The Kiwi Target

taxied out, turned onto the active runway, and accomplished a sedate take-off. It climbed slowly toward the few puffs of cumulus in the sky, refusing to admit that there were other aircraft capable of far better performance and much more comfort.
    As the crowded little turboprop droned on, Peter made the best of it and took in what he could see of the countryside. After some time had passed, a range of snow-capped mountains began to come into view. From their general appearance he assumed that they were the famed Southern Alps. A few minutes later, he saw one of them that soared impressively higher than the rest. It had to be Mount Cook, as much a symbol of New Zealand as Fujiyama is of Japan. The aircraft began a descent and shortly thereafter landed on an almost absurdly short runway, one that had obviously not been designed with any thought of jets.
    A few passengers deplaned, then others came on board to take their places. There was not a spare seat in the heavily loaded, compact aircraft. Peter’s back began to ache, but there was nothing he could do about it since there was no room at all to switch his legs to a more comfortable position.
    After the plane had climbed back into the air once more, his seatmate twisted his considerable bulk toward him a little. “It’s a nice day to fly, isn’t it,” he said.
    “The weather’s fine,” Peter agreed, “but this is pretty cramped.”
    The big man nodded. “None of us like it, but that’s the way it is. It’s because there’s such a demand for seats. This your first trip here?”
    Peter told him a brief story about being on vacation and then asked, “What do you do?”
    “I’ve got a station up the lake. A couple thousand sheep and some other things.”
    “It’s yours, I take it.”
    “That’s right. Been in the family a long time.”
    “I don’t know your name.”
    “It’s Jack. Jack McHugh.”
    “Peter Ferguson.”
    The huge man looked at him with renewed interest. “Is that so, now? Where will you be staying, Peter?”
    “At the Mountaineer.”
    “That’s a nice hotel—good food there. After you’ve settled in, give me a call. I’ll have you up at the station to see the place.” He wrote on a page in a pocket notebook and then tore it out. “When you get there, I’ll take you to the pub,” he said as he passed the paper over. “I’ve some good mates for you to meet.” Peter sensed that his companion wanted to say something more, but the big man apparently thought better of it and left things as they were.
    Some time later, as the little airliner was coming in for another landing, he did speak again.
    “This’ll be Queenstown. Small quiet place, but very nice. Makes its living from the tourists.”
    As the plane taxied in, Peter noted that the field was minimal and the terminal building, while neat and attractive, was not much larger than a small house.
    Once inside, he reclaimed his luggage and went outside to find a cab. The only public vehicle appeared to be a minibus that was rapidly loading up. His temper rose a little: his back ached from the close confinement inside the plane, his luggage was a nuisance, and the line outside the bus already guaranteed it a full load. Then he saw a small sedan waiting in a single-car taxi zone. A girl was standing beside it. “Can you take me to the Mountaineer Establishment?” he asked.
    “Of course,” she answered.
    As he lifted his luggage once more, a fresh spasm is his back caused him a stab of pain. “Then please do,” he said, more sharply than he intended.
    He put his bags in the back himself and then sat in the left front seat. As the girl pulled away from the terminal, he was aware that she was sitting stiffly and that her hands were tight on the wheel. Either she was a new driver, or else he had offended her.
    To ease the situation he asked, “How large is Queenstown?”
    “About three thousand.” She was definitely distant.
    “Tell me about it,” he invited.
    The girl turned a corner and mellowed a little. “It’s quiet. We think it’s very beautiful. You might want to try one of the jet boats; most of the tourists like them.”
    “Any good theaters or shows?”
    “Not in Queenstown. This isn’t like Las Vegas.”
    “You’ve been to the States?” As he spoke, the end of a large and exquisitely blue lake came into view. On the opposite shoreline some quite respectable mountains formed a spectacular backdrop.
    “No, I’ve never been out of New Zealand.