The Snow Tiger

One

The great hall was unexpectedly and floridly magnificent. Built in the mid-nineteenth century at the height of the Gothic Revival and designed by an architect who was, equally unexpectedly, a direct descendant of Simon de Montfort, it brought medieval England to the Southern Hemisphere and to that more-than-English city, Christchurch. Lofty, with an arched ceiling, painted and carved, it abounded in corbels, pillars, lancets and wood panelling, and every surface that could possibly be carved was carved to a fare-thee-well. There was also a lot of stained glass.

Dan Edwards, doyen of the Press of Christchurch, was blind to the incongruity of the scene; he had seen it too often before. He was more concerned about the floor which creaked abominably as the ushers walked beneath the Press gallery setting out note-pads and pencils. ‘The acoustics are lousy,’ he said. ‘And that bloody kauri floor doesn’t make things better.’

‘Can’t they oil it or something?’ asked Dalwood, who was from Auckland.

‘They’ve tried everything but nothing seems to work. I’ll tell you what — let’s do a pool. If I miss anything I’ll take it from you — and vice versa.’

Dalwood shrugged. ‘Okay.’ He looked over the edge of the Press gallery to the dais immediately beneath. Three high-backed chairs were set behind the rostrum, and before each chair was a new foolscap note-pad with two ball-point pens to the left and three newly sharpened pencils to the right. Together with the water carafes and the glasses, the whole looked remarkably like place settings at a dining table.

Edwards followed his glance and then nodded towards the public gallery, already full, at the north end of the hall. ‘They’re going to make a meal of this.’

Dalwood nudged him and indicated the door beneath the public gallery. ‘There’s young Ballard. He’s brought a legal army with him.’

Edwards studied the young man who walked at the head of a phalanx of older, soberly dressed men. He pursed his lips. ‘The question is whether they’re representing him or the company. If I were Ballard I’d be keeping a tight sphincter.’

‘A sacrificial lamb?’

‘A lamb to the slaughter,’ agreed Edwards. He looked down at the rostrum. ‘Things are happening.’

The hum of conversation died as three men took their places at the chairs behind the rostrum. One of the two stenographers looked up and held his hands poised expectantly over the keys of his machine. There was a rustle as everyone arose.

The three men sat down and a fourth came forward and sat at the desk in front of the rostrum. He laid a sheaf of papers before him and consulted the uppermost document. The man above him, in the centre of the rostrum, was elderly with a shock of white hair and deeply lined face. He looked down at the virgin pad in front of him and pushed it away. When he spoke he spoke quietly and in an even voice.

‘In the winter of the year, on the eighteenth of July, a disaster occurred in the township of Hukahoronui on the South Island of New Zealand in which fifty-four people lost their lives. The New Zealand Government has appointed a Commission of Inquiry, of which I am Chairman. My name is Arthur Harrison and I am Rector of Canterbury University.’

He moved his hands apart. ‘With me are two assessors, both well qualified by their knowledge and experience to sit on this Commission. On my left we have Professor J. W. Rolandson of the Department of Scientific and Industrial Research.’ Harrison paused. ‘In the interests of brevity his department will, in future, be referred to as the DSIR.’

Rolandson smiled and nodded.

‘On my right sits Mr F. G. French of the New Zealand Mines Department. The gentleman immediately below me is Mr John Reed, barrister-at-law; he is Secretary to the Commission.’ Harrison surveyed the tables in the hall. ‘There are several interested parties present. Perhaps they would identify themselves, beginning from the right.’

The well-fed, middle-aged man seated next to Ballard rose to his feet. ‘John Rickman, barrister, representing the Hukahoronui Mining Company, Proprietary, Limited.’

There was a long pause before the man at the next table got to his feet, and Edwards whispered, ‘Ballard has no personal representation.’

‘Michael Gunn, barrister, representing the General Miners’ Union of New Zealand and the relatives of its members who lost their lives in the disaster.’

‘Alfred Smithers, barrister, representing the Ministry of Civil Defence.’

‘Peter Lyall, barrister, representing Charles Stewart Peterson and Eric Parnell Peterson.’

There was a sound of surprise in the room, a compound of sudden involuntary movement and indrawn breath. Edwards looked up from his notes. ‘Why should they think they need legal help? This sounds promising.’

Harrison waited until the stir died away. ‘I see we are greatly endowed with legal aid. I must therefore warn the legal gentlemen present that this is not a Court of Law. It is a Commission of Inquiry which is empowered to make its own rules of procedure. Evidence will be heard here which would not necessarily be admissible before a Court of Law. The object of this Commission is to find the truth of what happened during the events which led up to the avalanche at Hukahoronui, during the avalanche itself, and what happened afterwards.’

He leaned back in his chair. ‘Adversary tactics, such as are common in law courts, will be frowned upon here. We wish to find the truth unimpeded by legal technicalities, and the reason we wish to find the truth is to make certain that such a disaster does not happen again. The force of this consideration is so great that the Commission hereby rules that any evidence given here may not be used in any future legal action other than criminal which may eventuate as a result of the avalanche at Hukahoronui. The protection of lives in the future is of more importance than the punishment of those who may be felt to be guilty of acts of omission or commission arising out of the disaster. The Commission is legally empowered to make such a ruling and I hereby do so.’

Gunn hastily rose to his feet. ‘Mr Chairman; do you not think that is an arbitrary decision? There will be matters of compensation arising. If interested parties are denied the use of evidence in a future legal action, surely an injustice will be done.’

‘Mr Gunn, I have no doubt that the government will appoint an arbitrator who will study the findings of this Commission and make the necessary dispositions. Does that satisfy you?’

Gunn bobbed his head, a pleased expression on his face. ‘Indeed it does, Mr Chairman.’

Dalwood murmured to Edwards, ‘No wonder he’s pleased. It’s all going to happen here — a bloody drumhead courtmartial with no holds barred.’

Edwards grunted. ‘He’ll not get much past old Harrison.’

‘And now we come to the question of witnesses. Some citizens have come forward voluntarily to give evidence here, others have been subpoena’d by one or more of the interested parties.’ Harrison frowned. ‘I, and my fellow members on the Commission, have been much exercised as to how the evidence should be taken, and we have decided that it shall be taken in chronological order, insofar as that is possible. Because of this, any person giving evidence may be asked to step down before his evidence is wholly completed if we find it necessary to do some filling in. It follows, then, that all witnesses should hold themselves in readiness at all times during the sitting of the Commission.’

‘Mr Chairman!’

Rickman was on his feet. Harrison said, ‘Yes, Mr Rickman?’

‘Such a condition is likely to be onerous on certain of the witnesses. Some of them are busy men with duties which lie outside this room. This is likely to be a long inquiry and I do not feel that such a condition is entirely fair.’

‘When you refer to certain of the witnesses can I take it that you refer to Mr Ballard?’ asked Harrison drily.

‘Mr Ballard is one such witness,’ conceded Rickman. ‘Out of consideration for him it would be better if he could give his evidence and retire.’

‘Is Mr Ballard a citizen of New Zealand?’

‘No, Mr Chairman; he is a United Kingdom subject.’

‘And would his retirement from this hall be as far away as England?’

Rickman bent down and spoke quietly to Ballard who replied in equally low tones. Rickman straightened. ‘It is true that there are certain matters in the United Kingdom which urgently require Mr Ballard’s attention.’

Harrison’s voice was cold. ‘If I thought it was Mr Ballard’s intention to leave New Zealand during the sitting of this Commission I would ask the relevant authority to relieve him of his passport. This inquiry is a serious matter, Mr Rickman.’

‘I am sure it is not Mr Ballard’s intention to flout the authority of the Commissioners,’ said Rickman hastily. He bent down again and spoke to Ballard, then he rose and said, ‘Mr Ballard has no intention of leaving New Zealand at the present time.’

‘I would prefer to hear that from Mr Ballard.’ Harrison leaned forward. ‘Is that correct, Mr Ballard?’

Ballard stood, and said in a low voice. ‘That is correct, sir. My time is at the disposal of the Commissioners.’

‘In that case you will have no objection to attending this inquiry with the rest of the witnesses. Thank you.’

In the Press gallery Edwards said, ‘My God! Whoever Rickman is representing, he’s not representing Ballard. He set him up just to knock him down.’

Harrison said, ‘This inquiry will not have the formality of a law court, but neither will it be a free-for-all. Representatives of the interested parties may address the witnesses at the discretion of the Chairman. It will not be necessary to disturb the sacro-iliac by standing each time — a mere raising of the hand will suffice. The assessors may question the witnesses in their respective fields of expertise.’

He put his hands together. ‘Since we are gathering information in chronological order it becomes necessary to decide at which point of time to begin. From depositions laid before the Commission I gather that it was the appearance of Mr Ballard in Hukahoronui which led to a series of events which may — or may not — have relevance to the disaster which took place some weeks later. That is for this inquiry to decide. Be that as it may, I think the first witness should be Mr Ballard.’

Reed, the secretary, said, ‘Will you come forward, Mr Ballard, and sit down there?’ He indicated an ornately carved chair a little to the right of the rostrum. He waited until Ballard was seated, then said, ‘Your name is Ian Dacre Ballard?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And you are managing director of the Hukahoronui Mining Company, Proprietary, Limited?’

‘No, sir.’

A hum as of a disturbed hive of bees filled the air. Harrison waited until it had died away, then said quietly, ‘All present will be silent during the questioning of witnesses.’ He leaned forward. ‘Thank you, Mr Reed; I’ll take it from here. Mr Ballard, at the time of the avalanche were you managing director of the company?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Can you give me a reason why you are no longer in that position?’

Ballard’s voice was colourless. ‘I was suspended from my duties a fortnight after the disaster.’

‘I see.’ Harrison’s eyes flicked sideways as he saw a hand raised. ‘Yes, Mr Gunn?’

‘Can the witness tell us who owns the Hukahoronui Mining Company?’

Harrison nodded to Ballard, who said, ‘It’s a wholly-owned subsidiary of New Zealand Mineral Holdings, Limited.’

‘And that company is just a shell instituted for legal and financial reasons, is it not? Who owns it?’

‘It is owned substantially by the International Mining Investment Corporation.’

‘And who has the controlling interest in the International Mining Investment Corporation?’

‘Mr Chairman!’ Rickman said sharply. ‘Is there provision in your procedure for objections?’

‘Of course, Mr Rickman. What is your objection?’

‘I cannot see what this line of questioning has to do with an avalanche on a hillside.’

‘Neither can I,’ said Harrison. ‘But no doubt Mr Gunn can make it clear.’

‘I think the answer to my last question will make it quite clear,’ said Gunn. ‘I asked who owns the controlling interest in the International Mining Investment Corporation.’

Ballard raised his head and said clearly, ‘Ballard Holdings, Limited, registered in the City of London.’

Gunn smiled. ‘Thank you.’

‘Well, well!’ said Edwards, scribbling rapidly. ‘So he’s one of those Ballards.’

Dalwood chuckled. ‘And Gunn is gunning for Rickman. Up the workers and down with international capital. He smells money.’

Harrison tapped lightly with his gavel and the hall became quiet again. ‘Mr Ballard, do you own shares — or any interest whatever — in Ballard Holdings? Or in any of the companies mentioned?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Does any of your family own any such interest?’

‘Yes; my three uncles and some of my cousins.’

‘Not your father?’

‘He is dead.’

‘How did you come to be appointed managing director of the Hukahoronui Mining Company?’

Ballard shrugged. ‘The company is an old family concern and I suppose that...’

‘Can the witness describe his qualifications for the position?’

Harrison jerked his head around to identify the source of the interruption. ‘You will oblige me by not calling out in this hall, Mr Lyall. Further, you must not interrupt a witness.’ In a milder voice he said, ‘However, the question is relevant and the witness will answer.’

‘I have a degree in mining engineering from Birmingham University. I have done post-graduate studies in South Africa and the United States.’

Lyall had his arm firmly in the air by this time. ‘But no practical experience as a mining engineer?’

Pink spots glowed in Ballard’s cheeks but he appeared to be in control as he said to Harrison, ‘May I finish answering Mr Lyall’s first question?’

‘Of course.’ Harrison looked at Lyall. ‘Mr Lyall: you will not interrupt the witness, and you will address your questions through me unless I indicate otherwise. Go on, Mr Ballard.’

‘I was about to say that, apart from the engineering studies, I attended the Harvard Business School for two years. As for practical experience as a mining engineer, that would be called for if I professed to be a mining engineer, but as managing director my field was rather that of business administrator.’

‘A valid point,’ said Harrison. ‘A managing director need not have the technical expertise of the men he directs. If it were so a large number of our managing directors would be immediately unemployed — and possibly unemployable.’

He waited until the laughter died away, then said, ‘I do not see the point in further questioning along those lines, Mr Lyall.’ As Lyall’s hand remained obstinately raised, he said, ‘Do you have a further — and different — question?’

‘Yes, Mr Chairman. I am reliably informed that when Mr Ballard appeared in Hukahoronui he was unable to walk except with the aid of a stick. Is this correct?’

‘Is this relevant, Mr Lyall?’

‘I believe so, sir.’

‘Witness will answer the question.’

‘It is correct.’

Lyall, his hand up, remained punctiliously silent until Harrison nodded at him curtly. ‘Can you tell us why?’

‘I broke my leg in a skiing accident in Switzerland.’

‘Thank you, Mr Ballard.’

‘I can’t say that I see the relevance,’ observed Harrison. ‘But no doubt it will appear in time.’

‘It was in an avalanche,’ said Ballard.

There was dead silence in the hall.

Two

Harrison looked across at Lyall. ‘The significance still escapes me,’ he said. ‘And since Mr Lyall does not see fit to pursue the subject I think we should carry on. Mr Ballard, when did you arrive in Hukahoronui?’

‘On the sixth of June — six weeks before the avalanche.’

‘So you had not been there very long. Was Hukahoronui what you expected?’

Ballard frowned in thought. ‘The thing that struck me most was how much it had changed.’

Harrison’s eyebrows rose. ‘Changed! Then you had been here before?’

‘I lived there for fifteen years — from infancy until just after my sixteenth birthday.’

Harrison made a note. ‘Go on, Mr Ballard. How had Hukahoronui changed?’

‘It was bigger. The mine was new, of course, but there were more houses — a lot more houses.’ He paused. ‘There was a lot more snow than I seem to remember from my childhood.’

Professor Rolandson of the DSIR said, ‘It is a matter of record that the snow precipitation in the Southern Alps was exceptionally high this past winter.’

Ballard had been depressed as he drove west from Christchurch in a company Land-Rover. He was going back to his origins, to Hukahoronui which lies in an outrider of the Two Thumbs Range, and which he had never expected to see again.

Hukahoronui.

A deep valley in the mountains entered by a narrow rock-split gap and graced with stands of tall trees on the valley slopes. A river runs through, cold from the ice water of the high peaks, and there is a scattering of houses up the valley, loosely centred about a church, a general store and a village school. His mother had once been the schoolteacher.

He hated the place.

It was a bad place to get to in thick snow. There had been heavy snowfalls and even with snow tyres and four-wheel drive Ballard found the going tricky. As far as he could remember there had not been a snow like that in those parts since 1943, but of that his memory was understandably hazy — he had been four years old at the time. But he had particular reasons for remembering the heavy snow of that year.

After a lot of low gear work he eventually reached the Gap and he pulled off the road on to a piece of level ground overlooking the river gorge where he contemplated Hukahoronui.

It had certainly changed, just as old Ben said it had. In the distance was a little township where no township had been. On one side, under the western slope of the valley, was a cluster of industrial buildings, presumably the milling works and refinery belonging to the mine. A streamer of black smoke coming from a tall chimney was like a stain against the white hillside beyond.

The township spread along the valley floor with most of the houses to the west of the river which had been bridged. The valley people had talked inconclusively for years about putting a bridge across the river, and now it had been done at last under the prodding thrust of an affluent economy. That was probably to be chalked up on the credit side; you had to pay the price of the mine to get the bridge.

Beyond the township there did not seem to be much change. In the far distance Ballard saw Turi’s house beneath the great rock called Kamakamaru. He wondered if the old man was still alive or whether the smoke coming from that distant chimney rose from the fireside of another. Turi had been an old man even when Ballard left the valley, although age in a Maori is difficult to estimate, especially for a youth of sixteen. At sixteen anyone over forty is verging on decrepitude.

But there was something else about the valley that was strange and Ballard was puzzled to determine what it was. A change had occurred which had nothing to do with the mine or the new town and he tried to match up sixteen-year-old memories with the actuality before him. It was nothing to do with the river; that still ran the same course, or seemed to.

And then he found the change. The hill slope on the western side was now almost completely treeless. Gone were the stands of tall white pine and cedar, of kahikatea and kohekohe — the hillside had been stripped almost completely bare. Ballard looked up at the higher slopes of the mountain to where the snows stretched right up to the base of the crags in one smooth and beautiful sweep. It looked good for skiing.

He switched on the engine and went on down into the new town. As he approached he was impressed by the way it had been laid out. Although much detail was blanketed by snow he could see the areas which, in summer, would be pleasant open gardens and there was a children’s playground, the swings and slides, the seesaws and the jungle gym, now white-mantled and stalactited with icicles and out of use.

Although the house roofs were heavily laden with snow the road was quite clear and had apparently been swept recently. Coming into the town centre he came across a bulldozer clearing the road with dropped blade. There was a name on its side: HUKAHORONUI MINING CO. (PTY) LTD. It seemed as though the mine management took an interest in municipal affairs. He approved.

There were houses built along the bluff that projected into the river; when Ballard was a child that was called the Big Bend and that was where they had their swimming hole. Peterson’s store used to be at the base of the bluff, and so it still was, although it took him a long time to recognize it. In his day it had been single-storey with a corrugated iron roof, a low building with spreading eaves which protected against the summer sun. There used to be chairs on the veranda and it was a favourite place for gossip. Now it was two-storey with a false façade to make it look even larger, and there were big plate-glass windows brightly lit. The veranda had gone.

He pulled the Land-Rover into a designated parking place and sourly wondered when parking meters would be installed. The sun was setting behind the western slopes of the valley and already the long shadows were creeping across the town. That was one of the drawbacks of Hukahoronui; in a narrow valley set north and south nightfall comes early.

Across the street was a still-raw building of unmellowed concrete calling itself the Hotel D’Archiac — a name stolen from a mountain. The street was reasonably busy; private cars and industrial trucks passed by regularly, and women with shopping bags hurried before the shops closed. At one time Peterson’s had been the only store, but from where he sat in the car Ballard could see three more shops, and there was a service station on the corner. Lights glowed in the windows of the old school which had sprouted two new wings.

Ballard reached for the blackthorn stick which was on the back seat and then got out of the car. He crossed the road towards the hotel leaning heavily on the stick because he still could not bear to put too much weight on his left leg. He supposed that Dobbs, the mine manager, would have accommodated him, but it was late in the day and he did not want to cause undue disturbance so he was 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:

Three

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, sir; I’m a Canadian citizen.’

‘I see. It is very public-spirited of you to volunteer to stay and give evidence.’

McGill smiled. ‘No trouble at all, sir. I have to be here in Christchurch in any case. I leave for the Antarctic next month. As you may know, the Operation Deep Freeze flights leave from here.’

Professor Rolandson stirred. ‘You’re going to the Antarctic and your name is McGill! Would you be the Dr McGill who wrote a paper on stress and deformation in snow slopes which appeared in the last issue of the Antarctic Journal?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Rolandson turned to Harrison. ‘I think we are fortunate in having Dr McGill with us. I have read many of his papers and his qualifications as an expert witness are unimpeachable.’

‘Yes, indeed.’ Harrison waggled an eyebrow. ‘But I think his qualifications should be read into the record. Will you tell us something about yourself, Dr McGill?’

‘I’d be glad to.’ McGill paused, marshalling his thoughts. ‘I took a B.Sc. in physics at the University of Vancouver and then spent two years with the Canadian DSIR in British Columbia. From there I went to the United States — M.Sc. 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 going to be restricted,’ said Dobbs.

‘I don’t think we’ll make a profit this half year,’ said Ballard.

‘Mike, here, says things will get worse, and he ought to know — he’s a snow expert.’

‘Don’t take that as gospel,’ protested McGill. ‘I’ve been known to be wrong.’ He looked through the window. ‘Is that the mine entrance?’

Cameron followed his gaze. ‘Yes, that’s the portal. Most people think of a mine as having a vertical shaft, but we just drove an adit into the mountainside. It slopes down inside, of course, as we follow the reef.’

‘It reminds me of a place in British Columbia called Granduc.’ McGill slanted his eyes at Cameron. ‘Know it?’

Cameron shook his head. ‘Never heard of it.’

McGill looked oddly disappointed.

Dobbs was saying, ‘... and Arthur’s Pass was closed for twelve hours yesterday, and the Haast has been closed since Tuesday. I haven’t heard about Lewis Pass.’

‘What have those passes to do with us?’ asked Ballard. ‘Our supplies come from Christchurch and don’t cross the mountains at all.’

‘They’re the main passes across the Southern Alps,’ said Dobbs. ‘If the government can’t keep them open, then what chance do we have? They’ll be using every machine they’ve got, and no one is going to send a snow plough to clear a way to Hukahoronui — it’s a dead end.’

‘We’ll just have to do the best we can, Mr Dobbs.’ Ballard jerked his head at McGill. ‘Let’s get you settled in, Mike.’

McGill nodded and said to the room at large, ‘Nice to have met you.’

‘We’ll have to get together,’ said Cameron. ‘Come over to my place and have dinner some time. My daughter’s a great cook.’

Dobbs said nothing.

They went into the outer office. ‘Betty will show you where the house is. The bedroom on the left at the back is yours. I won’t be more than an hour.’

‘Take your time,’ said McGill.

It was nearly three hours later when Ballard turned up and by that time McGill had unpacked, taken a walk around town which did not take long, and returned to the house to make an urgent telephone call.

When Ballard came into the house he looked tired and depressed. When he saw McGill he winced as recollection came back. ‘Oh hell! I forgot to tell Mrs Evans we were coming back. There’s no grub ready.’

‘Relax,’ said McGill. ‘There’s something in the oven — McGill’s Antarctic Burgoo, as served in all the best restaurants south of latitude sixty. We’ll eat well.’

Ballard sighed in relief. ‘I thought we’d have to eat in the hotel. I’m not too popular there.’

McGill let that pass. ‘There’s just one thing I can’t find — your booze.’

Ballard grinned. ‘Come on.’

They went into the living-room, and McGill said, ‘I used your phone. I hope you don’t mind.’

‘Be my guest.’ Ballard opened a cupboard and took out a bottle and two glasses.

‘You get your supplies from Christchurch. I know you’re tight for space but is there a chance of getting a parcel in for me?’

‘How big?’ McGill made sketching motions with his hands, and Ballard said, ‘Is that all? We can do that.’ He checked his watch. ‘That truck Cameron had trouble with is leaving Christchurch with a load. I might be able to catch it before it leaves.’

He crossed the room and picked up the telephone. ‘Hello, Maureen. Ian Ballard here. Can you get me the Christchurch office?’

‘I had a look round town,’ said McGill. ‘It looks mostly new.’

‘It is. When I lived here it was a tenth of the size.’

‘Nicely laid out, too. Is most of it mine property?’

‘A lot of it. Houses for the married couples and single quarters and a club house for the bachelors. This is a mine house. My predecessor lived in one of the old houses but I prefer this one. I like to be on the spot.’

‘How many mine employees?’

‘At the last count it was a hundred and four — including office staff.’

‘And the total population?’

‘A bit over eight hundred, I’d say. The mine brought a fair amount of prosperity.’

‘That’s about what I figured,’ said McGill.

An electronic voice crackled in Ballard’s ear, and he said, ‘This is Ballard at the mine. Has Sam Jeffries left yet? Put him on will you?’ There was a pause. ‘Sam, Dr McGill wants to talk to you — hold on.’

McGill took the telephone. ‘McGill here. Do you know where Advanced Headquarters for Operation Deep Freeze is? Yes... near Harewood Airport. Go to the Headquarters Building and find Chief Petty Officer Finney... yes, finney as in fish... ask him to give you the parcel for me... McGill. Right.’

‘What was all that about?’ asked Ballard.

McGill took the drink which Ballard offered. ‘I just thought I’d keep myself occupied while I’m here.’ He changed the subject. ‘What’s with your Mr Dobbs? He looks as though he’s swallowed a lemon.’

Ballard smiled wearily and sat down. ‘He has a chip on his shoulder. He reckons he should have been put on the board of directors and have my job, instead of which he got me. To make it worse, my name is Ballard.’

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘Don’t you know? If you trace things back far enough the whole mine is owned by the Ballard family.’

McGill spluttered into his drink. ‘Well, I’ll be goddamned! I’ve been hobnobbing with the plutocratic capitalists and never knew it. There’s a name for that kind of thing — nepotism. No wonder Dobbs is acid.’

‘If it’s nepotism it isn’t doing me any good,’ said Ballard. There was a touch of savagery in his voice. ‘I don’t have a penny except my director’s fees.’

‘No shares in the company?’

‘No shares in this or any other Ballard company — but tell that to Dobbs and he wouldn’t believe you. I haven’t even tried.’

McGill’s voice was soft. ‘What’s the matter, Ian? Come from the wrong side of the family?’

‘Not really.’ Ballard got up to pour himself another drink. ‘I have a grandfather who’s an egotistical old monster and I had a father who wouldn’t co-operate. Dad told the old boy to go to hell and he’s never forgotten it.’

‘The sins of the fathers are visited on the children,’ said McGill thoughtfully. ‘And yet you’re employed by a Ballard company. There must be something there somewhere.’

‘They don’t pay me any more than I’m worth — they get value for money.’ Ballard sighed. ‘But God, I could run the company better than it’s run now.’ He waved his glass. ‘I don’t mean this mine, this is a piddling little affair.’

‘You call a two million pound company a piddling affair!’ said McGill in wonder.

‘I once worked it out. The Ballards control companies with a capital value of two hundred and twenty million pounds. The Ballards’ own shareholdings are about forty-two million pounds. That was a few years ago, though.’

‘Jesus!’ said McGill involuntarily.

‘I have three rapacious old vultures who call themselves my uncles and half a dozen cousins who follow the breed. They’re only interested in loot and between them they’re running the show into the ground. They’re great ones for merging and asset-stripping, and they squeeze every penny until it hurts. Take this mine. Up in Auckland I have a Comptroller of Accounts who reports to London, and I can’t sign a cheque for more than a thousand dollars without his say-so. And I’m supposed to be in charge.’

He breathed heavily. ‘When I came here I went underground and that night I prayed we wouldn’t have a visit from the Inspector of Mines before I had time to straighten things out.’

‘Had someone been cutting corners?’

Ballard shrugged. ‘Fisher, the last managing director, was an old fool and not up to the job. I doubt any criminal intent, but negligence combined with parsimony has led to a situation in which the company could find itself in serious trouble. I have a mine manager who can’t make decisions and wants his hand held all the time, and I have a mine engineer who is past it. Oh, Cameron’s all right, I suppose, but he’s old and he’s running scared.’

‘You’ve got yourself a packet of trouble,’ said McGill.

Ballard snorted. ‘You don’t know the half of it. I haven’t said anything about the unions yet, not to mention the attitude of some of the town people.’

‘You sound as though you earn your pay. But why the hell stick to a Ballard company if you feel like this?’

‘Oh, I don’t know — some remnants of family loyalty, I suppose,’ said Ballard tiredly. ‘After all, my grandfather did pay for my education, and quite extensive it was. I suppose I owe him something for that.’

McGill noted Ballard’s evident depression and tiredness and decided to change the subject. ‘Let’s eat, and I’ll tell you about the ice worms in Alaska.’ He plunged into an improbable story.

Four

The next morning was bright and sunny and the snow, which had been falling all night, had stopped, leaving the world freshly minted. When Ballard got up, heavy-eyed and unrested, he found Mrs Evans in the kitchen cooking breakfast. She scolded him. ‘You should have let me know when you were coming back. I only learned by chance from Betty Hargreaves last night.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I forgot. Are you cooking for three?’ Mrs Evans usually ate breakfast with him; it was a democratic society.

‘I am. Your friend has gone out already, but he’ll be back for a late breakfast.’

Ballard consulted his watch to discover that he had overslept by more than an hour. ‘Give me ten minutes.’

When he had showered and dressed he felt better and found McGill in the living-room unwrapping a large parcel. ‘It came,’ said McGill. ‘Your truck got through.’

Ballard looked at what was revealed; it was a backpack which appeared to contain nothing but sections of aluminium tubing each nestling in an individual canvas pocket. ‘What’s that?’

‘The tools of my trade,’ said McGill. Mrs Evans called, and he added, ‘Let’s eat; I’m hungry.’

Ballard toyed with his breakfast while McGill wolfed down a plateful of bacon and eggs, and pleased Mrs Evans by asking for more. While she was out of the room he said, ‘You asked me here for the skiing, and there’s no time like the present. How’s your leg?’

Ballard shook his head. ‘The leg is all right, but sorry, Mike — not today. I’m a working man.’

‘You’d better come.’ Something in McGill’s tone made Ballard look at him sharply. McGill’s face was serious. ‘You’d better come and see what I’m doing. I want an independent witness.’

‘A witness to what?’

‘To whatever it is I find.’

‘And what will that be?’

‘How do I know until I find it?’ He stared at Ballard. ‘I’m serious, Ian. You know what my job is. I’m going to make a professional investigation. You’re the boss man of the mine and you couldn’t make a better witness. You’ve got authority.’

‘For God’s sake!’ said Ballard. ‘Authority to do what?’

‘To close down the mine if need be, but that depends on what I find, and I won’t know that until I look, will I?’ As Ballard’s jaw dropped McGill said, ‘I couldn’t believe my eyes at what I saw yesterday. It looked like a recipe for instant disaster, and I spent a damned uneasy night. I won’t be happy until I take a look.’

‘Where?’

McGill got to his feet and walked to the window. ‘Come here.’ He pointed at the steep slope above the mine. ‘Up there.’

Ballard looked at the long curve, blinding white in the sunlight. ‘You think...’ His voice tailed away.

‘I think nothing until I get evidence one way or the other,’ said McGill sharply. ‘I’m a scientist, not a soothsayer.’ He shook his head warningly as Mrs Evans came in with a fresh plate of bacon and eggs. ‘Finish your breakfast.’

As they sat down he said, ‘I suppose you can find me a pair of skis.’

Ballard nodded, his mind busy with the implications of what McGill had said — or had not said. McGill dug into his second plateful of breakfast. ‘Then we go skiing,’ he said lightly.

Two hours later they were nearly three thousand feet above the mine and half way up the slope. They had not talked much and when Ballard had tried McGill advised him to save his breath for climbing. But now they stopped and McGill unslung the backpack, dropping one of the straps over a ski-stick rammed firmly into the snow.

He took off his skis and stuck them vertically into the snow up-slope of where he was standing. ‘Another safety measure,’ he said conversationally. ‘If there’s a slide then the skis will tell someone that we’ve been swept away. And that’s why you don’t take off your Oertel cord.’

Ballard leaned on his sticks. ‘The last time you talked about avalanches I was in one.’

McGill grinned. ‘Don’t fool yourself. You were in a little trickle — a mere hundred feet.’ He pointed down the mountainside. ‘If this lot goes it’ll be quite different.’

Ballard felt uneasy. ‘You’re not really expecting an avalanche?’

McGill shook his head. ‘Not right now.’ He bent down to the backpack. ‘I’m going to do a little gentle thumping and you can help me to do it. Take off your skis.’

He began to take aluminium tubing from the pack and to assemble it into some kind of a gadget. ‘This is a penetrometer — an updating of the Haefeli design. It’s a sort of pocket pile-driver — it measures the resistance of the snow. It also gives us a core, and temperature readings at ten-centimetre intervals. All the data for a snow profile.’

Ballard helped him set it up although he suspected that McGill could have done the job just as handily without him. There was a sliding weight which dropped down a narrow rod a known distance before hitting the top of the aluminium tube and thus driving it into the snow. Each time the weight dropped McGill noted the distance of penetration and recorded it in a notebook.

They thumped with the weight, adding lengths of tubing as necessary, and hit bottom at 158 centimetres — about five feet.

‘There’s a bit of a hard layer somewhere in the middle,’ said McGill, taking an electric plug from the pack. He made a connection in the top of the tubing and plugged the other end into a box with a dial on it. ‘Make a note of these temperatures; there’ll be fifteen readings.’

As Ballard took the last reading he said, ‘How do we get it out?’

‘We have a tripod and a miniature block and tackle.’ McGill grinned. ‘I think they pinched this bit from an oil rig.’

He erected the tripod and started to haul out the tube. As the first section came free he disconnected it carefully and then took a knife and sliced through the ice in the tube. The sections were two feet long and the three of them were soon out. McGill put the tubes back into the pack, complete with the snow cores they contained. ‘We’ll have a look at those back at the house.’

Ballard squatted on his heels and looked across the valley. ‘What now?’

‘Now we do another, and another, and another, and another in a line diagonally down the slope. I’d like to do more but that’s all the core tubing I have.’

They had just finished the fourth trial boring when McGill looked up the slope. ‘We have company.’

Ballard 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?’

‘A lot of places. All over the world.’

‘Sit down,’ said Turi. ‘Tell me about it.’

‘Tell me about yourself first. Did that beautiful young lady call you “Grandpa”?’

‘I am a grandfather five times now.’ Turi’s shoulders shook. ‘My sons are men and all married. Both my daughters are mothers.’

‘Tawhaki,’ said Ballard. ‘How is Tawhaki?’ He had been Ballard’s playmate as a child and a constant companion as he grew older.

‘He does well,’ said Turi. ‘He went to the University of Otago and took a good degree.’

‘In what?’

Turi laughed. ‘In economics. Imagine a Maori knowing about economics. He has a post in the Department of Finance in Auckland. I don’t see him often.’

‘You must give me his address. I’ll look him up when next I’m in Auckland.’ Ballard saw Turi regarding McGill with interest. ‘Mike, here, is very interested in snow. He’s so interested he’s going to Antarctica later in the year.’

Turi’s seamed face broke into a grim smile. ‘Then there’s something for you here, Mike. We have a lot of snow; more than I can remember since 1943.’

‘So I’ve seen.’

Ballard went to the window. On the other side of the valley the cedar branches drooped heavily under the weight of snow. He turned, and said, ‘What happened to the trees on the west slope, Turi?’

‘Above the mine?’

‘Yes,’ said Ballard. ‘That slope has been stripped.’

McGill became alert. ‘The slope used to be timbered?’

Turi nodded and then shrugged. ‘When they put in the mine they wanted props. Kahikatea make good mine props.’ He looked up. ‘The Petersons own that land; they made a good profit.’

‘I bet they did,’ said Ballard.

‘Your mother shouldn’t have sold it to them.’ Turi clasped his hands. ‘Then they blasted out the stumps and put the land down to grass for hay. They run cattle on the river flats; Herefords for beef and a few dairy cows. That’s also become profitable now the town has grown.’

Ballard said, ‘Didn’t anybody think of what would happen when the snow came?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Turi. ‘I did.’

‘Didn’t you say anything? Didn’t you object when they put up the mine building? When they built the township?’

‘I objected. I objected very loudly. But the Petersons were louder. Who would listen to an old man?’ His lips twisted. ‘Especially one with a brown skin.’

Ballard snorted and looked at McGill who said slowly, ‘The stupid bastards! The stupid, greedy bastards!’ He looked about the room and then at Turi. ‘When did you come to the valley, Mr Buck?’

‘My name is Turi, and I was born here.’ He smiled. ‘New Year’s Day, 1900. I’m as old as the century.’

‘Who built the house?’

‘My father built it in about 1880, I think. It was built on the site of my grandfather’s house.’

‘And when was that built?’

Turi shrugged. ‘I don’t know. My people have lived here a long time.’

McGill nodded. ‘Did your father give any reason for building on the same site? Under this big rock?’

Turi answered obliquely. ‘He said that anyone building in Hukahoronui must take precautions.’

‘He knew what he was talking about.’ McGill turned to Ballard. ‘I’d like to test those samples pretty quickly. And I’d like to come back to talk to you, Turi, if I may?’

‘You must both come back. Come to supper and meet a couple of my grandchildren.’

As Turi accompanied them to the door Ballard said, ‘You don’t think much of the mine, do you, Turi?’

‘Too many changes,’ he said, and shook his head wryly. ‘We now have a supermarket.’

‘You know I’m in charge of the mine now — and I don’t like it much, either. But I think my reasons are different. You’re going to see more changes, Turi, but these I think you’ll like.’

Turi thumped him gently on the arm. ‘He tamariki koe? You’re a man now, Ian; a real man.’

‘Yes,’ said Ballard. ‘I’ve grown up. Thanks, Turi.’

Turi watched them put on their skis and, as they traversed the slope which led away from the house, he waved and called, ‘Haere ra!’

Ballard looked back over his shoulder. ‘Haere ra!’ They headed back to the mine.

Five

The late afternoon sun poured through the windows of the hall, rendered multi-coloured by the stained glass. Patches of colour lay across the tables; the carafe of water in front of Ballard looked as though it was filled with blood.

Dan Edwards loosened his tie and wished he could have a cold beer. ‘They’ll be adjourning pretty soon,’ he said to Dalwood. ‘I wish old Harrison would get a bloody move on. All this talk of snow doesn’t make me feel any cooler.’

Harrison poured himself a glass of water and sipped. He set down the glass, and said, ‘So you took samples of the snow cover on the western slope in the presence of Mr Ballard. What were your findings?’

McGill unzipped the leather satchel and took out a sheaf of papers. ‘I have written an entire report on the events that occurred at Hukahoronui — from the technical side, of course. I submit the report to the Commission.’ He gave the report to Reed who passed it up to Harrison. ‘Part One consists of my findings on the first series of snow profiles which was submitted to the mine management and, later, to the municipal authorities of Hukahoronui.’

Harrison flipped through the pages and frowned, then he passed the papers to Professor Rolandson. They conferred for a moment in low voices, then Harrison said, ‘This is all very well, Dr McGill; but your report appears to be highly technical and contains more mathematical formulae than the majority of us are accustomed to. After all, this is a public hearing. Could you not describe your findings in a language that can be understood by others apart from yourself and Professor Rolandson?’

‘Of course,’ said McGill. ‘Indeed, I did so to the people in Hukahoronui.’

‘You may proceed; and you may expect to be questioned — in the interests of clarity — by Professor Rolandson.’

McGill clasped his hands in front of him. ‘Snow is not so much a substance as a process; it changes in time. It begins with a snowflake falling to earth and becoming part of the general snow cover. It is a six-sided crystal and not very stable, and sublimation begins — a sort of evaporation. Eventually the crystal becomes a small, rounded granule. This is called destructive metamorphism and results in a higher density because the air is squeezed out. At the same time, because of the evaporative process, there is water vapour in the snow mass and, due to the low temperature, the separate granules tend to bond together by freezing.’

‘This bond is not particularly strong, is it?’ asked Rolandson.

‘The bond is not strong, when compared with other materials.’ Rolandson nodded and McGill went on. ‘The next thing to take into account is the temperature through the snow cover. It’s not constant — it’s warmer at the bottom than the top, thus forming a temperature gradient. If you look at Graph One you will find the temperature gradient of those first five samples.’

Rolandson flipped pages. ‘Not a very steep gradient — not more than two degrees.’

‘It’s enough for the next stage in the process. There is still a lot of air in the snow cover and the relatively warm air at the bottom begins to rise carrying water vapour with it. The vapour precipitates on the colder granules above. There is now a building process at work which is called constructive metamorphism, and a new kind of crystal begins to form — a cup crystal.’

‘Could you describe a cup crystal, Dr McGill?’

‘It’s a conical shape with a hollow in the blunt end — the cup.’

‘And how large is a cup crystal?’

‘A well-developed crystal may run to half an inch long, but you can take a quarter-inch as average.’ McGill paused, and when Rolandson remained silent, he said, ‘Graph Two shows the penetrometer readings — that is the resistance of the snow to stress.’

Rolandson studied it. ‘This is the resistance in kilograms plotted against depth?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘There’s a discontinuity half way down on all five samples.’

‘Yes, sir; that’s a layer of surface hoar.’

Harrison interrupted. ‘If it is not on the surface how can it be described as surface hoar?’

‘It was on the surface. When the surface of the snow is colder than the air above it then there is more sublimation of water vapour — something like the condensation on the outside of a glass of cold beer.’ (In the Press gallery Dan Edwards sighed in anguish and licked his lips.) ‘In this case I should imagine it happened on a clear and cloudless night when there would be a lot of outgoing radiation. Then the hoar, or frost, would form on the surface producing flat plates of thin ice.’

Again Harrison brought up the objection. ‘But this discontinuity, as Professor Rolandson calls it, is not on the surface.’

‘No,’ agreed McGill. ‘Normally, when the sun hits it in the morning it disappears. In this case, I imagine that clouds came over before sunrise and it began to snow again quite heavily. The layer of hoar was covered and preserved.’

‘With what significance?’ queried Rolandson.

‘Several things could happen. The layer is quite hard, as you can see from the penetrometer readings. It is also quite smooth and could form a sliding surface for the snow above it.’ McGill extended two fingers. ‘Secondly, a layer of hoar is formed of flat plates of ice fused together — that is, it is relatively impermeable to air. This means that the most likely place for cup crystals to form would be just under the hoar layer.’

‘You emphasize cup crystals. In what way are they dangerous?’

‘They are dangerous because of their rounded shape and because there is very little bonding between one crystal and another.’ McGill tugged at his ear. ‘As a very rough analogy I would suggest that it would be very difficult for a man to walk on a floor loosely packed with billiard balls. It’s that kind of instability.’

‘Was there any evidence of cup crystals forming at this time?’

‘They had begun to form in sample one, the highest up the slope. I had reason to believe that the process would continue which would result in a marked decline in stability.’

‘Go on, Dr McGill.’

McGill put up a third finger. ‘Three, the weather forecast at the time indicated more snow — more weight — on that slope.’ He dropped his hand. ‘All things considered I came to the conclusion that the snow cover on the western slope of the valley of Hukahoronui was relatively unstable and thus formed a potential avalanche hazard. I so informed the mine management.’

‘You mean Mr Ballard?’ asked Harrison.

‘Present at the meeting were Mr Ballard; Mr Dobbs, the mine manager; Mr Cameron, the mine engineer; Mr Quentin, the union representative.’

‘And you were present during the whole of that meeting?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then I think we can take your evidence as best evidence of what occurred at the meeting, subject to later appraisal. However, the time has come to adjourn for today. We will gather here at ten in the morning when you, Dr McGill, will again be a witness. The hearing is adjourned.’

Six

The participants of the hearing flooded on to the pavement of Armagh Street and began to disperse. Dan Edwards, heading rapidly beerwards, stopped when Dalwood said, ‘Who is the tall redhead talking to Ballard? The girl with the dog.’

Edwards craned his neck. ‘Good God! Now what the hell goes on there?’

‘Who is she?’

‘Liz Peterson, the sister of Charlie and Eric.’

Dalwood watched Ballard pat the Alsatian and smile at the girl warmly. ‘They seem on good terms.’

‘Yes — bloody funny, isn’t it? Charlie has got his knife so deep into Ballard that he’s in blood up to his armpit. I wonder if he knows Liz is fraternizing with the enemy?’

‘We’ll soon know,’ said Dalwood. ‘Here come Charlie and Eric now.’

The two men came out of the building, unsmiling and exchanging monosyllables. Charlie looked up and his face became thunderous. He snapped something at his brother and quickened his pace, elbowing his way through the crowd on the pavement. At that moment a car drew up and Ballard got into it and when Charlie reached his sister Ballard had gone. Charlie spoke to his sister and an argument seemed to develop.

Edwards watched the by-play, and said, ‘If he didn’t know he does now. What’s more, he doesn’t like it.’

‘And the dog doesn’t like Charlie. Look at it.’

The Alsatian’s upper lip was curled back in a snarl and Liz Peterson shortened her grip on the lead and spoke sharply to it.

Edwards sighed. ‘Let’s get that beer. The first one will hiss going down.’

Mike McGill was driving the car. He slanted an eye at Ballard and then returned his attention to the road. ‘Well, what do you think?’

‘Your evidence was good. Very concise.’

‘Rolandson helped; he fed me some good lines. He makes a good straight man to my comedian. You didn’t do too well, though.’

‘I’m doing all right.’

‘Wake up, Ian! That son of a bitch, Rickman, is going to deliver you bound and gagged if you don’t stop him.’

‘Save it, Mike,’ said Ballard shortly. ‘I’m too bloody tired.’

McGill bit his lip and lapsed into silence. After ten minutes he swung off the road and parked in the forecourt of their hotel. ‘You’ll feel better after a cold beer,’ he said. ‘It was goddam hot in that courthouse. Okay?’

‘All right,’ said Ballard listlessly.

They went into the hotel bar and McGill ordered two beers and took them to a discreet table. ‘Here’s mud in your eye.’ He drank and gasped with pleasure. ‘God, how I needed that!’ He replenished his glass. ‘That courthouse is sure some place. Who designed it — Edward the Confessor?’

‘It’s not a courthouse — it’s a sort of provincial House of Parliament. Or it was.’

McGill grinned. ‘The bit I like about it are those pious texts set in the stained glass windows. I wonder who thought those up?’ In the same even tone he said, ‘What did Liz Peterson want?’

‘Just to wish me well.’

‘Did she?’ said McGill sardonically. ‘If she really meant it she’d operate on that brother of hers with a sharp knife.’ He watched the condensation form on the outside of his glass. ‘Come to think of it, a blunt knife might be better. The Peterson lawyer was really sniping at you this morning.’

‘I know.’ Ballard took another draught. It seemed to do him good. ‘It doesn’t matter, Mike. You and I know the evidence is on our side.’

‘You’re wrong,’ said McGill flatly. ‘Evidence is how a lawyer puts it — and talking about lawyers, what about Rickman? You know what he did to you this morning, don’t you? He made it look as though you were trying to renege. Hell, everyone in that hall thought you were trying to slip the country.’

Ballard rubbed his eyes. ‘I said something to Rickman just before the hearing opened, and he got it wrong, that’s all.’

‘That’s all? That’s not all — not by a thousand miles. A smart guy like that doesn’t get things wrong in a courtroom. If he got it wrong then he meant to get it wrong. What did you say to him, anyway?’

Ballard took out his wallet and extracted a piece of paper. ‘I was leaving the hotel this morning when I got this.’ He passed it to McGill. ‘My grandfather’s dead!’

McGill unfolded the cablegram and read it. ‘Ian, I’m sorry; I really am.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘This Harriet — is she your mother?’

‘Yes.’

‘She wants you to go home.’

‘She would,’ said Ballard bitterly.

‘And you showed this to Rickman?’

‘Yes.’

‘And he got up on his hind legs and, by inference, demonstrated that you are a coward. Hell, Ian; he’s not representing you! He’s representing the company.’

‘Six of one and half a dozen of the other.’

McGill regarded Ballard and slowly shook his head. ‘You really believe what the Chairman of the Commission said, don’t you? That all they want is to get at the truth. Well, that may be what Harrison thinks but it’s not what the public want. Fifty-four people died, Ian, and the public want a scapegoat. The President of your company knows...’

‘Chairman.’

McGill waggled his hand. ‘To hell with semantics. The Chairman of your company knows that, too, and he’s making goddam sure the company isn’t the goat. That’s why he’s employed a sharp cookie like Rickman, and if you think Rickman is acting for you then you’re out of your mind. If the company can get out from under by sacrificing you then that’s what they’ll do.’

He thumped the table. ‘I can write the scenario right now. “Mr Ballard is new to the company. Mr Ballard is young and inexperienced. It is only to be expected that so young a man should make unfortunate mistakes. Surely such errors of judgment may be excused in one so inexperienced.”’ McGill leaned back in his chair. ‘By the time Rickman is finished with you he’ll have everyone believing you arranged the goddam avalanche — and the Petersons and that snide lawyer of theirs will fall over themselves to help him.’

Ballard smiled slightly. ‘You have great powers of imagination, Mike.’

‘Oh, what the hell!’ said McGill disgustedly. ‘Let’s have another beer.’

‘My round.’ Ballard got up and went to the bar. When he came back he said, ‘So the old boy’s dead.’ He shook his head. ‘You know, Mike, it hit me harder than I thought it would.’

McGill poured more beer. ‘Judging by the way you talked about him, I’m surprised you feel anything at all.’

‘Oh, he was a cantankerous old devil — stubborn and self-opinionated — but there was something about him...’ Ballard shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’

‘What happens to the parent corporation... what’s it called?’

‘Ballard Holdings.’

‘What happens to Ballard Holdings now he’s dead? Is it up for grabs?’

‘I shouldn’t think so. The old man established a trust or something like that. I never really got the hang of it because I knew I wouldn’t figure in it. I imagine that things will remain pretty stable, with Uncle Bert and Uncle Steve and Uncle Ed running things pretty much as they are now. Which is to say badly.’

‘I don’t see why the shareholders put up with it.’

‘The shareholders don’t have a bloody thing to do with it. Let me tell you a fact of financial life, Mike. You don’t really need fifty-one per cent of the shares of a company to control it. Thirty per cent is enough if the other shares are fragmented into small parcels and if your lawyers and accountants are smart enough.’ Ballard shrugged. ‘In any case, the shareholders aren’t too unhappy; all the Ballard companies make profits, and the kind of people who are buying into Ballard companies these days aren’t the type to inquire too closely into how the profits are made.’

‘Yeah,’ said McGill abstractedly. This was not really of interest to him. He leaned forward and said, ‘Let’s do some strategy planning.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve been figuring how Harrison’s mind works. He’s a very logical guy and that works in our favour. I’m going to give evidence tomorrow about the meeting with the mine management. Why me?’

‘Harrison asked if you’d been present during the entire meeting — and you had. He picked you because you were already on the stand and it was quicker than calling another witness. That’s what I think, anyway.’

McGill looked pleased. ‘That’s what I think, too. Harrison said he’d take evidence in chronological order, and he’s doing just that. Now what happened after the mine meeting?’

‘We had the meeting with the town council.’

‘And what will Harrison ask me?’

‘He’ll ask if you were present during the whole of that meeting — and you’ll have to say no, because you left half way through. So?’

‘So I want to pick the next witness, and knowing how Harrison’s mind works, I think I can swing it.’

‘Who do you want for the next witness?’

‘Turi Buck,’ said McGill. ‘I want to get on record the history of Hukahoronui just to ram things home. I want to get on record the sheer stupidity of that goddam town council.’

Ballard looked broodingly into his glass. ‘I don’t like doing that to Turi. It might hurt.’

‘He wants to do it. He’s already put himself forward as a voluntary witness. He’s staying with his sister here in Christchurch; we’ll pick him up tomorrow morning.’

‘All right.’

‘Now, look, Ian. Turi is an old man and may be likely to become confused under hostile cross-examination. We’ve got to make sure that the right questions are asked in the right order. We’ve got to cover the ground so thoroughly that no one — not Lyall nor Rickman — can find a loophole.’

‘I’ll make out a list of questions for Rickman,’ said Ballard.

McGill rolled his eyes skyward. ‘Can’t you get it into your thick skull that if Rickman questions Turi it will be in a hostile manner.’

Ballard said sharply, ‘Rickman is representing me and he’ll follow my instructions.’

‘And if he doesn’t?’

‘If he doesn’t then I’ll know you’re right — and that will free me completely. We’ll see.’ He drained his glass. ‘I feel sticky; I’m going to have a shower.’

As they left the bar McGill said, ‘About that cablegram. You’re not going back, are you?’

‘You mean running home to Mamma?’ Ballard grinned. ‘Not while Harrison is Chairman of the Commission. I doubt if even my mother could win against Harrison.’

‘Your mother isn’t Jewish, is she?’ asked McGill curiously.

‘No. Why do you ask?’

‘Oh, it’s just that Jewish mothers are popularly supposed to be strong-willed. But I think that your mother could give a Jewish mother points and still win.’

‘It’s not a matter of a strong will,’ said Ballard soberly. ‘It’s just straightforward moral blackmail.’