Jonathan stared ahead, his mind unrolling the death record of the Eiger.

"Is there something wrong?" the English girl at the telescope asked.

He had forgotten her.

"Why are you staring at me like that?" She smiled, anticipating the reason.

"I wasn't staring at you, dear. I was staring through you."

"How disappointing. May I join you?" She interpreted his silence as invitation. "You've been looking at that mountain with such concentration that I couldn't help noticing you. I do hope you're not thinking of climbing it."

"Oh, no. Never again."

"You've climbed it before?"

"I've tried."

"Is it awfully fierce?"

"Awfully."

"I have a theory about mountain climbers. By the way, my name's Randie—Randie Nickers."

"Jonathan Hemlock. What's your theory, Randie?"

"Well... may I have some wine? That's all right. I'll just use your glass, if you don't mind. Well, my theory is that men climb mountains out of some kind of frustration. I think it's a kind of sublimation of other desires."

"Sexual, of course."

Randie nodded earnestly as she swallowed a sip of wine. "Yes, probably. This wine's half fizzy, isn't it?"

He put his feet upon an empty chair and leaned back to receive the sun. "It has the giggling sparkle of Swiss maidens, blushed but pleased by the attention of rural swains, but these high spirits do not eclipse the underlying tartness of the petulant Oberland peasant that resides largely in the wine's malolactic fermentation."

Randie was silent for a moment. "I do hope you're teasing."

"Of course I am, Randie. Don't people usually tease you?"

"Not men. They typically try to make love to me."

"How do they do? Typically."

"Well, of late they've been doing very well indeed. I'm in Switzerland for a sort of holiday before I go home and settle down to a most proper married life."

"And you're spreading the blessings of your body around while there's still time."

"Something like that. Not that I don't love Rodney. He's the dearest person, really. But he is Rodney."

"And he's rich."

"Oh, I imagine so." Her brow clouded over for an instant. "I certainly hopehe is. Oh, of course he is! What a fright you gave me. But the nicest thing about him is his name."

"Which is?"

"Smith. Rodney Smith."

"And that's the nicest thing about him?"

"It's not that Smith is all that grand of itself. I believe it's actually a fairly common name. But it will mean that I shall finally be rid of my name. It's been a plague to me all my life."

"Randie Nickers sounds all right to me."

"That's because you're an American. I could tell that from your accent. But 'knickers' is British slang for panties. And you can imagine what the girls at school did with that."

"I see." He took his glass back and poured himself some wine. He wondered what it was about him that attracted the nutty ones.

"You see what I mean?" Randie asked, forgetting that she had been thinking, rather than speaking.

"Not exactly."

"Oh, I have this theory that strangers gravitate immediately to the topics of their greatest mutual interest. And here we are talking about panties. It rather tells on us, doesn't it?"

"You ride horses, don't you," he said, succumbing to the rule of non sequitur Randie's mind demanded.

"Yes, as a matter of fact! I show for my uncle. How on earth did you know?"

"I didn't know, really. I more hoped. Do you have a theory about women who delight in having strong beasts between their legs?"

She frowned. "I hadn't really thought about it. But I imagine you're right. It's something like your mountain climbing, isn't it? It's always delightful to have something in common." She looked at him narrowly. "Don't I know you from somewhere. The name's familiar." She mused, "Jonathan Hemlock... Ah! Aren't you an author?"

"Only a writer."

"Yes! I have it! You write books about art and everything. They're very keen on you at Slade."

"Yes, it's a good school. What would you rather we did, Randie? Take a walk through the village? Or shall we rush directly to bed."

"A stroll through the village would be grand. Romantic, actually. I'm glad we're going to make love. I have a theory about lovemaking. I view it as a first-rate icebreaker. You make love with a man, and the first thing you know you're holding hands and calling each other by first names. I prefer first names. Probably because of my own family name. Did I tell you what knickers are in England?"

"Yes."

"Well then, you can appreciate my attitude toward names. I have this theory about attitudes..."

Jonathan was not disconsolate when he discovered that Randie would be returning to London the following morning.

KLEINE SCHEIDEGG: JULY 6-7

It had been necessary to dress twice that morning, and they nearly missed the train. The last Jonathan saw of Miss Nickers as the train began to move away from the platform, she tugged down her compartment window and called, "You really have smashing eyes, you know, Jonathan!" Then she settled into her seat next to a homeward-bound skier and began animatedly explaining one of her theories to him.

Jonathan smiled as he remembered her tactic of self-excitation which consisted of calling parts, places, and postures by their most earthy names.

He turned up the steep cobblestone road that connects the village to the hotel. He had arranged to take a training climb with a local guide up the west flank of the Eiger. Although a far cry from the North Face, this west route had been blooded often enough to demand respect.

Beyond the training and acclimatization, there was another reason prompting him to stay away from the hotel as much as possible. Somehow, as always, despite the greatest precautions, the management of the hotel had sensed there was an attempt at the Eigerwand pending. Discreet telegrams had been sent out; the best suites were being held vacant for rich "Eiger Birds" who would soon begin to descend on the hotel. Like all climbers, Jonathan resented and detested these excitement-hungry jet setters who seek to titillate their callused nerve ends by vicarious thrill. He was glad that Ben and the other members of the climbing team had not yet arrived, because with them the carrion would descend in force.

Halfway up the cobblestone road, Jonathan stopped off at an outdoor cafe for a glass of Vaudois. The fragile mountain sun was pleasant on his cheek. "Do you ever buy wine for girls you meet in bars?" She had approached from behind, from the dark interior of the cafe. Her voice hit him like a palpable thing. Without turning around, and with fine command of his feelings, he reached over and pushed out a chair for her. She sat looking at him for a time, sadness balanced in her eyes.

The waiter came, received the order, returned with the wine, and departed. She slid her glass back and forth over a small puddle of water on the table, concentrating on it, rather than on his cool, uninviting eyes. "I had this whole speech worked out, you know. It was a good one. I could say it quickly, before you interrupted me or walked away."

"How did it go?"

She glanced up at him, then away. "I forget."

"No, come on. Let's hear it. I'm easily conned, as you know."

She shook her head and smiled faintly. "I surrender. I can't handle it on this level. I can't sit here and swap cool, mature words with you. I'm..." She looked up, desperate at the paucity of words in the face of human emotions. "I'm sorry. Really."

"Why did you do it?" He was not going to melt.

"Try to be a little fair, Jonathan. I did it because I believed—I stillbelieve—you have to take this assignment."

"I've taken the assignment, Jemima. Things worked out just fine."