The following day, I climbed as I hadn’t climbed in years. By late lunchtime I’d hit forty-eight thousand feet. The cloud cover down below had broken. I could see what lay beneath me once more. The ground was a dark and light patchwork. Above, the stars didn’t go away. The going was rough, but I was feeling fine. I knew I couldn’t make ten miles, because I could see that the way was pretty much the same for quite a distance, before it got even worse. My good spirits stayed, and they continued to rise as I did. When it attacked, it came on with a speed and a fury that I was only barely able to match. The voice from my dream rang in my head, “_Go back! Go back! Go back!_” Then it came toward me from out of the sky. A bird the size of a condor. Only it wasn’t really a bird. It was a bird-shaped thing. It was all fire and static, and as it flashed toward me I barely had time to brace my back against stone and heft my climbing pick in my right hand, ready.
III
I sat in the small, dark room and watched the spinning, colored lights. Ultrasonics were tickling my skull. I tried to relax and give the man some Alpha rhythms. Somewhere a receiver was receiving, a computer was computing and a recorder was recording. It lasted perhaps twenty minutes. When it was all over and they called me out, the doctor collared me. I beat him to the draw, though: “Give me the tape and send the bill in care of Henry Lanning at the Lodge.” “I want to discuss the reading,” he said. “I have my own brain-wave expert coming. Just give me the tape.” “Have you undergone any sort of traumatic experience recently?” “You tell me. Is it indicated?” “Well, yes and no,” he said. “That’s what I like, a straight answer.” “I don’t know what is normal for you, in the first place,” he replied. “Is there any indication of brain damage?” “I don’t read it that way. If you’d tell me what happened, and why you’re suddenly concerned about your brain-waves, perhaps I’d be in a better position to….” “Cut,” I said. “Just give me the tape and bill me.” “I’m concerned about you as a patient.” “But you don’t think there were any pathological indications?” “Not exactly. But tell me this, if you will: Have you had an epileptic seizure recently?” “Not to my knowledge. Why?” “You displayed a pattern similar to a residual subrythm common in some forms of epilepsy for several days subsequent to a seizure.” “Could a bump on the head cause that pattern?” “It’s highly unlikely.” “What else _could_ cause it?” “Electrical shock, optical trauma–” “Stop,” I said, and I removed my glasses. “About the optical trauma. Look at my eyes.” “I’m not an ophtha–” he began, but I interrupted: “Most normal light hurts me eyes. If I lost my glasses and was exposed to very bright light for three, four days, could that cause the pattern you spoke of?” “Possible….” he said. “Yes, I’d say so.” “But there’s more?” “I’m not sure. We have to take more readings, and if I know the story behind this it will help a lot.” “Sorry,” I said. “I need the tape now.” He sighed and made a small gesture with his left hand as he turned away. “All right, Mister Smith.” Cursing the genius of the mountain, I left the General Hospital, carrying my tape like a talisman. In my mind I searched, through forests of memory, for a ghost-sword in a stone of smoke, I think.
Back in the Lodge, they were waiting. Lanning and the newsmen. “What was it like?” asked one of the latter. “What was what like?” “The mountain. You were up on it, weren’t you?” “No comment.” “How high did you go?” “No comment.” “How would you say it compares with Kasla?” “No comment.” “Did you run into any complications?” “Ditto. Excuse me, I want to take a shower.” Henry followed me into my room. The reporters tried to. After I had shaved and washed up, mixed a drink and lit a cigarette, Lanning asked me his more general question: “Well?” he said. I nodded. “Difficulties?” I nodded again. “Insurmountable?” I hefted the tape and thought a moment. “Maybe not.” He helped himself to the whiskey. The second time around, he asked: “You going to try?” I knew I was. I knew I’d try it all by myself if I had to. “I really don’t know,” I said. “Why not?” “Because there’s something up there,” I said, “something that doesn’t want us to do it.” “Something _lives_ up there?” “I’m not sure whether that’s the right word.” He lowered the drink. “What the hell happened?” “I was threatened. I was attacked.” “Threatened? Verbally? In English?” He set his drink aside, which shows how serious his turn of mind had to be. “Attacked?” he added. “By what?” “I’ve sent for Doc and Kelly and Stan and Mallardi and Vincent. I checked a little earlier. They’ve all replied. They’re coming. Miguel and the Dutchman can’t make it, and they send their regrets. When we’re all together, I’ll tell the story. But I want to talk to Doc first. So hold tight and worry and don’t quote.” He finished his drink. “When’ll they be coming?” “Four, five weeks,” I said. “That’s a long wait.” “Under the circumstances,” I said, “I can’t think of any alternatives.” “What’ll we do in the meantime?” “Eat, drink, and contemplate the mountain.” He lowered his eyelids a moment, then nodded, reached for his glass. “Shall we begin?”