Страница 31 из 57
Just near sunset, I came upon a high, easy winding way up and up and up. I debated with my more discreet self. I'd left the message that I'd be gone a week. This was the end of the third day. I wanted to make as much height as possible and start back down on the fifth day. If I followed the rocky route above me as far as it would take me I'd probably break forty thousand feet. Then, depending, I might have a halfway chance of hitting near the ten-mile mark before I had to turn back. Then I'd be able to get a much better picture of what lay above.
My more discreet self lost, three to nothing, and Mad Jack went on.
The stars were so big and blazing I was afraid they'd bite. The wind was no problem. There wasn't any at that height. I had to keep stepping up the temperature controls on my suit, and I had the feeling that if I could spit around my respirator, it would freeze before it hit the trail.
I went on even further than I'd intended, and I broke forty-two thousand that night.
I found a resting place, stretched out, killed my hand beacon.
It was an odd dream that came to me.
It was all cherry fires and stood like a man, only bigger, on the slope above me. It stood in an impossible position, so I knew I had to be dreaming. Something from the other end of my life stirred, however, and I was convinced for a bitter moment that it was the Angel of Judgment. Only, in its right hand it seemed to hold a sword of fires rather than a trumpet. It had been standing there forever, the tip of its blade pointed toward my breast. I could see the stars through it. It seemed to speak.
It said: "_Go back_."
I couldn't answer it, though, for my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth. And it said it again, and yet a third time, "_Go back_."
"Tomorrow," I thought, in my dream, and this seemed to satisfy it. for it died down and ceased, and the blackness rolled about me.
The following day, I climbed as I hadn't climbed in years. By late lunchtime I'd hit forty-eight thousand feet. The cloud cover down below had broken. I could see what lay beneath me once more. The ground was a dark and light patchwork. Above, the stars didn't go away.
The going was rough, but I was feeling fine. I knew I couldn't make ten miles, because I could see that the way was pretty much the same for quite a distance, before it got even worse. My good spirits stayed, and they continued to rise as I did.
When it attacked, it came on with a speed and a fury that I was only barely able to match.
The voice from my dream rang in my head, "_Go back! Go back! Go back!_"
Then it came toward me from out of the sky. A bird the size of a condor. Only it wasn't really a bird. It was a bird-shaped thing.
It was all fire and static, and as it flashed toward me I barely had time to brace my back against stone and heft my climbing pick in my right hand, ready.
III
I sat in the small, dark room and watched the spi
It lasted perhaps twenty minutes.
When it was all over and they called me out, the doctor collared me. I beat him to the draw, though:
"Give me the tape and send the bill in care of Henry La
"I want to discuss the reading," he said.
"I have my own brain-wave expert coming. Just give me the tape."
"Have you undergone any sort of traumatic experience recently?"
"You tell me. Is it indicated?"
"Well, yes and no," he said.
"That's what I like, a straight answer."
"I don't know what is normal for you, in the first place," he replied.
"Is there any indication of brain damage?"
"I don't read it that way. If you'd tell me what happened, and why you're suddenly concerned about your brain-waves, perhaps I'd be in a better position to...."
"Cut," I said. "Just give me the tape and bill me."
"I'm concerned about you as a patient."
"But you don't think there were any pathological indications?"
"Not exactly. But tell me this, if you will: Have you had an epileptic seizure recently?"
"Not to my knowledge. Why?"
"You displayed a pattern similar to a residual subrythm common in some forms of epilepsy for several days subsequent to a seizure."
"Could a bump on the head cause that pattern?"
"It's highly unlikely."
"What else _could_ cause it?"
"Electrical shock, optical trauma--"
"Stop," I said, and I removed my glasses. "About the optical trauma. Look at my eyes."
"I'm not an ophtha--" he began, but I interrupted:
"Most normal light hurts me eyes. If I lost my glasses and was exposed to very bright light for three, four days, could that cause the pattern you spoke of?"
"Possible...." he said. "Yes, I'd say so."
"But there's more?"
"I'm not sure. We have to take more readings, and if I know the story behind this it will help a lot."
"Sorry," I said. "I need the tape now."
He sighed and made a small gesture with his left hand as he turned away.
"All right, Mister Smith."
Cursing the genius of the mountain, I left the General Hospital, carrying my tape like a talisman. In my mind I searched, through forests of memory, for a ghost-sword in a stone of smoke, I think.
Back in the Lodge, they were waiting. La
"What was it like?" asked one of the latter.
"What was what like?"
"The mountain. You were up on it, weren't you?"
"No comment."
"How high did you go?"
"No comment."
"How would you say it compares with Kasla?"
"No comment."
"Did you run into any complications?"
"Ditto. Excuse me, I want to take a shower."
Henry followed me into my room. The reporters tried to.
After I had shaved and washed up, mixed a drink and lit a cigarette, La
"Well?" he said.
I nodded.
"Difficulties?"
I nodded again.
"Insurmountable?"
I hefted the tape and thought a moment.
"Maybe not."
He helped himself to the whiskey. The second time around, he asked:
"You going to try?"
I knew I was. I knew I'd try it all by myself if I had to.
"I really don't know," I said.
"Why not?"
"Because there's something up there," I said, "something that doesn't want us to do it."
"Something _lives_ up there?"
"I'm not sure whether that's the right word."
He lowered the drink.
"What the hell happened?"
"I was threatened. I was attacked."
"Threatened? Verbally? In English?" He set his drink aside, which shows how serious his turn of mind had to be. "Attacked?" he added. "By what?"
"I've sent for Doc and Kelly and Stan and Mallardi and Vincent. I checked a little earlier. They've all replied. They're coming. Miguel and the Dutchman can't make it, and they send their regrets. When we're all together, I'll tell the story. But I want to talk to Doc first. So hold tight and worry and don't quote."
He finished his drink.
"When'll they be coming?"
"Four, five weeks," I said.
"That's a long wait."
"Under the circumstances," I said, "I can't think of any alternatives."
"What'll we do in the meantime?"
"Eat, drink, and contemplate the mountain."
He lowered his eyelids a moment, then nodded, reached for his glass.
"Shall we begin?"
It was late, and I stood alone in the field with a bottle in one hand. La