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stood silently, some chewing bits of bread, and watched him approach. Bray had not arrived. Several guides wearing the blue enameled badge were with their clients. He slipped off his pack. Two or three stragglers came down the street. It was a few minutes before six. He felt a certain detachment. It seemed he was made of cardboard and was waiting among other cardboard figures, some of whom occasionally murmured a word or two.
    There was a stirring—the ticket seller had entered the booth inside. The crowd, like animals knowing they are about to be fed, began to press closer to the doors.
    At the last moment a figure came hurrying toward him. It was one of the English climbers in a thick sweater and corduroy pants.
    “John can’t come,” he said. “He caught some bug.”
    “When did that happen?”
    “This morning. He’ll be all right tomorrow.”
    The doors had been unlocked. The crowd was moving forward. It was a long walk back to camp. He had packed the night before, carefully putting everything in a certain order.
    “You’re not going, anyway?”
    “Tell him I hope it’s not serious.”
    He was among the last to get a ticket. The cable car lurched slightly as he stepped aboard. For a moment he felt nervous, as if he had made a fatal mistake, but then they were gliding up, over the pines, ascending at a steep angle. The town began to shrink, to draw together and move off. Noiselessly they swept upward.
    Bray was in a sleeping bag, his clothing scattered about. He raised himself on one elbow.
    “Did you find him?” he asked.
    “Yeah, he was there. I told him you were sick.”
    “What did he say?”
    “He went up anyway.”
    “Went up?” Bray said.
    The sun had risen. It was filling the trees with light. Bray had a moment of remorse. The day was clear, the mountains beckoned.
    “He wouldn’t go alone,” Bray said.
    “Perhaps he’ll meet someone up above.”
    “Yeah, they’re standing in line.”
    “Is he the one who said he’d throw you off the mountain?”
    “Not me. You’ve got it backwards.”
    “You were going to throw him off?”
    “No.” Bray cut him short. “Did you tell him I’d go tomorrow?”
    “I don’t think you’re going to see that much more of him.”
    The sky was absolutely clear and of a perfect color. Late in the day there was a calm. The wind began to shift. Suddenly, from nowhere, there were gray streamers in the air and, as if to announce them, thunder. Climbers hurried down. Rain, which might be snow at higher altitudes, started.
    The sound of it woke Bray who had been sleeping fitfully. He was startled. He was able to see a little in the dark. It had gotten cold. The grass of the meadow below was jerking in the rain. His thoughts, somewhat confused, went quickly to the Frêney. Like a great ship, at that moment, it was sailing through clouds and darkness. There was a sudden bolt of lightning, very close. An ear-splitting clap. The silence swam back quickly and in it, like a kind of infinite debris, the snow was pouring down.
    The next morning he went into town. The rescue service was in an old building next door to a garage. It was still raining. There were bicycles inside the entrance; upstairs a door slammed. Two men came down the stairs in hats and blue sweaters. They passed him and went out.
    On the second floor was a bulletin board and the office. A short-wave radio was going. No one spoke English. Finally someone came to the counter who did.
    “Yes?”
    “I want to report someone missing.”
    “Where?”
    “On the Frêney Pillar.”
    “How do you know? Were you with him?” the guide asked.
    “No, he’s alone,” Bray said.
    “Alone?” The guide was half-listening to something on the radio at which he and the others suddenly laughed. Bray waited. “Why is he alone? You know, we can’t do anything until the storm has passed.”
    “How long is it supposed to last?”
    The French were always the same. They never answered a question, pretended they