The Snow Tiger

High on the western slope and deep in the snow layer the processes of disaster were well advanced. Destructive metamorphism had long since ceased and constructive metamorphism was well under way. Air, slightly warmed from the ground, rose upwards through the snow laden with water vapour until it reached the impenetrable layer of hoar frost half way through the snow mass. Here it cooled giving up the vapour to create the tapered cup crystals.

By now the cup crystals were large and well formed, some of them being over half an inch in length.

The heavy snow-fall of the past two days had added an increased weight which, operating vertically through gravity against the cup crystals on the slope, had led to a delicately unstable position. A man may take an orange pip, hold it gently between forefinger and thumb, and squeeze ever so gently — and the orange pip will be propelled with considerable velocity. So it was on the western slope. A heavy-footed hawk alighting on the snow could provide that little extra pressure and set the cup crystals in motion.

Something like that did occur and a small slippage started. It was not very much and could have been spanned by a man with outstretched arms. The new-fallen surface snow, very cold, dry and powdery, was lifted a little by the sudden movement and a small white plume arose like a puff of smoke. But underneath chaos had begun. The fragile ice plate of the hoar layer cracked, jostling the cup crystals beneath which began to roll. The delicate bonds which held the snow together sheared, and cracks spread wide, zig-zagging at high speed from the point of original breakage. It was a chain reaction; one event followed another in lightning succession and suddenly a whole section of the snow fifty feet across slumped forward and downward, adding its weight to the untouched snow farther down the slope.

Again the inevitable action and reaction. Event followed on event even faster and presently the whole of the higher slope across a front of a hundred yards was in movement and plunging downwards.

As yet it was not moving very quickly. Five seconds after the first slippage an agile man caught in the open two hundred yards down the slope could have avoided death by running aside not very quickly. The speed of the young avalanche at this time was not much more than ten miles an hour. But the motion and the air resistance caused the light, feathery surface snow to rise and, as the speed increased, more and more of the snow powder became airborne.

The powder mixed turbulently with the air to form essentially a new substance — a gas with a density ten times that of air. This gas, tugged down the slope by the force of gravity, was not checked very much by friction against the ground, unlike the snow in the main avalanche. The gas cloud picked up speed and moved ahead of the main slide. Twenty seconds after the first slippage it was moving at fifty miles an hour, hammering gustily at the snow slope and smashing the delicate balance of forces that held the snow in place.

This was a self-energizing process. More snow was whirled aloft to increase the gas cloud and the avalanche, no longer an infant but lustily growing, fed hungrily on the snow lower down the slope. Already the whole of the upper slope was boiling and seething across a front of four hundred yards, and clouds of snow rose like the thunderheads of a hot summer’s day, but incredibly faster.

The avalanche cloud poured down the mountainside even more quickly. At seventy miles an hour it began to pull into itself the surrounding air, thus increasing its volume. Growing thus, it again increased its speed. At a hundred miles an hour the turbulence in its entrails was causing momentary blasts of two hundred miles an hour. At a hundred and thirty miles an hour miniature tornadoes began to form along its edges where it entrained the ambient air; these whirlwinds had internal velocities of more than three hundred miles an hour.

By this time the mature avalanche was encountering air resistance problems. It was moving so fast that the air in front did not have time to get out of the way. The air was compressed and this caused its temperature to rise sharply. Pushed by the heavy avalanche cloud, an air blast began to develop in front of the rapidly moving snow, a travelling shock wave which could destroy a building as effectively as a bomb.

Now fully grown, the avalanche rumbled in its guts like a flatulent giant. A million tons of snow and a hundred thousand tons of air were on the move, plunging down towards the mists at the bottom of the valley. By the time the mist was reached the avalanche was moving at over two hundred miles an hour with much greater internal gusting. The air blast hit the mist and squirted it aside violently to reveal, only momentarily, a few buildings. A fraction of a second later the main body of the avalanche hit the valley bottom.

The white death had come to Hukahoronui.

I

Dr Robert Scott regarded Harold Dobbs with a professionally clinical eye. Dobbs looked a mess. Apparently he had not shaved for a couple of days and the stubble was dirtily grey on his cheeks and chin. His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed and he sullenly refused to meet Scott’s gaze. His fingers twitched jerkily in his lap as he sat in the armchair, his face averted.

Scott noted the nearly empty gin bottle and the half full glass on the occasional table by the chair, and said, ‘That’s the only reason I’m here. Mr Ballard asked me to call in. He’s worried that you might be ill.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with me,’ said Dobbs. His voice was so low that Scott had to bend forward and strain his ears to catch the words.

‘Are you sure you’re the best judge of that? I’m the doctor, you know. What about me opening the little black bag and giving you a check over?’

‘Leave me alone!’ flared Dobbs in a momentary access of energy. The effort seemed to exhaust him and he relapsed into inanition. ‘Go away,’ he whispered.

Scott did not go away. Instead he said, ‘There must be something wrong, Harry. Why haven’t you been working for the past couple of days?’

‘My business,’ mumbled Dobbs. He picked up the glass and drank.

‘Not entirely. The company is entitled to some sort of explanation. After all, you are the mine manager. You can’t just abdicate without saying anything.’

Dobbs eyed him sullenly. ‘What do you want me to say?’

Scott used shock tactics. ‘I want you to tell me why you’re swinging the bloody lead, and why you’re trying to climb into that gin bottle. How many of those have you gone through, anyway?’ Dobbs was obstinately silent, and Scott persisted, ‘You know what’s going on out there, don’t you?’

‘Let Ian Bloody Ballard handle it,’ snarled Dobbs. ‘It’s what he’s paid for.’

‘I think that’s unreasonable. He’s paid to do his own job, not yours as well.’ Scott nodded towards the window. ‘You should be out there helping Ballard and Joe Cameron. They’ve got their hands full right now.’

Venom jetted from Dobbs. ‘He took my job, didn’t he?’

Scott was puzzled. ‘I don’t know what you mean. He took nothing. What happened was that you stayed at home and cuddled up to a bottle.’

Dobbs flapped his hand; it wobbled loosely at the wrist as though he had no proper control over it. ‘I don’t mean that — I don’t mean manager. The chairman promised me the job. Crowell said I’d go on the board and be managing director when Fisher went. But oh no! Along comes this young Pommy sprout and gets the job because he’s called Ballard. As though the Ballards don’t have enough money — they’ve got to take mine.’

Scott opened his mouth and then closed it again as Dobbs continued to speak. He looked pityingly at the older man as he ranted on. The floodgates of resentment had burst open and Dobbs was in full spate. Spittle drooled from the corner of his mouth. ‘I’m getting no younger, you know. I’ve not saved as much as I hoped — those thieves on the stock exchange took a lot of my money. Rogues, the lot of them. I was going to be managing director — Crowell said so. I liked that because I’d have enough to retire on in a few years. Then the Ballard family decided otherwise. They not only took my job but they expect me to serve under a Ballard. Well, they can damn well think again.’

Scott said gently, ‘Even so, that’s no excuse for pulling out now without a word. Not when there’s trouble. You won’t be thanked for that.’

‘Trouble!’ Dobbs ground out the word. ‘What does that whippersnapper know about trouble? I was running a mine when he was having his nappies changed!’

‘It’s not the mine,’ said Scott. ‘It’s the town.’

‘A lot of bloody nonsense. The man’s an idiot. He’s talking of spending millions to stop a few flakes of snow falling off a hillside. Where’s the money to come from — I ask you that? And now he’s got everyone running in circles like chickens with their heads cut off. And they tell me he’s closed down the mine. Wait until they hear about that in Auckland — to say nothing of London.’

‘You seem well informed for one who hasn’t been out of the house for a couple of days.’

Dobbs grunted. ‘I have my friends. Quentin came in to see what we could do to stop this fool.’ He picked up the glass and drank again, then shook his head. ‘Quentin knows the score all right but there’s nothing he can do. There’s nothing any of us can do. It’s all cut and dried, I tell you.’

Scott’s eyes narrowed. It had not taken him long to come to the conclusion that Dobbs was definitely unbalanced. Resentment had been festering within him and something had happened to cause it to burst out, and he had a good idea of what it was. Deliberately he said, ‘Do you think you could have handled the job of managing director?’

Rage burst from Dobbs. ‘Of course I could,’ he yelled. ‘Of course I could have done it.’

Scott stood up. ‘Well, it doesn’t matter now. I think we’d better get you to a safer place than this. If anything happens out there this house will be one of the first hit.’

‘Poppycock!’ jeered Dobbs. ‘A lot of flaming poppycock! I’m not moving and no one can make me.’ He grinned, his lips drawn back ferally over his teeth. ‘I might move if young Ballard comes here and apologizes for taking my job,’ he said sarcastically.

Scott shrugged and picked up his bag. ‘Suit yourself.’

‘And close the door when you leave,’ Dobbs shouted at Scott’s back. He wrapped his arms about his thin body. ‘I could have done the job,’ he said aloud. ‘I could have.’

When he heard Scott’s car start up he picked up his drink and went to the window. His eyes followed the car until it went out of sight and then he shifted his gaze to the mine buildings. It was difficult to see very far because of the mist, but he could just make out the outline of the office block. He shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Closed down!’ he whispered. ‘All closed down!’

Suddenly the mist cleared as though by magic and he felt a strange vibration through the soles of his feet. The office block, now clearly to be seen, lifted off its foundations and floated through the air towards him. He looked at it, mouth gaping, as it soared right over his house. He actually saw his own desk tumbling out of it before it went out of sight overhead.

Then the window smashed before his eyes and a sliver of glass drove through his throat. He was hurled across the room before the house exploded around him, but of course he did not know that the house was destroyed.

Harry Dobbs was the first man to be killed in Hukahoronui.

As Dr Scott left Dobbs’s house he reflected on the strengths and weaknesses of the mind, particularly the weaknesses. Fundamentally a weak man, Dobbs had wanted the managing directorship and had deliberately suppressed the knowledge that he could not really handle it, and that knowledge was a canker inside him like a worm at the core of an apple.

The poor devil, thought Scott as he started his car. A retreat from reality.

He drove to the corner and turned, heading into town. He had gone about three hundred yards when he found there seemed to be something wrong with the steering — the car would not answer to the wheel and he had an eerie sensation of floating.

Then he saw, to his astonishment, that the car really was floating and that the wheels were a good three feet from the ground. He had not time even to blink before the car was flipped over on its back and he struck his head against the window plinth and was knocked unconscious.

When he came round he found he was still behind the wheel of the car, and the car was upright and on its four wheels. He lifted his hand and winced as his fingers explored the bump on his head. He looked about him and saw nothing; there was a heavy coating of snow on all the windows and they were opaque.

He got out of the car and stared blankly at what he saw. At first he could not recognize where he was, and when he did recognize his position his mind refused to believe it. A sudden spasm took him and he leaned against the car and vomited.

When he had recovered he looked again at the impossible. The mist was nearly gone and he could see as far as the Gap on the other side of the river. The other side. He moistened his lips. ‘Right across!’ he whispered. ‘I’ve been carried right across the bloody river!’

He looked across the river to where the township of Hukahoronui should have been. There was nothing but a jumble of snow.

Afterwards, quite understandably, he measured the distance he had been taken by the avalanche. His car had been carried nearly three-quarters of a mile horizontally, across the river, and lifted nearly three hundred feet vertically to be deposited on its four wheels a fair distance up the east slope. The engine had stopped but when he turned on the ignition it purred away as sweetly as ever.

Dr Robert Scott was caught in the avalanche and freakishly survived. He was lucky.

II

Ralph W. Newman was an American tourist. The ‘W’ in his name stood for Wilberforce, a fact he did not advertise. He had come to Hukahoronui for the skiing, having been led to believe by a man he had met in Christchurch that the slopes were exceptionally good. They may well have been but it takes more than snow on slopes to make a ski resort, and the essentials in Hukahoronui were lacking. There was no chair-lift, no organization and precious little après-ski conviviality. The two-bit dance they held Saturday nights at the hotel was not much of a substitute.

The man he had met in Christchurch who had told him of the charms of Hukahoronui was Charlie Peterson. Newman judged him to be a con man.

He had come to Hukahoronui for the skiing. He had certainly never expected to find himself in the middle of a line of twenty men, holding a long aluminium pole botched up out of a television antenna, and methodically driving it into the snow at the toe of each boot to the rasped commands of a Canadian scientist. It was all very improbable.

The man next to him nudged him and nodded at McGill. ‘That joker would make a bloody good sergeant-major.’

‘You’re right about that,’ said Newman. He felt the probe hit bottom and hauled it out.

‘Think he’s right about this avalanche?’

‘He seems to know what he’s doing. I ran across him up on the slope and he had some scientific gear with him. Said it was for testing snow.’

The other man leaned on his probe. ‘He seems to know what he’s doing down here, too. I’d never have thought of this way of searching. Come to think of it, the subject never entered my mind until half an hour ago.’

The line of men advanced one foot and Newman set his toes against the tautened string. The string slackened and he drove the probe into the snow again. ‘My name’s Jack Haslam,’ said the man. ‘I work at the mine. I’m a stoper.’

Newman didn’t know what a stoper was. He said, ‘I’m Newman.’

‘Where’s your friend?’

‘Miller? I don’t know. He went out early this morning.

‘What’s a stoper?’

Haslam grinned. ‘The chap at the sharp end of a mine. One of the elite. I get the gold out.’

In went the probes again. Newman grunted. ‘If we have to do this for long it’s going to be tiring.’

‘Listen!’ said Haslam. ‘I think I hear a plane.’

They stopped and listened to the drone overhead. Soon the whole line of men had stopped and were staring at the greyness above. ‘Come on!’ called the team leader. ‘Haven’t you heard a plane before?’

The line moved ahead one foot and twenty probes were raised for driving downwards.

Newman worked methodically. Drive down left... haul out... drive down right... haul out... advance one foot... drive down left... haul out... drive down...

A sudden yell from McGill stopped him. There was something in the quality of McGill’s shout that made the hair prickle at the nape of his neck and caused a sudden hollowness in his belly.

‘Take cover!’ shouted McGill. ‘Take cover right now! You’ve got less than thirty seconds.’

Newman ran towards the place that had been allotted to him in case of emergency. His boots crunched crisply on the snow as he ran to the cluster of rocks, and he was aware of Haslam at his elbow. McGill was still shouting hoarsely as they reached the rocks.

Haslam grabbed Newman by the arm. ‘This way.’ He led Newman to a cranny not more than two feet wide and three feet high. ‘In here.’

Newman crawled inside and found himself in a small cave. Haslam was breathing heavily when he hauled himself in. Between gasps he said, ‘Used to play in here when I was a kid.’

Newman grunted. ‘Thought you miners all came from outside.’ He felt apprehensive. This was a silly time and place for inconsequential conversation.

More men came through the narrow hole until seven of them were jammed in the small cave. It was a tight fit. One of them was Brewer, the team leader, who said, ‘Quiet, everyone!’

They heard a distant shouting which suddenly cut off, and then a faint faraway thread of noise difficult to interpret because it was like nothing any of them had heard before. Newman checked his watch. It was dark in the cave but he peered at the luminous second hand as it marched steadily around the dial. ‘Must be more than thirty seconds.’

The air quivered imperceptibly and the noise grew a little louder. Suddenly there was a violent howl and air was sucked out of the cave. Newman choked and fought for breath and was thankful that the suction ceased as suddenly as it had begun.

The live rock underneath him quivered and there was a thunderous drumming noise overhead, deafening in its intensity. The air in the cave filled with fine particles of snow which settled everywhere. More and more snow came in and began to build up thickly about the tangle of huddled bodies.

The noise grew louder and Newman thought his eardrums would split.

Someone was shouting. He could not make out the words but, as the sound eased, he knew it was Brewer. ‘Keep it out! Keep the bloody snow out!’

The men nearest the entrance scrabbled with their hands but the snow came swirling in faster and faster, much more quickly than they could cope with. ‘Cover your mouths,’ shouted Brewer, and Newman brought his arm across his face with difficulty because of the restricted space.

He felt the snow build up about him, cold but dry. Finally, what space in the cave not occupied by bodies was filled completely with snow.

The noise stopped.

Newman kept still, breathing deeply and evenly. He wondered how long he could go on breathing like that — he did not know if air could penetrate the snow mass. Presently he sensed someone stirring and he made a tentative movement himself.

He was able to push with his arm and found that by pushing he could compress the snow into a smaller volume and thus make a bigger air space. From what seemed a hundred miles away he heard a faint voice and he stopped moving so that he could listen. ‘Can anyone hear me?’

‘Yes,’ he shouted. ‘Who are you?’

‘Brewer.’

It seemed pretty silly that you had to shout at the top of your voice to a man not many feet away. ‘Newman here,’ he yelled. He remembered that Brewer had been nearest to the cave entrance. ‘Can you get out?’

There was a pause and presently he heard another voice.

‘Anderson here.’

Brewer called, ‘Not a chance. There’s a lot of snow outside.’

Newman was busy clearing a space. He pushed the powdery snow away, plastering it on the rock wall of the cave. He shouted to tell Brewer what he was doing, and Brewer told everybody else to get busy and do the same. He also asked them to call out their names.

Newman was aware of the dead weight of Haslam next to him. Haslam had not moved or made a sound. He put his hand out and groped for Haslam’s face and found his cheek. Still Haslam did not move, so Newman pinched the flesh between thumb and forefinger very sharply. Haslam remained inert.

‘There’s a guy called Haslam here,’ he said. ‘He’s unconscious.’

Now that there was increased air space there was no need to shout. Brewer said, ‘Wait a minute. I’m trying to get my torch from my pocket.’ There were gasping sounds in the darkness and the wriggling of contorted bodies, then suddenly a beam of light shot out.

Newman blinked, then turned to Haslam. He moved his hand and pointed. ‘Shine that light here.’ He bent over Haslam, and Brewer crawled forward with the light. Newman felt for Haslam’s wrist pulse but could detect no movement so he leaned down and pressed his ear against Haslam’s chest. When he lifted his head he turned towards the light. ‘I think the guy’s dead.’

‘How can he be dead?’ demanded Brewer.

‘Give me the light.’ Newman shone it on Haslam’s face which was leaden grey. ‘He didn’t die of asphyxiation, that’s for sure. I’ve seen that and he’s the wrong colour. He’d be purple.’

‘There’s snow in his mouth,’ said Brewer.

‘Yeah.’ Newman passed back the light and put his finger in Haslam’s mouth. ‘But not much. Not enough to stop him breathing. Can you guys give me some room? I’m going to try the kiss of life.’

Room was made with difficulty. ‘Maybe he died of shock,’ someone suggested.

Newman breathed air into Haslam’s lungs and then pumped his chest. He kept it up for a long time but Haslam did not react. All that happened was that his body became colder. After fifteen minutes Newman stopped. ‘No good. He’s gone.’ He turned his head to Brewer. ‘Better switch off that light. It won’t last forever.’

Brewer snapped off the light and there was darkness and silence, each man occupied with his own thoughts. At last Newman said, ‘Brewer.’

‘Yes?’

‘Nobody is going to find us with probes — not in this cave. How much snow do you reckon is out there?’

‘Hard to tell.’

‘We’d better find out. It looks as though we’ll have to save ourselves.’ Newman groped about and found Haslam’s hat which he placed over the dead man’s face. It was a futile but human gesture there in the darkness. He remembered Haslam’s last words — Used to play in here when I was a kid. It was too goddamn ironic to be true.

There were six men jammed in that narrow cleft in the rock: Newman, Brewer, Anderson, Jenkins, Fowler and Castle.

And the dead man — Haslam.

III

Turi Buck was coping remarkably well with the influx of children. The house under the great rock of Kamakamaru was large — too large now that his family had grown up and gone out into the world — and he welcomed the bustle and clamour. He relished less the glacial eye of Miss Frobisher, the schoolteacher who accompanied the children. There is something about schoolteaching in isolated communities which tends to acidulate the feminine temperament and Miss Frobisher had a high acid content. Turi listened to her comments which tended to a criticism of the civil authorities, the stupidity of men, and other cognate matters. He took her measure and thereafter ignored her.

His daughter-in-law, who was his housekeeper, and his granddaughter were occupied in laying out bedding and allocating quarters for the horde of noisy small fry. This was woman’s work and they would brook no interference, so Turi went to the back of the house to see how the emergency generator was to be installed.

Jock McLean, the mechanical engineer from the mine, was a Scot from the Clyde. He tapped the toe of his boot on the level area of concrete where the lines for hanging laundry were suspended from steel poles. ‘And how thick is this, Mr Buck?’

‘My name is Turi, and the concrete is six inches thick. I laid it myself.’

‘Good. We drill four holes for the foundation bolts an’ anchor ’em wi’ masonry plugs. We don’t want this thing shiftin’.’

‘How are you going to drill the holes?’ queried Turi. ‘We have no power.’

McLean jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Air compressor wi’ an air drill.’

Turi looked down at the concrete and shook his head. ‘Not there. Can your drill make holes in rock?’

‘Wi’ a diamond drill I can go through armour plate.’

Turi pointed. ‘Then put the machine over there. Fasten it to the rock.’

McLean stared at the old man, and smiled. ‘I think six inches o’ concrete should hold her,’ he said tolerantly.

‘Have you been in an avalanche, Mr McLean?’ asked Turi softly.

‘People call me Jock.’ McLean shook his head. ‘We didna’ have them in the Gorbals — not when I was a laddie there forty years gone by. Maybe at Aviemore.’

‘I have been in an avalanche. I have dug dead bodies from the snow.’ Turi nodded his head towards the north. ‘Just over there — about two hundred yards away. Put your machine on the rock.’

McLean scratched his head. ‘Are they as bad as that?’

‘When the avalanche comes it will be worse than anything you have ever known in your life.’

‘I doubt it,’ said McLean. ‘I went ashore at Anzio.’

‘I also have been in a war,’ said Turi. ‘Possibly a worse war than yours. I was in Flanders in 1918. When the avalanche comes it will be worse than that.’

‘Aye, well.’ McLean looked about. ‘We’ll have to find a flat bit o’ rock an’ that willna’ be easy.’ He strode away, his eyes roving. At last he thumped with his heel. ‘It’s flat enough here. This’ll do.’

Turi walked over and stood on the place which McLean marked. He looked up at Kamakamaru and shook his head. ‘This is not the place.’

‘An’ why not?’ demanded McLean.

‘In 1912 my father had a workshop here. It was built very strongly because my father believed in building strongly. When the snow came down that winter the workshop vanished. We never found so much as a brick.’ He pointed. ‘I believe that when the wind comes, followed by the powder, there is an eddy here. This place is not safe.’

‘You’re a cheery soul,’ said McLean. ‘What about over there, right under the rock?’

‘That would do,’ said Turi gravely. ‘In 1912 I had some rabbits in a hutch there. The hutch wasn’t strongly made because my father didn’t make it — I did. But the rabbits were unharmed.’

‘Well I’ll be damned!’ said McLean. ‘Let’s go an’ see what the footin’ is like.’

It proved to be satisfactory. Turi said, ‘It will be all right here.’ He went away, leaving McLean staring after him.

A truckload of canned goods had arrived and there were some drums of fuel oil. Turi showed Len Baxter and Dave Scanlon where to put the oil and then supervised the unloading of the food by some of the older children. After he had done this he went to the back of the house where he found Baxter and Scanlon helping McLean with the generator.

McLean had drilled four holes in the rock and had inserted bolts in the holes, secured by expanding fasteners. Turi marvelled at the speed with which McLean had drilled the holes; evidently McLean had been right to trust his diamond-tipped drill. Now he had erected a tripod and was lowering the generator by means of a block and tackle, while Scanlon and Baxter guided it so that the bolts would enter the holes in the base plate.

At last it was done and McLean grunted with satisfaction. ‘Right, boys,’ he said, and took four steel nuts from his pocket. ‘I can carry on from here.’

Dave Scanlon nodded. ‘I’d like to get back. I want a word with Maureen.’ The two men went away and presently Turi heard the truck start up and drive away.

Turi’s daughter-in-law came out with a laden tray. ‘Will you have some tea, Mr McLean? And there are home-made cakes.’

McLean dropped the nuts back into his pocket. ‘I’ll be glad o’ that. Thanks, Mrs... Miss... er...’

‘This is Ruihi, my daughter-in-law,’ said Turi.

McLean’s eyes lit up as he bit into a cake. ‘Good,’ he said rather indistinctly. ‘An old widower like me doesn’t often get the chance o’ real home cookin’.’

Ruihi smiled at him and went away, leaving the tray, and Turi and McLean spent a few minutes chatting over the tea and cakes. Presently McLean helped himself to a second cup of tea, then waved his arm towards the valley. ‘Those dead bodies you were speakin’ of a while back — how many were there?’

‘Seven,’ said Turi. ‘A whole family — the Baileys. There was a house there. It was completely destroyed.’ He told McLean of how he had helped his father dig.

McLean shook his head. ‘Now that’s a terrible thing. Not somethin’ for a laddie of twelve to be doin’.’ He finished the tea and looked at his watch. ‘Well, this isna’ tyin’ down yon generator.’ He took the nuts from his pocket and picked up a spanner. ‘I’ll secure it.’

Turi cocked his head on one side. He had heard a noise and, for a moment, thought it was the aeroplane that had been flying overhead. Then he heard and recognized the eerie bass hum and a higher whistling sound, something he had not heard since 1912.

He grabbed McLean’s arm. ‘Too late. Into the house — quick.’

McLean resisted. ‘What the hell! I’ve got to—’

Turi hauled at him. ‘The snow is coming,’ he yelled.

McLean looked at the old man’s contorted face and believed him instantly. They both ran to the back door, which Turi immediately slammed closed and locked as soon as they were inside. He took a step forward. ‘The children...’

McLean saw Turi’s mouth opening and closing but he did not hear the end of that sentence because the noise reached a deafening pitch.

Then the avalanche hit.

McLean had heard the barrage which opened the battle of El Alamein and that, in his opinion, had been the ultimate in noise, even exceeding that of the boiler shop where he had been apprenticed on the Clyde. He now knew with a depressing certainty that he had a new measure of the ultimate.

The fundamental note was low cycle, deep in the bass — a sound which grabbed his stomach as though he was being squeezed by a giant hand. He opened his mouth and air was expelled forcibly from his lungs as his diaphragm kicked sickeningly. Superimposed on the bass was a whole series of high-pitched whistles of ear-piercing intensity, tones which collided with each other to produce strange and eerie harmonics. He had the impression that the sound entering his ears was compressing his brain.

The old house quivered on its foundations. The light had suddenly gone as though by an eclipse of the sun, and all he saw through the window in front of him was a dirty grey blur. The house lurched as it received two swift buffets and the windows smashed inwards. He heard no sound of breaking glass.

Fine snow dust jetted into the room through the broken panes as though squirted from a great hose pipe. The dust hit the wall to one side of McLean and sprayed outwards, and then it stopped coming in as suddenly as it had begun. Instead there was an opposite reaction, although not as strong. Air was sucked from the room, taking some of the snow with it.

It seemed to McLean that he had been standing there for an eternity. He was wrong, of course, because, from first to last, the avalanche swept by the rock of Kamakamaru in under twenty seconds. When it was over he stood as still as a statue. He was covered from head to foot with fine snow powder which gave him the appearance of a ghost. There was a ringing sound in his ears and he heard distant cries which seemed to be coming from as far away as the town.

Turi Buck stirred. Slowly he lifted his hands and put them to his ears, and he shook his head as though to assure himself that it would not fall off his trunk. He said, ‘It is over.’ His voice crashed out unnaturally loudly as it reverberated in the cavities of his skull. He turned his head and looked to McLean, saying again, ‘It is over.’

McLean did not move so Turi put out his hand and touched him gently on the arm. A shudder went through McLean and he looked at Turi. His eyes were glazed and staring. Turi said, ‘It’s finished, Jock.’

McLean saw Turi’s lips moving and heard his voice coming as though from a long way off, almost drowned out by the persistent buzzing in his ears. He frowned stiffly and deep cracks appeared in the powdering of snow that covered his lean face, accentuating the grooves that ran from the base of his nose to the corners of his mouth. He swallowed convulsively and his hearing improved. The distant cries he had heard before became louder, shrilling in his ears almost like the noise of the avalanche.

Every child in the house was screaming.

‘The children,’ said Turi. ‘We must see to the children.’

‘Yes,’ said McLean. His voice came out creakily. He looked down at his hands and saw that he was still holding four steel nuts in his left hand and a spanner in his right hand. He took a deep breath and looked at Turi again. ‘You’re bleeding,’ he said.

The cut on Turi Buck’s face, caused by a fragment of flying glass, was the only physical wound suffered by anyone in the house. Psychic wounds were something else again.

Other houses in the valley were not as lucky.

IV

Matt Houghton was confident he had nothing to fear from any snow falling down the west slope. His house was built on the other side of the river and a considerable way up the east slope so that it had a commanding view of the valley. The view from his front porch was a source of considerable satisfaction to Matt Houghton and it was his habit, on fine summer days, to sit there and drink beer in the evenings. He had a streak of vanity and, since his election as mayor of Hukahoronui, he liked to think he was overlooking his kingdom. To his mind, the view from the house added two thousand dollars to the value of the property.

Not that he was sitting on his front porch this Sunday morning. For one thing, it was too cold, and for another, the porch was cluttered with hastily packed suitcases brought by his unexpected visitors. His wife, Mamie, was in the kitchen making gallons of tea and cutting piles of sandwiches, and he was playing the genial host.

‘It’s so very good of you to have us here,’ said Mrs Jarvis tremulously. Mrs Jarvis was the oldest person in Hukahoronui. She was eighty-two.

‘No need to thank me.’ Houghton laughed jovially. ‘I’m only doing it to get your vote in the next election.’

She looked at him uncertainly, then said, ‘Do you think we’re safe here?’

‘Of course we’re safe,’ he assured her. ‘This house has been here a long time — second oldest in the valley. It’s not been knocked down by an avalanche yet, so I can’t see it happening now.’

Sam Critchell, sitting in a big over-stuffed armchair, said, ‘You never know. Avalanches can do funny things.’

‘What do you know about avalanches, Sam?’ Houghton’s voice was scornful.

Critchell placidly continued to fill his pipe with liver-spotted hands. ‘I’ve seen a few.’

‘Where?’

‘At the end of the war I was in the mountains back of Trieste. There were a lot of avalanches that winter. They used the army for rescue work.’ He struck a match. ‘I saw enough to know that avalanches can be damned unexpected.’

‘Well, if I thought this house wasn’t safe I wouldn’t be here, would I?’ demanded Houghton rhetorically.

A long plume of smoke jetted from Critchell’s lips. ‘Neither would I. All I said is that avalanches can do funny things.’

A tall, stringy woman walked over to Houghton and he took the opportunity to escape this pointless conversation. ‘Well, how are things, Mrs Fawcett?’ he asked heartily.

Mrs Fawcett carried a clipboard. She was one of the live-wires of the community. She ran the dramatic society with a rod of iron and was the mainspring of the debating society. Her son, Bobby, ran the scout troop. She was bossy and a born organizer and Houghton always had the uneasy feeling that she regarded him with contempt. She consulted the list on the clipboard, and said, ‘All here except for Jack Baxter.’

‘How many in all?’

‘Jack will make twenty-five. With your family there will be twenty-nine of us here.’

Houghton grunted. ‘Let’s hope the food holds out.’

She gave him the peculiar look she reserved for fools. ‘Old people have small appetites,’ she said tartly. ‘I wonder what’s keeping Jack?’

‘Who is bringing him?’

‘Jim Hatherley.’ She held her head on one side and looked up at the ceiling. ‘That aeroplane is here again.’

‘Doesn’t that fool of a pilot know that any sound can start an avalanche?’ said Houghton irritably. He left the room, went through the hall and out on to the porch where he stared at the sky. There was nothing to be seen.

He was about to go back inside when Jim Hatherley ran up, somewhat out of breath. ‘I’ve got trouble, Mr Houghton. Jack Baxter slipped on the snow when he was getting out of the car. I’m pretty sure he’s bust his leg.’

‘Oh, hell!’ said Houghton. ‘Where is he?’

‘Lying by the car just around the corner.’

‘Better telephone the doctor; the phone’s in the hall. I’ll go down and see to Jack.’ Houghton paused, biting his lip. He did not like Mrs Fawcett, but she’d know what to do about a broken leg. ‘And ask Mrs Fawcett to come out.’

‘Okay.’ Hatherley went into the house and looked about for Mrs Fawcett. He did not see her but he did see the telephone so he decided to make the call first. He picked up the handset and got Maureen Scanlon at the exchange.

‘What number do you want?’

Hatherley said, ‘Maureen, this is Jim Hatherley at Matt Houghton’s house. Old Jack Baxter took a bad fall and we think he’s broken his leg. Do you think you can find Dr Scott?’

There was a pause before she said, ‘I’ll try.’ The line clicked as she broke the connection.

Hatherley tapped on the telephone table as he waited to be put through. He looked about him and saw Mrs Fawcett just entering the hall. He waved her over and rapidly explained what had happened to Baxter. ‘Oh, the poor man,’ she said. ‘I’ll go at once.’

She turned, took two steps in the direction of the front door, and died.

When the avalanche hit the valley bottom the dense cloud of snow powder and air ceased to pick up speed but it did not come to a halt at once. The energy it contained had to be dissipated by friction against the ground and the surrounding air and it continued to cross the valley quite rapidly.

It was only when it got to the other side that it really began to slow down. Now it was climbing the east slope gravity was working against it and eventually it came to a halt a hundred yards from the Houghton house and perhaps a hundred feet of vertical distance below it. There was no danger of Matt Houghton’s house being overwhelmed with snow.

But the air blast did not stop. It came up the hill from underneath the house moving at about one hundred and fifty miles an hour. It caught under the eaves and ripped off the roof. Because of this the walls were no longer tied together so when the blast slammed at them the house exploded as though hit by a bomb. All who were in the house at that time — twenty-eight people — died. Some were struck by masonry, some were trapped in the wreckage and died of exposure. Two died of heart attacks. Some died immediately while others died in hospital a few days later.

But all in the house died.

Matt Houghton was not in the house, and neither was Jack Baxter. When the house was hit Houghton was bending over Baxter and asking, in what he conceived to be the cool, professional tones of a doctor, where the pain was. He was protected by the car, and the car was protected more by a small hillock hardly more than three feet high which stood between it and the descending hillside. When the air blast roared up the hill and hit the house the car did nothing more than rock heavily on its springs.

Houghton looked up, mystified, but not alarmed. He looked under the car and, finding nothing, he stood up and walked around it. Wind beat at him, the aftermath of the air blast, but it was not so abnormal as to tickle his curiosity. Standing on the other side of the car, he could see into the valley. The curtain of mist had been torn aside and his gaze shifted as he tried to fit what he saw with what he expected.

He shook his head bemusedly and climbed up on to the hillock to get a better view. At first he thought he could not be looking in the right direction so he changed his stance, but that made no difference. His problem was that he could not find the town of which he was mayor.

He rubbed the back of his neck perplexedly and then solved the problem to his own satisfaction. Of course, that was it! There had been a heavy fall of snow during the night and the town was covered in snow. It must have been a heavy snowfall, indeed, to cover the buildings so they could not be seen, but what with that and the mist it was not entirely unexpected.

Baxter moaned behind the car, and Houghton thought it was time to get Mrs Fawcett. He turned, still standing on the hillock, to go up to the house, and then stopped dead. There was no house! There was no front porch, no tall stone chimney — nothing! If he had been a little farther up the hill he would have seen the wrecked foundations and the scattered bodies, but from where he stood it was as though the house with the two-thousand dollar view had never existed.

A strangled noise came from him and froth came from his lips. Stiffly he toppled forward and never knew when he hit the ground.

Presently a querulous voice said, ‘Matt! Matt? Where is everybody?’

Jack Baxter, his leg broken but untouched by the avalanche, was still very much alive. He did not understand then, or ever after, how lucky he was to have broken his leg at the exact moment he did.

V

Stacey Cameron took her father’s car and drove it to Dr Scott’s house which was where he held his surgery. Because she had first-aid training she had volunteered to help on the medical side should such help be necessary, and Scott, being the only doctor, was the hub around which all medical problems revolved. She drew up behind a station wagon which was parked outside Scott’s house.

Liz Peterson was there. ‘Hi, there,’ said Stacey. ‘You a volunteer nurse, too?’

‘More of an almoner,’ said Liz. ‘Dr Scott wants us to round up medical supplies. He’s had to go because Ballard wants him to look in on Harry Dobbs.’

‘Harry?’ Stacey shook her head. ‘Isn’t he at the mine office?’

‘No,’ said Liz. ‘That seems to be the trouble.’

Stacey offered Liz a cigarette. ‘Talking about Ian — what exactly happened last night?’

‘My idiot brother happened,’ said Liz. ‘Charlie’s a great big pain in the neck.’ She accepted a light. ‘Tell me, how are things in California?’

Stacey was puzzled. ‘What do you mean — how are things?’

‘Conditions of living — and working. I’m thinking of leaving here.’

‘That’s a laugh,’ said Stacey. ‘I’m thinking of moving in here.’

Liz smiled. ‘Perhaps we can do an even swap: jobs, houses — everything.’

‘I don’t live in a house. I rent an apartment.’

‘Any particular reason for burying yourself in a hole like Huka?’

‘My father.’ Stacey hesitated. ‘And other reasons.’

‘What’s the other reason’s name?’ asked Liz drily.

‘You were dancing with him last night.’

Liz raised her eyebrows. ‘And at your invitation, too. I’m not blind or stupid, you, know. You were talking to me, and then you went to talk to him. Ian wasn’t drunk but he’d had just enough to say, “I’ll dance with Liz Peterson and to hell with her quarrelsome brothers.” And you gave him the idea. That’s a funny way for a girl to act towards her reason.’

‘I don’t want to appear possessive. At least, not at this delicate stage in our relationship.’

‘And what stage is that?’

Stacey smiled. ‘The stage at which he hasn’t noticed I exist.’ She sighed. ‘And I only have a few days more.’

‘Well, he has a lot on his mind right now. Maybe your chance will come during the avalanche. All you have to do is to be gallantly rescued by Ian Ballard. Then he’ll have to marry you — it’s as good as making you pregnant, according to all the films I’ve seen.’

‘What do you think of him?’

‘A very nice man,’ said Liz coolly. ‘But I go more for his friend, Mike McGill.’ She shook her head. ‘There’s no joy there.’

‘Why not?’

‘He says he’s been bitten before. His wife divorced him three years ago; she said she couldn’t live with a snowman who’s never at home. Mike said he couldn’t blame her. Who’d want a husband who alternates between the North Pole and the South Pole like a yo-yo?’

Stacey nodded commiseratingly. ‘Tell me — what’s this quarrel between your brothers and Ian?’

‘Too old to bear repeating,’ said Liz briefly. She stubbed out her cigarette. ‘This isn’t stocking up the medical supplies. Let’s get busy.’

They drove to the chemist’s shop in the main street and Liz got out of the car and tried the door, which proved to be locked. She knocked repeatedly but there was no answer and finally she gave up. ‘That bloody fool, Rawson, was told to be here,’ she said angrily. ‘Why the devil isn’t he?’

‘Perhaps he’s been held up.’

‘I’ll hold him up when I find him,’ said Liz grimly. She looked past Stacey at a truck coming down the street, then stepped forward and waved it down. As it stopped she called, ‘Len, have you seen Rawson anywhere?’

Len Baxter shook his head and turned to consult Scanlon. ‘Dave says he saw him going into the hotel about half an hour ago.’

‘Thanks.’ Liz turned to Stacey. ‘Let’s part him from his beer. Come on.’

In any community there is a sizeable proportion of fools, and a large number of these were congregated together in the Hotel D’Archiac. The philosophy of the management appeared to be ‘Business as usual’, and perhaps business was better than usual. A rumble of male voices came from the crowded bar and the dining-room was being prepared for lunch as though it was any other Sunday of the year.

Liz saw Eric standing at the entrance to the bar and brought him across the lobby with a jerk of her head. ‘What’s going on here? Don’t these people know what’s happening?’

‘I’ve told them and I’ve told them,’ said Eric. ‘It doesn’t make a blind bit of difference. There are a lot of miners in there being stirred up by Bill Quentin. They seem to be holding a protest meeting about the mine being closed down.’

‘It’s the first I’ve heard of it,’ said Stacey. ‘Dad said nothing about it.’

‘Bill Quentin says it’s a certainty.’

Liz looked at a waitress carrying a loaded tray of drinks into the dining-room. ‘This place should be closed down. Close it, Eric. We do own half the business.’

Eric shrugged. ‘You know as well as I do that Johnnie and me are just sleeping partners. We agreed with Weston that we shouldn’t interfere with the day-to-day running. I’ve talked to him, but he says he’s staying open.’

‘Then he’s a damned fool.’

‘He’s a fool who’s coining money.’ Eric waved his hand towards the bar. ‘Look at it.’

‘To the devil with them!’ snapped Liz. ‘Is Rawson in there?’

‘Yes, I saw him talking to—’

‘Get him out. I want him to open his shop. We need medical supplies.’

‘Okay.’ Eric went into the bar and was away a long time. Presently he came back with Rawson, a tall, gaunt man who wore thick-lensed spectacles.

Liz took a step forward and said crisply, ‘Mr Rawson, you promised to be at your shop half an hour ago.’

Rawson smiled. ‘Do you think this situation is so serious, Miss Peterson?’ His tone was of amused tolerance.

Liz took a deep breath and said with iron control, ‘Whether it’s serious or not, the fact remains that you weren’t at your shop as you promised.’

Rawson cast a longing look at the bar. ‘Oh, very well,’ he said ungraciously. ‘I suppose I’d better come.’

‘Are you staying here?’ Liz asked Eric.

He shook his head. ‘I’m going to join Johnnie. This crowd won’t be shifted.’

‘Do it now,’ she advised. ‘Come on, Mr Rawson.’ As they left the hotel Stacey looked over her shoulder and saw Quentin come out of the bar to join Eric. They seemed to be starting an argument.

When Rawson unlocked his shop he said fussily, ‘I don’t know that I’m not breaking the law by doing this.’

‘Pharmacists are allowed to open on Sunday in emergencies,’ said Liz. ‘I seem to know more about the law than you do.’

Rawson went inside and snapped a light switch. When nothing happened he said, ‘Oh, I forgot. Never mind, I have a few candles at the back.’

Liz said, ‘It’s light enough without candles. Let’s get on with it.’

Rawson went behind the counter and adopted a professional stance. ‘Well, ladies,’ he said brightly. ‘What can I do for you?’ Stacey suppressed a smile. She had half-expected him to put on a white coat.

‘I have a list,’ said Liz, and gave it to him.

Rawson scanned the papers slowly, going with maddening deliberation from one paper to the next. ‘My!’ he said at last. ‘This is a lot’

‘Yes,’ agreed Liz patiently.

Rawson looked up. ‘Who is going to pay for all this?’

Liz looked at him expressionlessly and then glanced at Stacey who stood with open mouth. She leaned over the counter, and said sweetly, ‘Would you like payment before or after delivery, Mr Rawson?’

Obtusely, he did not catch the danger underlying her tone.

‘Well, this lot will take quite a time to add up.’ He chuckled. ‘It’s a good thing I bought one of those new electronic calculators. It makes things like this so easy, you know.’

Liz slammed her hand on the counter. ‘Start producing, Rawson. If you’re worried about the money put it on Johnnie’s account — or don’t you think his credit is good?’

‘Oh no, that will be quite all right,’ said Rawson hastily. He peered at the list again. ‘Right, let’s begin. Bandages — ten dozen boxes of two-inch, ten dozen boxes of three-inch, the same of six...’ He broke off. ‘We’ll have to go into the stock room for those.’

‘Right, let’s get into the stock room. Where is it?’

‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘There’s something not quite right here, Miss Peterson. All this morphine — here on the third page.’ He held it out to her. ‘I can’t really issue that without a prescription. And the quantity!’ He shook his head. ‘I could lose my licence.’

‘If you turn to the last page you’ll find Dr Scott’s signature.’

‘That’s not good enough, Miss Peterson. For one thing, page three isn’t signed, and for another, it should be done on the prescribed form. The Dangerous Drugs Act is very precise about this kind of thing. This is most irregular and I’m surprised that Dr Scott should have countenanced it.’

‘For Christ’s sake!’ exploded Liz. Rawson was shocked and startled. ‘You could be killed at any time and you’re worried about names on bloody bits of paper. Now look here: if you don’t get moving and produce everything on that list I’ll have Arthur Pye confiscate your whole damned stock. He’d do it, too.’

Rawson was affronted. ‘You can’t threaten me with the police!’

‘What do you mean — I can’t? I’ve just done it, haven’t I? Stacey, use that telephone and find Arthur Pye.’

Rawson threw up his hands. ‘Oh, very well — but I insist on delivering any drugs on the dangerous list to Dr Scott personally.’

‘Good!’ said Liz briskly. ‘That means you’ll be helping at last. Where’s the stock room?’

Rawson waved. ‘That door back there.’ As Liz strode towards it he said, ‘But it’s locked. Can’t be too careful about things like that.’ He joined her and took a chain from his pocket on the end of which dangled a bunch of keys. He unlocked the door. ‘All the bandages are on those shelves to the right. I’ll be in the dispensary getting the drugs together.’

The two girls marched past him and he turned, shaking his head at the impetuosity of modern youth. Who would have thought that a nicely brought up girl like Elizabeth Peterson was capable of using language which hitherto he had only associated with bar-rooms?

He went into the dispensary and unlocked the cupboard in which he kept the registered drugs. He took a box and began filling it with ampoules, keeping careful count and making a note every so often in the Poisons Register. This naturally took up time. He was a most meticulous man.

He was not to know it but the combination of his broken promise and his scrupulosity meant that he was a dead man. If he had been on time at the shop he would have been there when the girls arrived and there would have been no waste of time in extracting him from the hotel bar. His meticulousness in putting everything in the Poisons Register meant that he was still in the dispensary when the avalanche hit.

When the front of the shop caved in, the shock transmitted through the foundations caused a half-gallon bottle to leap off a shelf and fall and smash on the table before him. It was full of hydrochloric acid which splashed all over his face and the front of his body.

Liz Peterson was saved by something which had begun five years earlier. In the winter of that year, which had also been cold, a drop of water had frozen in a minute crack in the concrete which formed the footing of the rear wall of the stock room. The water drop, turning into ice, had expanded and widened the crack. The following year the same thing happened, but with a little more water, and year by year the crack had widened until at this time it constituted a serious danger to the stability of the wall.

Had Rawson known of this he would have had it repaired immediately, being the sort of man he was. But he did not know of it because it was underground. Consequently, when the shock of the avalanche struck, the rear wall constituted a weakness and it gave way easily and without resistance.

Liz was hurled forward against stacked boxes of bandages which cushioned the shock, although the edge of a shelf broke two of her ribs. The whole mass, shelving, boxes and the bodies of Liz and Stacey, was forced against the rear wall which gave immediately, and Liz was precipitated through the air in a tangle of streaming and unwinding bandages.

She fell on to snow, and more snow covered her, holding her body and clamping her arms and legs. She was quite conscious and rational and she wondered if she were about to die. She did not know that Stacey Cameron was in much the same position not more than ten feet away. Both girls lost consciousness at about the same time, roughly one-and-a-half minutes after being buried.

Rawson was also buried about twenty yards away and was dying slowly and quite painfully as the acid ate at his flesh. Fortunately, when he opened his mouth to scream it filled with soft snow and he died mercifully and quickly of asphyxia.

The Hotel D’Archiac, that abode of fools, was speedily demolished. Jeff Weston, the king of fools who had been coining it, was parted from more than his money. Business was so brisk that he had gone behind the bar to help the overworked bartender and when the building was hit he was struck on the head by a bottle of scotch whisky which left the shelf behind him like a projectile.

Most of the men who were drinking in the bar were killed by flying bottles. Behind the bottles came the whole wall and, after that, came the snow which covered everything. They died because they were fools, although a cynic might have said they died of acute alcoholism. But there were no cynics left in Hukahoronui after that Sunday morning.

Those in the dining-room died when the roof fell in. Alice Harper, the waitress who had served McGill with colonial goose on the previous evening, was killed by a heavy suitcase which fell from the bedrooms above. The suitcase belonged to the American, Newman, who had his own troubles at the time.

Newman’s room no longer existed as a room and the same applied to the room next door which had been taken by his friend, Miller. Miller was most fortunate to be absent.

Bill Quentin was exceptionally lucky because he had left the hotel with Eric Peterson only moments before the hotel was destroyed. He had gone into the lobby from the bar and found Eric. ‘Look here,’ he said. ‘Does the council know what’s going on?’

‘About what?’

‘About closing the mine.’

‘The mine has been closed. Ballard closed it this morning.’

‘I don’t mean that. I mean closing it permanently.’

Eric shook his head a little wearily. ‘No one has said anything to us — yet.’

‘Well, aren’t you going to do anything about it?’

‘What the hell do you expect us to do when we haven’t been notified officially? I don’t believe it will close.’

Quentin snorted. ‘Ballard said it would. He said it at a meeting yesterday. He said the company couldn’t afford to spend money on avalanche protection. I think this avalanche scare is a lot of balls. I think the company is trying to weasel out.’

‘Weasel out of what? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Eric moved towards the door.

‘You know what these big companies are like.’ Quentin took a couple of steps to keep up with him. ‘I hear that Ballard is related to the big boss back in London. Know anything about that?’

‘I’ve heard it.’ Eric quickened his pace. ‘It’s true.’

‘I’ll bet he’s been sent to do the hatchet job. Hey — where are you going?’

‘To join Johnnie in the old Fisher house.’

‘I think I’ll come with you,’ said Quentin. ‘I think the council ought to know about this. Where’s Matt Houghton?’

‘At home.’

They stepped off the pavement, and Quentin said, ‘That means he’s the only sensible man around here. Everybody else is shutting themselves up in holes.’

Eric glanced at him. ‘Like me?’

‘Don’t tell me you believe in Doomsday?’

Eric stopped on the opposite pavement. His back was to the Fisher house and so he did not see his brother run across the road towards the telephone exchange. ‘Johnnie’s no fool and he believes it,’ he said deliberately. ‘And I’m beginning to.’

He resumed his stride at a quicker pace and Quentin, a much smaller man, was forced to trot to keep up with him. They entered the house and Eric glanced into the empty room off the hall. ‘He’ll be in the cellar.’

The two men were just going down the steps into the basement when the house was hit. Eric tumbled the rest of the way and fell on top of young Mary Rees, breaking her leg. Bill Quentin fell on top of Eric and broke Eric’s arm. He himself was quite unhurt; he was untouched and inviolate and was not even scratched by the falling rubble of the collapsing house.

VI

After shouting his warning, McGill dropped into his own selected shelter, jostled by Ballard. He grabbed the telephone which had been installed by a mine electrician and rang the exchange which was busy. ‘For Christ’s sake, come on!’ he muttered.

He waited for ten seconds which were more like ten minutes before the operator, Maureen Scanlon, came on the line. He said quickly, ‘Plug me into John Peterson, Mrs Scanlon, and then get the hell out of there — fast.’

‘I understand,’ she said, and the ringing tone came into his ear.

‘John Peterson here.’

‘McGill. Get your people under cover. She’s coming down.’

‘What about Maureen Scanlon?’

‘I’ve told her to get out. You can see the exchange from where you are. Keep an eye open for her.’

‘Okay,’ Peterson slammed down the telephone and snapped at Bobby Fawcett, ‘Everyone downstairs. Move it, Bobby.’

Fawcett left the room on the run and Peterson looked out of the window at the telephone exchange up the street. The street was deserted with not a sign of movement. He thumped the table nervously and wondered what to do.

As soon as Mrs Scanlon had put the call through to Peterson she took off the headset, stood up, and lifted her coat from a hook. She knew exactly what to do because Peterson had told her. She was to join him in the old Fisher building, one of the few houses in town which had a basement. She did not bother to put on the coat but had taken only one step to the door when the switchboard buzzed at her. She turned back, plugged in and lifted the headset. ‘What number do you want?’

‘Maureen, this is Jim Hatherley at Matt Houghton’s house. Old Jack Baxter took a bad fall and we think he’s broken his leg. Do you think you can find Dr Scott?’

She bit her lip. ‘I’ll try.’ She plugged in a jack and rang Scott’s house.

In the Fisher house Peterson made up his mind. He ran from the room and into the hall. A freckled-faced fourteen-year-old girl was standing in the doorway, and he said, ‘Into the basement, Mary. On the double.’

The crackle of authority in his voice moved her body without her consciously willing it. But she said, ‘Where are you going?’

‘To fetch Mrs Scanlon.’ He ran out into the street, and Mary Rees went down into the basement to join the others.

Peterson ran up the empty street towards the telephone exchange. He reached the corner where a road ran off to the left towards the mine, cast a hurried glance along it, and skidded to a frantic halt. What he saw was incredible. The mist was gone and he could see as far as the mine, but that was not what held his attention. A building was flying through the air directly at him, disintegrating at it came, and in that split second he recognized the mine office block.

He jumped back and dived behind a concrete wall, landing heavily, and then he twisted over so that he could see. There was a fierce blast of wind in his face and then he saw the office block fall squarely on to the telephone exchange, obliterating it.

The wind gusted at him again and he felt a tremendous pain in his chest. Heart attack! he thought dimly, I’m having a heart attack. Even while fighting the pain he lost consciousness and died very soon thereafter.

In the basement of the Fisher house Mary Rees added her screams to those of the others as the structure collapsed overhead and something or someone fell on top of her. No one died in the basement but there were several serious injuries, including Mary’s broken leg.

VII

In the Supermarket Phil Warrick looked about him and said with satisfaction, ‘We’ve just about got it cleared.’ He lifted the lid of the stove and dropped in some chunks of wood.

The Reverend Howard Davis, vicar of St Michael’s Anglican Church, agreed. ‘Just about,’ he said. ‘This will be the last load. He wheeled a pushcart before the biscuit counter and began to fill it with packets.

Warrick watched him and grinned. ‘McGill said no chocolate biscuits.’

‘I don’t know what Dr McGill knows about nutrition, but he certainly knows nothing about children,’ said Davis with a smile. ‘Chocolate biscuits are better than baked beans for keeping up morale.’

Warrick nodded. ‘I hope he knows what he’s doing about this avalanche. I swear my arms have lengthened two inches because of lugging around all these cases of canned food.’ He replaced the lid of the stove.

Davis regarded him with amusement. ‘Do you mean you’ll feel sorry if there is no avalanche?’

‘Oh, you know I don’t want an avalanche, but it would be a shame to see all this hard work go for nothing.’

‘I don’t want an avalanche, either, but there’s no harm in being prepared. If John Peterson is willing to have his store looted like this then he must believe McGill, and John is a level-headed man.’

A truck pulled up outside, and two men got out and came into the Supermarket. Warrick said, ‘Hi, Len... Dave.’

Len Baxter said, ‘That plane has come back. It’s still floating around up there. Wonder what he wants?’

‘He’s not going to land,’ said Warrick. ‘This fog’s too thick.’

Davis picked up a coffee-pot and put it on the stove top. ‘You’ll need something to warm you up.’

Dave Scanlon held out his hands to the stove. He wore a worried look. ‘That’ll go down well. I’ll swear it’s getting colder.’ He glanced at Davis. ‘I’m getting worried about Maureen. Someone said the exchange is too exposed.’

‘John Peterson told me he’d look after her,’ said Davis. ‘I’m sure she’ll be all right.’ He laid the back of his finger on the coffee-pot to test the heat. ‘Won’t be long.’

‘Got any more oil?’ asked Len.

‘Two more forty-five-gallon drums,’ said Warrick. ‘The last I could find. But we must have taken nearly six hundred gallons out of that tank.’

‘I was talking to one of the mine engineers up at Turi Buck’s place,’ said Len. ‘He’s fixing up a generator there. He said the diesel engine could use fuel oil at a pinch. I never knew that.’

Dave said, ‘I think I’ll go and check on Maureen after I’ve had some coffee.’

As Davis picked up a cup, Len Baxter said, ‘That reminds me. Does anyone know where my old man is? I’ve been so busy this morning I’ve lost track of things.’

‘He’s gone up to Matt Houghton’s house. McGill thought it was one of the safest places in the valley.’

Warrick nodded. ‘We discussed that in the council meeting. That and Turi Buck’s place are the two oldest houses. The kids have gone to Turi Buck and the old people to Matt’s place.’

‘Not all the kids,’ said Dave. He took a cup of coffee from Davis. ‘I saw Mary Rees just now.’

Warrick frowned. ‘Where?’

‘Here in town. She was standing in the doorway of the old Fisher house.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Davis. ‘It has a basement. That’s where Maureen will go. John Peterson organized all that.’

‘Where will you hide out?’ asked Len.

‘I will be in the church,’ said Davis firmly. His tone rejected any suggestion that he would be hiding anywhere.

Len considered it. ‘Not bad,’ he commented. ‘The church must be the strongest building here. The only one built of stone, anyway.’

Dave Scanlon finished his coffee. ‘I’ll just pop along and see Maureen, then I’ll be back to help you load.’ He waved his hand. ‘I’ve never seen the town so deserted, not even on Sunday.’

He turned to go, and froze in mid-stride. ‘The mist’s go...’

The three-ton truck parked outside was picked up bodily and thrown through the plate glass windows of the Supermarket like a monstrous projectile. Even as it came the building was collapsing around them. It had not been built too strongly in the first place and, hit by the giant fist of the avalanche, the showy false front sheared off and fell through the roof.

Suddenly the Reverend Davis found himself floundering in snow. He was dazed, and when he put his hand to his head it came away bloody. He was up to his waist in snow and, to his surprise, in his right hand he still held the coffee-pot. He opened it and looked inside and found it half full of steaming liquid. His head was spinning and hurt when he moved it suddenly. Darkness spiralled before his eyes and everything became dim just before he fell unconscious. The coffee-pot dropped from his hand and fell over on its side, and coffee stained the snow.

Dave Scanlon died instantly. He was hit by the truck and mashed to a bloody pulp. Len Baxter was hit on the head by a falling brick which was driven through the roof from the false front. His body was quickly covered by rubble which, in turn was covered by a rush of snow. He was still alive at that time but he died within a few minutes.

The cast-iron stove was ripped from the concrete plinth to which it was secured by four half-inch bolts. It was driven through the rear wall of the store and hit the fuel oil tank, which ruptured. Phil Warrick went flying after the stove and fell on top of it. He had been stoking it up liberally all morning and it was nearly red hot. The lid came off and a stream of hot embers shot out, igniting the fuel oil which streamed from the tank. Flames ran about and a cloud of black smoke went up, to be shredded immediately by the roaring wind.

The fire could not last long because of the snow which drove over the area, but it lasted long enough to kill Phil Warrick. Embracing the hot stove, he was burned alive under six feet of snow.

VIII

Joe Cameron, driving the truck back to the mine after delivering the load of snow probes, was caught right in the open. Not for him the eerie sensation of driving a floating car as experienced by Dr Scott. The air blast slammed at the truck broadside on and it rocked violently. The left wheels rose from the ground and the truck went careering along for a few yards on two wheels and it was within a breath of toppling over. Then the wheels came down again with a crunch and Cameron fought to keep control.

After the air blast came the snow cloud of a much denser material. It pounded the side of the truck much more forcibly and this time toppled it over on to its side. The truck did not lie there. Pushed by the snow it began to roll over faster and faster.

In the cab Cameron was getting a mauling. His right foot was trapped between the accelerator and brake pedals; every time the truck rolled the gear lever ground into his stomach as his body flopped helplessly from side to side, and once, when his arm went through the spokes of the driving wheel, a blow on the front axles made the wheel spin and his arm broke with a dry crack which he did not hear.

When the truck finally came to rest it was upside down under fifteen feet of snow. Cameron was also upside down, his head resting against the top of the cab and his foot still trapped. The windscreen was smashed and there was much snow in the cab but enough of an air space left to provide the breath of life for a fairly long time. He was bleeding profusely from a gash on his cheek and the blood stained the snow a bright red.

He was unconscious, but presently he stirred and groaned. As he came round he felt as though he had been through a grinding machine and then stretched on a rack; every part of him ached and there were bits that were very painful. He tried to move his arm and felt the edges of bone grind together at the same time as a hot knife was stuck into his shoulder-blade. He did not try to move his arm again.

The danger of death in the snow was very real, but what Cameron did not know was that he was in much more danger of dying by drowning.

First came the air blast and then the heavy hammer fist of the snow cloud. Following these came the sliding surface snow. Not as fast as its predecessors, it moved in a flowing tide inexorably across Hukahoronui. It washed around the church and the spire shuddered; it obliterated the wreckage of the Hotel D’Archiac and swept over the remnants of Mr Rawson’s shop; it reached the Supermarket and covered the burned body of Phil Warrick, then it went on across the bluff to the river where it spilled over the edge and filled the river bed with snow.

Across the river its energy was spent and it slowed until it was moving at no more than the speed of a man running fast. A little later, when it encountered the rising ground of the east slope, it stopped entirely having clothed destruction in immaculate whiteness.

The avalanche had finished.

The disaster had not.

IX

McGill climbed to the top of a small mound of snow in order to get a good view. He looked down the valley, and said softly, ‘Oh my God!’

Most of the town had gone. The only building he could see was the church, which looked as though it had been given a coat of whitewash. Finely powdered snow had been driven into the stonework so that it looked like the ghost of a church. For the rest, there was just a hummocky expanse of snow.

He went back to Ballard and bent over him. ‘Come on, Ian. It’s over now and we have work to do.’

Ballard raised his head slowly and looked up at McGill. His eyes were dark smudges in a white face and showed no comprehension at all. His lips worked a little before he said, ‘What?’

McGill felt compassion because he had a good idea of what had happened to Ballard. His senses had been so assaulted in an unexpected manner that the wits had been driven from him as a soldier might be shell-shocked in an artillery barrage. McGill was not feeling too good himself, but because of his knowledge and experience he had known what would happen and thus armoured had been able to ward off the worst effects.

Ballard was suffering from disaster shock.

McGill shook his head slowly. Compassion was not enough. A lot of people must have died and, if the rest of the survivors were like Ballard, then a lot more would die from want of help. He drew back his arm and slapped Ballard across the face very hard. ‘Get up, Ian,’ he said harshly. ‘Jump to it!’

Slowly Ballard lifted his hand and fingered the red marks on his cheek. He blinked rapidly, weak tears coming to his eyes, and mumbled, ‘What did you do that for?’

‘You’ll get worse than that if you don’t get up.’ McGill put a crackle in his voice. ‘On your feet, man!’

Ballard heaved himself up and McGill led him to the viewpoint. ‘Take a look.’

Ballard looked down the valley and his face crumpled. ‘Christ!’ he breathed. ‘There’s nothing left.’

‘There’s plenty left,’ contradicted McGill. ‘But we have to find it.’

‘But what can we do?’ said Ballard in despair.

‘You can wake up for a start,’ said McGill brutally. ‘Then we look for the rest of the guys who were around here, and we wake them up. We have to get some sort of organization going.’

Ballard looked once more at the desolation and then stepped down from the mound. He rubbed his stinging cheek, and said, ‘Thanks, Mike.’

‘Okay,’ said McGill. ‘You look over there and see who you can find.’ He turned his back on Ballard and walked away. Ballard trudged slowly in the direction McGill had indicated. His brain still felt pummelled.

Fifteen minutes later they had grown from two to twenty. One by one the stunned survivors were ruthlessly extracted from the holes where they were hiding, and McGill showed no mercy in the way he handled them. They were all shocked in varying degrees and all showed a marked aversion to looking up at the slope, now visible, from which disaster had come. They stood around apathetically with their backs to the west.

McGill selected the brightest of them and set them searching in their turn and more survivors came to light. In half an hour he was beginning to believe they might stand a chance. He gave one man his notebook and a ball pen and instructed him to take the name of each survivor. ‘And ask him who he was standing next to just before he ran for cover. We want to find out who’s missing.’

To Ballard he said, ‘Take three men and go to Turi Buck’s house. Find out how they’re shaping.’ Others he sent to Matt Houghton’s house and he himself set off for the town. His last command was: ‘If anyone finds Dr Scott, he’s to report to me.’

As it happened, Dr Scott was also on his way to town. He had to cross the river and the bridge had been swept away, but there was no need for a bridge because the river bed was full of snow and he was able to walk across, but with difficulty because the snow was soft. He crossed the river opposite the bluff about where the Supermarket had been and he was still unable to take in the enormity of the disaster. It did not seem either reasonable or possible that the Supermarket should have disappeared.

He trudged through the hampering snow holding his bag, the contents of which were precious. In the distance he saw something black outlined against the prevailing whiteness which, when he came nearer, proved to be a man buried to his waist. Next to him was an overturned coffee-pot.

Scott bent down, turned the man’s head and recognized the Reverend Davis. He was alive but his pulse was weak and fluttery. Scott scrabbled at the snow, digging with his gloved hands. The snow was not very compacted and the digging was comparatively easy; within ten minutes Davis was freed and lying on the surface.

As Scott was opening his bag he heard voices in the distance, so he stood up and saw a group of men picking their way over the snow where the town had been. He shouted and waved, and presently they came up to him. The man in the lead was the Canadian, McGill.

‘I’m glad you survived, Doctor,’ said McGill. ‘You’re going to be needed. How is he?’

‘He’ll live,’ said Scott. ‘He needs to be kept warm. Hot soup would help.’

‘He’ll have it if Turi Buck’s house held up. The church is still standing so we’ll use that as a base. Better take him there.’ McGill looked down at Davis and noted the clerical collar. ‘Seems appropriate. As for heat, he’ll have that if we have to burn all the pews.’

Scott looked around. ‘What a hell of a mess.’

McGill turned to MacAllister, the man from the power station. ‘Mac, you take a couple of guys and go to the Gap. If anyone is coming over tell them we need help real bad. But we need trained help — men who know about snow rescue. We don’t want a lot of amateurs lousing the place up.’

MacAllister nodded and turned away. McGill said, ‘And, Mac, if there are trained snow dogs in New Zealand we need those, too.’

‘Right,’ said MacAllister, and selected his men.

Others helped pick up Davis, and McGill led the way to the church.

Turi Buck had left McLean when the engineer was still in a shocked stupor. He went to the source of the screaming, taking with him a jar of barley sugar which he found in the kitchen. It took him a long time to subdue the terrified children, but presently he was helped by Ruihi.

‘The barley sugar is good,’ she said. ‘But hot, sweet cocoa would be better.’ She went into the kitchen and had to remake the fire which had been extinguished, and when she lit the fire the kitchen filled with smoke because the flue was choked with snow.

Miss Frobisher was of no use at all. She was curled into a foetal ball and whimpered from time to time. Turi ignored her and directed his attention to the children.

McLean looked down at the spanner in his hand and frowned. Slowly his mind began to work. Why am I holding this spanner? he asked himself, and the answer came creaking into his mind. The generator!

He moved stiffly towards the door and opened it. A light breeze came into the room, whirling up the powdered snow on the floor. He stepped outside and looked towards the rock of Kamakamaru and crinkled his eyes in disbelief. The generator stood where he had left it, even though it had not been bolted down. Thank God! he thought. What’s good for rabbits is good for generators.

But the portable air compressor he had used to drive the drill had vanished, and he remembered it had stood on the place on the rock where he had first proposed to put the generator. He walked forward past a tree which had been sheared at a height of ten feet. He stopped and grunted in his throat as he saw the drill. The air hose which had connected it to the compressor had snapped and now swayed in the breeze; the drill itself was driven deep into the trunk of the tree as though it had been flung like a giant dart.

When Ballard and his team arrived at the house he was thankful to hear the voices and even laughter. Children are resilient, and, once the shock had worn off, they became excited, even over-excited. He went inside and saw Turi sitting in a big armchair surrounded by a flock of children and looking somewhat like a biblical patriarch. ‘Thank God!’ he said. ‘Are you all right, Turi?’

‘We’re all fine.’ Turi nodded across the room to where Ruihi was supporting Miss Frobisher and administering tea. ‘She was shaken up a bit.’

From behind the house came a whine which settled into a steady throb. Startled, Ballard said, ‘What’s that?’

‘I think Jock McLean will be testing the generator.’ Turi stood up. ‘Would you like some tea?’ he asked, as politely as though they were ordinary guests visiting his home.

Ballard nodded dumbly. Turi sent one of the older children into the kitchen with instructions to bring back tea and sandwiches. Then he said, ‘What happened to the town?’

‘Turi, there is no town.’

‘Gone?’

‘I saw nothing standing except the church.’

‘And the people?’

Ballard shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Mike is there now.’

‘I will come to help search,’ said Turi. ‘After you have refreshed yourselves.’

Presently the tea and sandwiches arrived and Ballard ate as hungrily as though he had not eaten for a week. The hot tea was welcome, too, especially as Turi had laced it liberally with brandy.

When he had finished he idly picked up the telephone and held it to his ear. All he got was silence. As he cradled it he said, ‘Communications — that’s what we’re going to need. There was some food supposed to come here, Turi.’

‘It came. We have plenty of food.’

‘We’ll take some back to town. It will be a load to carry but we’ll have to manage.’

Ruihi said, ‘The car’s in the garage, isn’t it?’

Ballard sat upright. ‘You have a car?’

‘It’s not much of a car,’ said Turi. ‘But it goes.’

Ballard thought of the soft snow which covered Hukahoronui and thought that perhaps the car was not such a good idea after all; but he went out to have a look at it. It proved to be an elderly Australian Holden station-wagon and he ignored it because the Massey-Ferguson tractor standing next to it looked to be worth its weight in diamond-studded platinum. Fifteen minutes later it was loaded with canned goods and on its way to town, towing an improvised sledge.

When Ballard arrived at the church he found more people than he had expected, with McGill at an improvised desk by the altar, the centre of a growing organization. In one corner Scott was very busy, aided by three women. Most of his patients had broken bones and two men were breaking up a pew to make splints. Ballard saw that Eric Peterson was in line for attention, so he strode over to him. ‘Is Liz all right?’

Eric’s face was white and drawn. ‘I don’t know. She and that American girl were at Rawson’s shop, I think, when we were hit.’ His eyes were bleak. ‘The shop’s gone — not there at all.’ There was hysteria in his voice.

‘You have your arm fixed,’ said Ballard. ‘I’ll check.’

He went over to McGill. ‘Turi’s place is okay,’ he said. ‘Everyone is fine there. They’ve got a generator working and I have a load of food outside — with a tractor. You’d better take charge of that.’

McGill gave a long sigh. ‘Thank God the kids are safe.’ He nodded. ‘Good work, Ian. That tractor will be useful.’ Ballard turned away and McGill said, ‘Where are you going?’

‘To look for Liz and Stacey. They were in the chemist’s shop.’

‘You’ll do nothing of the kind,’ snapped McGill. ‘I don’t want any half-assed rescue attempts.’

‘But—’

‘But nothing. If you go tramping out there you’ll ruin the scent for a dog, and a dog can do better work than a hundred men. That’s why everybody is being kept in this church — for a time, at least. If you have information about where people were when we were hit, take it to Arthur Pye over there. He’s our Bureau of Missing Persons.’

Ballard was about to reply hotly but someone pushed past him and he recognized Dickinson who worked at the mine. Dickinson said quickly, ‘I’ve just come from Houghton’s house and it’s like a bloody butcher’s shop up there. I think some of the people are still alive, though. I reckon we need Dr Scott.’

McGill raised his voice. ‘Dr Scott, will you come here?

Scott finished knotting an improvised bandage and walked across. McGill said to Dickinson, ‘Carry on.’

‘The house looks as though it blew apart,’ said Dickinson. ‘I found Jack Baxter and Matt Houghton outside the house. Jack’s as chirpy as a cricket, but his leg’s broken. There’s something funny about Matt; he can hardly speak and he’s paralysed all down one side.’

‘Could be a stroke,’ said Scott.

‘I put them both in a car and brought them down as far as I could. I didn’t dare cross the river on that soft snow so I left them on the other side.’

‘And the house?’

‘Oh, it’s bloody awful in there. I didn’t stop to count the bodies but there seemed to be hundreds. Some of them are still alive, I do know that.’

‘What sort of injuries?’ asked Scott. ‘I’ll need to know what to take.’

McGill grinned mirthlessly. ‘You’ve not got much. Better take the lot.’

‘Turi brought a first-aid kit from the house,’ said Ballard.

Scott said, ‘That I can use.’

They had not been conscious of the distant vibration in the air but now it burst upon them with a bellow. Ballard jerked and ducked his head, thinking it was another avalanche about to hit them but McGill looked up at the roof. ‘A plane — and a goddamn big one!’

He got to his feet and ran to the church door, followed by the others. The aircraft had gone down the valley and was now banking and turning to come back. As it came closer they saw it was a big transport marked with United States Navy insignia.

A ragged cheer broke out and there was a beatific smile on McGill’s face. ‘A Navy Hercules from Harewood,’ he said. ‘The Marines have arrived in the nick of time.’

The Hercules finished its turn and steadied at a lower altitude, flying straight down the valley. From its stern black specks dropped and then the parachutes opened and blossomed like multi-coloured flowers. McGill counted: ‘...seven... eight... nine... ten. And those are just the experts we need.’