for that, Van der Valk noticed cynically. They had the helicopter parked at the bottom of the piste; if anybody had a real crash, they used it to whisk the patient back to hospital, and of course, in case one of the competition girls had a bad âsturzâ in the slalom â that happened too!
Round the slalom course and thickest at the bottom, naturally, there was a thick crowd and a lot of excitement. Journalists gabbled, the public gabbled, the loudspeaker blatted. Radio relays were being set up and tested, the television cameras were hamming more than their fair share of space, officials were running about being important with little pieces of paper. The electronic scoreboard was racing lunatically through figures that didnât belong to anybody at all, and the usual regiment of busy little dwarfs was trotting around like ants, pegging in ropes to keep the public back, dumping stretchers at strategic intervals, and staircasing laboriously up and down the twisting track between the gates, patting and fussing at the snow.
Outside the wooden huts with the banners the helicopter pilot was having a flirtation with the dextrose-tablets girl and enjoying a free cup of Ovaltine. And the reporters were dashing to and frobuttoning people, microphones brandished in their hands and hanging on their ties, cables up their sleeve and trailing behind them â they were extraordinarily good at not tripping, flicking the loose festoon of cable out from their feet as a woman flicks a long evening skirt.
There was a lot of tension. Last big competition of the season and this run would decide the combination prize. The Austrian girls had fought for a tiny edge yesterday in the downhill run. Would the French girls steal it back with their better slalom technique? Everybody knew, and was busy explaining why to his neighbour. Van der Valk didnât know, and didnât care. He had found a red Fiat station wagon parked, and was using his spare pair of eyes as well.
Anne-Marie, with her skis on her shoulder, was talking to one of the reporters, whom she knew, it seemed â she knew everybody! She walked back towards him.
âTen centimetres fell during the night, but married well to the old stuff. Good powder, very fast piste. Icy patches â they think itâll favour the French girls. I feel like having a go â Iâm going up to the top.â
âIâm staying here for the moment.â
âPlease yourself,â she said.
He turned his glasses on the group climbing into the
télé-phérique;
there was a fur hat that had caught his eye. Just such a Cossack hat wore the tanzmariechen. It might be, and it might not be: he couldnât see properly. There was a man with her; might not be â and might be: it was as simple as that. He tucked the binoculars into the top of his zip and took large kangaroo hops down the hill, sliding and plunging. At the bottom it was well trodden; he ran fast.
The crowd had thinned when he got there, and he did not have to wait. The man and the woman were long gone, and Anne-Marie was gone â on the âbucketâ just in front of him. How slow it went â wobbling, vibrating, humming. The sun came out suddenly, amazingly warm in the gripping, biting air.
âThatâll put oil on the piste,â said a man next door to him. Theyhad an excellent view of the slalom course, where the first try-out runner was slithering down in a chain of controlled skids.
He leapt off with no skis to wait for or encumber him and ran towards the top of the piste. Yes â there was Anne-Marie, kneeling, doing something with the binding on her ski; he could see her flipping the catch as though she were not quite satisfied with it. Half a dozen people were waiting their turn to schuss, at the top. Van der Valk stumbled through the fresh snow: a runner pushed himself off with an over-ambitious leap, and flew very fast about thirty metres before his arms started
Round the slalom course and thickest at the bottom, naturally, there was a thick crowd and a lot of excitement. Journalists gabbled, the public gabbled, the loudspeaker blatted. Radio relays were being set up and tested, the television cameras were hamming more than their fair share of space, officials were running about being important with little pieces of paper. The electronic scoreboard was racing lunatically through figures that didnât belong to anybody at all, and the usual regiment of busy little dwarfs was trotting around like ants, pegging in ropes to keep the public back, dumping stretchers at strategic intervals, and staircasing laboriously up and down the twisting track between the gates, patting and fussing at the snow.
Outside the wooden huts with the banners the helicopter pilot was having a flirtation with the dextrose-tablets girl and enjoying a free cup of Ovaltine. And the reporters were dashing to and frobuttoning people, microphones brandished in their hands and hanging on their ties, cables up their sleeve and trailing behind them â they were extraordinarily good at not tripping, flicking the loose festoon of cable out from their feet as a woman flicks a long evening skirt.
There was a lot of tension. Last big competition of the season and this run would decide the combination prize. The Austrian girls had fought for a tiny edge yesterday in the downhill run. Would the French girls steal it back with their better slalom technique? Everybody knew, and was busy explaining why to his neighbour. Van der Valk didnât know, and didnât care. He had found a red Fiat station wagon parked, and was using his spare pair of eyes as well.
Anne-Marie, with her skis on her shoulder, was talking to one of the reporters, whom she knew, it seemed â she knew everybody! She walked back towards him.
âTen centimetres fell during the night, but married well to the old stuff. Good powder, very fast piste. Icy patches â they think itâll favour the French girls. I feel like having a go â Iâm going up to the top.â
âIâm staying here for the moment.â
âPlease yourself,â she said.
He turned his glasses on the group climbing into the
télé-phérique;
there was a fur hat that had caught his eye. Just such a Cossack hat wore the tanzmariechen. It might be, and it might not be: he couldnât see properly. There was a man with her; might not be â and might be: it was as simple as that. He tucked the binoculars into the top of his zip and took large kangaroo hops down the hill, sliding and plunging. At the bottom it was well trodden; he ran fast.
The crowd had thinned when he got there, and he did not have to wait. The man and the woman were long gone, and Anne-Marie was gone â on the âbucketâ just in front of him. How slow it went â wobbling, vibrating, humming. The sun came out suddenly, amazingly warm in the gripping, biting air.
âThatâll put oil on the piste,â said a man next door to him. Theyhad an excellent view of the slalom course, where the first try-out runner was slithering down in a chain of controlled skids.
He leapt off with no skis to wait for or encumber him and ran towards the top of the piste. Yes â there was Anne-Marie, kneeling, doing something with the binding on her ski; he could see her flipping the catch as though she were not quite satisfied with it. Half a dozen people were waiting their turn to schuss, at the top. Van der Valk stumbled through the fresh snow: a runner pushed himself off with an over-ambitious leap, and flew very fast about thirty metres before his arms started
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