“You follow me, don’t you? The internal evidence of the brain proves that mankind, sometime in its lost history, climbed to heights undreamed of today. In some fashion the race slipped back. And this happened so long ago that we have found no record of it anywhere.
These brutish submen, that the anthropologists set such store by, can’t be our ancestors; they are too new, too primitive, too young. They are too recent; they allow for no time for the race to develop these abilities whose existence we have proved. Either anthropology is all wet, or Joan can’t do the things we have seen her do.”
The center of the controversy said nothing. She sat at the wheel, as the big car sped along, her eyes closed against the slanting rays of the setting sun, seeing the road with an inner impossible sight.
Five days were spent in coaching Huxley and a sixth on the open road. Sacramento lay far behind them. For the past hour Mount Shasta had been visible from time to time through.openings in the trees. Phil brought the car to a stop on a view point built out from the pavement of U.S. Highway 99. He turned to his passengers. “All out, troops,” he said. “Catch a slice of scenery.”
The three stood and stared over the canyon of the Sacramento River at Mount Shasta, thirty miles away.
It was sweater weather and the air was as clear as a child’s gaze. The peak was framed by two of the great fir trees which marched down the side of the canyon. Snow still lay on the slopes of the cone and straggled down as far as the timberline.
Joan muttered something. Ben turned his head, “What did you say, Joan?”
“Me? Nothing—I was saying over a bit of poetry to myself.”
“What was it?”
“Tietjens’ Most Sacred Mountain: ” ‘Space and the twelve clean winds are here; And with them broods eternity—a swift white peace, a presence manifest. The rhythm ceases here. Time has no place. This is the end that has no end.’ “
Phil cleared his throat and self-consciously broke the silence. “I think I see what you mean.”
Joan faced them. “Boys,” she stated, “I am going to climb Mount Shasta.”
Ben studied her dispassionately. “Joan,” he pronounced, “You are full of hop.”
“I mean it. I didn’t say you were going to—I said I was.
“But we are responsible for your safety and welfare—and I for one don’t relish the thought of a fourteen-thousand foot climb.”
“You are not responsible for my safety; I’m a free citizen. Anyhow a climb wouldn’t hurt you any; it would help to get rid of some of that fat you’ve been storing up against winter.”
“Why,” inquired Phil, “are you so determined so suddenly to make this climb?”
“It’s really not a sudden decision, Phil. Ever since we left Los Angeles I’ve had a recurring dream that I was climbing, climbing, up to some high place … and that I was very happy because of it. Today I know that it was Shasta I was climbing.”
“How do you know it?”
“I know it.”
“Ben, what do you think?”
The doctor picked up a granite pebble and shied it out in the general direction of the river. He waited for it to come to rest several hundred feet down the slope. “I guess,” he said, “we’d better buy some hobnailed boots.”
Phil paused and the two behind him on the narrow path were forced to stop, too. “Joan,” he asked, with a worried tone, “is this the way we came?”
They huddled together, icy wind cutting at their faces like rusty razor blades and gusts of snow eddying about them and stinging their eyes, while Joan considered her answer. “I think so,” she ventured at last, “but even with my eyes closed this snow makes everything look different.”
“That’s my trouble, too. I guess we pulled a boner when we decided against a guide . . . but who would have thought that a beautiful summer day could end up in a snow storm?”
Ben stamped his feet and clapped his hands together. “Let’s get going,” he urged. “Even if this is the right road, we’ve got the worst of it ahead of us before we reach the rest cabin. Don’t forget that stretch of glacier we crossed.”.”I wish I could forget it,” Phil answered him soberly. “I don’t fancy the prospect of crossing it in this nasty weather.”