It was obvious that Ben needed at least a limited explanation. "Ben, these people killed a friend of mine."

"Oh?" Ben considered that. "Does the law know about it?"

"There's nothing the law can do."

"How come?"

Jonathan shook his head. He did not intend to pursue the matter.

"Hey, wait a minute! I just got a real scary flash. I suddenly got the feeling that all this has something to do with the Eiger climb. Else why would they know you were here?"

"Stay out of it, Ben."

"Now, listen to me. You don't need any more trouble than that mountain's going to give you. I haven't told you this, but I better. You're training real good, and you're still a crafty climber. But I've been watching you close, Jon. And to be honest, you don't have more than a fifty-fifty chance on the Eiger at best. And that doesn't count your fooling around trying to kill people and them trying to kill you. I don't mean to dent your confidence, ol' buddy, but it's something you ought to know."

"Thanks, Ben."

A waiter knocked at the door and brought in a tray with a training meal for two, which they consumed in silence while Jonathan pored over the terrain map and Ben finished the cans of beer.

By the time the meal was a clutter of duty dishes, Jonathan had folded up the map and put it into his pocket. He began questioning Ben about his forthcoming climbing partners. "How close has your correspondence with them been?"

"Nothing special. Just the usual stuff—hotel, rations, team rope and iron, how to handle the reporters—that sort of stuff. The German guy does most of the writing. He kind of thought the whole thing up in the first place, and he makes noise like a leader. That reminds me. Are you and I going to fly over together?"

"I don't think so. I'll meet you there. Listen, Ben, have any of them...? Are they all in good physical shape?"

"At least as good as you."

"Have any of them been hurt lately? Or wounded?"

"Wounded?Not as I know of. One of them—the German—wrote that he had a fall early this month. But nothing serious."

"What kind of fall?"

"I don't know. Roughed up his leg some."

"Enough to make him limp?"

"Well, that's pretty hard to tell from a guy's handwriting. Hey, why you asking me all this shit?"

"Never mind. Will you leave this file of correspondence with me? I want to read it over—get to know these men a little better."

"No skin off my ass." Ben stretched and groaned like a sated bear. "You still planning to make that climb on the needle in the morning?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I?"

"Well, it might be a little tough, climbing with a shotgun cradled over your arm."

Jonathan laughed. "Don't worry about it."

"Well, in that case, we better get some sleep. That needle ain't no tent pole, you know."

"You mean it ain't no bedpost."

"It ain't neither one."

Shortly after Big Ben had gone, Jonathan was propped up in bed studying the letters from the other climbers. In each case, the first letter was rather stiff and polite. Evidently, Ben's answers had been robust and earthy, because all succeeding letters cleaved to hard technical matters of climbing: weather reports, observations about conditions on the face, descriptions of recent training climbs, suggestions for equipment. It was in one of these letters that the German mentioned a short fall he had taken resulting in a gashed leg which, he assured Ben, would be in fine shape by the Eiger ascent.

Jonathan was deep in this correspondence, trying to read personality between the arid lines, when he recognized the scratching knock of George Hotfort wanting to be let in.

His recent encounter with Mellough made him cautious. He turned off his reading light before crossing to unlatch the door. George entered into the darkness uncertainly, but Jonathan latched the door behind her and conducted her to the bed. He was eager to use her as sexual aspirin, to relieve the tensions of the afternoon, although he knew he would only experience discharge and release without local sensation.

Throughout the event, George's eyes locked on his, expressionless in their Oriental mold, totally severed from her aggressive and demanding body.

Sometime later, while he slept, she slipped away without a word.

ARIZONA: JUNE 28

He sensed that he was going to be magnificent.

Immediately upon waking, he was eager for the climb on Big Ben Needle. Once or twice in his climbing career he had experienced this scent of victory—this visceral hunch. He had it just before he set a time record on Grand Teton, and again when he introduced a new route up the Dru into the mountaineering handbooks. His hands felt strong enough to punch holds into the rock, if need be, and his legs carried him with more than vigor and ease, with a sensation of moon gravity. He was so finely tuned to this climb that his hands, when he rubbed the palms together, felt like rough chamois gloves capable of adhering to flat, slimy rock.

After his shower, he neither shaved nor combed his hair. He preferred to be rough and burry when he met the rock.

When Ben knocked at his door, he was already tying off his boots and admiring their feel: broken in from his recent training climbs, but the cleats in excellent condition.

"You look mighty ready." Ben had just gotten out of bed and was still in his pajamas and robe, grizzled and carrying with him his first can of beer.

"I feel great, Ben. That needle of yours has had it."

"Oh, I wouldn't be surprised if it took some of the shine off you before it's all over. It's near four hundred feet, mostly grade 6."

"Tell your cooks we'll be back in time for lunch."

"I doubt that. Especially considering you got to drag a tired old man along behind you. Come to my room and I'll get dressed."

He followed Ben down the hall and into his rooms where he declined the offer of a beer and sat watching dawn quicken, while Ben slowly found and donned the various elements of his climbing gear. The finding was not easy, and Ben grumbled and swore steadily as he shoveled clothes out of drawers onto the floor and emptied boxes of random paraphernalia onto his rumpled bed.

"You say I'm going to pull you along behind, Ben? I had imagined you would lead. After all, you know the route. You've been up before."

"Yeah, but I ain't one to hog all the fun. Goddam my eyes if I can find that other sock. Can't stand wearing socks that don't match. Puts me off balance. Hey! Maybe if I worked it out just right I could make up for these missing toes by wearing a lighter sock on that foot! 'Course I'd run the risk of ending up with the opposite of a limp. I might find myself up an inch or two off the ground, and that'd play hell with my traction. Hey, get off your ass and kick around in this stuff and see if you can find my climbing sweater. You know, the old green one."

"You're wearing it."

"Oh, yeah. So I am. But lookee here! I ain't got no shirt on under it!"

"Not my fault."

"Well, you ain't helping much."

"I'm afraid if I got out into the middle of the room they'd never find me again."

"Oh, George would come across you when she put all this mess away."

"George cleans up your room?"

"She's on my payroll, and she's got to do more to earn her keep than just be a spittoon for your sperm."

"You have a delicate sense of imagery, Ben."

"No shit? All right, I give up. Goddam my eyes if I can find them boots. Why don't you let me use yours?"

"And I go up barefoot?"

"Considering how sassy-assed and prime you're feeling, I didn't figure you'd notice the difference."

Jonathan leaned back in the chair and relaxed with the dawn view. "I really do feel good, Ben. I haven't felt like this for a long time."