SECRET OF THE SUMMIT
BY
GREIL MARCUS
1959
Copyright © Greil
Marcus 1999
First Installment
John Cantwell studied the large, colorful map on the wall with some boredom. He, and in his mind he alone, was going to climb the highest peak in the world, one with the ominous and mysterious name of L-1.
L-1 was discovered in October, 1959, by two experienced himalayan measuring experts. It was on the fifteenth their small sturdy plance located it purely by accident. They were out re-measuring a 26,100 ft. peak to check for previous errors. This was in the southeastern part of the range, almost on the border of Nepal and Sikkum.
According to the fliers, the peak was surrounded by a huge mist, thick as snow.
It was discovered by radar, newly installed in the research plane. For three hours, the two men gave up all other plans to determine the height with their precise instruments. Finally they estimated it was 31,000 ft high-Both were astonished.
Quickly, they radioed back to their air base the height, and the Lat. and Long. which was about 27.5 degrees W or E and 88 degrees N.
Ten minutes later, their plane crashed into L-1 misty ridges.
_________________________________________
John Cantwell was the only son of a rich textile merchant who had recently died. His mother lived in New England. She believed Americans were the best people, and so did he.
At this time he was in Gangtok, the closest town to his mountain, 40 miles from the foot.
Cantwell was an extraordnairy man. At first he had absolutly no interest in mountain climbing, but he decided on it to make a name for himself. He had no idea of working for a living; his fathers' will left him assests equalling $10,000,000. with the condition he care for his mother as long as she was alive. This please him, for he and his mother were very close.
But now it was June, 1960, a full 8 1/2 monthes after the first discovery of L-1. Since that time several other ariel attempts at measuring had confirmed the first report. Cantwells' was the first party to attempt the climb.
With him were Robert or Bob Johnson, who went to Harvard with him in '55-'58. Both John and Robert were tall, blond, rugged looking young men. Neither had ever experienced anything rougher than dormitory football.
As a guide and "assistant", they chose "Mod" Harold, a self impressed man of about 5'9". He knew almost nothing about mountain climbing, but had managed to convince John and Robert that he was the worlds' foremost expert.
"Mod" had been born in Asia, and in the broadest sense of the word, was a drifter. At the age of fourteen, he phushed his father over a cliff because he would not allow him to play with his sister. If any phsycologist had ever examined him, they would know imediatly he was a complete mental disorder.
____________________________________________
John Cantwell continued starring at the map, a new one, of L-1's area. Satisfied, he turned away and called for Johnson. "Man," he said "did you get those dirty Sherpas?" Johnson entered the room, "Of course. They'll do anything for a little money. I got sixty of them. Where's that Harold fellow?"
"Oh, He's out. Had to buy some supplies."
Just then Harold stepped in, with several pairs of mountain boots and whiskey on his breath.
"Hellow?" He snapped with his Asian acent. "Got some brand new boots!"
Johnson grabbed them from him, made a quick inspection, and hurled them to the floor.
"Dummy!" he thundered. "They've got holes in the bottoms! Canit you find anything better than that?"
"Hold on a minute boss. You can't expect the best."
Cantwell caught a whiff of Harold's breath. He was shocked. "You've been drinking," he said.
"Oh, come naow a person has to get a little fun!"
Cantwell and Johnson could be hard men when the time called for it. They were not above swearing, or trickery. However, both were strict teetotalers.
"Get out!" Cantwell roared, kicking Harold so hard he knocked him down. "You're through with us!"
Mod Harold picked himself up and walked to the door jam. "Sure," he said. "But I'm not through with you!"
There was a flash of steel as a rusted knife buried itself in Johnsons' chest.
Harold was gone.
___________________________________________
It took Cantwell Several days to recover from Johnsons' sudden death. It was the first time he had ever seen a murder commited.
Gantok had a shabby police force and after a brief search they termed Harold "out of range."
By, Tuesday, he was plannin his climb in earnest. He hired a new assistant, a Sherpa named Pemba, who spoke English well and had good control over the porters.
Also a fine doctor, Edward Trithman, who had participated in several other mountain climbing expiditions, was hired after a brief screening.
In two weeks they were ready to go. All oxegon supplies had been secured, and the party used only the best equipment.
The crew left Gantok in the early morning. The route to the base of the mountain, which was at an altitude of 25,000 ft., (mountains loomed up all about it and L-1 actually "grew" out of another) took them three weeks. They had to travel 55 miles, all over mountains at least 20,000 ft. high.
On the way they lost their first man.
The front porter slipped into a crivice hundreds of feet deep. At the bottom, the men summoned strength to call up that he was still alive. Cantwell decided to leave him, fearing lost time.
The Sherpas threatned to quit, but Perman kept them going with a sidelong glance at Cantwell.___________________________________________
Once they had reached the base of the mountain, cantwell called for a halt.
He, the doctor, Pemba, and all 39 of the Sherpas dropped their packs and looked up. After the first 1000 ft. everything was mist.
To the left of them was a deep gorge, almost a valley, and on the right a ridge leading from where they stood in a large area into the mist. Cantwell had absolutly no way of knowing where to start. He gave the order to sep up camp and sat down to think.John Cantwell was disturbed. He had his whole expidition of 61 men at the foot of L-1. They were at an altitude of 25,000 ft., and they had no idea how to climb it. At least almost no idea. They knew their one route of ascent was the southern ridge that curved up the mountain, and dissapeared into the everlasting mist. Cantwell tried to decide whether he should lead his men into the unknown whitness or else returned back immediately. The other men were angry at him for abandoning the companion in the crevice, but Cantwell did not do it out of Sadism. He knew the man was injured from his fall, and would likely die of pain while being hauled up. There was also the chance of losing valuable equipment. Still, the decision haunted him. His mind began to wanter from the task at hand. His Harvard Zoology class came back to him. His professor was speaking:
"The Yeti, or the Abominable Snowman, is so far a mystery. It is supposed to inhabit the wilds of the Himalayas. Many Sherpas."He said the word with scorn, recalled Cantwell, glancing at his tired porters.
"Many whiteman," the professor said, "have seen huge tracks as long as an ice handle. The Abominable Snowman could possibly be an Indian monkey. It is supposed to be the height of a man, with reddish brown hair except for on the face. Books written on this subject include "The Yeti of Tibet" by Johnson Shellert, and "A Study of the Abominable Snowman," by R.K. Contrite. I shall expect a full report on the subject from each of you by tomorrow. Class dissmissed."
Cantwell smarted. He had thought that what he had heard was nonsense. He ignored the books, the report, the lesson. Now he was puzzled no one had ever climbed this mountain, his mountain before. Could it be the santuary of the Abomninable Snowman, the Yeti?
Cantwell and his men had been in the base camp for a week. The Sherpas were growing restless, so Cantwell chose this time to make an announcement. He stood up, and walked over to Pemba Tai and told him to call the Sherpas. He went over and fetched the doctor. The medic was treating a Sherpa named Kersl Se for frostbite. This isn't good, thought Cantwell, injuries so soon. the doctor dissmissed the patient and started to walk toward Pemba with Cantwell, where the Sherpas were congragating.
"Well John, what's on the schedule today?" said the doctor. HELL, thought Cantwell, he didn't like people who worked for him calling him by his first name. Sir, or Mr. Cantwell, was what he should have heard. He didn't feel like reprimanding the doctor; he had lost to much trust already. He smiled stiffly and viewed the Sherpas, all looking at him with cold black eyes. They were wearing heavy shirts rolled up to the elbows, rough, dark pants, wool caps, and large black boots. A few had suspenders. Cantwell looked at his own parka, which covered a swedish-knit sweater, and grunted.
"Men," he started. "We are going to begin our climb tomorrow. Seven of you will stay here;" he swung his arm about grandly, "and car for ecsess provisions. Are there any volunteers?" He stopped, and Pemba Tai translated for the benefit of those who did not understand English. A look of pleasure and relief crossed the Sherpa's faces as Pemba Tai came to a close. Every Sherpa raised their hand. There,was no fear of the massive mountain in their minds and hearts. Nothing would disatisy them more than to perch on the hidden summit. They were afraid of the thoughtlessness and cruelty of the man who hired him.
Cantwell was mad.
He stared at the Sherpas for a long tense moment. They, as if to defy him, stared back.
"Since not one of you wants to accompany me, I'll have to pick." He briefly thought of putting names in a hat, or something equally fair. But just for a moment. Thes dogs didn't deserve anything fair, thought Cantwell.
He strood toward th group. None of the men cringed; all stood like miniature Gibralters.
"You," he pointed to the man directly in front of him. "You, you, and the last two rows!"
pemba Tai hastily repeated in the Tibetan tounge.
The men stood uncertain, debating inwardly what to do. The man Cantwell had just chosen was the automatic leader. Cantwell and Tritheman eyed them nervously.
Reluctantly, with a look of deication on his face, the man stepped forwar, starngley eager. All others save six followed dutifully.
Cantwell almost smiled. He had believed for a moment that all would follow the first, but on second thought it seemed a most ovious thing for the men to hsitate. "All right!" said Cantwell jubiantly, "tomorrow we start!"___________________________________________
Cantwell was a bundle of mixed emotions in the morning. He was scared of the rebellious Sherpa porters. He felt distrust in his heart for Edward Tritheman. He was intrigued at the possibility of "discovering" the Abominable Snowman. Most of all he felt warmth, happiness and freedom, for at last he was to start on the expidition which would carry him to the roof of the world.
___________________________________________
They set off in single file, Pemba Tai first, then Cantwell, 42 heavy-laden porters, and Tritheman in the rear. 19 of the porters remained back at the base camp, at the foot of the mountain. They would keep excess supplies and prepare comfortable quarters for the climbers when they returned.
It was a hot day, about 90 degrees Fariehigeth. They hiked slowly and methodically all through the first day. They came to no crevices. Climbing along the southern ridge, they were about 2 days below the mist.
Cantwell's body was wracked with worry.
The party of 39 had left an hour ago. 36 porters, Pemba Tai, The guide; Tritheman, doctor, and himself.
Cantwell was troubled again over his order to leave the trapped Sherpa many days and miles behind. His mind filled with images of a struggling ma, trapped in a deep crevice, blue with cold. He stopped and shut his eyes. Since he was at the head of the line, all others stopped too. Tritheman was at the end of the long, winding line. They started again. Cantwell wondered whether the Sherpas at the base camp would stay or abandon it. This would ruin the expidition completely. He planned to send the porters down at intervals. The porters would take the supplies with them. The line started again. They were making good time.
The foot of the mountain was 25,000 ft. The thick white mist began 1000 ft higher.
Cantwell wondered what it would be like in the mist. It had not seemed to thin as they approached it. Cantwell assumed fair visibility would be possible, meaning a man could see at least 20 feet. They trod on.
___________________________________________
At about 4:30 Cantwell called for a halt. "This is camp II," he barked. "Ten of you," he threw his arm grandly at the Sherpas, "Will stay here!" He walked toward the group, and chose 1/2 a score.
Cantwell sat down on a bare rock and lit a ciggarette. Thrithman came toward him. Hell, thought Cantwell. Trithman talked amabily. Cantwell barely heard him.
"The men seem to be alright," said Tritheman. "No frostbite or the like." They both looked upward into the thick, white mist. Cantwell spat and got up. "I'm going to set up my tent. Call me when they have dinner ready o.k?"
Tritheman seemed taken aback, but agreed. As he remained on the rock, Tritheman was filled with wonder at the great barrier to their success. The mist. A cloud, Every cloud has a silver lining, true, but did this? It disturbed him. He knew enough of the Himalayas to guess what form the upper mountain would take. Very high, with the ridge they were traveling on extending almost to the summit. He thought also about Cantwells' decision to leave the trapped man in the crevice. A cruel action maybe, but the best one.___________________________________________
Cantwell lay in his double-lined sleeping bag restlessly. His dinner sat near his arm, on a pile of books. He had brought it from the fire to eat in the expertly set up tent.
Cantwell wouldn't eat. He was desperatly cold, and it was only 7:30. He tryed to sleep, closed his eyes, and continued tossing, fully conscious.
Then he heard footsteps outside the near tent flap. They were soft, almost silent. Someone was trying to catch him in his sleep! A Sherpa perhaps, or , or...
Suddenly there was a shout, and whatever Cantwell had heard fell, and sagged against the wall of the tent. The body lifted itself, and Cantwell heard more footsteps of something running a man or a - Yeti.
As soon as the tent sprang back to it's tight form, Cantwell peeled his sleeping bag from him and hurridly pulled on a pair of boots. The he streamed out of the tent.
The whole camp was abuzz. Three men were peering around the corner of a huge snowdrift. Several others were putting on full mountain climbing gear and two days food. Pemba Tai was knocking himself out trying to keep order. Tritheman was administering himself a strong dose of aspirin.
"What was it?!" Yelled Cantwell trying to be heard over the buzz of Tibetan.
He shouted again and Tritheman stepped toward him. "The Sherpas seem to think it was the Abominable Snowman, or the Yeti. It was something."
Pema Tai came over with a worried look on his face. "They've organized a party to go after "him." Should we let them go out or heep here?"
"I don't know. Are you sure it was a Yeti?"
"It had to be. What else could it be? We're 27,000 ft. Nobody lives up HERE!"
"Yeah, sure. Listen they're not going anywhere without me. Say did you find any tracks?"
Another Sherpa came up named Tenzia. "We found plenty of tracks near drift." He pointed. "I show you. Come quick!"
Cantwell followed. Several other men were around the deep-set tracks, gabbing wildly.
Cantwell pushed his way through the trio of men. The tracks were not a foot long. Cantwell bent down. No claw marks. The tracks were perfect impressions of a mans' heavy boots.
"God! It was a man."
Then it came to him. Of course. One of the men stepped there. Was walking in his sleep. Got up to take a walk. Sure. But he had to face it. All the men were there. Someone or something crashed against his tent, and fled. he had to find out what.
He ran over to Pemba Tai. "Tell that search party to get ready. I'll head it. In ten minutes they had left.___________________________________________
A day later, the search party, looking quite beddraggled came into the camp with their feet dragging. "We didn't find a thing," said a Sherpa in Tibetan. Cantwell went straight to his tent.
Tritheman followed hi,. He pushed open a flap and sat down. Cantwell had peeled down to his bright green Pendelton. He did not look up.
Tritheman had his mind made up, but was hesitant.
Cantwell snapped at him "Say something or leave. I'm tired and I'm going to sleep."
"All right Cantwell, I'll tell you," frowned the doctor. "Your're running this all wrong. The men are (cowering?) and we've got only enough supplie's here for another day. Thanks to your search party, the climb was delayed another day; and I'm not ever sure the porters you have down at the first base will come up to us. They hate you like poisen and you know it. Two men have got frostbite. We're still in the clear part of the mountain. Another two days we'd be in the mist. We've got only the slightest idea what the shape of L-1 is, after it dissapears into the clouds. I think we ought to give up this farce."
Cantwell was stretched out on his sleeping bag breathing softly. His hands were stretched out over his abdomen.
He did not raise his voice. Steel-cold as it bit into Tritheman. "I don't care what you say Tritheman. As far as I'm concerned you back into India. Stay there! This is my expedition. I want to see what this mountian really is!"
for a moment, his voice took on a note of fasination. "Go on back Tritheman! Go on back!"
Cantwell rolled over. Thritheman lifted the tent flap and stepped outside. He couldn't leave, he knew. He didn't want to. Cantwell was a mad wolf. The Tibetans were sheep. He was the sheperd.___________________________________________
The next morning five of the porters arrived from below, carrying 80 lbs each of food and clothes. They conveyed the news that 2 others had left and returned to the lowlands. The rest were guarding the food from yaks, eagles, and bears.
They deposited all but a small ration for their trip down. Their next trip would be in a week. The food had to last them quite a while. When the Sherpas left, Cantwell started plans to leave the next morning. It was about one o'clock in the afternoon. 4 hours were taken up packing and attempting to plot the course of the ridge they had been traveling for many days. Dinner was prepared early. Three quards were posted, and the rest dropped slowly off to sleep. Sleeping was never easy in the high Himalayas, with the wind howling into your tent and freezing you down to your toes. One thought kept the whole company awake more than any sub-freezing temperatures. For in 24 hours, they might be high in the forbidden mist of L-1. A place where no man had ever stood. Except the Yeti.___________________________________________
Cantwell gulped down his 4th cup of coffee and sat down. The camp was stripped, and in fifteen minutes they should be ready to go. Cantwell slipped on his pack, made a few adjustments and slipped it off. He stared up at the cloudless, cold sky. It ought to be a good day. He walked around the bustling camp for a few minutes, he paddes by Tritheman. They exchanged acid looks. The medic was checking his medical supplies. Plenty of bandages, antiseptics, splints. Pills, morphine, and hypos. "If anyone needs a shot of something," mused Tritheman, "it's me. I feel like last years banana peel." He took a personal pill. They were off soon, trudging hard up the steep ridge. Thritheman took up the rear, as usual, to make sure no one fell behind.
Several hours later, Tritheman paused for a moment, to look down on the abandoned camp. He had trouble making it out because of the thin mist they had already encountered. He reached back into his supply crammed pack and retrieved a strong pair of field glasses. The doctor looked as he moved, therfore getting a slightly distorted view. Out of a corner he spotted something dark and upright. Stopping, he squinted harder, to make out the figure. To see it clearly, he had to adjust the lenses drasticly. The figure loomed larger. It was a man. He was dressed in typical Himalayan form. His pack seemed bigger than he himself.
Tritheman went over the small, hunched over creature. Two things hung on his belt. A knife and a gun. The man crunched through the snow almost eagerly. He looked up at the bright blue sky. On pure chance, he glimpsed the Doctor intent on his every move. A split second later he was gone. Thritheman blinked. He rubbed his eyes. There was not a trace of the dark form. No shadows from behind the snowy drifts.
he looked over his shoulder at the long train of men, twisting up the rugged terrain. He turned and proceeded as quickly as possible after them, his glasses still dangling from his neck.
Moving at a liesurely pace now, the last man but a yard in front of him, Tritheman tried to piece things together. A lone man, progressing up the side of the highest mountain, carring his own food. An attack on Cantwell's tent, certainly by a man. Maybe a Sherpa, maybe not. A yeti, no. More than likely the man Tritheman had recently spotted. He would not tell Cantwell yet. There was more to this than met the eye, to put it mildly.
Tritheman had trouble sleeping that night. So did Mod Harold.___________________________________________
Harold shivered under his two blankets, burrowed deep in the snow. He had no control over his crazed mind now. He was an animal, living by instincts. A huge red scar glared in the dark, where Cantwell's dead partner Johnson had kicked him weeks ago. His brain was badly hemmoraged, and at times he entered into fits of sub-human madness. He was goint to get Cantwell, kill him and tear him apart. he smiled at the thought of it. He almost laughed. Harold was now a mad dog, and twice as vicious. Only a little of his human cunning remained, but it was enough. Harold scratched his ripped head vigourously. His hands began to tingle. His eyes glowed in crazed terror. Numb fingers grouped for a dull knife.
___________________________________________
The next day went without serious event, except the mist enveloped them more than ever. It was still no chore to see. Thritheman caught not another glimpse of the lone hiker. The party stopped for a quick lunch of bread, cheese, and coffee. They started sluggishly, as usual. A sity five lb. pack never helped much to refresh one.
By three visibility was at a pitiful low. The man a yard in front of you was clear. A man could see five feet in any direction, and then everything was a whirl of clouded whiteness.
Cantwell began to show signs of worry. He had all the men fasten themselves with thick hemp, at a maximum distance of three feet apart.
He let Pemba Tai lead. Cantwell had lost his disrespect and scorn for the hardy Sherpas, as far as climbing mountains went. He still considered them intellectually inferior.
They tried to use flashlights to see, but it didn't help. At siz o'clock they emerged from the mist into a clear spot. it was almost as if they were above the mist, although they knew this was untrue. It still towered above them. But now they had come to the end of the ridge. They had to strike out for themselves, make their own trail, play it by ear. Cantwell called a halt, and they stopped to tackle the problem. He sent out three parties, to find a suitable way up, and told them to be back within a half an hour. The rest of them began to prepare dinner. Tritheman wandered off to one side, trying to contemplate where the man was he had seen the day before. The medic still had not mentioned it to Cantwell, or any other member of the party. He peared around a large, pear shaped snowdrift. He kicked at a piece of half melted ice. It landed on a path that twisted up and out of site into the filmy haze.
Tritheman hurried back to the hastily set up camp where Cantwell and a few others wer unloading.
"Cantwell!" he said, "come here. Follow me."
The leader left his pack and came. "What did you find?"
"Look," admonished Tritheman, steppin around a corner of the massive drift. "It's a trail. Natural?"
Cantwell plodded over to the foot of it. It was well travelled, and twisted around protruding rocks and peaks. Snow was piled up on all sides of the trail as if to bank it. Cantwell was stunned. His chance to be first up the mountain was gone, he thought. The trail was certainly not accidental.
He slummped down in the soft snow.
He reconsidered.
If an earlier expedition had hacked their way up L-1's massive face, the path would be temporary. Not hard packed and worn as it truly was. Could a man possibly live at the top of the highest mountain on earth? did an obscure Tibetan cult make an annual pilgrimage to the forbidden summit?
Was this the lair of the fabulous Yeti?
By noon the next day they were back in the mist. The trail proved to be a good one, although a bit tricky at times.
They had to make it to the top in one week.
By then their supplies would be gone. Sherpas would be waiting for them somewhat farther down, but they had to make it to the top on what they were carring now.
Tritheman was keeping his eyes open. The doctor was beginning to wonder whether he really had seen a lone hiker, three days before. The glaring sun rebounding off the snow, and staggering symptoms of fatigue could make a mans' brain accept images that certainly were not there.There was still another mystery. The origin of the trail still knawed at Thrithemans mind. He turned and gazed over his shoulder absently. He couldn't see the small pocket of clearing they had camped in the night before. He watched his footsteps disappear into the mist. The medic had the feeling he was entering another world, never to return. He began to look down at his feet, fascinated at the small spray of snow he sent up while walking. His breathing grew labored, he took deeper breathes than was good. Thritheman had just enough strength to call a halt before he sank to the ground.
The Sherpas gathered around as the doctor stuggled to raise himself. Cantwell progressed slowly back down the trail to the medics side. This was difficult because of the narrowness of the path they were traversing.
Cantwell made Tritheman lay down, unfastened his pack, brought out a bundle that resembled an aqualung. The maske was fitted around Trithemans' head, and an oxygen bottle was strapped on. After a minute or so they were ready to leave.
The Sherpas, most of whom had lived above 20,000 feet all their lives had not noticed the rareification of the air. Cantwell had begon to pant a bit, but was still able to breath well enough. The extra air really gave Tritheman a lift. Cantwell, looking back at him wandered if someone had filled the bottle with helium, instead of oxygen. They made fine progress that day. Mod Harold, obscured in the mist kept up an even better pace. They stopped at six, made a hasty meal, and went off to sleep with one fire burning dilegently. Tritheman, feeling a little let down after removing his oxygen mask, took a milde tranquilizer, and offered one to Cantwell who refused it with some disgust.
This was Harolds' night. Shivering only a scant hundred yards from Cantwells' tent. Slowly, when all seemed subdued and peaceful, he began to creep toward his unsuspecting victim. After almost half an hour, he would make out the blurred images of a few spindly tents, lit up by the soft glow of the fire. He slunk closer, silent as a spotted lepoard stalking a helpless prey.
Harold could almost smell Cantwell, and instinctively headed for the largest tent. As he stole through the camp his eyes glowed like two red coals.
Mod was almost buried in the snow, lying flat on his stomach as he approached Cantwells' tent. The front flaps were closed. Inside, Cantwell tossed a spare shirt over his eyes in an attempt to sleep. He buried his face in the folds of a blue blanket and held his breath. Maybe an insomnia pill from Tritheman would do the trick.
Cantwell folded his hands over the back of his scalp and burrowed in to his sleeping bag. The tent flaps opened. He felt a cool draft as the light of the flames invaded the pleasant darkness that enveloped him.
He absently reached out to draw the viels.
Cantwell screamed in pain and terror and hurled himslef to the rear of the tent as Harolds' knife slashed his fingers to the bone.
Harold dove after him, his knife flashing in the firelight. there was a loud ripping noise as the blade cut through the canvas tent wall like a razor through flesh.
Cantwell struck out blinding with his crippled hand and sent Harold accross the tent with another scream.
Mod gripped his knife hard, his fingers turning white from tension.
Cantwell was finally able to see dimly, and glimpsed the face of his attacker. His brain relived in a split second his first meeting with Harold. The episode in Sikkim and Johnsons' death.
The two men began to stalk each other, Cantwell on his knees, ready to jump at the slightest movement, and Harold poised for the kill, emotions, coiled inside him like an angery rattler.
Mod was first to move; with an animal cry of fear and hate he sprang forward, gripping his knife with two knarled hands.
Cantwell lunged away, hit out with his left hand. He struck home on the open wound of his assailent.
Harold shuddered. He sat up straight, still holding the blunt sycthe. Harold fell forward with a terrible groan.
Quotations scurried through Cantwells' head: "All victory ends in the defeat of death."-O'Neil. "And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat upon him was death."-The Bible.
"Thou shalt not kill."-The Bible.
Cantwell tugged at his collar.___________________________________________
By now half the camp was aroused, and most of the men were heading for Cantwells' tent. Pemba Tai, sherpa guide arrived with Tritheman. They broke into the tent. Tai grabbed Harold's body and pulled it out.
Trithman stayed inside.
"Who was it?" he murmered softly. Cantwell to seem unconcerned.
"Mod Harold, the first guide I hired. Killed my partner Johnson, I guess he had to get me too. He's dead, isn't he?"
"Absolutly" replied Pemba Tai, from the opening. Tritheman noticed Cantwell's bloody hand. He xxxled him over to where medical supplies were and dabbed the hand with iodine. Trithman bound up Cantwell's hand like a whilte boxing glove. he gave him a hypodermic sedative and left him to himself.
Cantwell was terribly upset, worried and scared. He'd come within deaths kingdom and made a daring escape.
Cantwell stood up, and listened to the chatter of the Sherpas who eyed him carefully. The drug began to take its affect, and John Cantwell slumped into his bloody tent to sleep.
Everyone rose early the next morning. Most of the Sherpas were up all night examining the stunned body of Harold and talking. Cantwell and Tritheman had no trouble sleeping.
For breakfast, their werw flpajacks, dried fruits, and the strongest coffee they'd had on the journey. Cantwell drank almost half a pot. They started early but made sluggish time because of their general lack of rest.
Mod Harolds body was deposited in a hollow and lightly sprinkled snow.
Tritheman's heart was lightning. In several days they would be on their way down. Either they would have scaled the peak, which, all things considered, was unlikely, because of the bad morale and organization of the expidition, or they would be defeated, slain and crushed by the magnifigance of L-1's fantastic hieght.
They had left early, at about 7 o'clock.
Tritheman left his air contraption off for as long as possible. Their wasn't very much air, and he certainly didn't want to have to use any of the xxgged Sherpa's supply.___________________________________________
The rail grew slightly more sparse, not as well traveled. It was then Cantwell saw it. A small patch of redish manure, off by the side of the trail.
he called a halt. Bending down, Cantwell smoothed it over with his gloved hand. It hard strands of scraggly hair, discolored by the waste particals. It was a trace of animal life. He examined it again, and barked back to his Harvard biology class.
It wasn't human either. Cantwells' natural curiosity admonished him to investigate further.
Tritheman reached Cantwell as they were ready to leave. Cantwell explained.
They agreed to compare notes on more traces of life. They both knew what it had to be. Visions of Yeti danced in their eyes. The Sherpas murmered ominously among themselves.
Thritheman was really excited. As he made his way back to the end of the line, he thought about the chance of beign the first to bring back proof of the mysterious Yeti. They had to find it. Here, there, everywhere he would find his proof.
Bits of hair, manure, a tooth.
They would enshrine the halls of science with their discoveries.
Tritheman cursed his position, far back at the end. Cantwell would see everything first. The doctor told himself to keep his eyes open, to see things the others missed. He took heart, and his step grew the least bit jaunty.
There were two large gaping holes in Trithemans exuberant theroy. First of all, he was acting like a sacri religious fool. Many of the Sherpas held thier Yeti in reverance, sacred.
Neither Cantwell or Tritheman thought they might protest the capture of a Himalayan Snowman if, no when! they found one.
The other hole was even more depressing, if Tritheman ever mustered the sense to consider it.
Many other expiditions had soured the Himalayas for the sole purpose of locating the Yeti, and returned with tales of apes and three foot long prints in the snow.
Tritheman himself had been on one of the most successful. He couldn't think of that now. L-1 was secondary to him now.
Finding the Yeti was foremost.
It never occoured to Tritheman that the Yeti might find them first.___________________________________________
Higher and higher they went, enveloped by the mist. Every hour or so they would approach a clear spot.
There they would stop, rest , drink hot coffee from colorful thermos bottles.
No clearing lasted for more than a few yards. The climbing grew rougher, and each man made a terrible effort to keep up the pace.
Yeti were forgotten. All of them, Tritheman, Cantwell, the Sherpas were using oxygen masks. A superhuman effort had carried them this far; they had to keep it up to reach the top.Higher and higher they climbed, each yard a strain on mind and body. The wind howeled crueley around the caps pulled tightly over show-specked heads.
They stopped at 4:00.
The men stomped around cursing the mist.
They could barely see, and making a fire was almost impossible, even on the handy Coleman stoves. A wretched dinner and the men buried themselves in the snow throwing their half shelters around their shivering bodys.
When they awoke, 2 men were missing. A search revealed two bodies frozen stiff four feet below.
Miraculously, no one had frostbite.
Cantwell looked at his watch. It was 8 o'clock. According to resonable calculations, they had another days trek ahead of them before the final ascent.
The men donned their warmest clothing, and set out. After an hour the pace seemed to pick up. The trail melted down almost to nothingness, but the mist seemed to be thinning consererably. The air was better too. The winds slowed, the sun glowed dully from its sanctum amongst the sky-concealing clouds. It became unbearably hot, and a stop was made to shed the heavy clothing all were wearing.
They started again. With the temperature rising. Most were wearing sun glasses to prevent the glare of the sun bouncing off the ice from affecting the men's eyes.
It was a strange day. No one spoke, no one cursed or complained. A strange fragrance wa sin the air, not unlike that of a canine.
Tritheman's mind again turned to thoughts of Yeti. With the mist all but dispersed, he gean to scan the icy bands for signs like the one found days before.
He saw none. Tritheman shook his head, as if their were bees inside it and he wanted them out. The doctor raised his head and took in the snowy crests of the crags above.
He swallowed hard relizing he would have no opportunity to reach the summit. He knew from experience that the doctor always stayed down, in case of emergencies in the main camp.
He sumarized the expidition. L-1 was one of the easiest mountains to climb; at least in the Himalayan range. The ridge that was followed for the first four-thousand feet. Then the trail that still was unexplained, the path they were still following.
Still if Cantwell had half a heart, he would have turned back long before now.
The several deaths on the venture had weakened the morale of all, including Cantwell himself.
Tritheman dug his watch out from under his shirt and read it carefully, having nothing else to do.
He had an exotic swiss make, on that told everything but the number of calories in an Iowa potato.
It stated that:
the time was=5:27 and 28 secounds
the date was=the 3rd of July
the sky was=overcast.
It also informed him of the times inother major cities all over the world.___________________________________________
Say, it was getting late. 5:30. They ought to stop pretty soon. Gosh, the time just flew.
What a funny day. Cantwell ought to call a halt soon. Not long to wait.
A clearing smoothed out of the rocks by ancient geological process awaited them two minutes later.
They were all tired but not exhausted as they usually were. One more day and they would start down. Still no one spoke above a whisper. It was almost as if a sacred diety was about. The dog-like aroma still hung heavy in the cool, clear air.
For some reason, one man was especially jumpy. Perhaps going mad from the strain of weeks on the roof of the world. He consistently peered over his left shoulder. He chattered obscenely to himself, and a few friends led him over to a tent. After lying down for a minute continued with his odd discourse. Not at all violent, he would be repeatadly made to lie down and then rise and begin the queer procecess anew.
Tritheman glided over toward Cantwell, and they stood side by side watching. Cantwell, finally noticing the doctor, gave him an irratated look and fiegned a interest in his cap.
Tritheman stared back at Cantwell, and both turned and left.
Tritheman reached into his medical supplies, and reached for a hypodermic, a small bottle of pink colored liquid, and a vial of pills.
Approaching the two Sherpas he was most friendly with, he told them to restrain the servent for a short while. As the man quited down, the medic filled his needle and administered the drug. The madman would not take his eyes off Tritheman as the needle entered his arm, and scarcley batted an eyelash.
He pulled away from the doctor, tenderly nursing his arm, and danced a few exotic steps.
He began to whirl in a perfect circle, like a ballerina in an operatic performance. Suddenly, he stopped. Every eye in camp was focused on him, facsinated. Sharply, he uttered a shrill animal cry, and ran.
No one stopped him, the man ran for the hills, up the steep, sheer trail.
Everyone stood motienless, shocked. A few men took futile steps forward, and then sheepishly stopped, relizing the man was alreay gone. One Sherpa began to talk, and then stopped, his words fading out softly and rebounding errily off the hidden slopes of surrounding moutains.
Suddenly, a bolt of lightning struck. Jagged streaks of yellow ficked in the distance, followed by roars of ominous thunder. There was no wind. No rain fell.
The men eyed the sky; most murmered to themselves, and slunk off to their tents.
For once, Cantwell was egar to seek Trithemans' conversation. He had to find someone to talk to.
The leader sidled up to Tritheman. "Well tomorrows the day. How far do you think we have to go?"
The doctor resisted the temtation to feed Cantwell what he usually dished out. "You've got an easy thousand feet," he said. "This mounttains' a cinch, so it shouldn't take you more than five hours up and back."
This was an insult to Cantwell's ego. HE thought it had been a pretty rough time, with all the deaths and other hazards they had experieanced in only a week and a half. "CINCH!! God Tritheman, when die on a mountain, its no CINCH!!"
Tritheman restrained a fit of mirth. He had never seen Cantwell in a tantrum before. "Listen, its the MOUNTAIN thats easy to climb. We had a fine route by the ridge, and now weve a fair trail to follow to the top. We ran into only a few crevices, no blocks on the ridge to make us waste days on detours. But because of your lousy judgement, poor equipment, and disregard for everyone save yourself, you're laiable for manslaughter on everyman who's died. died needlessly," he added.
Cantwell was about ready to slug Tritheman when Pemba Tai walked over and drew him aside. He silently made 'O' with his thumb and fore finger at Tritheman. "Peacemaker," muttered Cantwell.
The guide ignored him. "When do we leave tomorrow, and whoose going with us?"
Cantwell stared. "We? going with US?"
"Just so. Who?" said Tai philosiphicly
Cantwell's less than jolly mood was complicated by Tai's ignorance.
"This," proclaimed Cantwell magestically, "is my expidition, therefore I'm making the ascent."
"Well, I guess that will do. Still, when do we leave?"
"I'm going, not you, not Tritheman, not any of them!" he indicated the sherpas. "This is my triumph, Not yours."
Pemba Tai, seething with rage at the stupidity of his rival, took a step forward and eyed Cantwell menacingly.
Then he heard it. he heard it, Cantwell heard it, Tritheman heard it, the Sherpas heard it.
A high, groaning, pain-filled scream, standing the hair on every man on edge.
A head jerked up from a furry blanket in terror. A step back, away from approaching danger. A frenzied search of the clear slpe above made by dancing eyes.
The scream cam again, and again, and again.
Then a short gasp, and a roar so terrifying even the stanchest had to turn away in fear.
There was a ow, continuous hissing sound, and a huge head appeared from behind a fortiyed crag.
It was brown, with two shinning eyes the size of silver dollars. The creature was built like a gorrila, only thinner, more agile, and much more hair. Two long red fangs, not unlike those of an extinct sabre-tooth, protruded from a chesire mouth.
It appeared to be walking on its hind legs. Two gory paws held the remains of the mad Sherpa that had dissapeared earlier. The monster gave another horrible scream, and hurled its burden down the pure white slopes of L-1, staining the snow a victorios red.
Then it was gone. Vanished like a ghost.
No one took a step. It was hard to move when your teeth were chattering and your knees were frozen.
Some how, without a given signal, they advanced. In a group, yet cautiously. Straight up the trail, to the sight of the perverts torn carcass.
It was off the trail, behind a large rock. It wasn't pleasant, and they left almost immediatly.
The existance of the snowman was now confermed. That night, fires burned slowly and guards were alerted to the slightest move.
Morning. An exact oppositte of the day before. The mist had made its way down from the summit during the night. The wind blew, softly carressing the sun scarred faces of the mountaineers.
Trithemans' watch showed a reading of "DARK". A slow fire was started with lighter fluid, and a small bit of coffee was made almost warm. Cantwell devoured it eagerly. He was ready to leave before the rest of the men had finished their meager breakfast.
Tritheman tried to stop him. "You cant go up there after what happened last night. Its suicide!"
"Soak you head Tritheman, I'll do as I please."
Pemba Tai fell into step with Cantwell, in full climbing gear, and refrained from looking at Cantwell.
Cantwell stopped, and glared at the guide. He hit him square on the chin, knocking him out cold. Then he turned, and stepped strongly up the trail, toward the top of the world.___________________________________________
It wasn't easy. It was cold, and the trail thinned terribly the farther he went. Now and then he saw specks of red, the blood of the mad Sherpa gored the night before. There were dips and bends in the path now, and Cantwell slipped a few times before he became wary of the shallow pitfalls.
The mist was not as thick as it might be. If anything attacked him he would spot it in time. Cantwell glanced over his shoulder. His pack was light, consisting of another shirt and some dried foods, along with a score of quick energy chocolate bars.
This, plus two extra oxygen bottles and the breathing apparatus he was wearing made up a light load.
Two hours passed. Cantwell had to reach the top soon, for he was tiring fast. He missed the morale support of a long line of men behind him. the expidition had averaged one death per day for almost a week. Someone had to keep up the ratio.
Slowly, but steadily, the mist cleared, and Cantwell thought he might have glimpsed the top. But it was another rise.
Still, the summit must be close.
The strange, canine smell that haunted them the day before revealed its perscence once again.
He climbed higher, and experienced the feeling he was trespassing on holy grounds.
Placing his foot in a small brace, he jerked himself into view of the true summit of L-1.
Cantwell drew back, horrifyed. He didn't want to see it, but it was there. Perched on a crest of the highest mountain on earth was a solitary skull.
It was long and beetle browed, weathered a dark brown, with cracks on either side.
John Cantwell was many things, but a coward was not one of them. He knew he should stop, but he couldn't. he had to reach the summit, unearth its mysteries.
Ever so slowly he creeped forward, his body wracked with fear, his temples pulsating with terror.
Cantwell was crawling, straining with every inch he advanced, pulling himself up by his bleeding fingers, torn on the cruel edges of icy rocks.
The sinews of his body tightned with every step, tension rising within his excited mind.
Now only a few paces from the skull, he saw that it was rasied on a rude platform of stones, as if to elevate it to a position of honor. Another thought flashed through Cantwell's brain. An alter???
Cantwell stared at the skull, and advanced further. With trembling hand, he reached out to fondle the ageless bone.
Directly infront of him, a 7 foot monster watched him with human sadism, kindled by a spark of animal cunning.
Cantwell saw it. He reached for a knife, but his hands were frozen stiff with fear. He turned to run, and fell to his knees.
The Yeti approached him, upright, with arms dangling. Cantwell ripped off his oxygen pump, like a catcher pursuing a pop fly.
The creature roared, the loudest sound Cantwell had ever heard, shatttering his defensless eardrums.
Cantwell screamed. The Yeti struck out with a claw, ripping his face.
Cantwell turned and ran, slipping and falling, plumeting down the face of the mountain.
The serence peacefulness was broken only by the soft swish of fresh snow, shrouding forever the secret of the summit.