Dryden, seated at the rear of the cockpit next to Valenti, leaned forward, trying to orient himself. They were cruising at 120 over sequoias and Douglas firs, following the course of a river through a precipitous gorge, the helicopter’s shadow picked out on the dead-still foliage. Soon they were compelled to rise almost vertically up the face of a cataract to the mirror surfaces of a glacial lake.
There the pilot left the river route. Dryden sat back. Without a contour map it was impossible to follow the Jet Ranger’s tangential progress into the mountains, except that the direction was generally northward. Somewhere ahead was Mount Whitney, over 14,400 feet in height, the tallest point in the state. Through the windshield each peak looked like Everest.
They had taken off from Cambria at one, after an early lunch. Dick Armitage had seen them off, excusing himself from the trip to put in some practice for Wimbledon. He had tried to explain the conflict he felt on account of his obligations as host. Dryden had cynically counted the seats in the Jet Ranger. Armitage had never been scheduled to join them.
For Dryden, the decision to join the flight was practical. Not because of what Melody had said, which revealed more about the kind of books she read than anything else, but because the showdown with the consortium had to wait. This required a cool approach. If he went along with them, looked at what they had to show him, and turned the project down from an informed standpoint, it would cause the least difficulty all round.
They must have traveled forty minutes among the peaks when Melody, on Valenti’s left, pointed ahead, along a narrow valley, to the first sign of habitation in miles, a filiform column of blue smoke rising perhaps a 100 feet before dispersing in the thin air. The pilot took them low in that direction over the conifers.
A clearing appeared, about 200 yards square. At the rear end a number of timber buildings were sited, some two-storied and large enough to have a communal function. The entire compound was surrounded by a tall fence. The open ground beyond the buildings formed a generous landing area. A second helicopter, a small Sikorsky, was already down there. Making a steep approach, the pilot dropped the collective-pitch lever to its bottom step and closed the throttle. The time as they touched down was 2:50 P.M.
A shaft of cold air ripped into the cabin.
‘Coffee first, I suggest,’ said Serafin. ‘We’ll take it in the staff lounge.’
The exit from the Jet Ranger gave Melody another chance to wobble on the footrail. Dryden turned to help her down. He was rewarded with a gentle nudge from her bosom. ‘Altitude 6,000 feet,’ she murmured. ‘You have to make allowances.’
‘Did you hear me complain?’ said Dryden.
Serafin had turned to wait for them. He was rubbing his hands, not because it was cool. ‘This place has a regenerating effect on me,’ he told them. ‘I think of it as my retreat.’
The references to Nazi Germany the evening before must have made a strong impact. There flashed into Dryden’s mind a picture he had once seen of Hitler with guests at his ‘Eagle’s Nest’ in the Bavarian Alps.
Serafin led them across the compound to one of the larger cabins.
From the Gold Rush exterior, it should have had a wood floor, bare tables and oil lamps.
Not, at any rate, a black mohair carpet.
The place was laid out like a Beverly Hills mansion. Two studio couches formed an angle containing a low, ceramic-tiled table and a Zenith 27-inch TV. The facing wall was taken up by a black Japanese shelf unit incorporating a stereo system and cocktail bar. In a recess to the left was a pool table. Playmates of the Month, in individually lit gilt frames, exhibited their charms at intervals along the silk-vinyl-covered walls. Most agreeably of all, it was heated. From where, it was difficult to tell. Perhaps below the floor.
Melody was at his shoulder. ‘With cream?’
‘Thanks.’
‘Make mine black,’ said Valenti, in case he was not asked.
The coffee was waiting on a hotplate, fresh enough to underline the precision of the schedule.
‘You like it?’ said Serafin, seating himself near Dryden. ‘We decided a few comforts were justifiable with staff working up here for weeks on end. I expect you wonder about the power supply. We have our own generating plant working on gasoline. You need heat at this altitude, even in midsummer.’
‘That’s for sure,’ chimed in Melody, handing him a mug of coffee. ‘I couldn’t survive without my electric blanket.’
‘You’d find a way,’ Valenti dryly informed her.
Before she could produce an adequate reply, the door behind them opened.
‘Ah, Peter,’ said Serafin. ‘Do come and meet our guests. Peter Klugman is Goldengirl’s principal coach,’ he told Dryden.
The newcomer approached at a brisk step, heavy on the carpet. He was wearing a Cornell blazer with gray flannels pressed to a razor crease. Large in build, he manifested fastidiousness in a series of precisely defined lines — hair parting, sideburns, blazer edging, the diagonal stripes on his tie, and the set of his mouth.
‘Peter D. Klugman,’ he said unnecessarily as he gripped Dryden’s hand.
‘Peter was a track coach on the last U.S. Olympic team,’ said Serafin.
‘Sprints and relays,’ Klugman confirmed.
‘You’re a Cornell man, I see,’ said Dryden.
‘That’s so. Class of sixty-five. I was captain of track.’
‘He should have made the Olympic team,’ said Melody, linking her arm in Klugman’s. ‘Tell Mr. Dryden about your bad luck, Pete.’
Klugman made a show of reluctance by shaking his head, then went on to say, ‘I was an AAU finalist three years in a row. In sixty-eight I was clocking forty-four regular, but I turned my ankle in the heats of the final Olympic Tryout. Achilles tendon. Zapped me. That was the year the U.S. took gold, silver and bronze in Mexico City.’
‘Tough,’ said Valenti without a trace of sympathy. ‘So you got into coaching.’ He held out a hand to Klugman. ‘Myself, I’m in pharmaceuticals. Gino Valenti.’
Before the rundown could begin on the U.S. drug industry, Serafin left them, saying he had arrangements to make. He would leave them in Miss Fryer’s capable hands.
Valenti took over. ‘Sit down,’ he told the coach. ‘Tell us how Goldengirl is making out. Get Mr. Klugman a coffee, Melody, and top mine up while you’re about it. What do you say, Klugman? Are you satisfied with the kid?’
‘She’s still mobile,’ said Klugman guardedly.
Valenti wasn’t settling for that. ‘Let’s lay it out, shall we? Does she have the gold-medal look? That’s what Dryden here needs to know. Serafin gives a great account of her pedigree, but you’re the guy in the know. What it comes down to is, can she run good?’
‘She ought to hold up,’ said Klugman.
‘Christ, she’d better!’ rapped out Valenti. ‘I got seventy-five grand on this already.’
‘Cool it,’ cautioned Melody. ‘If Pete says she’ll hold up, that’s fine. He isn’t given to exaggeration.’
‘You can check her out yourself at San Diego tomorrow,’ Klugman pointed out.
‘You bet I will,’ said Valenti. ‘I like a pretty story as well as the next guy, but on the day it’s the fastest dame who grabs the gold.’
‘Don’t underrate the story line,’ Melody said, handing Valenti his coffee. ‘Goldengirl won’t make it big just by running fast. You need an angle, don’t you, Mr. Dryden?’
He was glad the point had come up. It gave him the chance to sow doubts which could usefully surface later. ‘You’re so right. The news value of a good piece of running is practically nil. Okay, she’s a pretty girl, and that helps a little. She does something extraordinary — wins three gold medals. Great, but in twenty-four hours that story is dead unless something is there to sustain it.’