"You were a good teacher, I'll say that for you. I won't say yea or nay about your off-time activities." Cully grinned sourly. "You been skiing much? You look in good shape. Better than me," he said glumly.

"I've done my share of skiing. Out West, Europe . . ."

"Don't tell me." Cully scowled. "I haven't been off these hills anywhere since I got this damned job ten years ago." He tapped the newspaper in front of him loudly. "I'll be lucky to get a day off to see the downhill at Placid during the Olympics. It might be the one year, too, when an American took a first place. The miracle year," he said sardonically.

"Aren't there any kids that look as though they could make it in town anymore?" Michael asked curiously.

Cully shook his head. "A lot of kids with talent," he said, "but it's a different breed. They won't do the work, they won't train, they won't make the sacrifices. To tell you the truth, I don't blame them. What have I got to show for it? My legs're so banged up it takes me twenty minutes to get out of bed in the morning. Three operations on the knees." Under the table he moved his legs and there was a loud crackling sound, like bones breaking. "Listen to that, will you? Sometimes I look at the medals and the cups in my house and then look at the scars on my knees and think I'd trade. Give back the medals and give away the scars." He chuckled harshly. "And what am I good for now? Running a two-bit ski school in the winter, occasionally getting some V.I.P. fat cat, like a senator or the president of an oil company, down the slope, making sure he doesn't get his brains knocked out. No good for anything better, because when everybody else was going away to college I was running up and down hills, lifting weights, following the circuits wherever there was snow- yeah, I saw Europe for two months, only all I saw was the same snow as here and a couple of new airports-and thinking I was a big shot because I got my picture in the papers and had my choice of girls for a year or two because I came in first at Sun Valley and then what . . . ? People coming up to me from time to time, saying, I know your face from somewhere. . . . Nah, I'm no shining example for the kids around here. Anyway, they're spoiled. Too much mama and papa, too much money. When I skied we were lucky to get board and lodging."

"Still, even if it was only for a little while, you had a great time, didn't you?"

The massive man looked sullenly at Michael across the table, as though Michael were asking him a delicate and unfortunate question. "Yeah. It wasn't bad for a while," he said.

"Would you do it all over again if you had the chance?" Michael persisted. He, too, had had his great times and had paid for them.

Cully pondered, rinsing his mouth with coffee before he answered. Then he laughed ruefully. "I guess so," he said. "I'm just as dumb now as I was then." He shook his head sadly. "A three-month-a-year career. In the summertime I work in my father-in-law's lumber yard. For vacation I paint the house. If my kids want to go to college when they grow up they'd better be good enough to get scholarships because it's a cinch their old man won't be able to afford the tuition. You're lucky you were never tempted."

"My temptations were different. Maybe worse."

"Tell me about your troubles, friend," Cully said ironically. He closed the newspaper and rolled it up, as though it was offending him. He looked inquisitively at Michael. "You want to say why a man who owns a Porsche . . . ?"

"Oh, you heard about that, too?"

"Norman Brewster," Cully said. "He asked me if you were a bookie or a white collar criminal or something."

"What did you tell him?"

"I said I wouldn't be surprised." Cully grinned again. "Anyway, why does a guy who has dough enough for a car like that want to take a piddling job teaching skiing in a half-ass resort like Green Hollow? You want to say?"

"Actually, no," Michael said.

"Didn't think you would. No matter. If you want the job it's yours and glad to have you back."

"Are you sure?" Michael asked doubtfully. Even after what he had said to Eva Heggener, he still wasn't certain that was how he wanted to spend the winter-teaching. "After . . . well . . . everything?" ' ' '

Cully took a loud sip from his mug of coffee. "Coffee ain't what it used to be, have you noticed that?"

"I haven't noticed."

"Just ain't," Cully said. He took a deep breath, stared evenly at Michael. "It was a long time ago. Just stay away from Norma and there'll be no trouble."

"Dave," Michael said, hoping that the man would never learn of Norma's visit that morning, "I don't know what Norma's told you but I swear . . ."

Cully put up a big hand to stop him. "I don't want to hear about it," he said harshly. "I didn't go into all the details of my life when I asked Norma to marry me and I ain't interested in what she was up to before she walked up the aisle to the altar. I need a few older men and you fill the bill. Nobody says we have to be bosom buddies or keep on sweating out what happened in the Dark Ages. Anyway, Mrs. Heggener wants you and in this town what Madam wants, we supply. I ain't doing you any favors. She's a hard lady to please. Last year she went through four instructors. The other guys'll vote you skier of the year for taking her off their backs. Just make sure there's no damage to the goods from now to April. You'll earn your pay. Which ain't saying much. If you don't get killed dropping out of the clouds before lunch, come into the office this afternoon and I'll fit you into one of these jackets and a Green Hollow sweater; they're due in by three p.m. And if we ever get any snow, maybe we could do a coupla runs together."

"Thanks," Michael said, standing, glad that the interview was over, recognizing the invitation to ski as a gruff and indirect way of approaching a common ground of friendship.

"See you later," Michael said, as Cully called for another coffee, saying to the waitress, as he waved good-bye, "I'll drink myself to death with all this lousy coffee."

The hang-gliding school was not beautified by any ivied towers. In a narrow valley, with a respectable hill looming above it, there was a battered pickup truck and a mud-spattered small living trailer, each with "Green Eagle Hang-Gliding School" painted on it in irregular large green letters. A ramshackle shed that once had been used for storing hay surrounded what might be described as the campus, a muddy stretch of dead turf about twenty yards square.

Michael looked into the shed and then into the trailer, where an unmade bunk, some unwashed pots and pans, a radio and the pervading smell of pot reassured him that someone actually lived there. There was nobody either in the shed or in the trailer. He went out and looked up at the sky. A hang-glider was slowly circling for a landing.

Michael smiled at the sight and felt the first tingle of excitement. He watched critically as the man in the glider, in a sitting position, landed perfectly only a few feet from the pickup truck. The man unhooked himself and came toward Michael. He was young and gangling and blond, with a swooping, dank moustache, also blond, and a sad, sunburnt, skinny face. He walked loosely, as though his joints were unhinged. His clothes, jeans and a patched old army wind-breaker, looked as though he had slept in them for a month.

"Hi," Michael said, as the man approached.

"Hi." The man gave him a languid wave of the hand, hardly lifting his arm.

"That looked pretty good up there," Michael said.

"A piece of cake today. Just enough wind. You lookin' for somebody?"

"I thought I might take a little spin. Who runs this outfit?"

"Me," the man said. "Williams. Jerry Williams. Sole proprietor." "Michael Storrs."

"Hiya, Mike." They shook hands. Williams's hand was callussed, but he applied no strength. He would never make a politician with a handshake like that. "You been up before?"

"A few times."

He had taken up the sport more or less by accident. One of the mechanics who worked in the garage where Michael had his Porsche serviced had shown up one day with his wrist in a cast and out of politeness Michael had asked what had happened.

"Hang-gliding," the mechanic had said. "Nothing much. Hairline fracture. Won't keep me grounded. Fact is, I'm going out again on Saturday."

"What's it like?" Michael asked. "Hang-gliding, I mean."

"The greatest, man." A dreamy look came into the mechanic's eyes. "I tried free-falling and compared to gliding it's like just rolling out of bed. I hear you do some skydiving."

"Some," Michael said.

"Different breed of cat." The mechanic spat as though he were talking of an inferior caste. "Gravity does all the work."

"Where do you go?"

"The Catskills, the Poconos. This weekend it's the Poconos. You interested?" Suddenly there was a note of challenge in the mechanic's voice, the proletarian who worked with his hands offering the elegant gentleman with the absurdly expensive car a chance to prove just how tough he really was.

"I might be interested," Michael said. What the hell, he thought, I've tried just about everything else. "Why not? I haven't got anything on this weekend."

"I guarantee you'll be hooked, man," the mechanic said.

Michael hadn't been as hooked as all that, but the lessons had been fun and the instructor, who looked as though he could have been Jerry Williams's brother, had said he had natural talent for it and he and the mechanic had become weekend friends and the Porsche benefited from it.

"What kind of kite you used to?" Williams was saying now.

"Delta," Michael said. "Like yours."

"Got it with you?" Williams looked doubtfully over at the Porsche, which had hardly enough room to carry an umbrella in it.

"No. I did some housecleaning awhile back and sold it."

Williams looked him over carefully, the first time that there was anything but a dull glaze over his eyes. "Um," he said. "You staying here?"

"New boy in town. I'm an instructor in the ski school."

"Not much instructin' to do so far," Williams said, looking up at the clear sky. "Fucks up my business, too. People just don't come and it ain't even cold enough nights to turn on the artificial snow machines. Keeps up much longer like this, I'll fuckin' well have to go to work. They pay you while you're waitin'?"

"Theoretically, yes."

"I get balls," Williams said, but without anger. "I'm an individual entrepreneur. The backbone of the country. Down to my bare ass. I shouldn't talk like that to a customer, should I?"

"I don't mind."

Williams gestured to where the glider was lying. "You land where you want to land, Mister Storrs," he said, "or where the machine wants to land?"

"Both," Michael said and they both laughed.

"Well," said Williams, "at least you're honest. I'll drive you up to the top of yonder hill"-he pointed to the wooded mountain that cast its shadow over the valley-"there's a road goin' up, the other side. I'll watch you take off. If you can, come down here. If you can't, I'll find you. Please try not to wind up in a tree, trees're hell on kites. If you bust up the machine, you pay. Or your estate pays." He grinned.

"Fair enough."

"Come on into the office and sign the papers. It's a waiver in case of injury. I talked to a lawyer friend of mine and he gave me legal advice when I started the business. So you can't sue me and I can sue you if you wipe out my kite."

"Again," Michael said, "fair enough." He was anxious to be up in the air.

Williams led the way into the shed, where a plank, stretched over two sawhorses, served as a desk. He searched around a bit and came up with a wrinkled sheet of paper with some printing on it. "The lawyer had his girl run it off for me on the machine," Williams said, handing it to Michael, along with a stub of pencil.

Michael signed it without looking at it.

"Don't you want to read it?" Williams asked, surprised.

"No need," said Michael.

"I like your style, man. Let's go."

Outside, Michael helped Williams take down the machine and stow it in the long canvas carrying bag and put it in the back of the pickup truck. Then they both got into the cab and drove off, the engine coughing resentfully. The road was winding and narrow and steep in some places and here and there it looked as though the truck wouldn't make it, but they finally came to a little grassy plateau on the crest of the hill. From there, Michael could look down at the whole town, toylike at that distance. The Alpina was visible, set among lawns and trees and Michael saw a swimming pool behind the hotel that he hadn't known was there.

The two men assembled the machine, Williams nodding with satisfaction as he saw that Michael knew what he was doing. Then he helped Michael buckle into the glider. Sloppy as he might be in his office and the trailer in which he was living, he was meticulous in every move now and the glider itself showed that a great deal of care had been lavished on it.

"You got an updraft on the side of the hill," Williams said, after he had made sure everything was secure, "so you don't need much of a run for takeoff. You ready?"

Michael nodded. If he had tried to speak, he was afraid that he couldn't control whether he would whisper or scream. He could feel his body trembling with impatience.

"Have a nice ride," Williams said. "And don't fly too low over town. The natives're nervous. I should be waiting for you at the shed."

Michael took three deep breaths, then started running. He ran for about fifteen yards, clumsily, with the wings making him feel like a landbound bird, and then he soared off in the updraft, into invisible supporting cold space, everything slow and silent and blue. "Ah," he whispered to himself, as he made the first banking turn, "ah, God."

He thought of making a one hundred and eighty degree turn and going back over the takeoff plateau and saluting Williams, but gaining altitude was chancy business and the updraft wasn't steady. Another time, he thought, as he banked first to the left, then to the right, the controls responding beautifully. He banked down regretfully, everything in dreamy slow motion, time suspended. Despite Williams's warning not to fly too low over the town, he couldn't resist coming down to about five hundred feet above the Alpina, which was on a little knoll and outside the town, anyway. He saw a Mercedes drive up and a woman get out and look up at him. He recognized Eva and made an extra little swoop. She didn't wave, but turned on her heel and stamped into the hotel.

Then he made for the Green Eagle Hang-Gliding School and saw that Williams, who was standing in front of the shed, had beaten him down the mountain.

Moving precisely, Michael made sure to land exactly where Williams had landed on the previous flight.

"I guess you weren't lying," Williams said, as he helped him out of the harness, "when you said you'd been up before. How'd you like it?"

"Like driving a Cadillac," Michael said, regretting already he was back on the ground.

Williams grinned. "That's not what they all say. Want to go up again?"

"I guess I won't press my luck," Michael said. "Maybe tomorrow."

For the first time Williams looked uneasy. "Uh . . he said, "you want to pay now or put it on the tab?"

"Which do you prefer?"

"Pay now," Williams said, relieved. "That way I can buy myself lunch. Ten bucks."

Michael paid him. Ten dollars for ten minutes of unalloyed pleasure. Bargain of the age. "You're not doing a rushing business, are you?"

"Waiting for God to start the season with a little snow. He's late this year. Too busy other places with all the shit that's going on. Meanwhile I get a lot of free rides." He walked Michael over to where the Porsche was parked. He ran his hand approvingly over the gleaming metal of the hood. "Nice little heap you got there. I shoulda charged you twenty."

"I was good for twenty," Michael said as he got behind the wheel.

"Chalk up one lost sucker," Williams said good-naturedly. "Say, we're going to have some competitions when the season starts. Tricks, landing in target circles, length and duration of flight, stuff like that. Prizes. I know some hot fellas who already signed up. I got a lotta friends in the sport. You want to sign up?"

"Thanks. If I have the time. Be seeing you."

"See ya, man," Williams said and lounged back to where the pickup truck was parked. He stared gloomily at it for a moment, entrepreneur, backbone of the American system, sole proprietor, then kicked a tire savagely.

As Michael drove back to town, he was humming. One marvelous thing about the morning, he said to himself, I haven't thought about Norma for at least a half-hour.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

"I suppose you've heard about me," said Annabel Fenstock, whom he'd known as Mrs. Theodore Harris. "I'm notorious as the town bang." She smiled gently over the drinks they were having in the comer of the deserted barroom of the Hotel Monadnock. Mount Monadnock was in New Hampshire, but the owner of the hotel was a native of New Hampshire and it was his way of showing his loyalty to his native state.

Michael had run into her in the town drugstore, where he had gone to buy some magazines and books, as he had just about sampled everything in the small library in the Alpina. There still wasn't any snow and there wasn't much else to do in the afternoons. Not that he minded. He had begun to take long naps, as the nights continued to be lengthy and strenuous. Three times more he had done some hang-gliding, but the weather had turned nasty, with high winds, and he passed the best part of his day in happy, recuperative somnolence.

"I haven't heard anything, Anne," Michael lied.

Annabel smiled sweetly. "You were always a gentleman, Michael. Anybody who's been here ten days has heard about me."

"How do you know I've been here ten days?"