High Citadel / Landslide

by Desmond Bagley

  At the low atmospheric pressure the snow took a long time to melt and the resulting water was merely tepid. Rohde dropped a bouillon cube into it, and said, ‘You first.’

  Forester gagged as he drank it, and then filled the can with snow again. Peabody had revived and took the next canful, then Forester melted more snow for Rohde. ‘I haven’t looked up the pass,’ he said. ‘What’s it like?’

  Rohde looked up from the can of fruit he was opening. ‘Bad,’ he said. ‘But I expected that.’ He paused. ‘There is a glacier with many crevasses.’

  Forester took the proffered can silently and began to eat. He found the fruit acceptable to his taste and his stomach—it was the first food he had enjoyed since the plane crash and it put new life into him. He looked back; the mine was out of sight, but far away he could see the river gorge, many thousands of feet below. He could not see the bridge.

  He got to his feet and trudged forward to where he could see the pass. Immediately below was the glacier, a jumble of ice blocks and a maze of crevasses. It ended perhaps three thousand feet lower and he could see the blue waters of a mountain lake. As he looked he heard a whip-crack as of a stroke of lightning and the mutter of distant thunder and saw a plume of white leap up from the blue of the lake.

  Rohde spoke from behind him. ‘That is a laguna,’ he said. ‘The glaciers are slowly retreating here and there is always a lake between the glacier and the moraine. But that is of no interest to us; we must go there.’ He pointed across the glacier and swept his arm upwards.

  Across the valley of the pass white smoke appeared suddenly on the mountainside and a good ten seconds afterwards came a low rumble. ‘There is always movement in the mountains,’ said Rohde. ‘The ice works on the rock and there are many avalanches.’

  Forester looked up. ‘How much higher do we have to climb?’

  ‘About five hundred metres—but first we must go down a little to cross the glacier.’

  ‘I don’t suppose we could go round it,’ said Forester.

  Rohde pointed downwards towards the lake. ‘We would lose a thousand metres of altitude and that would mean another night on the mountain. Two nights up here would kill us.’

  Forester regarded the glacier with distaste; he did not like what he saw and for the first time a cold knot of fear formed in his belly. So far there had been nothing but exhausting work, the labour of pushing through thick snow in bad and unaccustomed conditions. But here he was confronted with danger itself—the danger of the toppling ice block warmed to the point of insecurity by the sun, the trap of the snow-covered crevasse. Even as he watched he saw a movement on the glacier, a sudden alteration of the scene, and he heard a dull rumble.

  Rohde said, ‘We will go now.’

  They went back to get their packs. Peabody was sitting in the snow, gazing apathetically at his hands folded in his lap. Forester said, ‘Come on, man; get your pack on,’ but Peabody did not stir. Forester sighed regretfully and kicked him in the side, not too violently. Peabody seemed to react only to physical stimuli, to threats of violence.

  Obediently he got up and put on his pack and Rohde refastened the rope about him, careful to see that all was secure. Then they went on in the same order. First the more experienced Rohde, then Peabody, and finally Forester.

  The climb down to the glacier—a matter of about two hundred feet—was a nightmare to Forester, although it did not seem to trouble Rohde and Peabody was lost in the daze of his own devising and was oblivious of the danger. Here the rock was bare of snow, blown clean by the strong wind which swept down the pass. But it was rotten and covered with a slick layer of ice, so that any movement at all was dangerous. Forester cursed as his feet slithered on the ice; we should have spikes, he thought; this is madness.

  It took an hour to descend to the glacier, the last forty feet by what Rohde called an abseil. There was a vertical ice-covered cliff and Rohde showed them what to do. He hammered four of their makeshift pitons into the rotten rock and looped the rope through them. They went down in reverse order, Forester first, with Rohde belaying the rope. He showed Forester how to loop the rope round his body so that he was almost sitting in it, and how to check his descent if he went too fast.

  ‘Try to keep facing the cliff,’ he said. ‘Then you can use your feet to keep clear—and try not to get into a spin.’

  Forester was heartily glad when he reached the bottom—this was not his idea of fun. He made up his mind that he would spend his next vacation as far from mountains as he could, preferably in the middle of Kansas.

  Then Peabody came down, mechanically following Rohde’s instructions. He had no trace of fear about him—his face was as blank as his mind and all fear had been drained out of him long before, together with everything else. He was an automaton who did precisely what he was told.

  Rohde came last with no one to guard the rope above him. He dropped heavily the last ten feet as the pitons gave way one after the other in rapid succession and the rope dropped in coils about his prostrate body. Forester helped him to his feet. ‘Are you okay?’

  Rohde swayed. ‘I’m all right,’ he gasped. ‘The pitons—find the pitons.’

  Forester searched about in the snow and found three of the pitons; he could not find the fourth. Rohde smiled grimly. ‘It is as well I fell,’ he said. ‘Otherwise we would have had to leave the pitons up there, and I think we will need them later. But we must keep clear of rock; the verglas—the ice on the rock—is too much for us without crampons.’

  Forester agreed with him from the bottom of his heart, although he did not say so aloud. He recoiled the rope and made one end fast about his waist while Rohde attended to Peabody. Then he looked at the glacier.

  It was as fantastic as a lunar landscape—and as dead and removed from humanity. The pressures from below had squeezed up great masses of ice which the wind and the sun had carved into grotesque shapes, all now mantled with thick snow. There were great cliffs with dangerous overhanging columns which threatened to topple, and there were crevasses, some open to the sky and some, as Forester knew, treacherously covered with snow. Through this wilderness, this maze of ice, they had to find their way.

  Forester said, ‘How far to the other side?’

  Rohde reflected. ‘Three-quarters of one of your North American miles.’ He took the ice-axe firmly in his hand. ‘Let us move—time is going fast.’

  He led the way, testing every foot with the butt of the ice-axe. Forester noticed that he had shortened the intervals between the members of the party and had doubled the ropes, and he did not like the implication. The three of them were now quite close together and Rohde kept urging Peabody to move faster as he felt the drag on the rope when Peabody lagged. Forester stooped and picked up some snow; it was powdery and did not make a good snowball, but every time Peabody dragged on Rohde’s rope he pelted him with snow.

  The way was tortuous and more than once Rohde led them into a dead end, the way blocked by vertical ice walls or wide crevasses, and they would have to retrace their steps and hunt for a better way. Once, when they were seemingly entrapped in a maze of ice passages, Forester totally lost his sense of direction and wondered hopelessly if they would be condemned to wander for ever in this cold hell.

  His feet were numb and he had no feeling in his toes. He mentioned this to Rohde, who stopped immediately. ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Take off your boots.’

  Forester stripped the puttees from his legs and tried to untie his bootlaces with stiff fingers. It took him nearly fifteen minutes to complete this simple task. The laces were stiffened with ice, his fingers were cold, and his mind did not seem able to control the actions of his body. At last he got his boots off and stripped off the two pairs of socks he wore.

  Rohde closely examined his toes and said, ‘You have the beginning of frostbite. Rub your left foot—I’ll rub the right.’

  Forester rubbed away violently. His big toe was bonewhite at the tip and had a complete lack of sensation. Rohde was mercil
ess in his rubbing; he ignored Forester’s yelp of anguish as the circulation returned to his foot and continued to massage with vigorous movements.

  Forester’s feet seemed to be on fire as the blood forced its way into the frozen flesh and he moaned with the pain. Rohde said sternly, ‘You must not let this happen. You must work your toes all the time—imagine you are playing a piano with your feet—your toes. Let me see your fingers.’

  Forester held out his hands and Rohde inspected them. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘But you must watch for this. Your toes, your fingers and the tips of your ears and the nose. Keep rubbing them.’ He turned to where Peabody was sitting slackly. ‘And what about him?’

  With difficulty Forester thrust his feet into his frozen boots, retied the laces and wrapped the puttees round his legs. Then he helped Rohde to take off Peabody’s boots. Handling him was like handling a dummy—he neither hindered nor helped, letting his limbs be moved flaccidly.

  His toes were badly frostbitten and they began to massage his feet. After working on him for ten minutes he suddenly moaned and Forester looked up to see a glimmer of intelligence steal into the dead eyes. ‘Hell!’ Peabody protested. ‘You’re hurting me.’

  They took no notice of him and continued to work away. Suddenly Peabody screamed and began to thrash about, and Forester grabbed his arms. ‘Be sensible, man,’ he shouted. He looked up at Peabody. ‘Keep moving your toes. Move them all the time in your boots.’

  Peabody was moaning with pain but it seemed to have the effect of bringing him out of his private dream. He was able to put on his own socks and boots and wrap the puttees round his legs, and all the time he swore in a dull monotone, uttering a string of obscenities directed against the mountains, against Rohde and Forester for being uncaring brutes, and against the fates in general for having got him into this mess.

  Forester looked across at Rohde and grinned faintly, and Rohde picked up the ice-axe and said, ‘We must move—we must get out of here.’

  Somewhere in the middle of the glacier Rohde, after casting fruitlessly in several directions, led them to a crevasse and said, ‘Here we must cross—there is no other way.’

  There was a snow bridge across the crevasse, a frail span connecting the two sides. Forester went to the edge and looked down into the dim green depths. He could not see the bottom.

  Rohde said, ‘The snow will bear our weight if we go over lying flat so that the weight is spread.’ He tapped Forester on the shoulder. ‘You go first.’

  Peabody said suddenly, ‘I’m not going across there. You think I’m crazy?’

  Forester had intended to say the same but the fact that a man like Peabody had said it put some spirit into him. He said harshly—and the harshness was directed at himself for his moment of weakness—’Do as you’re damn well told.’

  Rohde re-roped them so that the line would be long enough to stretch across the crevasse, which was about fifteen feet wide, and Forester approached cautiously. ‘Not on hands and knees,’ said Rohde. ‘Lie flat and wriggle across with your arms and legs spread out.’

  With trepidation Forester lay down by the edge of the crevasse and wriggled forward on to the bridge. It was only six feet wide and, as he went forward on his belly in the way he had been taught during his army training, he saw the snow crumble from the edge of the bridge to fall with a soft sigh into the abyss.

  He was very thankful for the rope which trailed behind him, even though he knew it was probably not strong enough to withstand a sudden jerk, and it was with deep thankfulness that he gained the other side to lie gasping in the snow, beads of sweat trickling into his eyes.

  After a long moment he stood up and turned. ‘Are you all right?’ asked Rohde.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said, and wiped the sweat from his forehead before it froze.

  ‘To hell with this,’ shouted Peabody. ‘You’re not going to get me on that thing.’

  ‘You’ll be roped from both sides,’ said Forester. ‘You can’t possibly fall—isn’t that right, Miguel?’

  ‘That is so,’ said Rohde.

  Peabody had a hunted look about him. Forester said, ‘Oh, to hell with him. Come across, Miguel, and leave the stupid bastard.’

  Peabody’s voice cracked. ‘You can’t leave me here,’ he screamed.

  ‘Can’t we?’ asked Forester callously. ‘I told you what would happen if you held us up.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus!’ said Peabody tearfully, and approached the snow bridge slowly.

  ‘Get down,’ said Rohde abruptly.

  ‘On your belly,’ called Forester.

  Peabody lay down and began to inch his way across. He was shaking violently and twice he stopped as he heard snow swish into the crevasse from the crumbling edge of the bridge. As he approached Forester he began to wriggle along faster and Forester became intent on keeping the rope taut, as did Rohde, paying out as Peabody moved away from him.

  Suddenly Peabody lost his nerve and got up on to his hands and knees and scrambled towards the end of the bridge. ‘Get down, you goddam fool,’ Forester yelled.

  Suddenly he was enveloped in a cloud of snow dust and Peabody cannoned into him, knocking him flat. There was a roar as the bridge collapsed into the crevasse in a series of diminishing echoes, and when Forester got to his feet he looked across through the swirling fog of powdery snow and saw Rohde standing helplessly on the other side.

  He turned and grabbed Peabody, who was clutching at the snow in an ecstasy of delight at being on firm ground. Hauling him to his feet, Forester hit him with his open palm in a vicious double slap across the face. ‘You selfish bastard,’ he shouted. ‘Can’t you ever do anything right?’

  Peabody’s head lolled on his shoulders and there was a vacant look in his eyes. When Forester let him go he dropped to the ground, muttering incomprehensibly, and grovelled at Forester’s feet. Forester kicked him for good measure and turned to Rohde. ‘What the hell do we do now?’

  Rohde seemed unperturbed. He hefted the ice-axe like a spear and said, ‘Stand aside.’ Then he threw it and it stuck into the snow in front of Forester. ‘I think I can swing across,’ he said. ‘Hammer the axe into the snow as deep as you can.’

  Forester felt the rope at his waist. ‘This stuff isn’t too strong, you know. It won’t bear much weight.’

  Rohde measured the gap with his eye. ‘I think there is enough to make a triple strand,’ he said. ‘That should take my weight.’

  ‘It’s your neck,’ said Forester, and began to beat the ice-axe into the snow. But he knew that all their lives were at stake. He did not have the experience to make the rest of the trip alone—his chances were still less if he was hampered by Peabody. He doubted if he could find his way out of the glacier safely.

  He hammered the axe into the snow and ice for three-quarters of its length and tugged at it to make sure it was firm. Then he turned to Peabody, who was sobbing and drooling into the snow and stripped the rope from him. He tossed the ends across to Rohde who tied them round his waist and sat on the edge of the crevasse, looking into the depths between his knees and appearing as unconcerned as though he was sitting in an armchair.

  Forester fastened the triple rope to the ice-axe and belayed a loop around his body, kicking grooves in the snow for his heels. ‘I’ve taken as much of the strain as I can,’ he called.

  Rohde tugged on the taut rope experimentally, and seemed satisfied. He paused. ‘Put something between the rope and the edge to stop any chafing.’ So Forester stripped off his hood and wadded it into a pad, jamming it between the rope and the icy edge of the crevasse.

  Rohde tugged again and measured his probable point of impact fifteen feet down on the farther wall of the crevasse.

  Then he launched himself into space.

  Forester saw him disappear and felt the sudden strain on the rope, then heard the clash of Rohde’s boots on the ice wall beneath. Thankfully he saw that there was no sudden easing of the tension on the rope and knew that Rohde had made it. All that remai
ned now was for him to climb up.

  It seemed an age before Rohde’s head appeared above the edge and Forester went forward to haul him up. This is one hell of a man, he thought; this is one hell of a good joe. Rohde sat down not far from the edge and wiped the sweat from his face. ‘That was not a good thing to do,’ he said.

  Forester cocked his head at Peabody. ‘What do we do about him? He’ll kill us all yet.’ He took the gun from his pocket and Rohde’s eyes widened. ‘I think this is the end of the trail for Peabody.’

  Peabody lay in the snow muttering to himself and Forester spoke as though he were not there, and it is doubtful if Peabody heard what was being said about him.

  Rohde looked Forester in the eye. ‘Can you shoot a defenceless man—even him?’

  ‘You’re damned right I can,’ snapped Forester. ‘We don’t have only our own lives to think of—there are the others down at the bridge depending on us; this crazy fool will let us all down.’

  He lifted the pistol and aimed at the back of Peabody’s head. He was just taking up the slack on the trigger when his wrist was caught by Rohde. ‘No, Ray; you are not a murderer.’

  Forester tensed the muscles of his arm and fought Rohde’s grip for a moment, then relaxed, and said, ‘Okay, Miguel; but you’ll see I’m right. He’s selfish and he’ll never do anything right—but I guess we’re stuck with him.’

  IV

  Altogether it took them three hours to cross the glacier and by then Forester was exhausted, but Rohde would allow no rest. ‘We must get as high as we can while there is still light,’ he said. ‘Tonight will weaken us very much—it is not good to spend a night in the open without a tent or the right kind of clothing.’

  Forester managed a grin. Everything to Rohde was either good or not good; black and white with no shades of grey. He kicked Peabody to his feet and said tiredly, ‘Okay; lead on, MacDuff.’