The point is not to knock Killy's English, which is far better than my French, but to emphasize his careful, finely coached choice of words. "He's an amazing boy," I was told later by Len Roller. "He works at this [selling Chevrolets] just as hard as he used to work at winning races. He attacks attacks it with the same concentration you remember from watching him ski." The a.s.sumption that I remembered Killy on skis came naturally to Roller. Jean-Claude is on TV so often, skiing at selected resorts all over the world, that it is nearly impossible to miss seeing him. This is The Exposure that makes him so valuable; every TV appearance adds dollars to his price. People it with the same concentration you remember from watching him ski." The a.s.sumption that I remembered Killy on skis came naturally to Roller. Jean-Claude is on TV so often, skiing at selected resorts all over the world, that it is nearly impossible to miss seeing him. This is The Exposure that makes him so valuable; every TV appearance adds dollars to his price. People recognize recognize Killy, and they like his image -- a s.e.xy daredevil, booming downhill toward a cushion of naked s...o...b..nnies. This is why Chevrolet pays him a salary far larger than Nixon's to say, over and over again, "For me, zee Camaro is a fine foreign sports car. I own one, you know. I keep it in my garage at Val d'Is Killy, and they like his image -- a s.e.xy daredevil, booming downhill toward a cushion of naked s...o...b..nnies. This is why Chevrolet pays him a salary far larger than Nixon's to say, over and over again, "For me, zee Camaro is a fine foreign sports car. I own one, you know. I keep it in my garage at Val d'Isere" (Killy's hometown in the French Alps).

Jean-Claude emerged from the 1968 Winter Olympics with an incredible three gold medals and then he retired, ending his "amateur" career like a human skyrocket. There was nothing left to win; after two World Cups (the equivalent of two straight Heisman Trophies in U. S. collegiate football) and an unprecedented sweep of all three Olympic skiing events (the equivalent of a sprinter winning the 100, 220, and 440), Killy's career reads as if his press agent had written the script for it -- a series of spectacular personal victories, climaxed by the first triple-crown triumph in the history of skiing while the whole world watched on TV.

The nervous tedium of forced retirement obviously bothers Killy, but it comes as no surprise to him. He was looking over the hump even before his final triumph in the '68 Olympics. Between training sessions at Gren.o.ble he talked like a character out of some early Hemingway sketch, shrugging blankly at the knowledge that he was coming to the end of the only thing he knew: "Soon skiing will be worn out for me," he said. "For the last 10 years I have prepared myself to become the world champion. My thoughts were only to better my control and my style in order to become the best. Then last year [1967] I became the world champion. I was given a small medal and for two days after that it was h.e.l.l. I discovered that I was still eating like everybody else, sleeping like everybody else -- that I hadn't become the superman I thought my t.i.tle would make me. The discovery actually destroyed me for two days. So when people speak to me about the excitement of becoming an Olympic champion this year -- should it happen -- I know it will be the same thing all over again. I know that after the races at Gren.o.ble the best thing for me is to stop."

For Killy, the Olympics were the end of the road. The wave of the future crashed down on him within hours after his disputed Grand Slalom victory over Karl Schranz of Austria. Suddenly they were on him -- a chattering greenback swarm of agents, money-mongers and would-be "personal reps" of every shape and description. Mark McCormack's persistence lent weight to his glittering claim that he could do for Killy what he had already done for Arnold Palmer. Jean-Claude listened, shrugged, then ducked out for a while -- to Paris, the Riviera, back home to Val d'Isere -- and finally, after weeks of half-heartedly dodging the inevitable, signed with McCormack. The only sure thing in the deal was a h.e.l.l of a lot of money, both sooner and later. Beyond that, Killy had no idea what he was getting into.

Now he was showing us how much he'd learned. The Chevvy press breakfast was breaking up and Len Roller suggested that the three of us go downstairs to the dining room. J.-C. nodded brightly and I smiled the calm smile of a man about to be rescued from a Honker's Convention. We drifted downstairs, where Roller found us a corner table in the dining room before excusing himself to make a phone call. The waitress brought menus, but Killy waved her off, saying he wanted only prune juice. I was on the verge of ordering huevos rancheros with a double side of bacon, but in deference to J.-C.'s apparent illness I settled for grapefruit and coffee.

Killy was studying a mimeographed news release that I'd grabbed off a table at the press conference in lieu of notepaper. He nudged me and pointed at something in the lead paragraph. "Isn't this amazing?" he asked. I looked: The used side of my notepaper was headed: NEWS. . . from Chevrolet Motor Division. . . CHICAGO -- Chevrolet began its "spring selling season" as early as January first this year, John Z. DeLorean, general manager, said here today. He told newsmen attending the opening of the Chicago Auto Show that Chevrolet sales are off to the fastest start since its record year of 1965. "We sold 352,000 cars in January and February," DeLorean said. "That's 22 per cent ahead of last year. It gave us 26.9 per cent of the industry, compared to 23 per cent a year ago. . ."

Killy said it again: "Isn't this amazing?" I looked to see if he was smiling but his face was deadly serious and his voice was pure snake oil. I called for more coffee, nodding distractedly at Killy's awkward hustle, and cursing the greedy instinct that had brought me into this thing. . . sleepless and ill-fed, trapped in a strange food-cellar with a French auto salesman.

But I stayed to play the game, gnawing on my grapefruit and soon following Roller out to the street, where we were scooped up by a large nondescript car that must have been a Chevrolet. I asked where we were going and somebody said, "First to the Merchandise Mart, where he'll do a tape for Kup's show, and then to the Auto Show -- at the Stockyards."

That last note hung for a moment, not registering. . . Kup's show was bad enough. I had been on it once, and caused a nasty scene by calling Adlai Stevenson a professional liar when all the other guests were there to publicize some kind of Stevenson Memorial. Now nearly two years later, I saw no point in introducing myself. Kup was taking it easy this time, joking with athletes. Killy was overshadowed by Bart Starr, representing Lincoln-Mercury, and Fran Tarkenton, wearing a Dodge blazer. . . but with Killy in eclipse the Chevrolet team still made the nut with O. J. Simpson, modestly admitting that he probably wouldn't tear the National Football League apart in his first year as a pro. It was a dull, low-level discussion, liberally spotted with promo mentions for the Auto Show.

Jean-Claude's only breakthrough came when Kup, cued by a story in that morning's Tribune, asked what Killy really really thought about the whole question of "amateur" athletic status. "Is it safe to a.s.sume," Kup asked, "that you were paid for using certain skis in the Olympics?" thought about the whole question of "amateur" athletic status. "Is it safe to a.s.sume," Kup asked, "that you were paid for using certain skis in the Olympics?"

"Safe?" Killy asked.

Kup checked his notes for a new question and Killy looked relieved. The hypocrisy inherent in the whole concept of "amateurism" has always annoyed Killy, and now, with the immunity of graduate status, he doesn't mind admitting that he views the whole game as a fraud and a folly. During most of his career on the French ski team he was listed, for publicity reasons, as a Government-employed Customs Inspector. n.o.body believed it, not even officials of the Federation Internationale de Ski (FIS), the governing body for world-cla.s.s amateur ski compet.i.tion. The whole idea was absurd. Who, after all, could believe that the reigning world ski champion -- a hero/celebrity whose arrival in any airport from Paris to Tokyo drew crowds and TV cameras -- was actually supporting himself on a salary gleaned from his off-season efforts in some dreary customs shed at Ma.r.s.eilles?

He spoke with a definite humility, as if he felt slightly embarra.s.sed by all the advantages he'd had. Then, about two hours later when our talk had turned to contemporary things -- the high-style realities of his new jet-set life -- he suddenly blurted: "Before, I could only dream about these things. When I was young I had nothing, nothing, I was poor. . . Now I can have anything I want!" I was poor. . . Now I can have anything I want!"

Jean-Claude seems to understand, without really resenting it, that he is being weaned away from the frank unvarnished style of his amateur days. One afternoon at Vail, for instance, he listened to a sportscaster telling him what a great run he'd just made, and then, fully aware that he was talking for a live broadcast, Jean-Claude laughed at the commentary and said he'd just made one of the worst runs of his life -- a complete-disaster, doing everything wrong. Now, with the help of his professional advisers, he has learned to be patient and polite -- especially in America, with the press. In France he is more secure, and far more recognizable to the people who knew him before he became a salesman. He was in Paris last spring when Avery Brundage, 82-year-old president of the International Olympic Committee, called on Jean-Claude and several other winners of gold medals at the 1968 Winter Olympics to return them. Brundage, a tunnel-visioned purist of the Old School, was shocked by disclosures that many of the winners -- including Killy -- didn't even know what the word "amateur" meant. For years, said Brundage, these faithless poseurs had been accepting money from "commercial interests" ranging from equipment manufacturers to magazine publishers.

One of these gimmicks made headlines just prior to the start of the Games, if memory serves, and was awkwardly resolved by a quick ruling that none of the winners could either mention or display their skis (or any other equipment) during any TV interview or press exposure. Until then, it had been standard practice for the winner of any major race to make the brand-name on his skis as prominent as possible during all camera sessions. The "no-show" ruling worked a hardship on a lot of skiers at Gren.o.ble, but it failed to satisfy Avery Brundage. His demand that the medals be returned called up memories of Jim Thorpe, who was stripped of everything he won in the 1912 Olympics because he had once been paid to play in a semi-pro baseball game. Thorpe went along with the madness, returning his medals and living the rest of his life with the taint of "disgrace" on his name. Even now, the nasty Olympics scandal is the main feature of Thorpe's biographical sketch in the new Columbia Encyclopedia.

But when a Montreal Star reporter asked Jean-Claude how he felt about turning in his Olympic medals, he replied: "Let Brundage come over here himself and take them from me."

It was a rare public display of "the old Jean-Claude." His American personality has been carefully manicured to avoid such outbursts. Chevrolet doesn't pay him to say what he thinks, but to sell Chevrolets -- and you don't do that by telling self-righteous old men to f.u.c.k off. You don't even admit that the French Government paid you to be a skier because things are done that way in France and most other countries, and n.o.body born after 1900 calls it anything but natural. . . when you sell Chevrolets in America you honor the myths and mentality of the marketplace: You smile like Horatio Alger and give all the credit to Mom and Dad, who never lost faith in you and even mortgaged their ingots when things got tough.

Anyone watching our departure from the Kup show must have a.s.sumed that J.-C. traveled with five or six bodyguards. I'm still not sure who the others were. Len Roller was always around, and a hostile, burr-haired little b.u.g.g.e.r from whichever of Chevvy's PR agencies was running the Auto Show, who took me aside early on to warn me that Roller was "only a guest -- I'm running this show." Roller laughed at the slur, saying, "He only thinks thinks he's running it." The others were never introduced; they did things like drive cars and open doors. They were large, unconfident men, very polite in the style of armed gas-station attendants. he's running it." The others were never introduced; they did things like drive cars and open doors. They were large, unconfident men, very polite in the style of armed gas-station attendants.

We left the Merchandise Mart and zapped off on a freeway to the Auto Show -- and suddenly it registered: The Stockyards Amphitheatre. I was banging along the freeway in that big car, listening to the others trade bull/f.u.c.k jokes, trapped in the back seat between Killy and Roller, heading for that rotten slaughterhouse where Mayor Daley had buried the Democratic party.

I had been there before, and I remembered it well. Chicago -- this vicious, stinking zoo, this mean-grinning, Mace-smelling boneyard of a city; an elegant rockpile monument to everything cruel and stupid and corrupt in the human spirit.

The public is out in force to view the new models. Jean-Claude makes his pitch for Chevrolet every two hours on the b.u.t.ton: 1-3-5-7-9. The even numbered hours are reserved for O. J. Simpson.

Barker: "Tell me, O. J., are you faster than that car over there?"

O. J.: "You mean that groovy Chevrolet? Naw, man, that's the only thing I know that's faster than me. . . ho, ho. . ."

Meanwhile, slumped in a folding chair near the Killy exhibit, smoking a pipe and brooding on the spooks in this place, I am suddenly confronted by three young boys wearing Ba.s.s Weejuns and Pendleton shirts, junior-high types, and one of them asks me: "Are you Jean-Claude Killy?"

"That's right," I said.

"What are you doing?" they asked.

Well, you G.o.dd.a.m.n silly little waterhead, what the h.e.l.l does it look look like I'm doing? But I didn't say that. I gave the question some thought. "Well," I said finally, "I'm just sitting here smoking marijuana." I held up my pipe. "This is what makes me ski so fast." Their eyes swelled up like young grapefruits. They stared at me -- waiting for a laugh, I think -- then backed away. Five minutes later I looked up and found them still watching me, huddled about 20 feet away behind the sky-blue Z-28 Chevvy on its slow-moving turntable. I waved my pipe at them and smiled like Hubert Humphrey. . . but they didn't wave back. like I'm doing? But I didn't say that. I gave the question some thought. "Well," I said finally, "I'm just sitting here smoking marijuana." I held up my pipe. "This is what makes me ski so fast." Their eyes swelled up like young grapefruits. They stared at me -- waiting for a laugh, I think -- then backed away. Five minutes later I looked up and found them still watching me, huddled about 20 feet away behind the sky-blue Z-28 Chevvy on its slow-moving turntable. I waved my pipe at them and smiled like Hubert Humphrey. . . but they didn't wave back.

Killy's Auto Show act was a combination interview/autograph thing, with the questions coming from Roller and a silver-blonde model in rubberized stretch pants. The Chevvy people had set up a plywood podium next to the Z-28 -- which they said was a new and special model, but which looked like any other Camaro with a (Head) ski rack on top.

Not far away, on another platform, O. J. Simpson fielded questions from a ripe little black girl, also dressed in tight ski pants. The acts remained segregated except in moments of unexpected crowd pressure, when the black model would occasionally have to interview Killy. The blonde girl was never cast with O. J. -- at least not while I was there. Which hardly matters, except as casual evidence that Chevvy's image-makers still see racial separatism as good business, particularly in Chicago.

On the way in, Roller had rehea.r.s.ed Jean-Claude on the Q. and A. sequence: "Okay, then I'll say, 'I see an interesting looking car over there, Jean-Claude -- can you tell us something about it?' And then you say. . . what?"

J.-C.: "Oh, yes, that is my car, the new Z-28. It has seat covers made of Austrian ski sweaters. And you notice my special license plate, JCK. . ."

Roller: "That's fine. The important thing is to be spontaneous."

J.-C. (puzzled): "Spuen-tan-EUS?"

Roller (grinning): "Don't worry -- you'll do fine."

And he did. Killy's public pitch is very low-key, a vivid contrast to O. J. Simpson, whose sales technique has all the subtlety of a power-slant on third and one. . . O. J. likes likes this scene. His booming self-confidence suggests Alfred E. Neuman in blackface or Rap Brown selling watermelons at the Mississippi State Fair. O. J.'s mind is not complicated; he has had G.o.d on his side for so long that it never occurs to him that selling Chevrolets is any less holy than making touchdowns. Like Frank Gifford, whose shoes he finally filled in the USC backfield, he understands that football is only the beginning of his TV career. O. J. is a Black Capitalist in the most basic sense of that term; his business sense is so powerful that he is able to view his blackness as a mere sales factor -- a natural intro to the Black Marketplace, where a honky s...o...b..at like Killy is doomed from the start. this scene. His booming self-confidence suggests Alfred E. Neuman in blackface or Rap Brown selling watermelons at the Mississippi State Fair. O. J.'s mind is not complicated; he has had G.o.d on his side for so long that it never occurs to him that selling Chevrolets is any less holy than making touchdowns. Like Frank Gifford, whose shoes he finally filled in the USC backfield, he understands that football is only the beginning of his TV career. O. J. is a Black Capitalist in the most basic sense of that term; his business sense is so powerful that he is able to view his blackness as a mere sales factor -- a natural intro to the Black Marketplace, where a honky s...o...b..at like Killy is doomed from the start.

There are some people in "the trade," in fact, who can't understand why the Chevrolet wizards consider Killy as valuable -- on the image-selling scale -- as a hotdog American folk hero like O. J. Simpson.

"What the h.e.l.l were they thinking about when they signed that guy for three hundred grand a year?" muttered a ranking "automotive journalist" as he watched Killy's act on Sat.u.r.day afternoon.

I shook my head and wondered, remembering DeLorean's owlish confidence that morning at the press breakfast. Then I looked at the crowd surrounding Killy. They were white and apparently solvent, their average age around 30 -- the kind of people who could obviously afford to buy skis and make payments on new cars. O. J. Simpson drew bigger crowds, but most of his admirers were around 12 years old. Two-thirds of them were black and many looked like fugitives from the Credit Bureau's garnishee file.

Mark McCormack signed to manage Arnold Palmer a decade ago-- just prior to the Great Golf Boom. His reasons for betting on Killy are just as obvious. Skiing is no longer an esoteric sport for the idle rich, but a fantastically popular new winter status-game for anyone who can afford $500 for equipment. Five years ago the figure would have been three times that, plus another loose $1,000 for a week at Stowe or Sun Valley, but now, with the advent of snow-making machines, even Chattanooga is a "ski-town." The Midwest is dotted with icy "week-night" slalom hills, lit up like the miniature golf courses of the Eisenhower age.

The origins of the ski boom were based entirely on economics and the appeal of the sport itself. . . no freaky hypes or shoestring promotion campaigns. . . the Money Boom of the 1960's produced a sa.s.sy middle cla.s.s with time on its hands, and suddenly there was a mushrooming demand for things like golf clubs, motorboats and skis. In retrospect, the wonder of it is that it took people like McCormack so long to grab a good thing. Or maybe the problem was a lack of ski heroes. Does anyone remember, for instance, who won Gold Medals at the '64 Winter Olympics? It was the prominence of Jean-Claude Killy (as a hot racer in 1966 and as a press hero in '67 and '68) that suddenly gave skiing an image. Jean-Claude emerged from the '68 Olympics as a sort of sauve Joe Namath, a "swinging Frenchman" with the style of a jet-set maverick and the mind of a Paris bartender.

The result was inevitable: a super-priced French import, tailored strictly for the fast-growing U.S. leisure market, the same people who suddenly found themselves able to afford Porsches, Mercedes and Jaguars. . . along with MG's and Volkswagens.

But not Fords or Chevvys. "Detroit iron" didn't make it in that league. . . mainly because there is no room in the bra.s.s ranks of the U.S. auto industry for the kind of executive who understands why a man who can afford a Cadillac will buy a Porsche instead. There was simply no status in owning a $10,000 car with no back seat and a hood only five feet long.

So now we have a DeLorean-style blitz for Chevrolet, and it's doing beautifully. Booming Chevvy sales are mainly responsible for GM's spurt to a plus-50 per cent of the whole auto market. The strategy has been simple enough: a heavy focus on speed, sporty styling and the "youth market." This explains Chevvy's taste for such image-makers as Simpson, Glen Campbell and Killy. (Speculation that DeLorean was about to sign Allen Ginsberg proved to be false: General Motors doesn't need poets.) Killy has spent his entire adult life in the finely disciplined coc.o.o.n that is part of the price one pays for membership of the French ski team. As a life style, it is every bit as demanding as that of a pro football quarterback. In a sport where the difference between fame and total obscurity is measured in tenths of a second, the discipline of constant, rigid training is all important. Championship skiers, like karate masters, need muscles that most men never develop. The karate parallel extends, beyond muscles, to the necessity for an almost superhuman concentration -- the ability to see and remember every b.u.mp and twist on a race course, and then to run it without a single mistake: no mental lapses, no distractions, no wasted effort. The only way to win is to come down that hill with maximum efficiency, like a cannonball down a one-rail track. A skier who thinks too much might make points in conversation, but he seldom wins races.

Killy has been accused, by experts, of "lacking style." He skis, they say, with the graceless desperation of a man about to crash, fighting to keep his balance. Yet it's obvious, even to a rank amateur, that Killy's whole secret is his feverish concentration. He attacks a hill like Sonny Listen used to attack Floyd Patterson -- and with the same kind of awesome results. He wants to beat beat the hill, not just ski it. He whips through a slalom course like O. J. Simpson through a jammed secondary -- the same impossible moves; sliding, half-falling, then suddenly free and pumping crazily for the finish line to beat that awful clock, the only judge in the world with the power to send him home a loser. the hill, not just ski it. He whips through a slalom course like O. J. Simpson through a jammed secondary -- the same impossible moves; sliding, half-falling, then suddenly free and pumping crazily for the finish line to beat that awful clock, the only judge in the world with the power to send him home a loser.

Shortly after I met him, I told Killy he should see some films of O. J. Simpson running with a football. Jean-Claude didn't know the game, he said, but I insisted that wouldn't matter. "It's like watching a drunk run through traffic on a freeway," I said. "You don't have to know the game to appreciate O. J.'s act -- it's a spectacle, a thing to see. . ."

That was before I understood the boundaries of Kilty's curiosity. Like Calvin Coolidge, he seems to feel that "the business of America is business." He comes here to make money, and esthetics be d.a.m.ned. He wasn't interested in anything about O. J. Simpson except the size of his Chevrolet contract -- and only vaguely in that.

Throughout our numerous, distracted conversations, he was puzzled and dimly annoyed with the rambling style of my talk. He seemed to feel that any journalist worthy of his profession would submit 10 very precise questions, write down 10 scripted Killy answers and then leave. No doubt this reflected the thinking of his PR advisers, who favor such concepts as "input," "exposure" and "the Barnum Imperative."

My decision to quit the Killy story came suddenly, for no special reason. . . an irrational outburst of red-eyed temper and festering angst angst with the supplicant's role I'd been playing for two days, dealing with a gang of cheap-jack footmen whose sense of personal importance seemed to depend entirely on the glitter of their hired French property. with the supplicant's role I'd been playing for two days, dealing with a gang of cheap-jack footmen whose sense of personal importance seemed to depend entirely on the glitter of their hired French property.

Some time later, when I had calmed down enough to consider another attempt at cracking the PR barrier, I talked to Jean-Claude on the telephone. He was in Sun Valley, allowing himself to be photographed for a magazine feature on the "Killy style." I called to explain why I hadn't made the night with him, as planned, from Chicago to Sun Valley. "You've made some funny friends in the past year," I said. "Doesn't it make you nervous to travel around with a bunch of cops?"

He laughed quietly. "That's right," he said. "They are just like cops, aren't they? I don't like it, but what can I do? I am never alone. . . This is my life, you know."

I have a tape of that conversation, and I play it now and then for laughs. It is a weird cla.s.sic of sorts -- 45 minutes of failed communication, despite heroic efforts on both ends. The over-all effect is that of a career speed-freak jacked up like the Great Hummingbird, trying to talk his way through a cordon of bemused ushers and into a free, front-row seat at a sold-out Bob Dylan concert.

I had made the call, half-grudgingly, after being a.s.sured by Millie Wiggins Solheim, the Style Queen of Sun Valley, that she had learned through the Head Ski hierarchy that Jean-Claude was eager for a soul-talk with me. What the h.e.l.l? I thought Why not? But this time on my terms -- in the midnight style of the Great Hummingbird. The tape is full of laughter and disjointed ravings. Killy first suggested that I meet him again at the Auto Show in Chicago, where he was scheduled for a second weekend of Chevvy gigs on the same 1-3-5-7-9 schedule.

"Never in h.e.l.l," I replied. "You're paid to hang around with those pigs, but I'm not. They acted like they expected me to sneak up and steal the battery out of that G.o.dd.a.m.n ugly car you were selling."

He laughed again. "It's true that they pay me for being there. . . but you get paid for writing the article."

"What article?" I said. "As far as I know, you don't exist. You're a life-size dummy made of plastic foam. I can't write much of an article about how I once saw Jean-Claude Killy across a crowded room at the Stockyards Amphitheatre."

There was a pause, another quiet chuckle, then: "Well, maybe you could write about how hard it is to write about me."

Oh ho, I thought. You sneaky b.u.g.g.e.r -- there's something in your head, after all. It was the only time I ever felt we were on the same wavelength -- and then for only an instant. The conversation deteriorated rapidly after that.

We talked a while longer and I finally said, "Well, to h.e.l.l with it. You don't need publicity and I sure as h.e.l.l don't need this kind of f.u.c.karound. . . They should have a.s.signed this story to an ambitious dwarf hooker with gold teeth. . ."

There was a long pause at the other end of the line. Then: "Why don't you call Bud Stanner, the manager from Head Ski. He is here in the Lodge Lodge tonight. I think he can arrange something." tonight. I think he can arrange something."

Why not? I thought. By the time I got hold of Stanner it was 1 A.M.

I a.s.sured him that all I needed was a bit of casual conversation and some time to watch Killy in action.

"I'm not surprised Jean-Claude wouldn't talk to you tonight," he said with a knowing chuckle. "I happen to know he's being. . . ah. . . entertained entertained at the moment." at the moment."

"That's weird," I said, "I just finished a 45-minute talk with him."

"Oh. . . ?" Stanner pondered my words for a moment, then, like a skilled politician, he ignored them. "It's the d.a.m.nedest thing you ever saw," he continued cheerfully. "G.o.dd.a.m.n broads won't give him any peace. It's embarra.s.sing sometimes, the way they come on him. . ."

"Yeah," I said. "I've heard." Actually, I'd heard it so often that I recognized it now as part of the program. Killy has a very obvious, natural kind of s.e.x appeal -- so obvious that I was getting a little tired of hustlers nudging me to make sure I noticed. McCormack had set the tone at our first encounter, with his odd warning about "discretion." Moments later, replying to somebody who'd asked him if Killy had any plans for a film career, McCormack had grinned and said, "Oh, we're not in any hurry; he's had plenty of offers. And every time he says no, the price goes up."

Killy himself says nothing. Straight interviews bore him anyway, but he usually tries to be civil, even smiling, despite the brain-curdling tedium of answering the same questions over and over again. He will cope with almost any kind of giddy ignorance, but his smile snaps off like a dead lightbulb when he senses a carnal drift in the conversation. If the interviewer persists, or launches a direct question like, "Is there any truth in this rumor about you and Winnie Ruth Judd?", Killy will invariably change the subject with an angry shrug.

His reluctance to talk about women seems genuine, leaving disappointed reporters no choice but to hunker down in misty speculation. "Killy has a reputation as a skiing Romeo," wrote the author of a recent magazine article. "Typically French, though, he remains discreet about his swinging love life, saying little more than, yes, he has a girl friend, a model."

Which was true. He had spent a quiet vacation with her in the Bahamas the week before I met him in Chicago, and at first I got the impression that he was fairly serious about her. . . Then, after listening to his pitchmen for a while, I wasn't sure what I thought. The "discretion" that would have been the despair of any old-style, low-level press agent has become, in the hands of McCormack's cool futurists, a mysterious and half-sinister cover story, using Killy's awkward "no comment" behavior to enhance whatever rumor he refuses to talk about.

Jean-Claude understands that his s.e.x-life has a certain publicity value, but he hasn't learned to like it. At one point I asked him how he felt about that aspect of his image. "What can I say?" he shrugged. "They keep talking about it. I am normal. I like girls. But what I do is really my own business, I think. . ."

(Shortly after that phone talk with him in Sun Valley, I learned that he really was was being "entertained" when I called, and I've never quite understood why he spent 45 minutes on the phone in those circ.u.mstances. What a terrible scene for a girl. . .) being "entertained" when I called, and I've never quite understood why he spent 45 minutes on the phone in those circ.u.mstances. What a terrible scene for a girl. . .) I tried to be frank with Stanner. Early on, in our talk, he said: "Look, I'll give you all the help I can on this thing, and I think I'm in a position to give you the kind of help you need. Naturally, I'd expect some play for Head Skis in your photo coverage and of course that's my job. . ."

"f.u.c.k the skis," I replied. "I couldn't give a hoot in h.e.l.l if he skis on metal bowls; all I want to do is talk to the man, in a decent human manner, and find out what he thinks about things."

This was not the kind of thing Stanner wanted to hear, but under the circ.u.mstances he handled it pretty well. "O.K." he said, after a brief pause. "I think we understand each other. You're looking for input that's kind of offbeat, right?"

"Input?" I said. He had used the term several times and I thought I'd better clarify it.

"You know what I mean," he snapped, "and I'll try to set it up for you."

I started making plans to go up to Sun Valley anyway but then Stanner disrupted everything by suddenly offering to arrange for me -- instead of Ski Magazine's editor -- to accompany J.-C. on that Eastbound flight. "You'll have a whole day with him," Stanner said, "and if you want to come to Boston next week I'll save you a seat on the company bus for the ride to Waterville Valley in New Hampshire. Jean-Claude will be along, and as far as I'm concerned you can have him all to yourself for the whole trip. It takes about two hours. h.e.l.l, maybe you'd rather do that, instead of working your a.s.s off to make that cross-country flight with him. . ."

"No," I said. "I'll do it both ways -- first the flight, then the bus ride; that should give me all the offbeat input I need."

He sighed.

Killy was there in Salt Lake, red-eyed and jittery with a c.o.ke and a ham sandwich in the airport cafe. A man from United Airlines was sitting with him, a waitress stopped to ask for his autograph, people who had no idea who he was paused to nod and stare at "the celebrity."

The local TV station had sent out a camera crew, which caused a crowd to gather around the gate where our plane was waiting. "How do these people know when I'm here?" he muttered angrily as we hurried down the corridor toward the mob.

I smiled at him. "Come on," I said, "you know d.a.m.n well who called them. Do we have to keep playing this game?"

He smiled faintly, then lined it out like a veteran. "You go ahead," he said. "Get our seats on the plane while I talk to these camera people."

Which he did, while I boarded the plane and instantly found myself involved in a game of musical chairs with the couple who were being moved back to the tourist compartment so Jean-Claude and I could have their First Cla.s.s seats. "I've blocked these two off for you," the man in the blue uniform told me.

The dowdy little stewardess told the victims how sorry she was -- over and over again, while the man howled in the aisle. I hunkered down in the seat and stared straight ahead, wishing him well. Killy arrived, ignoring the ruckus and slumping into his seat with a weary groan. There was no doubt in his mind that the seat was being saved for Jean-Claude Killy. The man in the aisle seemed to recognize that his protest was doomed: his seats had been seized by forces beyond his control. "You sons of b.i.t.c.hes!" he yelled, shaking his fist at the crewmen who were pushing him back toward the tourist section. I was hoping he would whack one of them or at least refuse to stay on the plane but he caved in, allowing himself to be hustled off like a noisy beggar.

"What was that about?" Killy asked me.

I told him. "Bad scene, eh?" he said. Then he pulled a car racing magazine out of his briefcase and focused on that. I thought of going back and advising the man that he could get a full refund on his ticket if he kept yelling, but the flight was delayed for at least an hour on the runway and I was afraid to leave my seat for fear it might be grabbed by some late-arriving celebrity.

Within moments, a new ha.s.sle developed. I asked the stewardess for a drink and was told that it was against the rules to serve booze until the plane was airborne. Thirty minutes later, still sitting on the runway, I got the same answer. There is something in the corporate manner of United Airlines that reminds me of the California Highway Patrol, the exaggerated politeness of people who would be a h.e.l.l of a lot happier if all their customers were in jail -- and especially you, you, sir. sir.

Flying United, to me, is like crossing the Andes in a prison bus. There is no question in my mind that somebody like Pat Nixon personally approves every United stewardess. Nowhere in the Western world is there anything to equal the collection of self-righteous shrews who staff the "friendly skies of United." I do everything possible to avoid that airline, often at considerable cost and personal inconvenience. But I rarely make my own reservations and United seems to be a habit -- like Yellow Cabs -- with secretaries and PR men. And maybe they're right. . .

My constant requests for a drink to ease the delay were rebuked with increasing severity by the same stewardess who had earlier defended my right to preempt a first cla.s.s seat. Killy tried to ignore the argument but finally abandoned his magazine to view the whole scene with nervous alarm. He lifted his dark gla.s.ses to wipe his eyes -- red-veined b.a.l.l.s in a face that looked much older than 26. Then a man in a blue blazer confronted us, shoving a little girl ahead of him. "Probably you don't remember me, Jean-Claude," he was saying. "We met about two years ago at a c.o.c.ktail party in Vail."

Killy nodded, saying nothing. The man shoved an airline ticket envelope at him, grinning self-consciously: "Could you autograph this for my little girl, please? She's all excited about being on the same plane with you."

Killy scrawled an illegible signature on the paper, then stared blankly at the cheap camera the girl was aiming at him. The man backed away, unnerved by Killy's failure to remember him. "Sorry to bother you," he said. "But my little girl, you know. . . since we seem to be delayed here. . . well, thanks very much."

Killy shrugged as the man backed off. He hadn't said a word and I felt a little sorry for the reject, who appeared to be a broker of some kind.

The moppet came back with the camera, wanting a second shot "in case the first one doesn't come out." She took one very quickly, then asked J.-C. to remove his gla.s.ses. "No!" he snapped. "The light hurts my eyes." There was a raw, wavering note in his voice, and the child, a shade more perceptive than her father, took her picture and left without apologies.

Now, less than a year later, Killy is making very expensive and elaborate commercials for United Airlines. He was in Aspen recently "secretly" filming a ski race for showing, months later, on national TV. He didn't ring me up. . .

Killy refused both the drink and the meal. He was clearly on edge and I was pleased to find that anger made him talkative. By this time I had disabused myself of the notion that we had any basic rapport; his habit-smiles were for people who asked habit-questions -- fan-magazine bulls.h.i.t and pulp philosophy: How do you like America? (It is truly wonderful. I would like to see it all in a Camaro.) How did it feel to win three gold medals in the Olympics? (It felt truly wonderful. I plan to have them mounted on the dashboard of my Camaro.) Somewhere in the middle of the flight, with our conversation lagging badly, I reverted to a Hollywood-style of journalism that Killy instantly picked up on. "Tell me," I said. "What's the best place you know? If you were free to go anyplace in the world right now -- no work, no obligation, just to enjoy yourself -- where would it be?"

His first answer was "home," and after that came Paris and a clutch of French resort areas -- until I had to revise the question and eliminate France altogether.

Finally he settled on Hong Kong. "Why?" I asked. His face relaxed in a broad, mischievous grin. "Because a friend of mine is head of the police there," he said, "and when I go to Hong Kong I can do anything I want."

I laughed, seeing it all on film -- the adventures of a filthy-rich French cowboy, turned loose in Hong Kong with total police protection. With J.-C. Killy as the h.e.l.lion and maybe Rod Steiger as his cop-friend. A sure winner. . .

Looking back, I think that Hong Kong note was the truest thing Jean-Claude ever said to me. Certainly it was the most definitive -- and it was also the only one of my questions he obviously enjoyed answering.

By the time we got to Chicago I'd decided to spare us both the agony of prolonging the "interview" all the way to Baltimore. "I think I'll get off here," I said as we left the plane. He nodded, too tired to care. Just then we were confronted by a heavy blonde girl with a clipboard. "Mister Killy?" she said. J.-C. nodded. The girl mumbled her name and said she was there to help him make connections to Baltimore. "How was Sun Valley?" she asked. "Was it good skiing?" Killy shook his head, still walking very fast up the corridor. The girl was half trotting beside us. "Well, I hope the other activities the other activities were satisfactory," she said with a smile. Her emphasis was so heavy, so abysmally raw, that I glanced over to see if she was drooling. were satisfactory," she said with a smile. Her emphasis was so heavy, so abysmally raw, that I glanced over to see if she was drooling.

"Who are you?" she asked suddenly.