helped her with her chair. She was wearing the same rust-brown skirt and sweater as yesterday, with the same sturdy walking shoes. She had a trench coat with her, but she’d dropped it on a chair. As far as I’m concerned, a trench coat looks fine on Alan Ladd, and not bad on Marlene Dietrich, but she wasn’t either one.
She smiled at me across the table, and stopped smiling abruptly. “What happened to your hand?”
I glanced at my bandaged fingers. “I cut it,” I said. “I dropped a glass and cut myself picking up the pieces.”
She said dryly, “I think you’d better get yourself another girl, Matt.”
I frowned. “What does that mean? Are you bowing out?”
“Oh, I wasn’t referring to myself,” she said, laughing quickly. “I mean, your night girl, the one who plays so rough. A black eye yesterday, two cut fingers today—or did she bite you in an excess of passion?”
“Keep it clean, now.”
“Well, what do you do nights, to get yourself all beat up like that, if it isn’t a girl? The secret life of Matthew Helm... Helm?” she said. “Is that a Swedish name?”
“More or less,” I said. “It used to be fancier, but Dad whittled it down to something even Yankees could pronounce.”
“I thought you must have some Scandinavian blood, or you wouldn’t be sitting there eating that stuff so calmly. Fish for breakfast, my God!” She glanced at her watch. “Well, we’d better hurry; they’ll be here in ten minutes. Do you think I could possibly promote a simple cup of black coffee and some toast? Rostat bröd, they call it,” she said. “That means, literally, roasted bread…”
It was hard to figure her. If she was on the other team, she was very good indeed. She’d have been told I knew Swedish perfectly well, yet here she was calmly instructing me in the language of my ancestors, as she’d taught me their system of measurement the day before. Well, it was always nice to deal with people who knew their business.
When the company car arrived, right on schedule, it turned out to be a long, black, dignified-looking old Chrysler limousine complete with one middle-aged gent in a chauffeur’s cap to drive it, and one young guy named Lindström to answer our questions and keep us out of trouble. The two men helped me load my paraphernalia aboard; then we drove to the mine entrance, less than a mile from the hotel, and were passed through the gate with some formality. We took a road up the side of a mountain named Kimnavaara —vaara means mountain in Finnish, Lou informed me. A great many of the local place names show the Finnish influence, she said, since the border is less than a hundred miles away.
It wasn’t quite Pike’s Peak, but it was a respectable hill nevertheless. Near the top, as high as the road went, we stopped and got out at a wide place, like one of the scenic-view parking areas you find along mountain roads back home. There was a cold wind up here, and the view was worth looking at in both directions. Outwards, to the east, we could see the arctic wilderness in gaudy autumn colors running clear to the horizon without much sign of civilization except for the town practically at our feet. Inwards, to the west, we were looking straight down a man-made canyon cut through the heart of the mountain itself.
They’d taken a slice right out of the middle of it, like a dentist preparing a tooth for a gold inlay; and the funny thing was, the place looked familiar. I knew a dozen canyons like it back home: the color and shape were just right. Except for the shacks and machines far down at the bottom, I could have been looking into a section of the canyon of the San Juan, or the Salt River, or even certain parts of the Rio Grande. It was quite a sight, when you considered that it had practically been dug by hand.
I got to work, to the accompaniment of a running lecture by Lindström on the technical aspects of the operation, most of which I already knew from reading Lou’s
She smiled at me across the table, and stopped smiling abruptly. “What happened to your hand?”
I glanced at my bandaged fingers. “I cut it,” I said. “I dropped a glass and cut myself picking up the pieces.”
She said dryly, “I think you’d better get yourself another girl, Matt.”
I frowned. “What does that mean? Are you bowing out?”
“Oh, I wasn’t referring to myself,” she said, laughing quickly. “I mean, your night girl, the one who plays so rough. A black eye yesterday, two cut fingers today—or did she bite you in an excess of passion?”
“Keep it clean, now.”
“Well, what do you do nights, to get yourself all beat up like that, if it isn’t a girl? The secret life of Matthew Helm... Helm?” she said. “Is that a Swedish name?”
“More or less,” I said. “It used to be fancier, but Dad whittled it down to something even Yankees could pronounce.”
“I thought you must have some Scandinavian blood, or you wouldn’t be sitting there eating that stuff so calmly. Fish for breakfast, my God!” She glanced at her watch. “Well, we’d better hurry; they’ll be here in ten minutes. Do you think I could possibly promote a simple cup of black coffee and some toast? Rostat bröd, they call it,” she said. “That means, literally, roasted bread…”
It was hard to figure her. If she was on the other team, she was very good indeed. She’d have been told I knew Swedish perfectly well, yet here she was calmly instructing me in the language of my ancestors, as she’d taught me their system of measurement the day before. Well, it was always nice to deal with people who knew their business.
When the company car arrived, right on schedule, it turned out to be a long, black, dignified-looking old Chrysler limousine complete with one middle-aged gent in a chauffeur’s cap to drive it, and one young guy named Lindström to answer our questions and keep us out of trouble. The two men helped me load my paraphernalia aboard; then we drove to the mine entrance, less than a mile from the hotel, and were passed through the gate with some formality. We took a road up the side of a mountain named Kimnavaara —vaara means mountain in Finnish, Lou informed me. A great many of the local place names show the Finnish influence, she said, since the border is less than a hundred miles away.
It wasn’t quite Pike’s Peak, but it was a respectable hill nevertheless. Near the top, as high as the road went, we stopped and got out at a wide place, like one of the scenic-view parking areas you find along mountain roads back home. There was a cold wind up here, and the view was worth looking at in both directions. Outwards, to the east, we could see the arctic wilderness in gaudy autumn colors running clear to the horizon without much sign of civilization except for the town practically at our feet. Inwards, to the west, we were looking straight down a man-made canyon cut through the heart of the mountain itself.
They’d taken a slice right out of the middle of it, like a dentist preparing a tooth for a gold inlay; and the funny thing was, the place looked familiar. I knew a dozen canyons like it back home: the color and shape were just right. Except for the shacks and machines far down at the bottom, I could have been looking into a section of the canyon of the San Juan, or the Salt River, or even certain parts of the Rio Grande. It was quite a sight, when you considered that it had practically been dug by hand.
I got to work, to the accompaniment of a running lecture by Lindström on the technical aspects of the operation, most of which I already knew from reading Lou’s
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