Our way kept winding right, until we were at a hundred forty-four thousand feet and were mounting the southern slopes. Then it jogged back, and by a hundred fifty we were mounting to the west once more. Then, during a devilish, dark and tricky piece of scaling, up a smooth, concave bulge ending in an overhang, the bird came down once again. If we hadn’t been roped together, Stan would have died. As it was, we almost all died. Stan was lead man, as its wings splashed sudden flames against the violet sky. It came down from the overhang as though someone had kicked a bonfire over its edge, headed straight toward him and faded out at a distance of about twelve feet. He fell then, almost taking the rest of us with him. We tensed our muscles and took the shock. He was battered a bit, but unbroken. We made it up to the overhang, but went no further that day. Rocks did fall, but we found another overhang and made camp beneath it. The bird did not return that day, but the snakes came. Big, shimmering scarlet serpents coiled about the crags, wound in and out of jagged fields of ice and gray stone. Sparks shot along their sinuous lengths. They coiled and unwound, stretched and turned, spat fires at us. It seemed they were trying to drive us from beneath the sheltering place to where the rocks could come down upon us. Doc advanced upon the nearest one, and it vanished as it came within the field of his projector. He studied the place where it had lain, then hurried back. “The frost is still on the punkin,” he said. “Huh?” said I. “Not a bit of ice was melted beneath it.” “Indicating?” “Illusion,” said Vince, and he threw a stone at another and it passed through the thing. “But you saw what happened to my pick,” I said to Doc, “when I took a cut at that bird. The thing had to have been carrying some sort of charge.” “Maybe whatever has been sending them has cut that part out, as a waste of energy,” he replied, “since the things can’t get through to us anyhow.” We sat around and watched the snakes and falling rocks, until Stan produced a deck of cards and suggested a better game.
The snakes stayed on through the night and followed us the next day. Rocks still fell periodically, but the boss seemed to be running low on them. The bird appeared, circled us and swooped on four different occasions. But this time we ignored it, and finally it went home to roost. We made three thousand feet, could have gone more, but didn’t want to press it past a cozy little ledge with a cave big enough for the whole party. Everything let up on us then. Everything visible, that is. A before-the-storm feeling, a still, electrical tension, seemed to occur around us then, and we waited for whatever was going to happen to happen. The worst possible thing happened: nothing. This keyed-up feeling, this expectancy, stayed with us, was unsatisfied. I think it would actually have been a relief if some invisible orchestra had begun playing Wagner, or if the heavens had rolled aside like curtains and revealed a movie screen, and from the backward lettering we knew we were on the other side, or if we saw a high-flying dragon eating low-flying weather satellites…. As it was, we just kept feeling that something was imminent, and it gave me insomnia. During the night, she came again. The pinnacle girl. She stood at the mouth of the cave, and when I advanced the retreated. I stopped just inside and stood there myself, where she had been standing. She said, “Hello, Whitey.” “No, I’m not going to follow you again,” I said. “I didn’t ask you to.” “What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?” “Watching,” she said. “I told you I won’t fall.” “Your friend almost did.” “‘Almost’ isn’t good enough.” “You are the leader, aren’t you?” “That’s right.” “If you were to die, the others would go back?” “No,” I said, “they’d go on without me.” I hit my camera then. “What did you just do?” she asked. “I took your picture–if you’re really there.” “Why?” “To look at after you go away. I like to look at pretty things.” “…” She seemed to say something. “What?” “Nothing.” “Why not?” “…die.” “Please speak up.” “She dies…” she said. “Why? How?” “….on mountain.” “I don’t understand.” “…too.” “What’s wrong?” I took a step forward, and she retreated a step. “Follow me?” she asked. “No.” “Go back,” she said. “What’s on the other side of that record?” “You will continue to climb?” “Yes.” Then, “Good!” she said suddenly. “I–,” and her voice stopped again. “Go back,” she finally said, without emotion. “Sorry.” And she was gone.