"Big enough to roast a rhino."
"I was sort of looking forward to sitting there tonight with some mulled wine, soft music, and a slab of muscle."
"Anybody in mind? We just got here."
"How long does it take?"
"Not long," Pam admitted, "but you'd better forget it. You heard what she said."
"She can't watch us all the time."
"She's got eyes all over."
"It isn't fair, she's treating us like kids."
"We are kids," Pam pointed out. "And we're on a job."
"Come on, you've heard the way the aces talk. Being on the job doesn't mean that you can't have some fun. The trouble with Martha is that she's old, she's forgotten what it's like. She's got to be thirty, at least."
Thirty-four next November. It was Martha, jumping into their heads. An old crone. An absolute hag.
"Damn," Linda whispered.
Let me have your attention, I have some points to make.
Yes, Martha.
Yes, Martha.
Point number one. When you're in the field, you never know who might be listening in. This time it was me, next time it could he somebody nasty. So keep it buttoned up.
Right, Martha.
Okay, Martha.
Point number two. Since your thoughts seem to be concentrated somewhere below the waist, let me drop one little word into your shell-pink ears. The word is rape. It's a short, ugly, nasty word, and we're here to make sure that it doesn't happen to the kid who's sitting next to me. It is something that should not happen to any woman, and it is something that must not happen to this one. I didn't think that I'd have to explain that to two females, but apparently I do. You are here for one reason. You are not here to have fun, and you are not here to meet boys. You are here to protect Lila Simms, and you will do exactly that, even if it means, as one of you so quaintly put it, that you have to live like nuns for a couple of days. Is that clear?
Yes, Martha.
Yes, Martha.
Okay, carry on.
Both girls giggled.
All right, I mean don't carry on. I mean … Martha allowed herself to laugh. You know what I mean.
The chairlift ended just above the three-thousand-foot level at the top of the Cascade Trail, a steep slope, studded with moguls, that dropped into a series of ess-turns before it broadened into a well-kept piste. The temperature at the top was minus four, and a strong wind swirled the snow. Martha led the kids to the lip of the trail, and spoke to her own gang head-to-head.
Pay attention. If I thought I could get away with it, I'd keep us all together in a pack, but I don't want Lila wondering why. After all, this isn't a ski school and there's no reason to stay together, so we'll have to split up. I'll stay as close to her as I can, and the rest of you try to keep in sight. Remember, no booming off by yourselves. If you get separated, try to join up, and if you can't we'll all meet for lunch at the cafeteria. Understood?
There were three affirmatives.
Chicken?
Nothing.
Chicken?
But all that Chicken heard was a faint buzzing as she tried to get through. He strained to catch her words, but they just weren't there. The ability, which once had been so natural to him, now was a sometime thing that came and went, racking his head with pain. He felt the familiar anger building inside of him, and the pressure. The hell with it, he thought, and while the others were checking their bindings and using the lip balm, he turned to Lila, and said in a low voice, "What do you say we bomb the liftline?"
She looked at him curiously. "Do what?"
"Straight down the hill under the chairlift. Shake up the mountain."
"Is that the way you ski?"
"Sometimes. Come on, it's fun."
"It's also pretty hotdog."
"Nothing wrong with a little hotdog once in a while."
"I don't know. You mean, just us?"
"Sure, why not?"
She hesitated, and he knew that she was going to say yes, but just then Martha called out, "Okay, troops, let's hit it."
Martha did a graceful rouade to turn onto the track, and started down the slope. Pam, George, and Linda followed close behind. Lila looked at Chicken, shrugged helplessly, and followed the others. They skied the slope easily, not pressing, just working back and forth across the hill.
Chicken watched them go, and he did not move. She would have said yes, he knew it. He felt the pressure building in his head, felt it behind his eyes. He knew that he was close to the edge, ready to blow, and just for the moment a finger of sanity reached out and tried to pull him back. He brushed the finger aside. He jabbed his poles in the snow, and slid over the edge and onto the slope. He headed straight down the fall line, dropping into a racing tuck. Below him, Martha and the others were doing the hill in leisurely traverses.
Kid stuff, he thought. Bomb the mountain.
That's kid suff, too, if you keep your eyes open, he told himself. How about trying it with your eyes shut?
Come on.
Why not?
Can't ski with your eyes closed.
Who says?
You mean… all the way?
For as long as you can keep them closed. New way to play chicken.
Wow… first one to open his eyes…?
You got it.
But there's only me.
Even better. If you have the balls for it.
You calling me chicken?
It's your move.
I like it.
Then do it.
Chicken closed his eyes. He was transported at once into a world of wind, speed, and darkness. He panicked, and opened his eyes. He jammed them shut again.
Open your eyes.
No,
Open them.
No.
He dropped down the hill like an elevator with its cable cut. He was totally out of control. Even if his eyes had been open, he would have been out of control. He kept them firmly shut. It was flight, it was fear, it was wild, it was…
Fun? Open your eyes.
No. All the way this time. No matter what happens, I go all the way.
All the way? Sinatra on skis?
He didn't go all the way. He didn't go very far at all. Skiing like that, he had to hit someone or something, and he did. He hit Martha. George and Linda were off to the side, out of the way. Lila and Pam saw him coming. They both called track, and scooted to safety. Martha, traversing the hill, had most of her back to him. Someone else called track, and she started to turn, but by then it was too late. Racing down the mountain with his eyes screwed shut, Chicken hit her squarely, knocked her over, and broke her leg.
Sextant saw the accident from where he stood in the lee of a slatted snow fence at the top of the Cascade Trail. He saw Chicken bomb the hill, saw him hit Martha, saw them both go down. He saw Chicken shake himself and get to his feet, but Martha did not move. He waited and watched. He watched as a small crowd gathered on the slope, watched as two red-jacketed ski patrolmen appeared, watched as they called for a stretcher-sled. Martha still had not moved, and he wondered if she might be dead. No such luck, he decided, not from a fall like that, and then he heard words drifting up the hill from the crowd.
"… broken leg…"
"… damn fool hotdog…"
"Where the hell is that sled?"
He watched as the sled appeared accompanied by two more patrolmen, watched as they loaded Martha onto it, watched as they started her down the hill with the kids following. He watched until the sled was out of sight. He nodded with deep satisfaction. He did not know who Martha was, did not know her name or her connection with his target. He knew only that his job had just been made easier.