The Snow Tiger. Desmond Bagley
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turned his head to see three skiers traversing down towards them. The leader was moving fast and came around in a flashy stem christiania which sent the snow spraying before he stopped. When he lifted blue-tinted goggles Ballard recognized Charlie Peterson.
Peterson looked at Ballard with some astonishment. ‘Oh, it’s you! Eric told me you were back but I haven’t seen you around.’
‘Hello, Charlie.’
The two other skiers came up and stopped more sedately – they were the two Americans, Miller and Newman. Charlie said, ‘How did you get here?’
Ballard and McGill looked at each other, and Ballard wordlessly pointed to the skis. Charlie snorted. ‘You used to be afraid of falling off anything steeper than a billiard table.’ He looked curiously at the dismantled penetrometer. ‘What are you doing?’
McGill answered. ‘Looking at snow.’
Charlie pointed a stick. ‘What’s that thing?’
‘A gadget for testing snow strength.’
Charlie grinned at Ballard. ‘Since when did you become interested in snow? Your Ma wouldn’t let you out in it for fear you’d catch cold.’
Ballard said evenly, ‘I’ve become interested in a lot of things since then, Charlie.’
He laughed loudly. ‘Yes? I’ll bet you’re a hot one with the girls.’
Newman said abruptly, ‘Let’s go.’
‘No, wait a minute,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m interested. What are you doing with that watchamacallit?’
McGill straightened. ‘I’m testing the stresses on this snow slope.’
‘This slope’s all right.’
‘When did you have this much snow before?’
‘There’s always snow in the winter.’
‘Not this much.’
Charlie looked at Miller and Newman and grinned at them. ‘All the better – it makes for good skiing.’ He rubbed the side of his jaw. ‘Why come here to look at snow?’
McGill bent down to buckle a strap. ‘The usual reason.’
The grin left Charlie’s face. ‘What reason?’ he asked blankly.
‘Because it’s here,’ said McGill patiently.
‘Funny!’ said Charlie. ‘Very funny! How long are you going to be here?’
‘For as long as it takes.’
‘That’s no kind of answer.’
Ballard stepped forward. ‘That’s all the answer you’re going to get, Charlie.’
Charlie grinned genially. ‘Staying away for so long has made you bloody prickly. I don’t remember you giving back-chat before.’
Ballard smiled. ‘Maybe I’ve changed, Charlie.’
‘I don’t think so,’ he said deliberately. ‘People like you never change.’
‘You’re welcome to find out any time you like.’
Newman said, ‘Cut it out, Charlie. I don’t know what you have against this guy and I don’t much care. All I know is he helped us yesterday. Anyway, this is no place to pick a fight.’
‘I agree,’ said Ballard.
Charlie turned to Newman. ‘Hear that? He hasn’t changed.’ He swung around and pointed down the slope. ‘All right. We go down in traverses – that way first. This is a good slope for practising stem turns.’
Miller said, ‘It looks good.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said McGill sharply. ‘I wouldn’t do that.’
Charlie turned his head. ‘And why not, for Christ’s sake?’
‘It could be dangerous.’
‘Crossing the road can be dangerous,’ he said contemptuously. He jerked his head at Miller. ‘Let’s go.’
Miller pulled down his goggles. ‘Sure.’
‘Hold on,’ said Newman. He looked down at the penetrometer. ‘Maybe the guy’s got something there.’
‘The hell with him,’ said Charlie, and pushed off. Miller followed without another word. Newman looked at Ballard for a moment, then shrugged expressively before he followed them.
McGill and Ballard watched them go down. Charlie, in the lead, skied showily with a lot of unnecessary flair; Miller was sloppy and Newman neat and economical in his movements. They watched them all the way to the bottom.
Nothing happened.
‘Who’s the jerk?’ McGill asked.
‘Charlie Peterson. He’s set up as a ski instructor.’
‘He seems to know you.’ McGill glanced sideways. ‘And your family.’
‘Yes,’ said Ballard expressionlessly.
‘I keep forgetting you were brought up here.’ McGill scratched his cheek reflectively. ‘You know, you could be useful. I want to find someone in the valley who has lived here a long time, whose family has lived here a long time. I need information.’
Ballard thought for a moment and then smiled and pointed with his ski-stick. ‘See that rock down there? That’s Kamakamaru, and a man called Turi Buck lives in a house just on the other side. I should have seen him before now but I’ve been too bloody busy.’
McGill hung his backpack on a convenient post outside Turi Buck’s house. ‘Better not take that inside. The ice would melt.’
Ballard knocked on the door which was opened by a girl of about fourteen, a Maori girl with a cheerful smile. ‘I’m looking for Turi Buck.’
‘Wait a minute,’ she said and disappeared, and he heard her voice raised. ‘Grandpa, there’s someone to see you.’
Presently Turi appeared. Ballard was a little shocked at what he saw; Turi’s hair was a frizzled grey and his face was seamed and lined like a water-eroded hillside. There was no recognition in his brown eyes as he said, ‘Anything I can do for you?’
‘Not a great deal, Turi,’ said Ballard. ‘Don’t you remember me?’
Turi stepped forward, coming out of the doorway and into the light. He frowned and said uncertainly, ‘I don’t …, my eyesight’s not as good as … Ian?’
‘Your eyesight is not so bad,’ said Ballard.
‘Ian!’ said Turi in delight. ‘I heard you were back – you should have come to see me sooner. I thought you had forgotten.’
‘Work, Turi; the work comes first – you taught me that. This is my friend, Mike McGill.’
Turi beamed at them. ‘Well, come in; come in.’
He led them into the house and into a room familiar to Ballard. Over the great fieldstone fireplace was the wapiti head with its great spread of antlers, and a wood fire burned beneath it. On the walls were the wood carvings inlaid with paua shell shimmering iridescently. The greenstone mere – the Maori war axe – was still there and, in pride of place, Turi’s whakapapa stick, his most prized possession, very intricately carved and which gave his ancestry.
Ballard looked around. ‘Nothing has changed.’
‘Not here,’ said Turi.
Ballard nodded towards the window. ‘A lot of change out there, though, I didn’t recognize the valley.’
Turi sighed. ‘Too much change – too quickly. But where have you been, Ian?’