Stanley beamed over at George. “Thanks to that knucklehead over there.”
“You’re welcome,” George growled.
Christina’s glance was colder than the wind atop the mountain.
“If it wasn’t so crowded here, Chris, I’d like to talk over something with you,” Sherman said.
George stalked out. “Good-by.”
Once beyond the arched doorway, he veered sharply to the right and crept back to within hearing distance.
“...I grant you, Chris, that there are a lot of objections to having anything to do with the movies. And I know how you feel about professionalism, but I have an idea that, by making one movie for Argus, you could really make a terrific contribution to the sport. People will see you ski, and this boom that’s on already will turn into the biggest...”
She hadn’t interrupted him. George adjusted his shroud and walked away. That Sherman was slick. A nice presentation and nice timing.
He looked out the windows. The day before the meet, and the slopes were alive with skimming dots. He’d wait for Joey Bellish to arrive and then shove off. Maybe Mary Alice wouldn’t find out for a few heavenly days that he was unemployed. You’d never catch Mary Alice running around with boards tied to her feet. In fact, you wouldn’t find Mary Alice walking two steps after anything if there was a man within hailing distance... He stopped the train of thought. It seemed vaguely disloyal.
He looked out the window. Strange occupation for supposedly intelligent people, this sliding around. A few nice moments, though. Finding out he could actually move across the level on the darn’ things. That heady sense of terrific speed before he had gone thunk.
“No, sir,” he said softly. “Never again.”...
Schtroigen halted the entire class. “Blease, Mister Barker. Distangle yourself. In the snowplow you haff to push pressure on the legs and hold them there. No pressure, and the skis cross each ozzer.”
George spit out a mouthful of melting snow. “So I noticed,” he said.
“All together, now,” Schtroigen roared. “SNOWBLAU!”
The four children, two elderly ladies, and George went solemnly and majestically down the four per cent grade. And again, and again.
After class was over, George stayed out on the slope. He snowplowed until fine red-hot wires ran up his legs. He snowplowed until he found out that by stepping over with one ski he could make a quite abrupt turn. The first time it worked he was unprepared for it. He lay, glowing with pleasure. Seven falls later he could do a slow, halting figure S down the middle of the beginners’ slope. The sun was low in the west.
A hot tub soaked some of the ache out of his bones, but it didn’t help to lighten the gloom he had felt since he had reentered the inn and seen Chris, symbol of defeat, nursing her strained ankle. There was a telegram in his box: “BELLISH ARRIVING NOON TOMORROW. ARRANGE INTERVIEW WITH WIEL. ZISSMAN.”
He delayed the mission until after dinner. He found Stanley Sherman in the bar.
“Where’s Chris?”
“Go home, you bum. She hasn’t got time for you.”
“Why so cheery? Wouldn’t she sign?”
Sherman had a cold eye. “I could bust you one in the chops.”
“They don’t pay me for that,” George said, wandering off. He searched in a halfhearted way for Christina.
Outside, the snow crackled underfoot and the air was keen and crisp. A huge moon was shading from orange to white as it climbed above the horizon. He squinted at the slopes and saw the die-hards out skiing in the moonlight.
They seemed to make those turns so easily. He remembered his own stem turns on the little slope. Maybe, with a bit more speed... The hum and grind of the cable tow echoed across the night, punctuated by the thin shouts of the skiers. No, a fellow could kill himself out there in the moonlight and maybe nobody’d even find him...
The dark bulk of the cable house loomed up ahead. George cast off, and used his turn to swing him around onto a line parallel with the drop-off. His heart was thudding. At least, in the dark, nobody would see him make a fool of himself. The moon was bright enough to show him the whole slope.
This had to be planned carefully. A long, diagonal run across the face of the slope seemed feasible. If he started to go too fast he could slow down by turning toward the slope. Then, when the woods got close, make the big turn and come back across the slope in the other direction.
He took a deep breath and shoved off. The skis ran with a small, crisp sound against the snow. The plan seemed to be working. The woods moved steadily closer. He made his turn, but it wasn’t enough of a turn. It faced him almost directly down the slope and he picked up speed with a great whoosh. He made a desperate effort to turn to the left, remembering to lean in toward the slope. He went into a long skid turn and ended at a dead stop, still on his feet. The surprise of it toppled him over.
“Whaddya know?” he said softly.
On the next diagonal run he braved a steeper angle. The turn at the end went wrong and he broke up a yard of crusty snow with his chin. He laughed out loud and started off again. The turn worked. He angled back, and a dark figure came toward him. The lines of passage intersected. At the last moment he wrenched himself into a turn and the black figure did the same. His flailing arm caught it around the middle and they went down together.
George sat up. “Don’t you know how to steer those things?” he said angrily. “You saw me turning away from you.”
“How did I know which way you were going?... Is that you, Mr. Barker?” Christina asked weakly.
“Chris!” he gasped.
She began to laugh helplessly. It held overtones of hysteria. “Of all... of all the blundering... impossible...”
He picked up a clump of snow and shoved it into her mouth. She gasped. He caught her wrist. “No, you don’t pop me again, friend. If you haven’t hurt your ankle again, kindly stand up and slide away from here. I don’t have to be laughed at by experts. Go on. Move!”
She stood up, tested her ankle, and brushed some of the snow off. Her voice was cold: “Amateurs shouldn’t be on the slopes at night.”
“Report me to the rules committee.”
“Just what were you trying to do, Mr. Barker?”
“I’m not trying. I’m doing it. I go back and forth across the slope and make a turn when I come to the end each time.”
“I saw you the day I jumped over you. You can’t make a turn.”
“No, smart guy? Watch this one.”
He sped away and did the sliding turn to the left that brought him to a stop. “How’s that?”
“You don’t bend your knees enough, George. Get way down, like this.” She sped at him, turned with effortless grace, and skidded to a stop beside him.
He tried. It was easier.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“What are you doing out here, Miss Wiel?”
“I couldn’t wait. I strapped up the ankle and decided to give it a try.”
“Uh, huh,” he said slowly. “I can see how you would. Nice out here, isn’t it?”
They were standing close together. Her uptilted face caught the moonlight. She cocked her head on one side. “You really like this?”
“I’m no Sherman at it.”
She said hotly, “He doesn’t like it. It was just a big act with him. Oh, he can ski all right, but instead of skiing he stayed right there in the inn trying to talk me into the silly movie business. He didn’t fool me a bit. I don’t like sly people.”
He glared at her. “I’m sick of this silly-movies routine. What gives you the go-ahead to be condescending? What have you got? Just a lovely face and a rare figure and you photograph well. Is that something you worked for?”