to inflict him on us?"

"It wasn't my doing," Stacy said. "The government sent him. I thought he was supposed to help us here. Instead, he turns out to be another goddamn bureaucrat."

Brack laughed. "Help us? He couldn't tell a tree from a turnip. It's all kind of typical of the way things are going here," he said.