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 class seat. Killy tried to ignore the argument but finally abandoned his magazine to view the whole scene with nervous alarm. He lifted his dark glasses to wipe his eyes -- red-veined balls 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 cocktail 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 glasses. “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 bullshit 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?”