The Snow Tiger. Desmond Bagley
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in meteorology at Columbia University and D.Sc. in glaciology at the California Institute of Technology. As to practical experience, I have spent two seasons in the Antarctic, a year in Greenland at Camp Century, two years in Alaska and I have just completed a year’s sabbatical in Switzerland doing theoretical studies. At present I work as a civilian scientist in the Cold Regions Research and Engineering Laboratory of the United States Army Terrestrial Sciences Centre.’
There was a silence which was broken by Harrison. He gave a nervous cough. ‘Yes, indeed. For simplicity’s sake, how would you describe your employment at present?’
McGill grinned. ‘I have been described as a snowman.’ A ripple of laughter swept across the hall, and Rolandson’s lips twitched. ‘I should say that I am engaged on practical and theoretical studies of snow and ice which will give a better understanding of the movement of those materials, particularly in relation to avalanches.’
‘I agree with Professor Rolandson,’ said Harrison. ‘We are very fortunate to have such a qualified witness who can give an account of the events before, during and after the disaster. What took you to Hukahoronui, Dr McGill?’
‘I met Ian Ballard in Switzerland and we got on very well together. When he came to New Zealand he invited me to visit him. He knew that I was coming to New Zealand on my way to the Antarctic and suggested that I arrive a little earlier than I had originally intended. He met me at the airport in Auckland and then we both went down to Hukahoronui.’
Lyall held up his hand, and Harrison nodded to him. ‘How long did the witness know Mr Ballard in Switzerland?’
‘Two weeks.’
‘Two weeks!’ repeated Lyall. ‘Did it not seem strange to you on such a casual acquaintanceship that Mr Ballard should undertake such a long journey involving an air flight from South Island to North Island to meet you at the airport?’
Harrison opened his mouth as though to object, but McGill, his face hardened, beat him to it. ‘I don’t understand the import of the question, but I’ll answer it. Mr Ballard had to attend a board meeting of his company in Auckland with which my arrival coincided.’
‘I didn’t understand the tenor of that question, either, Mr Lyall,’ said Harrison grimly. ‘Does the answer satisfy you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘It will speed this inquiry if irrelevant questions are kept to a minimum,’ said Harrison coldly. ‘Go on, Dr McGill.’
In the Press gallery Dan Edwards said, ‘There was some sort of malice behind that. I wonder what instructions the Petersons have given Lyall.’
McGill said, ‘There was a lot of snow on the way to Hukahoronui …’
Fifteen miles from Hukahoronui they came across a Volkswagen stuck in a drift, the skis strapped on the top proclaiming its purpose. It contained two Americans helplessly beleaguered by the snow. Ballard and McGill helped to haul the car free and received effusive thanks from the two men who were called Miller and Newman. McGill looked at the Volkswagen, and commented, ‘Not the best car for the conditions.’
‘You can say that again,’ said Newman. ‘There’s more snow here than in Montana. I didn’t expect it to be like this.’
‘It’s an exceptional season,’ said McGill, who had studied the reports.
Miller said, ‘How far is it to Huka …, He stumbled over the word but finally got it out by spacing the syllables. ‘Huka-horo-nui?’
‘About fifteen miles,’ said Ballard. He smiled. ‘You can’t miss it – this road goes nowhere else.’
‘We’re going for the skiing,’ said Newman. He grinned as he saw Ballard’s eye wander to the skis strapped on top of the car. ‘But I guess that’s evident.’
‘You’re going to get stuck again,’ said Ballard. ‘That’s inevitable. You’d better go on ahead and I’ll follow, ready to pull you out.’
‘Say, that’s good of you,’ said Miller. ‘We’ll take you up on that offer. You’ve got more beef than we have.’
They hauled the Volkswagen out of trouble five times before they reached Hukahoronui. On the fifth occasion Newman said, ‘It’s real good of you guys to go to all this trouble.’
Ballard smiled. ‘You’d do the same, I’m sure, if the position were reversed.’ He pointed. ‘That’s the Gap – the entrance to the valley. Once you’re through there you’re home and dry.’
They followed the Volkswagen as far as the Gap and watched it descend into the valley, then Ballard pulled off the road. ‘Well, there it is.’
McGill surveyed the scene with a professional eye. Instinctively he looked first at the white sweep of the western slope and frowned slightly, then he said, ‘Is that your mine down at the bottom there?’
‘That’s it.’
‘You know something? I haven’t asked what you get out of there.’
‘Gold,’ said Ballard. ‘Gold in small quantities.’ He took a packet of cigarettes and offered one to McGill. ‘We’ve known the gold was there for a long time – my father was the first to pick up the traces – but there wasn’t enough to take a chance on investment, not while the gold price was fixed at thirty-five dollars an ounce. But when the price was freed the company risked a couple of million pounds sterling in establishing the plant you see down there. At present we’re just breaking even; the gold we’re getting out is just servicing the capital investment. But the pickings are getting richer as we follow the reef and we have hopes.’
McGill nodded abstractedly. He was peering through the side window at the rock walls on either side of the Gap. ‘Do you have much trouble in keeping the road clear just here?’
‘We didn’t seem to have trouble years ago when I used to live here. But we’re having a fair amount now. The town has got some of the company’s earth-moving machinery on more-or-less permanent loan.’
‘It’ll get worse,’ said McGill. ‘Maybe a lot worse. I did a check on meteorological conditions; there’s a lot of precipitation this year and the forecast is for more.’
‘Good for skiers,’ said Ballard. ‘Bad for mining. We’re having trouble getting equipment in.’ He put the car in gear. ‘Let’s get down there.’
He drove through the town and then to the mine office. ‘Come in and meet the senior staff,’ he said, then hesitated. ‘Look, I’m going to be a bit busy for maybe an hour.’ He grinned. ‘Finding out if they’ve made a fortune while I’ve been away. I’ll get someone to take you to the house.’
‘That’ll be fine,’ said McGill.
They went into the office building and Ballard opened a door. ‘Hello, Betty. Is Mr Dobbs in?’
Betty jerked her thumb. ‘Inside with Mr Cameron.’
‘Fine. Come on, Mike.’ He led the way to an inner office where two men were discussing a plan laid on a desk. ‘Hello, Mr Dobbs; hello, Joe. I’d like you to meet a friend who’ll be staying in Huka for a while – Mike McGill. This is Harry Dobbs, the mine manager, and Joe Cameron, the mine engineer.’
Dobbs was a thin-faced New Zealander with a dyspeptic expression who looked as though his wife’s cooking did not agree with him. Cameron was a broad-shouldered American pushing sixty but not admitting it. They shook hands, and Ballard said, ‘Everything okay?’
Cameron looked at Dobbs and Dobbs looked at Cameron. Dobbs said in a thin voice, ‘The situation is deteriorating at the same rate.’
Cameron chuckled. ‘What he means is that we’re still having trouble with this goddam snow. We had a truck stuck in the Gap yesterday; took two ‘dozers to get it out.’
‘If we can’t keep up essential supplies then output is