No Contest

The ice wall was a breathtaking field of white ice, sculpted painstakingly by nature from the mountain’s earth-warmed water flow. It was named the Wall of Resolution by the earliest white settlers in the region. The Maoris had a name for it, too, and they were always going on about restoring this name to the thing, but nobody could pronounce it. Well, the Maoris could pronounce it, but nobody else could pronounce it. The Maoris were always strutting around making demands as if they owned the place.

So far the name Wall of Resolution had stuck, and the Kiwi government had been trying for years to market the wall as one of the wonders of the natural world. It truly was wonderful, but there was a problem.

“It goes away,” complained the New Zealand minister of tourism to the New Zealand minister of national parks. The minister of tourism was a frumpy, just-so woman who did not walk around in a skimpy bathing suit, thank you very much, unlike some ministers of tourism who received so much undeserved attention. “You want to make it a real tourist attraction, you figure out how to keep it from melting for three months out of the year. Nobody’s going to take a holiday to see a medium-sized waterfall.” The minister of national parks proposed a bold plan to market extended holiday packages for stays that spanned the annual build-up of the ice.

“You think people are going to pay tens of thousands of dollars to sit there and watch the water freeze for ninety-eight days?” the minister of tourism demanded.

“I suppose you have a better idea?” the minister of national parks demanded.

“I most certainly do.”

“Oh, God, not those idiot movies again”.

“Those idiot movies, as you call them, have made billions of dollars. Billions. And those movies were filmed right here on the South Island. Where is our slice of that pie?”

“What do you want me to do, Minister? Put the hotel staff in elf costumes?”

“For starters. I’ve also been in contact with the Extreme Sports Network.”

“Oh, God!”

“You see the difference in our thinking, Minister? You would have us invite a bevy of sedate senior citizens to look at the mountain for a few weeks. I, on the other hand, have plans to create a publicity powerhouse. I will leverage our recognition and our ice wall into something exciting and dynamic!”

“You ruin it.”

“On the contrary.”

“They ruined it. They took a nice ice wall, out here minding its own business, and turned it into just another obstacle of Nature for man to conquer.”

‘You are disdaining the industry of televised spectacle?” Chiun asked. “You premiere this Friday. Across the country and even in Europe and Australia. Probably the Chinese will show it. The Brazilians will consider it a grand farce. But the Japanese—now, they will truly appreciate your television show, Remo. They adore true-to-life farces. You will be a hero to the Japanese.”

They began to scale the wall. Their fingers probed the uneven surface and found purchase among the ripples, the cracks and even in the varying densities of the ice. Where there was no firm grip to be found, they simply exerted pressure on the ice and moved the wall down.

“You don’t sound all that ticked off anymore,” Remo noted.

“About what would I be ticked?”

‘You know. The Ladies’ Man. You aren’t on my case about it like you were before. Don’t you care?”

“The show no longer is a concern to me. Your bluff has been seen as transparent.”

“What bluff?”

“You never intended for the show to proceed,” Chiun said simply. He pulled himself off the wall onto a ledge that was chopped in the ice. Remote-controlled cameras were bolted into the ice at the rear of the landing, and checkered flags were stationed to frame the image of the climbers in the shot as they made the summit. The race was still hours away and the equipment was in standby mode.

“Look,” Chiun said, “you can still be on television if you desire.”

“Wait just a second. What makes you think I was bluffing about the show?”

“Your behavior tells me it is a sham.”

“What behavior?”

“Idiosyncrasies in your speech patterns.”

“I don’t have idiosyncrasies,” Remo insisted.

“Unusual variations in your body language.”

“I don’t have body language!”

“You are bluffing.”

“I am not bluffing! The show will go on.”

“If it does, I will be proved wrong,” Chiun said.

‘You are so annoying when you get all agreeable.” Remo unfurled the mats side-by-side and put himself down hard. He glared menacingly at the empty blackness that awaited anyone foolish enough to step off the ledge.

“Fine. You win. It was a bluff.”

“Truly?”

“Ah!” Remo waved his hand at the air—a gesture of dismissal that was perfectly Chiun. They sat in silence. The cold wasn’t intense enough to require the use of the un-down jackets.

“Did you remember your vision, yet, Little Father?”

“I never forgot it. Did you not listen to my description of the dream?”