Moonlit Sport

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Zissman’s voice on the long-distance wire was deceptively mild. “Yes, Georgie,” he said, “it is warm here, and as a defensive conversational gambit, weather-talk is maybe a little feeble. Instead, we will discuss Christina Wiel, please.”

“Lovely girl. Lovely,” George Barker said.

“Should I be sending you out there all expenses paid to sign up something that rides on a broomstick? May I remind you of the budget? May I remind you that I am growing more anxious every minute to get our skiing epic into production? With Miss Wiel the picture will be what, Georgie?”

“A thrilling yet tender film of the snow-clad mountains, featuring that—”

“Georgie, she will do for skis what you-know-who did for ice skates. Be factual, Georgie.”

George Barker scratched the sole of one stocking-clad foot with the toes of the other. He swallowed hard. “Mr. Zissman, maybe it looks easy when you’re in the palm-tree belt, but this Christina Wiel came over here from Switzerland to compete in the national skiing events as an amateur. She thinks the movies are silly. She thinks everybody that doesn’t spend their time going a hundred and eleven miles an hour down the side of a mountain is silly. She thinks I’m silly.”

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