“There’s nothing wrong with your eyes, Rob.” Werry spent a few seconds staring straight ahead, satisfying himself that he too could see the object clearly. “That’s our local landmark, Morlacher’s Folly — otherwise known as the Chinook Hotel.”

“Strange architecture for a hotel.”

“Yeah, but not as strange as you would think. You know what a chinook is?”

“A warm breeze you get in the wintertime.”

“That’s right, except that we don’t always get it. Around here it has a habit of streaming over us at a height of a hundred or two hundred metres. Sometimes as low as fifty. It can be ten below zero at ground level, so we’re going around freezing, and up there the bird’s are sunbathing at ten and fifteen degrees above. That’s what was in old Harry Morlacher’s mind when he built the hotel — the residential part is right up there in the warm air stream. It was meant to be a high-priced R R spot for oil execs from all over Athabasca.”

“Something went wrong?”

“Everything went wrong.” Werry gave a quiet snort, a sound which might have been indicative of appreciation, awe or contempt. “None of the construction outfits around here had ever tried building a giant lollipop before, so the costs kept going up and up till Morlacher was down to near his last cent. Then they developed new ways of scooping up the tar sands and cleaned out what was left of the easy stuff in a couple of years. Then mono- propellant engines came in and nobody had much use for our oil any more, so the Chinook Hotel never took in a paying customer. Not one ! Talk about a fool and his money!”

Hasson, who had little expertise with money, clicked his tongue. “Anybody can make a mistake.”

“Not that sort of mistake. It takes a special talent to make that sort of mistake.” Werry grinned at Hasson and adjusted the angle of his cap, looking scornful, tough, healthy and well adjusted, the picture of an up-and-coming career cop, a man with complete confidence in his own abilities. Hasson felt a fresh pang of envy.