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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:
I remember you telling me that you’d be in New Zealand this year. Why don’t you come out earlier as my guest? I’m in a place called Hukahoronui in South Island; there’s a hell of a lot of snow and the skiing looks great. The place has changed a bit since I was here last; civilization has struck and there are great developments. But it’s not too bad really and the mountains are still untouched. Let me know what you think of the idea – I’d like to meet your plane in Auckland.
THREE (#ulink_01ccc279-45bb-5d97-baec-54bc888dfba3)
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.’
