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course. I had been in too many places, had seen too many extravagances. In any case, marvellous views don’t get writers or painters going. They just give them an excuse for doing nothing. If anything, a marvellous view gets in a writer’s way. It engages him to it. So I watched, as peaks appeared beyond what I had thought was there and a nearer one proved to be a white cloud. But we have seen the set pieces, the Himalayas, the Andes, the Sahara, storms at sea, cloudless, moonless nights unpolluted by the glow from cities, we have seen underwater fantasies and rain forests—ha et cetera. What a writer needs is a brick wall, rendered if possible, so that he can’t see through it into a landscape suggested by the surface. I saw this would be another wasted week.
    Nevertheless, thinking these thoughts and drinking more Dôle, I watched a bit of Switzerland for hours on end. Was I, I asked myself, a romantic after all? I did not think so. The thing led nowhere, the pleasure was an end in itself, brought forth no lofty or spiritual thoughts. It was the higher hedonism, a man becoming his own eyes. Late in the afternoon the Dôle and the hyperoxygenated air did their work and I fell asleep.
    I awoke with the sun lowering itself round the westward limit of the balcony. My head seemed clear of Dôle despite the empty bottle. Was it the view? I played with the childish idea of adding a verse to Shelley’s poem, this time celebrating the mountains as a cure for gueule-de-bois, like Chartres cathedral. With that thought my trancelike emptiness before Mother Nature filled with desire for a drink. I unwrapped from my duvet, visited the bathroom and went in search of the bar which was conveniently to hand. I wished to punish myself for the Dôle and ordered a hideous concoction of my own which contains, among other things, Alka-Seltzer and Fernet Branca. In appearance it resembles diarrhoea. Even the manager, doubling now as barman, was appalled. Nor did he understand my remark that I was punishing a bottle of Dôle but he accepted it and did as he was bid. I was flagellating my palate with my nasty drink, congratulating myself on my direct appreciation of natural beauty and celebrating my escape from the dangers of emotionalism into steady peace when a tall and massive figure stood at my shoulder.

Chapter IV
     
     
    It was of course, as I should have expected, Assistant Professor Rick L. Tucker of the University of Astrakhan, Neb. He was rigged in outdoor costume, Lederhosen , long socks with dazzling tops and boots so thick in the sole they seemed to have brought lumps of pavement with them. His shirt was open at the neck under a pullover with the inscription OLE ASHCAN knitted into it. I thought for a moment he was being defiant about that dustbin he’d rummaged so many years ago—well, seven long years ago. But the inscription was no more than a winsome joke at the expense of the place where he was earning his lolly. The letters spread right across his chest, which was wide. The glow of mountain air about him, as expressed by his cheeks and the tip of his nose, made him seem wider and taller than ever. I had to look a long way up at him. When I turned to him with the first movement of indignation he drew his chin back only minimally.
    “Hi, Wilf! I see you had the same idea as we did!”
    “Don’t be wet.”
    “Mary Lou, look who’s here!”
    I stared round the bar. Mary Lou smiled pallidly from the lap of a huge armchair in a dark corner.
    “Hi, Mary Lou.”
    “Mr Barclay.”
    “Wilf.”
    She made no reply but looked withdrawn. I had that sudden feeling that all the preciousness of life had condensed itself—no, no, it must not be, could not be!
    “Your juice, hon.”
    “I guess I don’t even feel like juice, hon.”
    Rick turned back to me.
    “Mary Lou is feeling the altitude.”
    “A girl for sea level.”
    I took my eyes away, deliberately.
    “Hon?”
    I looked back despite myself. Mary Lou had her hands over