A second stream of snow had reached the top of the ridge that he had just crossed, and now came pouring over the side like milk boiling over in a saucepan. Ryderbeit saw that if he followed the piste he would be cut off and buried within a few seconds.
He turned left and decided to risk the soft snow. With his skis pressed together and his body balanced forward as far as the bindings would permit, he was still able to maintain a high speed. The danger now lay in hidden rocks. After the heavy snow earlier in the season, these would be well hidden; and apart from the occasional mound and undulation he would have to rely on instinct and luck — two elements in which he had an enduring faith.
Below, beyond another ridge, he could see the dark pool of more woods — thicker this time, just above Wolfgang. The run from here down to the village became gentler, but whether it would slow the avalanche depended on how much impetus it was drawing from the snow above. His only hope was that the trees would help to break it up. He risked a glance behind him and saw the snow crawling down the slope like a great white hand, the fingers outstretched and reaching down towards him, the nearest one less than 200 feet behind him, and coming closer. He guessed that the snow must be travelling at nearly eighty miles an hour.
He thought of throwing away his sticks, not only to break resistance, but to make him more free to manoeuvre; but he remembered having heard that if one got caught and buried in an avalanche, there were only two things to do: get your skis off and roll into a ball, before you were torn limb from limb, then try to push your sticks up through the surface so that the search parties could find you.
But Ryderbeit already saw his chances narrowing. Another glance behind showed him the approaching hand was beginning to bunch into a fist, with huge boulders for knuckles. This part of the avalanche seemed to be slowing, but the outer fingers were still racing ahead, until the one on the right, which was taking a direct course down the mountain towards Wolfgang, had overtaken him.
A few seconds later he was cut off from the last stretch of the normal run down to the village. He saw a solitary skier below him make a desperate effort to escape into the deep snow. The tip of the finger reached him, and the figure with its skis and sticks whirled like a Catherine wheel and was gone.
And now Ryderbeit noticed something else — something that seemed contrary to the laws of nature. So far the avalanche had been flowing like cascading water, its path following that of least resistance, in search of its own level. Suddenly, a few hundred feet from the trees above Wolfgang, one of the outlying fingers which had already overtaken him took a sharp turn and exploded in a burst of powdered snow, then continued at a much slower pace towards the woods. The first trees had already been crushed, and the ones behind were bent backwards like the bristles of a brush; but they did not break. The snow spread out with the consistency of clotted cream, rising in places to the tops of the pines. But the main impetus of the avalanche had been halted.
Ryderbeit now changed direction and headed for the woods, through a trough of deep snow where the tips of his skis sank several inches below the crusty surface. The noise above was beginning to subside and the air was now full of the clatter of helicopters.
He hit the piste about fifty feet beyond the wall of tumbled snow and rocks where the avalanche had finally spent itself against the trees. Two minutes later he was in Wolfgang.
The road in front of the Kulm Hotel was blocked by cars and crowds, with more cars crawling up the road from Klosters, followed by the ugly panting of sirens. As Ryderbeit kicked off his skis, he was surrounded by people asking what had happened. He forced his way through, without answering, and made for the tiny railway station. It seemed to be the only spot that was deserted. At the same time he noticed that there were no cars coming down from Davos.
He turned and headed for the hotel, where he struggled through the crowded lobby and was told what he had already suspected: both the road and railway from Davos to Klosters were blocked.
He left his skis and sticks in the rack outside the hotel, where they would probably remain for days without being noticed; lit a cigar, and began to run, at a clumsy jog-trot in his heavy boots, down the road towards Klosters. With luck he could be in the Vereina Hotel in twenty minutes; but he had no chance of making the 4.30 train to Landquart, for the connecting express to Zürich.
Packer had heard the avalanche as he was about to bury his gun and radio behind the tree. It took him several seconds to realize what was happening. His first reaction was irritation at seeing that his own shot — the second one — had missed the Ruler and hit his partner on the T-bar.
Then he heard the noise: and for a moment just stood and watched the progress of the avalanche with a peculiar detachment. It was only later that he came to appreciate the special advantages of the disaster.
The mainstream of the snow passed well below him; and he knew, with the same detachment, that Sammy Ryderbeit would be dead within a
