Jonathan could form only the vaguest image of Meyer's personality from the letters. The veil of translation obscured the man; his English was stilted and imperfect, often comically obtuse because he translated directly from the German syntax, dictionary obviously in hand, and there were occasional medleys of compounded nouns that strung meaninglessly along until a sudden terminal verb tamped them into a kind of order. One quality, however, did emerge through the static of translation: a shy confidence.

Jonathan sat in bed, looking at the piles of letters and sipping his Scotch. Bidet, Freytag, Meyer. And whoever it was might have been alerted by Mellough.

KLEINE SCHEIDEGG: JULY 9

He slept late. By the time he had dressed and shaved, the sun was high and the dew was off the meadow that tilts up toward the north face of Eiger. In the lobby he passed a chatting group of young people, their eyes cleansed, their faces tightened by the crisp thin air. They had been out frolicking in the hills, and their heavy sweaters still exuded a chill.

The hotel manager stepped around the desk and spoke confidentially. "They are here, Herr Doctor. They await you."

Jonathan nodded and continued to the dining room entrance. He scanned the room and discovered the group immediately. They sat near the floor-to-ceiling windows that gave onto the mountain; their table was flooded with brilliant sunlight, and their colorful pullovers were the only relief from the dim and sparsely populated room. It looked as though Ben had assumed, as the natural privilege of his experience and age, social command of the gathering.

The men rose as Jonathan approached. Ben made introductions.

"Jonathan Hemlock, this here's Gene-Paul Bidette." He clearly was not going to have anything to do with these phony foreign pronunciations.

Jonathan offered his hand. "Monsieur Bidet."

"I have looked forward to meeting you, Monsieur Hemlock." Bidet's slanted peasant eyes were frankly evaluative.

"And this is Karl Freytag." Amused, Jonathan matched the unnecessary force of Freytag's grip. "Herr Freytag?"

"Herr Doctor." He nodded curtly and sat down. "And this here's Anderil Mayor." Jonathan smiled professional approval into Meyer's wry, clear blue eyes. "I've read about you, Anderl," he said in German.

"I've read about you," Anderl answered in his soft Austrian accent.

"In which case," Jonathan said, "we have read about each other." Anderl grinned.

"And this lady here is Missus Bidette." Ben sat down immediately his uncomfortable social duty was discharged.

Jonathan pressed the offered fingers and saw his reflection in her dark sunglasses. "Madame Bidet?" She dipped her head slightly in a gesture that was, at one time, a greeting, a shrug at being Madame Bidet, and a favorable evaluation of Jonathan—a gesture altogether Parisienne.

"We just been small-talking and eyeballing the hill," Ben explained after Jonathan had sent the waiter after a fresh pot of coffee.

"I had no idea this mountain Jean-Paul has been talking about for a year now would be so beautiful," Madame Bidet said, taking off her sunglasses for the first time that morning and letting her calm eyes rest on Jonathan.

He glanced up at the Eiger's cold, shadowed face and the long wisps of captured cloud at the summit. "I would not say beautiful," Bidet offered. "Sublime, perhaps. But not beautiful."

"It is the possibility of conflict and conquest that is beautiful," Freytag clarified for all time and for all people.

Anderl peered at the mountain and shrugged. Obviously he had never thought of a mountain as beautiful or ugly: only as difficult or easy.

"Is that all you are having for breakfast, Herr Doctor?" Freytag asked as Jonathan's coffee was served.

"Yes."

"Food is an important part of conditioning," Freytag admonished.

"I'll bear that in mind."

"Meyer here shares your peculiar eating habits."

"Oh? I didn't know you were acquainted."

"Oh, yes," the German said. "I contacted him shortly after I organized this climb, and we have made several short climbs together to attune him to my rhythms."

"And you to his, I assume."

Bidet reacted to the cool tone of the exchange by inserting a hasty note of warmth and camaraderie. "We must all use first names. Don't you agree?"

"I'm afraid I don't know your wife's first name," Jonathan said.

"Anna," she offered.

Jonathan said the full name to himself and repressed a smile that only a native English speaker would understand.

"How are the weather reports?" Karl asked Ben officially.

"Not real good. Clear today; maybe tomorrow. But there's a bunch of weak fronts moving in on us that makes it pretty dicey after that."

"Well, that settles it," Karl announced.

"What does that settle?" Jonathan asked between sips of coffee.

"We must go now."

"Have I time to finish my coffee?"

"I mean, we must go as soon as possible." Ben squinted at Karl incredulously. "With the possibility of a storm in three days?"

"It has been climbed in two." Karl was crisp and on the defensive.

"And if you don't make it in two? If you're pinned down up there in heavy weather?"

"Benjamin has a point there," Jean-Paul interposed. "We must not take childish risks."

The word "childish" rankled Karl. "One cannot climb without some risk. Perhaps the young face these risks more easily."

Jonathan glanced from the mountain to Ben, who turned down the corners of his mouth, closed his eyes, and shook his head heavily.

Anderl had not been a part of this discussion. Indeed, his attention was fixed on a group of attractive young girls out on the terrace. Jonathan asked his opinion on the advisability of climbing with a two-day weather limit. Anderl thrust out his lower lip and shrugged. He did not care whether they climbed in good weather or bad. Either would be interesting. But if they were not going to climb today or tomorrow, he had other things he might give his attention to.

Jonathan liked him.

"So we reach an impasse," Karl said. "Two in favor of climbing right now, and two opposed. The dilemma of the democratic process. What compromise do you suggest? That we climb halfway up?" His voice was heavy with Teutonic wit.

"It's threeopposed," Jonathan corrected. "Ben has a vote."

"But he will not be climbing with us."

"He's our ground man. Until we touch rock, he has more than a vote; he has complete control."

"Oh? Has that been decided upon?"

Anderl spoke without taking his eyes from the girls on the terrace. "It is always like that," he said with authority. "The ground man has the last word now, and the leader once we are on the face."

"Very well," Karl said to cut off discussion on a point he was losing. "That brings us to another issue. Who is to be leader?" Karl glanced around the table, ready to defend himself against any opposition.

Jonathan poured himself another cup and gestured with the pot; his offer of coffee was declined by Karl with a brusque shake of the head, by Jean-Paul who put his hand over his cup, by Anna with a movement of her fingertips, by Anderl who was paying no attention, and by Ben with a grimace, his beer mug still a quarter full. "I thought it was pretty much set that you would lead, Karl," Jonathan said quietly.

"And so it was. But that decision was reached before the American member of the team had his unfortunate accident and was replaced by a man of such international repute—up until a few years ago, at least."

Jonathan could not repress a smile.

"So that we start off with a firm understanding," Karl continued, "I want to make sure everyone is in agreement about who shall lead."