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poisons about themselves, the simple truth. Whereas I—
    Seated on the green-painted bench I endured a shower of pics out of my past. I leapt up and hurried back to the hotel. I murmured to the manager that I was in need of solitude. Smoothly he recommended the Weisswald, an apron of skiing country held up to the sun and now deserted in the off-season. I should stay at the hotel Felsenblick. The others were clean, of course, but that was all. I nodded and nodded and paid my bill, packed, filled in my forwarding address as the Hotel Bung Ho, Hongkong, and stole away.
    There was a vast garage at the foot of the Weisswald and then a rock railway slanting up the hideously vertical side of the mountain. I kept my eyes shut all the way up. My fear of heights is pathological, which is perhaps why I am fascinated by them. More than that, I wanted to save the view of the high places until I got on level ground and could admire them without feeling the compulsion to jump. A porter led me, my eyes watching my feet, to the hotel. The manager had a suite, no less, at a reduced price and its balcony overhung the cliff. He threw open the door and ushered me through.
    “See!”
    One side of the sitting-room was french windows, with the balcony outside them. Beyond that was five miles of empty air. The manager threw open the french windows and invited me to come outside. I stood close to the glass. The balcony felt firm enough.
    “It is the best,” said the manager, “really the best.”
    Had I been able to walk forward three paces, I could have spat down two thousand feet, had I been able to spit.
    “It is for you. A good place for a writer.”
    “Who told you I am a writer?”
    “My brother, the manager of the Schiff. The suite and the view is for you. Cheaply.”
    I was being shepherded from one family business to another. I cast a nervous glance at the 00-gauge railway that was laid out for children half a mile below, then concentrated on the nearer pot plants. On the balcony there was that white-painted iron table I had sat at in the Schiff, four white-painted chairs and a white-painted chaise-longue.
    “My car will be safe? It was unlocked.”
    “The car, sir?”
    “The garage.”
    “Both will be safe, locked or unlocked.”
    There was a pause. The view was changing minute by minute. A white line divided a black cliff below a mile-high iced cake.
    “What is that?”
    “Where, sir?”
    “There.”
    “The Spurli. It is a waterfall. At the moment, with little snow left, it is a thread. It comes from that valley up there where our army conducted manoeuvres—”
    “Up there? Impossible!”
    “To tell you the truth, I was there. I do so each year. I am a major. Then—a word of necessary advice. I should not try to walk for a day or two.”
    “You mean I should acclimatize?”
    “That is the English usage, is it not? Our American guests say ‘Acclimate’.”
    “But I’ve been in the Zurich area.”
    The manager made a dismissive gesture, as if the difference between Zurich and the English Channel was too small to be noticed.
    “Nevertheless, you are not in your first youth, Mr Barclay, and a day or two of rest is advisable.”
    “I shall remember.”
    “And with our view before you, we shall hope to be the source, not to say the inspiration, of some notable creation, sir. This is the bell. Our pleasure is to serve you.”
    The manager bowed himself out. I moved forward a little. I did not look down over the railing—a gesture for heroes. I pulled the chaise-longue as far from the railings as possible, wrapped myself in a vast duvet from the bedroom, stretched myself out and contemplated the view. It continued to change, to reveal further fantasies of rock or snow. It revealed slopes where there had apparently been caverns, turned the black cliff that had been a backdrop to the Spurli first to grey then brown. I lay, inviting nature to astonish me. It did so, moderately, as usual. For the manager was wrong, of