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Chapter 4: Aztec

We skied back to the course, dragging a sled, and settled in to wait. Jack Craven rubbed me the wrong way. He rarely spoke to any of the patrollers except to scold. He kept his distance after hours, too. All the patrollers lived in cheap housing downvalley. Craven had a pricey house in town, and none of us had been inside the place. He was married, with kids, but our families never mixed. Craven seemed like one of those small-town natives who treats as a stranger anyone he hadn't known since elementary school.

Marco had his own attitude toward Craven. "This is not a mountain we work for, it is a large corporation," he said. "We are not members of a climbing team, but employees of the corporation. We must expect the boss to behave the way bosses do in any bureaucracy."

"Give me, how you say, the break."

As usual, Marco remained in motion as he lectured, gesturing, pumping his knees gently.

"Please have patience while the professor explains," he said. "Craven has priorities. The first priority is to protect himself. The second is to protect the corporation. The third is to cultivate his own bosses. Way down the list is a priority that says hire and keep good people who know how to do their jobs well. The first priority implies that he must appear more knowledgeable and more competent than any of the people who work for him."

"What is this, guerrilla economics?"

"Silence, please. What happens if tomorrow the accountants in Chicago tell our operations v.p. to fire half the executives earning over $35,000 and replace them with promotable subordinates now earning less than $25,000? It's simple. The ops v.p. then sits down with the personnel director and looks for departments with assistant supervisors who are ready to become department heads. A department head who imagines this could happen is frightened by any subordinate who knows a lot, and he will seek to make that person an unlikely candidate for promotion. So if you want to be promoted, you have to act dull. Behave as if you are personally loyal to Jack Craven rather than to your job."

"But I don't want Craven's job," I said. "I don't want to be an administrator. I just want to ski and rescue people, and not think about anything very complex. Sure, I could do his job, but I don't want to, and I've told him that."

"Certainly. You insulted him."

"How?"

"Craven worked hard to become supervisor. I'll bet he really appreciated being told that you consider the job beneath your dignity. Of course, he cannot believe you don't want the job. So that makes you a treacherous liar. If you really want to climb in the organization, you must not only be dull and loyal, you must also admire and envy the boss."

"Shit."

"Yes."

"So that's what we're doing here. We've thrown our educations away to avoid the world's corporate assholes, and in fact they've followed us to the mountains."

"Actually, they were here first in our case. And why not? In every environment there is an ecological niche for the asshole. It is a very adaptive species."

"There's also the possibility that he just doesn't like my face. A lot of these Western guys mistrust Easterners -- they think we're all Ivy Leaguers, bankers, and real-estate criminals."

"You are, you know, a kind of low-rent Ivy Leaguer. I can get away with talking gibberish, because I'm a luger and I'm supposed to be incomprehensible. But you're just an overeducated wiseass. Also, you're astonishingly ugly."

"There's that, yes. Anyway, you've got your own vendetta, don't you? What's the story with you and Bester?"

"Another asshole. We had a fight in Chile a couple of years ago. He hired me to coach one of his race camps. Then he fired me."

"Was it the drug problem?"

"No, personalities. I thought he was a jerk and he knew I thought he was a jerk. Call it a religious issue. Bester has seen God, in his bathroom mirror."

By this time the racers were arriving at the start in pairs, skating over from the top of the lift, riding their training skis and carrying waxed and polished soft-snow race skis over their shoulders. They milled around, stretching, getting their legs rubbed, their race skis cooling in the snow until it would be time to check the bindings.

A couple of the local tech reps for ski equipment companies had set up small tents and were doing adjustments. Clipper Cobb, the Salomon bindings guy, had dug a waist-deep trench in the snow, so he could work on boots and bindings without kneeling. When he looked up from screwing down somebody's clamps, I waved at him. He saluted with a big screwdriver, and another racer shuffled into position in front of him.

A top racer would normally take about two minutes to complete the Ruthie's Run downhill course. Today the course would be slower, and skiers would take it easy -- this was only a practice day. With skiers leaving the starting gate every 30 seconds, we could expect to have four or even five racers somewhere on the course at any given moment. Because the morning's practice had been lost to the fresh snow, the race committee hoped to hold two practices during the afternoon, which meant 180 runs. The patrol had to be prepared for the chance that one skier in ten might crash. And an injured skier would have to be moved off the course within half a minute, before the next racer came rumbling through.

We started with four men and two sleds to cover the course; if several skiers were injured early, the chief of course would have to ask Craven for reinforcements among the patrollers covering the civilians today. Marco and I stayed at the top of the course. Al took a sled to the top of Aztec, the fastest and most difficult section. A racer who crashed on Aztec might easily slide down into the netting at the bottom of Spring Pitch, where Fred waited to collect him.

Gatekeepers finished hardening their little stretches of real estate, and course judges found their positions.

At five to twelve, with workers yelling "Course!" in excited, holiday voices, the first of the fore-runners, local juniors not yet eligible for senior competition, skated out of the starting gate and accelerated slowly along the gradual ridge forming the upper section of Ruthie's. Today's speeds would not be awesome. Each of the forerunners left visible tracks in the snow.

The first racer set off on schedule at noon sharp. We began picking up snippets of news on the course radio, which operated on a different frequency from the patrol units. Bib number three skied off the course at the bottom of Aztec but was okay, up and moving.

Times improved raggedly but steadily as the loose snow was swept off and burnished in. Rusty Hillman set second-fastest time in the first seed. He was taking it easy. Everyone was cautious, and we were well into the second seed before the first crash.

The course radio crackled: "Racer off the course. Wreck on Aztec."

A second later my own radio spoke. "This is one-one-five, I've got it." It was Al. We sat tight as another couple of racers started, and then Al got on the horn again. "I got another wreck here. Repeat, a second wreck on Aztec. This is a course worker and he's not breathing."

I thumbed my radio. "This is one-one-two," I said, "and here I come."

Marco was already on his skis, horsing the sled to point downhill. I grabbed his poles and my own and we skated onto the rolled snow alongside the racecourse, tracking straight down the fall line. Unhindered by the meatwagon, I pulled ahead quickly, gaining speed on the back of each roll.

Courseworkers scrambled back out of our way. Just before the gradual left turn into Aztec one of the racers overtook us. As soon as he passed I crossed the course, carved a hard turn to check my speed, and swallowed the lip into the steep. I went airborne for a few feet, landed easily in the soft snow alongside the course, and made two more long turns to arrive at the little group gathered at the left side of the trail, near the trees.

The patient was Art Conover, sixtyish, a former ski instructor. Art had owned the best bar in town and it had made him a fortune before he lost his lease. He was a raconteur, cocksman and alcoholic, a prime candidate for heart attack, and a good friend.

Al had started CPR; he had opened Art's parka and shirt and was pumping on the breastbone, pausing every 15 beats to force a couple of mouth-to-mouth breaths. Close by, a courseworker cradled the helmeted head of a kid wearing a third-seed bib. The kid grimaced, but he wasn't groaning and was clearly conscious: he was watching Al work on Art.

I twisted out of my bindings and knelt next to Art's head, grabbed his nose and gently tilted his head back. I pulled off my right glove and felt for a pulse in his throat. All I got was the sluggish throb whenever Al pumped the chest.

"What happened?" I asked Al, then began mouth-to-mouth, timing the breaths to every fifth chest-pump. Art smelled of stale beer and mouthwash.

Al was breathing hard from exertion and excitement. "When the kid crashed -- Art came running -- up the hill -- about 50 yards -- from his gate," he said, between pumps and breaths. "Got here -- all red in the face -- staggered -- and fell down."

"Did he say anything?"

"No."

"Grab his left arm or chest?"

"Didn't see."

"Did anyone see?" I turned to the course worker and racer. They shook their heads.

Marco arrived with the sled, slipping to a halt with a minimum of spray. I already knew what I wanted done.

"Marco, look at the kid. Take over there. Al, I'm gonna tube this guy and ride the sled with him. You drive."

I undid my belt, got the airway out and stuck it down Art's throat. I gave him another deep breath, Al pumped his heart a couple more times and then we slung him onto Al's sled.

I resumed hammering away at the chest and blowing into the airway while Al hustled to strap the body down. Then he slammed into his bindings, muscled the sled around into a traverse and I dropped to my knees, straddling Art Conover's stomach where I could pound his chest and fill his lungs.

Al grunted to get our combined weights moving in the soft snow and eased us out onto the steep firm surface of the course. "Move it," I yelled. I already knew we were going to lose Art. No one has ever stopped breathing at high elevation at an American ski resort and been gotten off fast enough to live. But we gotta try.

I was too busy to watch the course flash by, but I could feel it through my knees. The soft snow made it just possible to hang on by gripping hard with ankles and thighs -- I needed both hands to pump Art's chest.

Al's a strong skier with young knees, and he knows every roll and dip on that mountain. We were moving fast enough to scare me, but I had too much to think about. Art's lips were blue, his eyes dilated. It was already -- what? six, eight minutes? -- since Al had called for help. For the second time that day I was measuring life in minutes, breaths, heartbeats. I pounded away at the chest. We had a chance. There was already an ambulance waiting for racer wrecks -- we could slide the sled straight into the van and mask Art for oxygen. This could be the fastest evacuation ever, and maybe Art could live.

I pumped, back aching from tension, gripping with my knees as I pumped. I pumped harder. Al flew us over the last roll and I almost lost it, floating above Art's pale, flaccid face, suspended above the sled in the rush of wind, hanging onto the lapels of his parka with both hands, one gloved, one bare. I grunted with the pain on landing as my right knee crunched onto the hard lip of the sled's edge.

Now we were slowing into the glide across the finish area, the flat home stretch, and Al was yelling for help to drag the rig past the clinic to the ambulance. A couple of guys came out of the crowd and began dragging on the handles. Al ducked under the handles and kicked out of his skis, and the three of them pounded ahead yelling for clearance, dragging poor Art and me along. There were three more guys waiting at the ambulance, and with six backs lifting I didn't even get out of the sled while they slid us through the doors.

But once the mask was on and someone with white sleeves was squeezing the bag, I found that one of the "guys" was Ally Lovain, the Snowmass patrol person. "Okay, get this thing rolling," she yelled to the driver. "Move, move, move!"

The third member of the crew slammed the doors as he climbed in beside us. "Shove over, Rucksack, and let me do that. What's happened here?" Ally was already setting up an IV and defib paddles. Roger began to pump Art's chest, and I rolled away.

"Coronary thrombosis, something," I said. "He keeled over 15 minutes ago. He got CPR immediately. No pulse. Where's Al?"

"Said he'd wait for Marco to bring down his racer," Ally said. "How bad is Art?"

"Bad," I said. "Call for another ambulance to meet Marco?"

"Yeah," said the driver. "Hang on, I'm gonna gas this fucker."

I sat on the floor, back against a cabinet, ski boots braced against the side of the sled, watching Ally and Roger pushing life into Art Conover, watching Art go away.

At the ER doors we slid Art onto a gurney and someone in green scrubs climbed aboard to continue pumping. A nurse took over bagging from Ally, and Al pushed the assemblage through the surgery doors. I hadn't even seen him climb into the front of the van.

With my wet ski boots sliding on the shiny vinyl floor, I clumped over to the admitting desk and leaned over, trying once again that day to control my own breathing. Maggy Temple, one of the senior nurses, turned from a chart rack and rolled her chair to the counter. She plucked an admitting form from a steel bin on the wall, and looked up at me.

"Hi, Rucksack. I heard on the scanner you were bringing in Art Conover."

"Yeah." Looking at Maggy calmed me down. At least she always had distracted me -- it was always easier to look at her clear, bright face and trim figure than at the bloody patients I brought her.

"How does he look?" I shook my head. "I'll call his wife. Tell me what happened."

I told her, quickly. She asked me to wait and hurried into a closed office to use the phone. I slid over to the coffee machine and poured a cup thick with cream and sugar, exactly the way I never drink it. I stared into space, thinking about Art and the way it must have felt when his overworked heart cramped up and stopped.

Marco came in, pushing the kid whose cartwheel had precipitated Art's final dash. The kid sat in a wheelchair, one leg propped up straight ahead, held stiff with a quick splint. He looked shaken. Marco waved at me, wheeled the kid into an examining room, and came back after a couple of minutes to pour himself a cup. From his pocket he dug out my other glove and handed it to me.

"Art?" he said.

"I don't know. I don't think he'll make it. What about yours?"

"He's in pain, but I don't think anything's broken. Probably just stretched the cruciates pretty badly. I think watching Art keel over scared him worse than anything. I can understand it. You're sitting there in the snow after a high speed crash, feeling all the juices rushing around in your veins, still high from the speed, and some red-faced clown runs up and practically dies in your lap. The kid will have bad dreams for months. Where's Al?"

"He's around here someplace."

"We'd better get back soon. They're a little short on help right now."

"Well. There may be some trouble here. If Art makes it we're going to be fucking heroes, but if he dies we'd better play it by the book. Al was the first guy to get to him. According to Ski Corp. policy that makes it his wreck".

"Maybe. Isn't there a law about the senior medic taking charge?"

"Yeah, goddamn it."

"Well? You're the senior medic. You're the only EMT instructor. You trained Al and you're the guy who recertifies him. It was your wreck the minute you got there."

The parents of the kid arrived and one of the nurses brought them over to talk to Marco. He reassured them and then sat down with them in a corner to fill out admitting forms and accident reports.

Maggy came out of the office and walked over to me. "Sarah Conover is on her way over here. I can do the admitting forms with her. Would you like to do the accident report?"

"Sure, Maggy. How did Sarah take it?"

"Sometimes you can't tell on the phone. They sound a little shocky. I told her to get a neighbor to drive her over. I think she knows what that means."

"Listen, can we sit down someplace and do this? I'd sort of like to be out of the traffic for a little while." Maggy looked at me gravely, and her gray eyes refocused on me, as if she hadn't really been looking at my face before. Then she nodded and turned, and I followed her down the corridor to the canteen.

I liked following Maggy -- I liked the way her back narrowed, her slender waist, the way her muscular hips and calves moved. We sat at a formica table, in those stupid fiberglass buckets, in front of a bank of sterile, brightly lighted vending machines, and I filled out the hospital's accident report.

I caught Maggy looking at me with an eyebrow raised, chin cupped in her hand.

"Well?" I said. "What's your question?"

"Do I have a question?" she asked.

"Don't you?"

"You've never asked for privacy here before. You're one of our best customers. You haul them in bent or bloody or dead all winter and all summer, and you're always Mr. Cool. Even after Carole left you. Especially after Carole left you. You knew Art Conover, but he wasn't your best friend. Art shouldn't bother you more than most bodies you handle, but you look really shaken. What's up?"

I looked at Maggy. She had clear eyes, a fine strong chin, and wore her blond hair pulled back to make a high pale forehead. Her face was a smooth healthy tan below the cheekbones, and white above: the mark of the skier. I thought her very pretty.

I paused to think. "I'm okay, I guess. I almost got killed in a slide this morning, and it made me feel really helpless. Then, coming down with Art, I felt it again, that I had no control over what was happening, that I was going to lose Art no matter what. I feel out of control -- depressed one minute, rushing the next. I'm upset about Art, but at the same time I want to reach over and touch your face. I'm repressing something, right? I feel like I want to go away by myself for a while and have a good cry, but I don't want to catch myself doing that, you know?"

"Why not?"

"I don't know, Maggy. I guess I think I should be professional about things."

"Does professional mean callous? If you expect to be good at what you do, don't you think you should be passionate about it?"

"How could I stand that? Do you break down every time the hospital loses a patient?"

"No, but when I need a good cry I give myself one. It's no big deal."

"Yeah. Okay."

"Listen, Rucksack. It's okay to hold yourself together until you're alone if that's what you need to do. But when you are alone, don't keep acting as if someone is judging you. Get it out. And if you need a shoulder to cry on, come see me."

"Yeah, okay."

"I mean it." She reached under the table to take my hand. "Sam, I know you. One of the reasons Carole left was this stupid Aspen-patroller macho cool act you put on. You're too smart for it. You didn't act like this when you were driving an ambulance in Manhattan, so why do it now?"

I looked at Maggy the way she had been looking at me, aware of something I hadn't seen before. Maggy affected a tough-guy stance herself. It went with being a head nurse: crisp whites, severely bobbed hair, bluff but sympathetic with everyone. She was showing me, for the first time, that she looked through people. At the same time, she didn't make me sullen the way Carole's questions did. Unlike Carole, Maggy had no reason to be angry at me, so I didn't arm my defenses.

"Listen, Rucksack, I have to get back out to the desk. I want to be there when Sarah arrives. Finish your report, think about what I said, and let's talk later." She walked off.

It was official half an hour later, after Ralph Horowitz finished talking to Art's wife. Horowitz came out to the lobby of the emergency room, where Marco and Al and I waited on the comfortable new benches. Horowitz, at my own age, was the youngest of the three trauma docs on staff. "Art didn't make it," he said. "I'm sorry. You guys did great, but he was probably dead when you got to him. Your racer's okay, probably ruptured cruciates."

"What was it?" I asked.

"Coronary thrombosis, I think. We'll have an autopsy report in the morning and we'll know for sure. It could have been avoided. Art hadn't seen a doctor in five years, according to his wife."

"Do we have to do anything else?"

"Naw. Head on back, fill out your patrol report. The coroner will talk to you in a day or so."

"Whose wrecks are these?" Al asked. "Who does the paperwork? Who takes the heat?" Al had been first at the scene for both cases, and somehow they'd both been finessed away from him.

"Put two signatures on each accident report, but the senior guy should write each one. That's Sam and Marco. There won't be any heat. You guys did everything just right. Don't punish yourself about Art. He was a neat guy but there's no way you could have kept him going."

Al calmed down and on the ride back to the mountain told us what had happened during the few minutes before we arrived at the crash site. "We had deep snow alongside the course, and the kid tumbled and slid a ways in it. One of the course workers ran down to him and Art tried to run uphill in all that crud. By the time I got there and we got the kid brushed off and straightened out, Art was still wading uphill. I waved him off and yelled at him that we didn't need any help, but he kept on coming. I was paying more attention to the kid and wasn't watching Art. When he got to us he made some choking noises. I turned around just in time to see him flop over. I figured he was just exhausted and then I saw his face was all blotched and red. I hopped over and goddamned if he hadn't stopped breathing. So I started CPR and called for help."

"Anyone get the other course worker's name?" I asked.

Marco pulled out his notebook. "Eternal vigilance is the price of freedom," he said. "Name, address, phone."

"And the kid saw all this, too," I told Al. "We're covered."

We got back to the hill at about 2:45, most of the way through the second non-stop. We checked in, and Al headed up the course. By the time Marco and I had written out our crash reports the race was over and we had to head up the mountain to prepare for sweep.

Course workers were cleaning up, trying to smooth out the ruts the racers had carved in the soft snow, packing in the surface and resetting gates where crashing skiers had disturbed them. More snow was forecast for that night, and clouds had begun to pile up at the head of the valley.

"Those report forms are getting weird," I said when we got on One A. "It used to be they just wanted to know about the injury and the patient. Now they want us to cover our butts with all kinds of information about the terrain and snow conditions, they want statements from witnesses and anything the patient said at the scene. It's all for the lawyers now, instead of for the doctors. Every time I fill one of these things out it makes me worry more about getting sued someday."

"At home we wouldn't worry about all this legal bullshit," Marco said. "No one would ever question the first aid competence of a race course patrol, let alone sue a ski area or a patroller."

"Italy has national health insurance. You're a bunch of communists."

"It's not just our social welfare that keeps people from making trivial lawsuits. In the United States you like to hand over big chunks of public land to private operators. Ever since you took the land away from the Indians you've been giving it to miners and lumber companies and ski areas, so naturally the lawyers go after those companies. It's only fair. But in the alps, we had no Indians. We were grazing cattle on the mountains for centuries before there were ski lifts, or even national governments. The land belonged to the people of the village, or to the local baron, before there were governments, so we still think of it as common land. Ski area revenues go to the local town, so the mountain is run like a park district."

"In the U.S., people sue park districts all the time."

"Yeah, isn't private enterprise great? I do my job, saving lives in the mountains. If someone is stupid enough to kill himself up here someplace, his family can sue me for trying to rescue him. Probably the ski area's insurance company will pay the settlement."

"It's stupid, but it's what we have."

"Certainly the system rewards stupidity. It's a curious kind of socialism, of course. It's as efficient as any other method of redistributing wealth. Here, want some toot?" Marco fished the little bottle from his parka, and turned in the chair to shelter it from the freshening breeze.

"You're so brilliant, and you put that garbage up your nose. What's wrong with you? You're going to have to quit."

"It is evil, but look how young and strong it keeps me."

"You know how delicate the brain is? That stuff makes you stupid, and you mistake it for youthful vigor. It's like pouring quicklime on your brain cells. And you can't afford it on a ski patrolman's salary."

"I get a pro deal. It comes from a special supplier."

"I don't want to know about this. And I don't want you selling the stuff out of my house."

"I wouldn't do that. I promise, I'm not dealing coke and I'm not going to implicate you in anything. I just like the stuff and happen to know where to get a lot of it, cheaply."

"You mean Hildy knows where to get it cheap."

"She certainly does. And you'd be very surprised to learn where that is."

"Don't tell me, don't show me, and don't offer the stuff to me. Okay?"

"Sam, I do not deal drugs. Trust me. I know what I'm doing, and it won't get you in trouble."

"I do trust you. But be cool about this stuff. I've looked at a lot of bodies, and at a lot of brains. I probably know more neuropathology than any doc in this state. Coke kills people as dead as any avalanche."

By the time we got to the top, the wind had the trees muttering and doing little preparatory warm-ups for their big dance later. We stomped into the Sundeck for a warm-up of our own. Dick Bester and a few of his racer-chaser buddies were steaming up their bifocals over coffee and schnapps in one corner, and I waved.

Marco turned and walked off when Bester stood up and approached. "Sorry to hear about Art Conover," Bester said. "Was he in pain?"

"No, he was unconscious. He was probably dead before he hit the ground."

"I guess that's the way. Quick."

I wanted to change the subject. "Are you happy with the way the kids are skiing?" I asked.

Bester nodded, the doleful face turning cheery. "The local boys can't lose in this stuff." He ambled off, to rejoin a group of big men swaddling themselves for a run down the mountain in the gathering storm.

Marco came back from the cafeteria line with some hot mugs and we joined a sober party in the patrol room. Art's death had dampened the lunchtime yuks. Even Fred Bloom looked morose. I sat by the window, watching as the first flakes scudded before the wind, watching the lifts discharge the day's last skiers and then shut down, watching the snow begin to gather on the seats and ramps.

It was comforting to think about Maggy. I had been avoiding women since Carole left, but I wanted to be consoled. Hildy was going to spend the night with Marco and I didn't look forward to being the third wheel.

I picked up the phone and called the hospital, meaning to ask Maggy to dine. But the day shift ended at 3:00 and she had gone home. Her home phone rang unanswered.

Marco straddled the bench next to me. "If you can't reach whoever it is, why don't you have dinner with Hildy and me tonight? You owe me a couple of drinks after I saved your butt this morning."

I grinned. "Thanks, Marco. Maybe if I get hold of whoever it is, we'll join you."

"Maggy is very pretty, and she likes you a lot."

"I'd like to run my own social life, please."

"Just reinforcing. Just making sure you proceed. No man should be without the love of one or several good women."

"Yeah. Come on, it's four o'clock. Let's go sweep."

Marco and I were posted to sweep the western boundary, which meant mostly the race course. Marco would ski Ruthie's, Aztec and Dago Cut Road. I'd ski the parallel trails, one rank eastward: Zig Zaugg, Snow Bowl and Strawpile. The purpose of sweep is simply to pick up any laggard or injured skier and escort him off the mountain before nightfall. With the other guys we zipped up, got down the goggles and gloves from their hooks. We filed out into the flat light and gathering snow, found our skis and walked around the corner of the building to the top of Buckhorn.

Visibility worsened as the sun settled out beyond the clouds somewhere. Between the dark trees the snow and air merged into a steel-gray fluid. It muffled the voices of the other patrolmen heading downmountain on their own sweep routes.

We stepped into our skis and began sliding into the gray. We skied side by side down Buckhorn and Midway to Ruthie's, and then cruised onto the top of the racecourse. The new snow was lovely, and the cold breeze stung snowflakes into my cheeks. Marco, bundled and almost colorless in the storm, rose and fell, approached and receded in the corner of my eye. He waved for a stop at the top of Zig Zaugg, where I had to turn off, and we carved apair of nested loops into the sheltering trees.

"I've got to go see Craven," I reminded him.

"Be brave," he smiled. "I'll wait for you at the car. If you're not out in an hour, I'll notify your folks."

"Great. Be careful on Aztec. Don't go playing boy racer."

"Right." With that, Marco took one long, easy skate back onto the course, and faded, for the last time, into the whirling snow.

I crossed over and headed down my route. I found no tardy skiers, no wrecks, no reason to slow down. In a couple of minutes I was off the hill.

I threw my gear in the locker and wandered over to Craven's office for my chewing out. The office was empty. I sat alone there for five minutes before Craven came in carrying his wet ski boots. I stood up.

"Sit down, Sam," he purred.

"Yo, Jack. What's up?"

"You had a few problems today."

"For instance?"

"Dumping the Ridge of Bell into Copper Bowl wasn't too smart this morning, and then you lost Art Conover this afternoon."

I said nothing. Craven is a very strong guy with a broad, pie-shaped face, accentuated by the bulges of muscle at the sides of his jaw. He's aware that he looks like a drill sergeant and takes care to speak softly.

"Art Conover wasn't your wreck, Sam. He was Al Hotchner's responsibility."

"Al had two wrecks on his hands. He needed help."

"You shouldn't have taken the responsibility. As I understand it, you took charge and made the decisions as soon as you arrived on the scene. I want it clearly understood that the company's policy is that the first man on the scene is in charge."

"Sure, Jack. But the state law makes the man with senior medical credentials liable. Where does that leave me if someone decides to sue?"

"You are not the senior man. You are a Merit One. As far as the patrol is concerned, you have the same medical credentials as Al Hotchner."

"Are you kidding? I'm your EMT instructor. I've trained half the guys on this patrol. I'm the guy licensed by the State of Colorado."

"Well, Sam, that brings up the other thing I want to talk about. You made two bad calls today, and I considered letting you go. But I do need an EMT instructor to recertify my personnel. Tell you what. If you'll promise to go by the book, and if I don't catch you throwing your weight around any more, you can stay on. And I want you to teach first aid and recertification as part of your standard salary."

"Let me get this straight. You want me to teach four hours a week for free?"

"Think of it this way: the reason we employ you is to help us keep our patrollers' skills current."

"You're asking me to take a pay cut."

"I'm offering to let you keep your job."

"Goddamnit, Jack."

"That's enough, Sam. I think we're through here."

I stared at him. "Why are you doing this?" I asked.

He stared back, for a long time. "You don't belong here," he said finally. "I won't fire you, but you don't belong on the patrol. Go back to school. Quit wasting your time. Now get out."

I slammed his door, then went and sat in the car for a few minutes to fume. Marco wasn't there. I wanted to tell him about it. I could quit, but there wasn't anything else I wanted to work at around town; no point in staying if I couldn't ski every day. But I'd been over that ground before. It wasn't fair, but fair is air. It's invisible.

When Marco didn't appear after ten minutes, I went back to the clinic. All the jocks were down and had checked out except Marco. That was surprising, considering that Hildy was supposed to be waiting back at the trailer.

"Anyone seen Marco?" I yelled. None of the guys had. They were busy slamming their lockers and rushing out to meet wives and girlfriends or to find stools at the Little Nell bar.

I called Tim Belden. "He didn't come hiking back up here," Tim reported. "Seitz is still here to runpost-clear. Maybe Marco's with a wreck. I'll send Harry down with a rig to collect the bones."

Fred Bloom was encouraging. "He'll be okay, mate. He probably ran into some pussy. But if you don't hear from him in a bit, come get us at the bar and we'll help you find him."

Fifteen minutes later Harry Seitz stamped in, shaking his head, and I knew that Marco was in trouble on the mountain.