Just near sunset, I came upon a high, easy winding way up and upand up. I debated with my more discreet self. I'd left the messagethat I'd be gone a week. This was the end of the third day. I wantedto make as much height as possible and start back down on the fifthday. If I followed the rocky route above me as far as it would takeme I'd probably break forty thousand feet. Then, depending, I mighthave a halfway chance of hitting near the ten-mile mark before I hadto turn back. Then I'd be able to get a much better picture of whatlay above.

My more discreet self lost, three to nothing, and Mad Jack wenton.

The stars were so big and blazing I was afraid they'd bite. Thewind was no problem. There wasn't any at that height. I had to keepstepping up the temperature controls on my suit, and I had the feelingthat if I could spit around my respirator, it would freeze before ithit the trail.

I went on even further than I'd intended, and I broke forty-twothousand that night.

I found a resting place, stretched out, killed my hand beacon.

It was an odd dream that came to me.

It was all cherry fires and stood like a man, only bigger, on theslope above me. It stood in an impossible position, so I knew I hadto be dreaming. Something from the other end of my life stirred,however, and I was convinced for a bitter moment that it was the Angelof Judgment. Only, in its right hand it seemed to hold a sword offires rather than a trumpet. It had been standing there forever, thetip of its blade pointed toward my breast. I could see the starsthrough it. It seemed to speak.

It said: "_Go back_."

I couldn't answer it, though, for my tongue clove to the roof ofmy mouth. And it said it again, and yet a third time, "_Go back_."

"Tomorrow," I thought, in my dream, and this seemed to satisfy it.for it died down and ceased, and the blackness rolled about me.

The following day, I climbed as I hadn't climbed in years. By latelunchtime I'd hit forty-eight thousand feet. The cloud cover downbelow had broken. I could see what lay beneath me once more. Theground was a dark and light patchwork. Above, the stars didn't goaway.

The going was rough, but I was feeling fine. I knew I couldn'tmake ten miles, because I could see that the way was pretty much thesame for quite a distance, before it got even worse. My good spiritsstayed, and they continued to rise as I did.

When it attacked, it came on with a speed and a fury that I wasonly barely able to match.

The voice from my dream rang in my head, "_Go back! Go back! Goback!_"

Then it came toward me from out of the sky. A bird the size of acondor. 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 barelyhad time to brace my back against stone and heft my climbing pick inmy right hand, ready.

I sat in the small, dark room and watched the spinning, coloredlights. Ultrasonics were tickling my skull. I tried to relax andgive 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 collaredme. I beat him to the draw, though:

"Give me the tape and send the bill in care of Henry Lanning atthe 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," hereplied.

"Is there any indication of brain damage?"

"I don't read it that way. If you'd tell me what happened, andwhy you're suddenly concerned about your brain-waves, perhaps I'd bein 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 anepileptic seizure recently?"

"Not to my knowledge. Why?"

"You displayed a pattern similar to a residual subrythm common insome 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 opticaltrauma. 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 wasexposed to very bright light for three, four days, could that cause thepattern 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 thestory 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 turnedaway.

"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, throughforests 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 acigarette, 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, heasked:

"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 thatdoesn'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?" headded. "By what?"

"I've sent for Doc and Kelly and Stan and Mallardi and Vincent. Ichecked 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 toDoc 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 anyalternatives."

"What'll we do in the meantime?"

"Eat, drink, and contemplate the mountain."

He lowered his eyelids a moment, then nodded, reached for hisglass.

"Shall we begin?"

It was late, and I stood alone in the field with a bottle in one hand.Lanning had already turned in, and night's chimney was dark with cloudsoot. Somewhere away from there, a storm was storming, and it wasfull of instant outlines. The wind came chill.