quite prepared to spend a night in the hotel and introduce himself to the mine staff the following morning.
As he approached the hotel entrance a man came out walking quickly and bumped his shoulder. The man made a mutter of annoyance – not an apology – and strode across the pavement to a parked car. Ballard recognized him – Eric Peterson, the second of the three Peterson brothers. The last time he had seen Eric he had been nineteen years old, tall and gangling; now he had filled out into a broad-shouldered brawny man. Apparently the years had not improved his manners much.
Ballard turned to go into the hotel only to encounter an elderly woman who looked at him with recognition slowly dawning in her eyes. ‘Why, it’s Ian Ballard,’ she said, adding uncertainly, ‘It is Ian, isn’t it?’
He hunted through his memories to find a face to match hers. And a name to put to the face. Simpson? No – it wasn’t that. ‘Hello, Mrs Samson,’ he said.
‘Ian Ballard,’ she said in wonder. ‘Well, now; what are you doing here – and how’s your mother?’
‘My mother’s fine,’ he said, and lied bravely. ‘She asked to be remembered to you.’ He believed white lies to be the social oil that allows the machinery of society to work smoothly.
‘That’s good of her,’ said Mrs Samson warmly. She waved her arm. ‘And what do you think of Huka now? It’s changed a lot since you were here.’
‘I never thought I’d see civilization come to the Two Thumbs.’
‘It’s the mine, of course,’ said Mrs Samson. ‘The mine brought the prosperity. Do you know, we even have a town council now.’
‘Indeed,’ he said politely. He looked out of the corner of his eye and saw Eric Peterson frozen in the act of unlocking his car and staring at him.
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Mrs Samson. ‘And I’m a councillor, imagine that! Whoever would have thought it. But whatever are you doing here, Ian?’
‘Right now I’m going into the hotel to book a room.’ He was sharply aware that Eric Peterson was walking towards him.
‘Ian Ballard.’ Peterson’s voice was flat and expressionless.
Ballard turned, and Mrs Samson said, ‘Do you two know each other? This is Eric Peters …’ Her voice tailed away and a wary look came into her eyes, the look of one who has almost committed a social gaffe. ‘But of course you know each other,’ she said slowly.
‘Hello, Eric.’
There was little humour in Peterson’s thin smile. ‘And what are you doing here?’
There was no point in avoiding the issue. Ballard said, ‘I’m the new managing director of the mining company.’
Something sparked in Peterson’s eyes. ‘Well, well!’ he said in tones of synthetic wonder. ‘So the Ballards are coming out of hiding. What’s the matter, Ian? Have you run out of phoney company names?’
‘Not really,’ said Ballard. ‘We’ve got a computer that makes them up for us. How are you doing, Eric?’
Peterson looked down at the stick on which Ballard was leaning. ‘A lot better than you, apparently. Hurt your leg? Nothing trivial, I hope.’
Mrs Samson suddenly discovered reasons for not being there, reasons which she explained volubly and at length. ‘But if you’re staying I’ll certainly see you again,’ she said.
Peterson watched her go. ‘Silly old bat! She’s a hell of a nuisance on the council.’
‘You a member, too?’
Peterson nodded abstractly – his thought processes were almost visible. ‘Did I hear you say you are booking a room in the hotel?’
‘That’s right.’
Peterson took Ballard’s arm. ‘Then let me introduce you to the manager.’ As they went into the lobby he said, ‘Johnnie and I own half of this place, so we can certainly find room for an old friend like you.’
‘You’re doing well for yourself.’
Peterson grinned crookedly. ‘We’re getting something out of the mine, even if it isn’t raw gold.’ He stopped at the reception desk. ‘Jeff, this is Ian Ballard, an old friend. You would say we were friends, wouldn’t you, Ian?’ He drove over any reply that Ballard might have made. ‘Jeff Weston is manager here and owns the other half of the hotel. We have long arguments over which half he owns; he claims the half with the bar and that’s a matter for dispute.’
‘Glad to meet you, Mr Ballard,’ said Weston.
‘I’m sure you can find a good room for Mr Ballard.’
Weston shrugged. ‘No difficulty.’
‘Good,’ said Peterson jovially. ‘Give Mr Ballard a room – the best we have.’ His eyes suddenly went flinty and his voice hardened. ‘For twenty-four hours. After that we’re full. I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea of your welcome here, Ballard. Don’t be fooled by Mrs Samson.’
He turned on his heel and strode away, leaving Weston open-mouthed. Ballard said lightly, ‘Eric always was a joker. Do I sign the register, Mr Weston?’
That night Ballard wrote a letter to Mike McGill. In it, among other things, was the following passage:
I remember you telling me that you’d be in New Zealand this year. Why don’t you come out earlier as my guest? I’m in a place called Hukahoronui in South Island; there’s a hell of a lot of snow and the skiing looks great. The place has changed a bit since I was here last; civilization has struck and there are great developments. But it’s not too bad really and the mountains are still untouched. Let me know what you think of the idea – I’d like to meet your plane in Auckland.
Harrison sipped water from a glass and set it down. ‘Mr Ballard, at what point did you become aware of danger by avalanche?’
‘Only a few days before the disaster. My attention was drawn to the danger by a friend, Mike McGill, who came to visit me.’
Harrison consulted a document. ‘I see that Dr McGill has voluntarily consented to appear as a witness. I think it would be better if we heard his evidence from his own lips. You may step down, Mr Ballard, on the understanding that you may be called again.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Ballard returned to his seat.
Reed said, ‘Will Dr McGill please come forward?’
McGill walked towards the rostrum carrying a slim leather satchel under his arm. He sat down, and Reed said, ‘Your name is Michael Howard McGill?’
‘Yes, sir; it is.’
Harrison caught the transatlantic twang in McGill’s voice. ‘Are you an American, Dr McGill?’
‘No,
