The Kiwi Target

took their places around the table. Emerson motioned for Peter to sit next to him. As he took his chair, Peter checked quickly that all the places were filled. They were. That destroyed his last hope that Bishop might yet be coming.
    As he had expected, during the meal Peter had to answer a good many questions. In an apparently casual way they asked for his views on New Zealand as a country and on his station and how he was getting along with Jack McHugh. They asked a lot about various current situations in the United States.
    Peter answered as freely as he could, aware that the food in front of him was not fancy, but delicious. Gradually he relaxed, matching his mood to the others. He even ventured to ask some questions of his own.
    Finally, his host asked the key question, which he had been anticipating and dreading at the same time. “You haven’t told us what brought you to New Zealand. Had you heard of your inheritance?”
    Peter shook his head. “That came right out of the blue,” he answered. “I’m still trying to adjust to it. I’m not used to being a property owner. I had a little townhouse once, but the land it stood on belonged to a conglomerate. My contact with the management was a computer that mailed me bills with unfailing regularity.”
    “You didn’t tell us why you came,” Emerson reminded him. There was no point in trying to hold anything back from this bunch. “I work for an architectural firm, Swarthmore and Stone. A conglomerate, Pricane Industries, is trying through a hostile raid to take us over. We’re fighting it with all we have, despite Pricane’s enormous resources. One of our major stockholders lives in New Zealand. If he’s willing to give us his proxy, then we’ll have enough votes to stop Pricane. We don’t want to be bought out by anyone.”
    “And if you don’t win, what will you do?” Emerson asked.
    “I don’t know yet,” Peter said, “because we don’t think in terms of losing. Take a nucleus of our best people, perhaps, and start up again under another name.”
    “Can you do that without breaking your contracts?”
    “Most of us don’t have contracts; we don’t need them.”
    “Are you a stockholder?” It seemed as though everyone at the table were taking part in his examination. But it was all on a friendly basis, a case of getting to know someone new in the community.
    “In a small way, yes.” He had already decided not to mention Bishop’s name if he could avoid it. He assumed that several of those present knew Bishop and were sizing him up for that man’s benefit.
    After the meal it was different. As darkness fell, the conversation in the big living room became general, and Peter was no longer the center of attention. After another round of drinks, the party began to break up. Together with O’Malley, Peter took his leave of Emerson at the door.
    When they were back in the car and well started on the road to Queenstown, Peter spoke. “I certainly enjoyed that.”
    “Glad you did. They’re good people, all of them.”
    “I hope I get to know them better.”
    “You will.”
    O’Malley seemed so quiet, Peter wondered if in some way he had pulled a gaffe without knowing it. There were different customs here, and certain words had different meanings. He was on the point of asking when he decided not to; if anything was seriously wrong, O’Malley would let him know. Instead, he asked a different question. “Is it the custom in New Zealand, in a party like that one, to say grace before eating?”
    “No,” O’Malley answered. “But Colin usually does. Because he wants to.” He paused. “That’s why we call him Bishop,” he concluded.

CHAPTER 20

    When they pulled up in front of the Mountaineer, O’Malley broke what had been a considerable silence. “I suggest that you stay here tonight,” he said. “The hotel can fix you up with an overnight kit. We have a date to have coffee tomorrow morning at the Travelodge with Bishop at ten. Any reason why you can’t make it?”
    “None.” Peter was quick to agree. “Tomorrow at ten.” He fully realized how crucial this talk was likely to be; he would have to be at his very best.
    “Good. Ask for me at the desk.”
    In the morning Peter walked the short distance to the Travelodge, asked at the desk for O’Malley, and was directed to a private dining room on the second floor.
    Although he was eight minutes early, both O’Malley and Colin Emerson were already there. A small coffee