The Kiwi Target

resident visa.”
    “That’s very good news,” Peter said.
    “Now, Peter, since you’ve taken over your station, some of the important local people around here would like to meet you. Are you free for dinner this evening?”
    “Yes, of course.”
    “Then meet me at the Mountaineer at five-thirty.”
    As he drove back to Queenstown in plenty of time for his appointment, Peter’s mind was churning; so much had happened in so short a time. But tonight the chips would be down. He only hoped and prayed that when he came face to face with Bishop, be wouldn’t let Charlie Swarthmore and the rest of his company down.

CHAPTER 19

    As he drove into Queenstown, Peter tried hard to convince himself that he was dressed appropriately to meet the man in whose hands the future of his company, and his own, largely rested. He had accepted that owning a station was going to make a major change in his life, but he had many friends at Swarthmore and Stone, especially Charlie, and he had no intention of abandoning them in midstream.
    He had O’Malley’s specific assurance that ranch wear was not only right but expected. He could see the sense of that, especially if everyone else showed up that way and he wore coat and tie: that would set him apart immediately.
    He was relieved when he reached the Mountaineer and found O’Malley in an open-neck shirt and a pair of twill pants held up by a Western-style belt. As soon as the lawyer was in the car with him, he felt considerably better.
    O’Malley drove, weaving his way out of town on some rather narrow but well-paved roads. “I want to tell you a little bit about your host tonight,” he began when they were well on their way. "He’s a very down-to-earth sort, the kind of man who takes it as it comes and never tries to make an impression. He doesn’t need to. For one thing, he’s one of the principal stockholders in Mount Cook Airlines and sits on the board.”
    “What’s his name?” Peter asked quickly.
    "Colin Emerson. He recently developed a major ski center right up there.” He pointed to a sizable mountain slope where two or three lifts were visible.
    O’Malley continued, “A while ago he bought a piece of property, several acres of it, that would make an ideal estate. It even has a couple of waterfalls on it. Then he picked the spot he wanted and built his house. By that I mean he built it with his own hands, all to his own plans. It’s quite a showplace. I believe he did call in a paperhanger at the finish, or someone like that, but he accomplished what many men only dream of doing.”
    “I can’t help comparing that with the station I just walked in and took over,” Peter said. “The house has a wonderful lived-in feeling.”
    O’Malley drove on in silence for another ten minutes, then he pointed. “There it is,” he said.
    The house was large and comfortable looking without being pretentious. Peter could see that it said a lot about the man who had built it.
    A white gravel driveway took them to the door. Waiting for them was a man of medium build and almost neutral features. His body was trim, showing that he kept himself in condition. He might have been fifty; it was hard for Peter to tell. He was principally aware of the man’s easy relaxed manner, which had its own certain dignity.
    “Evening, Ray,” Emerson said, and turned to his other guest. “You’re Peter Ferguson,” he confirmed.
    “Yes,” Peter said.
    “Colin Emerson. Come in and meet the others. We’ll have dinner in a few minutes.”
    There were a half-dozen men congregated in the substantial living room, all with glasses in their hands. Emerson stepped behind the bar, built a drink for O’Malley, and handed it to him without asking what he wanted. Then he looked at Peter and raised his eyebrows.
    “Something that’s popular in New Zealand,” Peter said.
    Emerson mixed a drink and handed it over. Peter tried it and liked it at once. Then he was introduced to the others. Last names were given once; and after that it was first names only. A man named Tex was introduced as the chief pilot for Mount Cook Airlines, but he looked more like a cowboy than a professional airline pilot; this could have been the source of his nickname. But to Peter’s crushing disappointment, there was no Alfred Bishop among them. He had been so sure that he was about to meet him at last.
    Shortly thereafter a woman appeared and announced that dinner was ready. The men filed into the dining room and