Their faces were all too familiar, and Heather tried not to grimace as she approached them. They were environmental activists, lined up on the sidewalk outside the hotel where the Whaling Commission was meeting. They held signs, waved banners, and chanted obnoxious slogans under the direction of a man with an obnoxious megaphone.
“Stop the s*******r! Stop the s*******r!”
The group paraded in a loose-knit circle, waving their signs at all the passing cars. Heather had seen them all before. They were the fringes of the protest-everything clan. Another angle for Heather to deal with.
The song was only slightly different. As far as Heather was concerned, it could just as easily have been, “Hell no, we won’t go! No draft, no war, U. S. out of El Salvador. What do we want? Peace. When do
