"Stop it! Don't you know what it would mean if the other side had a major biological weapon before we did?"

"Oh, of course. We have to keep it out of their hands at all costs! They're the kind of heartless shits who might drop it on some unsuspecting Japanese city!"

She glanced down. "I know you don't think it makes any difference. We talked about it that night. Remember?"

"Remember? You're not a bad in-fighter."

She sipped her wine, the silence heavy on her. "At least they promised me that you wouldn't lose your painting."

"They kept their promise. Your conscience is clear."

"Yes." She sighed. "But there's still this problem I have."

"What's that?'

She said it matter-of-factly. "I love you."

After a pause, he smiled to himself and shook his head. "I've underrated you. You're a great in-fighter."

The silence grew denser, and she realized that she must abandon this heavy line of talk lest he simply walk away. "Say, I saw you walking around yesterday with a most un-Jemima type—blond and Anglo and all. Was she good?"

"Adequate."

"As good as—"

"No."

"I'm glad!"

Jonathan could not help smiling at her frankness. "How did you know I was here?"

"I studied your file in Mr. Dragon's office, remember? This assignment was detailed in it."

"I see." So Dragon had been so sure of him that he had included this sanction. Jonathan despised being predictable.

"Will I see you tonight, Jonathan?" There was bravery in her voice. She was willing to be hurt.

"I have a date to climb a hill today. We'll be up there overnight."

"What about tomorrow?"

"Please go away. I have no intention of punishing you. I don't want to hate you, or love you, or anything. I just want you to go away."

She folded her gloves in her lap. She had made up her mind. "I'll be here when you come down from the mountain."

Jonathan rose and dropped a bill on the table.

"Please don't."

Her eyes brimmed suddenly with tears. "Why are you doing this, Jonathan? I know this isn't a one-way thing. I know you love me too."

"I'll get over it." He left the cafe and walked to the hotel with vigorous strides.

True to type, the Swiss guide grumbled and complained that they should have started with the first light of dawn. As it was, they would have to pass the night on the mountain. Jonathan explained that he had all along intended to pass the night there, for the conditioning. The guide classified himself: At first he did not understand (genus, Teutonic), then he refused to budge (species, Helvetic). But when Jonathan offered to double the fee, there was a sudden comprehension coupled with the assurance that the idea of spending a night on the mountain was a splendid one.

Jonathan had always found the Swiss to be a money-loving, dour, religious, money-loving, independent, well-organized, money-loving people. These men of the Bernese Oberland are fine mountaineers, always willing to face the rigors and risks of rescuing a climber trapped on the face of a mountain. But they never fail to send a carefully itemized bill to the man they have saved or, that failing, to his next of kin.

The climb was rigorous enough, but relatively uneventful. Jonathan would have resented the guide's interminable complaining about the cold during the overnight bivouac, had it not served to keep his mind from Jemima.

Back at the hotel the next day, he received his bill. It seemed that, despite the double fee there were many little items still to be paid for. Among these were medical supplies they had not used, food for the bivouac (Jonathan had brought his own to test the freeze-dried rations), and a charge for "1/4 pair of boots." This last was too much. He called the guide to his room and questioned him. The guide assumed an attitude of cooperation and weary patience as he explained the obvious. "Shoes wear out; you would not deny that. Surely one cannot climb a mountain barefooted. Agreed? For Matterhorn I usually charge half a pair of shoes. Eiger is more than half the altitude of Matterhorn, and yet I only charged you for a quarter pair. I did this because you were a pleasant companion."

"I'm surprised you didn't charge me for wear on the rope."

The guide's eyebrows lofted. "Oh?" He took up the bill and scanned it minutely. "You are perfectly right, sir. There has been an omission." He drew a pencil from his pocket, licked the point, and painstakingly wrote in the neglected item, then corrected and checked the total. "Can I be of further service?" he asked.

Jonathan pointed to the door, and with a curt bow the guide left.

Jonathan's undefined sense of tension and anticipation was exacerbated by the depression Switzerland always brought upon him. He considered the placement of the magnificent Alps in this soulless country to be one of nature's more malevolent caprices. As he wandered around the hotel aimlessly, he came upon a group of lower-class Eiger Birds playing the fondue-kirsch-kiss game and giggling stupidly. He turned back toward his room with disgust. No one really likes Switzerland, except those who prefer cleanliness to life, he thought. And anyone who would live in Switzerland would live in Scandinavia. And anyone who would live in Scandinavia would eat lutefisk. And anyone who would eat lutefisk would...

He paced up and down in his room. Ben would not arrive until the next day, and Jonathan would be damned if he would spend an unnecessary day in this hotel, among these people, an object of curiosity for the early-arrived Eiger Birds. His telephone rang. "What!" he snapped into the receiver.

"How did you know it was me?" Jemima asked.

"What do you have planned for tonight?"

"Making love with you," she answered without hesitation.

"Dinner first at your cafe?"

"Great. Does this mean everything is all right between us?"

"No." He was surprised at her assumption.

"Oh." The line was silent for a moment. "See you in twenty minutes."

"Fifteen?"

Night had fallen quickly around the cafe terrace, as it does in the mountains, and they sipped in silence the last of their brandy. Jemima had been careful to make no allusions to their time together in Long far away, and he failed to notice the inset of cool air slipping down from the flanks of Eiger.

"Jonathan?"

"Hm-m?"

"Am I forgiven?"

He shook his head slowly. "That isn't the point. I would never again be able to trust you."

"And you would want to?"

"Sure."

"Then you're really saying we might have made something of it."

"I'm pretty sure we could have."

"And now no chance? Ever?"

He did not answer.

"You're a warped man. And you know something else? You haven't kissed me yet."

He corrected the oversight. As their faces drew slowly apart, Jemima sighed, "Corn in Egypt, man. I didn't know lips had a memory of their own."

They watched the last yellow light desert the ragged crests surrounding them.

"Jonathan? About that business at your home..."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"It wasn't really the money that hurt you, was it? I mean—we were so good together. All day long, I mean. Not just in bed. Hey, you want to know something?"

"Tell me."

She laughed at herself. "Even after taking your money, I had to overcome an impulse to go back and make love to you again before I left. That would really have made you angry when you found out, wouldn't it?"

"Yes. Really."

"Say, how's the crazy one? What's his name?"

"Mr. Monk? I don't know. I haven't been back for some time."

"Oh?" She knew that bode poorly for her.

"No." Jonathan stood up. "I assume your room has a bed."