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equal to the climb, immeasurably close to his companion whose character he admired.
    “There’s the Aiguille du Géant,” he said. “There are the Grandes Jorasses.”
    Rand was looking upward.
    “We’re going to be here all night,” he said.
    Finally the way was clear. The French were far ahead. Love had begun to tire, he could feel it, he was losing his strength. The rock became implacable. He could feel its malevolence.
    He watched Rand above him, still in harmony with it, still undismayed. A movement one way, no good, another slightly different, this one successful. There were times when he seemed to be doing nothing, not even exploring the surface, and then would reach out, pull, try to get his foot on some flaw. He moved in smooth advances and pauses, even retreats, like a snake swallowing a frog, motionless, then a slight flurry, then a pause. If a thing did not work he would withdraw, change position, flex his fingers to loosen them and try again. The physical acts are not hard to imagine but the endless succession of them, far up on a wall—that is another thing. And the distance beneath.
    Gathering himself, Love followed. There were moments when he nearly gave up, his legs began to shake. If he fell, the rope would hold him but more than anything, more than life itself, he did not want to, he dared not fail.
    Section by section, some easier, some not, they climbed to the top. The others were not in sight. It was over. As they unroped, the anguish Love had felt, the shame at his weakness and lapses of will, all vanished. He knew an exultation beyond words. In his whole life, it seemed, he had never felt more worthy.
    “Not a bad climb,” Rand said.
    “As the woman on the bus said when she saw the Pacific for the first time …”
    “Yes?”
    “I imagined it would be bigger.”
    They descended to the north on a slope covered with snow. It was steep, they had to stamp out steps. Suddenly Love, who had lost all thought of danger, slipped. His feet went out from under him. He began to accelerate.
    “Self-arrest! Self-arrest!”
    He did not make the slightest attempt to help himself but slid like a rag doll, faster, bumping, bouncing as if he would come apart. Far down, luckily, the snow was soft. He came to a stop and lay still. There were clots of ice in his beard. His knuckles were raw.
    “Didn’t you hear me?” Rand cried, hurrying to him.
    “Oh, yes, I heard you,” he said gazing up. “I heard you. I said, he is my friend.”
    “What?”
    “My very good friend,” Love said.
    The public baths were in the basement of a building called La Residence, approached by a weedy path and entered through some flimsy doors. Inside was a booth where soap and towels were dispensed. It was usually crowded. The doors to the showers opened and closed. There was the sound of cascading water and strange languages, the odor of steam. A woman in carpet slippers collected a franc apiece.
    The woman knew Love. Where had he been climbing, she asked?
    “Pointe Lachenal,” he said casually.
    “Très bien,” she said. She had black hair and gold teeth. She glanced at the figure sitting next to him.
    “Avec ce monsieur?”
    Yes, Love confirmed.
    “What do you suppose takes them so long?” Rand said. He was watching the shower doors.
    “They’re in there washing their clothes. It’s forbidden, of course.”
    More people were coming to the entrance. Some, seeing the line, turned away. Suddenly Rand sat up.
    “Hey!” he cried.
    It was the red sweater. He jumped to his feet.
    “Hey, you!” He bumped into people in the doorway. “You!”
    Down the corridor he ran. Near the door he grabbed the sweater. He held it tightly.
    “Hey, listen. The next time,” he said it slowly to have it comprehended, “I’m going to throw you right off the goddamned mountain …”
    There was a look of utter bewilderment.
    “You understand?”
    A flat English voice responded, “What mountain?”
    “Weren’t you climbing on