"Mountain," I said. "Mountain, you have told me to go away."

There was a rumble.

"But I cannot," I said, and I took a drink.

"I'm bringing you the best in the business," I said, "to go up onyour slopes and to stand beneath the stars in your highest places. Imust do this thing because you are there. No other reason. Nothingpersonal...."

After a time, I said, "That's not true.

"I am a man," I said, "and I need to break mountains to prove thatI will not die even though I will die. I am less than I want to be,Sister, and you can make me more. So I guess it _is_ personal.

"It's the only thing I know how to do, and you're the last oneleft--the last challenge to the skill I spent my life learning. Maybeit is that mortality is the closest to immortality when it accepts achallenge to itself, when it survives a threat. The moment of triumphis the moment of salvation. I have needed many such moments, and thefinal one must be the longest, for it must last me the rest of mylife.

"So you are there, Sister, and I am here and very mortal, and youhave told me to go away. I cannot. I'm coming up, and if you throwdeath at me I will face it. It must be so."

I finished what remained in the bottle.

There were more flashes, more rumbles behind the mountain, moreflashes.

"It is the closest thing to diving drunkenness," I said to thethunder.

And then she winked at me. It was a red star, so high upon her.Angel's sword. Phoenix' wing. Soul on fire. And it blazed at me,across the miles. Then the wind that blows between the worlds sweptdown over me. It was filled with tears and with crystals of ice. Istood there and felt it, then, "Don't go away," I said, and I watcheduntil all was darkness once more and I was wet as an embryo waiting tocry out and breathe.

Most kids tell lies to their playmates--fictional autobiographies, ifyou like--which are either received with appropriate awe or counteredwith greater, more elaborate tellings. But little Jimmy, I've heard,always hearkened to his little buddies with wide, dark eyes, and nearthe endings of their stories the corners of his mouth would begin totwitch. By the time they were finished talking, his freckles would bemashed into a grin and his rusty head cocked to the side. Hisfavorite expression, I understand, was "G'wan!" and his nose wasbroken twice before he was twelve. This was doubtless why he turnedit toward books.

Thirty years and four formal degrees later, he sat across from mein my quarters in the lodge, and I called him Doc because everyonedid, because he had a license to cut people up and look inside them,as well as doctoring to their philosophy, so to speak, and because helooked as if he should be called Doc when he grinned and cocked hishead to the side and said, "G'wan!"

I wanted to punch him in the nose.

"Damn it! It's true!" I told him. "I fought with a bird offire!"

"We all hallucinated on Kasla," he said, raising one finger,"because of fatigue," two fingers, "because the altitude affected ourcirculatory systems and consequently our brains," three, "because ofthe emotional stimulation," four, "and because we were prettyoxygen-drunk."

"You just ran out of fingers, if you'll sit on your other hand fora minute. So listen," I said, "it flew at me, and I swung at it, andit knocked me out and broke my goggles. When I woke up, it was goneand I was lying on the ledge. I think it was some sort of energycreature. You saw my EEG, and it wasn't normal. I think it shockedmy nervous system when it touched me."

"You were knocked out because you hit your head against a rock--"

"It _caused_ me to fall back against the rock!"

"I agree with that part. The rock was real. But nowhere in theuniverse has anyone ever discovered an 'energy creature.'"

"So? You probably would have said that about America a thousandyears ago."

"Maybe I would have. But that neurologist explained your EEG tomy satisfaction. Optical trauma. Why go out of your way to dream upan exotic explanation for events? Easy ones generally turn outbetter. You hallucinated and you stumbled."

"Okay," I said, "whenever I argue with you I generally needammunition. Hold on a minute."

I went to my closet and fetched it down from the top shelf. Iplaced it on my bed and began unwrapping the blanket I had around it.

"I told you I took a swing at it," I said. "Well, Iconnected--right before I went under. Here!"

I held up my climbing pick--brown, yellow, black and pitted--lookingas though it had fallen from outer space.

He took it into his hands and stared at it for a long time, thenhe started to say something about ball lightning, changed his mind,shook his head and placed the thing back on the blanket.

"I don't know," he finally said, and this time his frecklesremained unmashed, except for those at the edges of his hands whichgot caught as he clenched them, slowly.

We planned. We mapped and charted and studied the photos. We plottedour ascent and we started a training program.

While Doc and Stan had kept themselves in good shape, neither hadbeen climbing since Kasla. Kelly was in top condition. Henry was onhis way to fat. Mallardi and Vince, as always, seemed capable offantastic feats of endurance and virtuosity, had even climbed a coupletimes during the past year, but had recently been living pretty highon the tall hog, so to speak, and they wanted to get some practice.So we picked a comfortable, decent-sized mountain and gave it ten daysto beat everyone back into shape. After that, we stuck to vitamins,calisthenics and square diets while we completed our preparations.During this time, Doc came up with seven shiny, alloy boxes, about sixby four inches and thin as a first book of poems, for us to carry onour persons to broadcast a defense against the energy creatures whichhe refused to admit existed.

One fine, bitter-brisk morning we were ready. The newsmen likedme again. Much footage was taken of our gallant assemblage as wepacked ourselves into the fliers, to be delivered at the foot of thelady mountain, there to contend for what was doubtless the final timeas the team we had been for so many years, against the waiting grayand the lavender beneath the sunwhite flame.

We approached the mountain, and I wondered how much she weighed.

You know the way, for the first nine miles. So I'll skip over that.It took us six days and part of a seventh. Nothing out of theordinary occurred. Some fog there was, and nasty winds, but oncebelow, forgotten.

Stan and Mallardi and I stood where the bird had occurred, waitingfor Doc and the others.

"So far, it's been a picnic," said Mallardi.

"Yeah," Stan acknowledged.

"No birds either."

"No," I agreed.

"Do you think Doc was right--about it being an hallucination?"Mallardi asked. "I remember seeing things on Kasla...."

"As I recall," said Stan, "it was nymphs and an ocean of beer.Why would anyone want to see hot birds?"

"Damfino."

"Laugh, you hyenas," I said. "But just wait till a flock fliesover."

Doc came up and looked around.

"This is the place?"

I nodded.

He tested the background radiation and half a dozen other things,found nothing untoward, grunted and looked upwards.

We all did. Then we went there.

It was very rough for three days, and we only made another fivethousand feet during that time.

When we bedded down, we were bushed, and sleep came quickly. Sodid Nemesis.

He was there again, only not quite so near this time. He burnedabout twenty feet away, standing in the middle of the air, and thepoint of his blade indicated me.

"_Go away_," he said, three times, without inflection.