"Why are there no roads in this forest? This trail will ruin my shoes! And will this stupid mountain go up forever?"
Joanna Styrgon, the auburn haired 40 year old president of aspiring Styrgon Industries, had complained for the last half hour at least. Removing the thousandth twig from her furred coat she glared at her lone company, her 23 year old personal assistant George Mason, who had, of course, no part in his boss's choice of designer shoes or the lack of infrastructure on this remote mountain whatsoever. But he was a ready scapegoat for Joanna right now, for there was noone else to see. They had not seen a person since they had arrived here, be it one of the natives they were trying to find or one of the workers who were bound to get them in contact with the elusive Indians. So they had left their helicopter in the valley and started the long climb up the snowcrowned mountain themselves.
Sighing inwardly, George bent a low hanging branch out of the way for Joanna, or Mrs. Styrgon as he was supposed to address her. Instead of being grateful, Joanna kept complaining.
"Where's that plateau where the wild ones are supposed to be? I should have reached it already! This forest can't possibly be any larger! Where's the map? Do I have to do everything myself? I will..."
Joanna nearly bumped into the back of George when he suddenly stopped. She was about to hit him for that slide, but then saw what caused that abrupt lack of motion by her assistant. They had finally reached the plateau, an area filled with colorful wildflowers amidst the first patches of snow, despite the fact that it was still early autumn. The view from here was breathtaking. While the mountain continued upwards, majestetically; all white miles ending in a snowy crown, the still emerald valley, dotted with but a few patches of yellow and red, was far below them already. The river looked like a glittering band of molten silver flowing through it, twinkling in the sun. Joanna Styrgon, pushing George out of the way unceremoniously, saw this with other eyes of course.
"Ah, finally. I thought you'd made yet another mistake, but you were not a worthless scum for once, George Mason. At last, the trip may even have been worth the trouble. We can build the landing place here, I can already see this. Helicopters will bring the most illustrious guests here, and then they will be able to go skiing down to the valley. The trees have to go, of course. Here, and on the other side of that mountain also. And in the valley we'll have to dam up the river. This will bring us energy, and we can use the resulting lake for ice skating or something like that. Downriver we'll remove the trees as well and build a highway to get supplies here while construction is happening, and later on we'll let it be used for cross-country skiing. Yes, I can see it. This place will suit me fine."
Joanna was envisioning the future quite clearly when her thoughts were interrupted by George again. "Isn't this a holy land for the natives, a place dedicated for Fertile Earth herself?" he dared to ask her.
Oh, how she longed to fire him, but he was the grandson of one of her richest contributors, and she had taken him in at his grandfather's urgings. Well, for granddaddie's money to fund this project she was willing to tolerate this financial greenhorn. Most of the time. But not right now.
"Who cares about the natives? Those relics of history? I've done my homework, young man, and this is not reservation land. Believe it or not, they've been living here for ages! What does that tell you? Right. Government will not help them now because of some ancient treaty signed in our glory days by the cavalry. They are ours to push out. Too bad even they will know glass pearls are out, but a few dollars should push them to some warmer place. There has to be a desert somewhere for them where they can open their own casino, sell handmade pottery or whatever else those redskins do with their spare time. I don't care. This place is going to be a ski resort. Now it's a bit far to the north, no rival to the existing resorts more to the south, but the more global warming there is, the sooner it'll bring me money. Lot's of money! Oh yes, this will be my ski resort!"
"No, it won't."
For the second time Joanna Styrgon was thrown out of her greedy thoughts, but this time it was not George who was to blame for this sacrilege. In the midst of the plateau sat a crosslegged Indian, his face stoic, and despite the already colder weather he was dressed only in a loincloth. He was well muscled and totally relaxed, drawing a deep drag out of his long carved and feathered pipe. Where did he come from so suddenly? He couldn't have been there from the beginning! George was startled also, Joanna noticed, but she, of course, quickly composed herself. She had not become president of her company for losing her composure in front of a barbarian!
"What gives you the opinion that you could stop my plans, redskin?" she asked with a sneer. She hadn't needed diplomacy much since she had seduced her husband twenty years ago to get his money, and she was not about to change that for a mere museum-warrior from the stoneage.
The Indian watched her in silence. The vein on Joanna's neck started to swell in anger when George couldn't stand the tension any longer.
"Good man, may I present to you Mrs. Styrgon herself, president of Styrgon Industries, here to offer your glorious tribe a fortune for your homelands."
George always talked like that, like his grandfather. Joanna hated his old-school-babbling and threw daggers at him with her eyes. He was a softie, like his grandfather and, sadly, like her own daughters. Cynthia had been a necessity to force John into the marriage, and Penelope to secure her bond to his money when he was starting to have doubts since he knew her better, but they were a constant embarrasment since then. Now Penelope even talked about love, and her chosen one, William. He didn't even come from a family with money! Just one car they had, one car for three people! Ridiculous. Had she not presented both her daughters with distinguished, seasoned men with lots of wealth to secure the might of Styrgon Industries and therefore their inheritance? Where was their spirit for domination? They were a source of dissapointment, like John had been, and like this George Mason was. A student of botany, of all things, as her assistant! But in this rare case the botanic disappointment had drawn a reaction from the muscled historic leftover amidst the wildflowers. The Indian was smiling at him now. Good, that buffalohunter finally remembered his place!
"She may be a president, but she won't change the home of our ancestors into a playground, regardless of the amount of pretty baubles she offers, as long as I'm the chieftain of the tribe of Earth. But since she's a guest in our lands, I'll give her a gift in the name of Earth."
So much for him knowing his place. Was that living relic out of his mind? He wouldn't be the first obstacle she had removed on her way to the top!
