16

What are we going to do now?

It was the second time I had said it; I seemed always to be saying it; but he looked as if he had not heard me the first time. He was gazing out of the window vacantly, watching the side of a cutting slip by as the train gathered speed. Again he did not answer.

I suppose that theyll be waiting for us at Verona.

He nodded.

Then theres nothing we can do?

Sure, theres plenty we can do; but not yet.

I dont see

Shut up; Im thinking.

I shut up and lit a cigarette. I had a pain in my stomach and could not decide whether it was nerves or hunger. Then I noticed that he was examining my face.

Youre pretty filthy, he said.

You dont look any too clean yourself. For some reason, I felt suddenly very wide-awake and very quarrelsome. Ive always heard, I added venomously, that the Russians are a very dirty race. But then, of course, youre an American, arent you?

I saw the muscles of his face tighten beneath the grime. I should not have believed, Marlow, that the schoolboy could persist to such an absurd extent in the adult. I wonder if you are typically English. Maybe you are. One can see, then, why the Continental mind fails to understand the English. I have often suspected it. The Englishman is no more than an intellectual Peter Pan, a large red-necked Peter Pan with a grubby little mind and grubby false wings. Sublimely ridiculous.

I made some angrily cumbersome retort. We bickered on. We snapped and snarled at one another steadily for a good five minutes. It was childish, absurd; and it was Zaleshoff who put a stop to it. We had lapsed into a sulky silence. Suddenly, he turned to me and grinned sheepishly.

Well, thank goodness weve got that out of our systems.

For a moment I frowned sullenly at him, then I was forced to grin too.

O.K.? he said.

I nodded. O.K.

Good. Then lets get down to brass tacks.

Do you really think that porterll do anything?

Im afraid so. He was suspicious, all right. I must have made a bloomer somewhere. It was the mention of Udine that got him. They probably dont send goods trains up direct from Udine. Anyway, we cant afford to take a risk. Somehow weve got to get out of these clothes and make ourselves look different between here and Verona. We havent got much time to do it in.

But how?

Listen.

For a minute he talked quickly. At the end of it I pursed my lips.

Well, I suppose we shall have to try it. But I must say that I dont feel very happy about it, Zaleshoff.

I didnt think you would. I dont. I shant feel happy until were across the frontier.

If we ever do get across the frontier. If they catch us now, theyll

Forget it.

Yes, I know, but I broke off helplessly. I was past caring what happened to me. All I wanted was food and more sleep. I suppose that we just wait now for the ticket inspector.

Yes, we just wait.

We waited. It takes just under an hour by train from Brescia to Verona, and half that time had gone by the time the ticket inspector came round. As the minutes went by Zaleshoff became increasingly anxious.

Perhaps he doesnt inspect the tickets on this run, I suggested.

If he doesnt, he retorted grimly, were sunk anyway, because that means theyll be inspected at the Verona barrier.

When at last we saw the inspector appear at the end of the corridor, Zaleshoff gave a sigh of relief. Keep your face turned away from him as far as possible, he murmured.

I gazed steadfastly out of the window. But the precaution was unnecessary. The man passed us with no more than a casual nod. We waited until he was a few compartments away. Then Zaleshoff nudged me.

O.K. Lets go.

We strolled slowly to the end of the corridor out of sight, then we increased our pace and walked rapidly through the second-class coaches. When we reached the leading first-class coach we slowed down again as we walked through it. At the end we stopped.

Theres a hat and an overcoat in the third compartment from the end, Zaleshoff reported under his breath; but theres a woman passenger in there. The mans probably in the restaurant car having coffee. Well try the next one.

We walked on again. Half-way down the next corridor I heard Zaleshoff stop behind me.

Stand where you are, he muttered; and dont look round.

Ten seconds later, he prodded me in the back.

Lets go back.

We returned to the end of the corridor and stopped outside the lavatory. I opened the door. As I did so I felt Zaleshoff push a soft bundle under my arm. A moment later I was inside the lavatory and had locked the door.

I said phew! very loudly to restore my self-possession and looked round. Then I jumped violently. A man was looking at me, and he was one of the ugliest-looking customers I had ever seen. Then, I saw that I was looking at myself in the mirror. I could understand now the blue-eyed porters uncertainty. I have a dark beard and there was the growth of two nights on my face. I was filthy-Zaleshoff had been right there. The dust of the previous day, the grease from the shells, transferred by my fingers together with the soot from the roof of the cattle truck, the sweat-all had contributed. Beneath it all, my face was haggard. My eyes were red and bleary with fatigue. The dye from the muffler, soaked out by the sweat, had made a dark ring round my neck. The greasy drivers cap completed the effect. No, it was not surprising that I had not been identified with the picture in the newspaper.

But I had work to do. I stripped off the drivers coat and hat, rolled them up in a ball and threw them out of the window. Then I took off my jacket, waist-coat and shirt, retrieved the safety razor and shaving cream from the jacket pocket and set to work on my face.

Following Zaleshoffs instructions, I left a thin line of moustache and side-whiskers that descended down my jaw to the level of my nostrils. When I had washed I combed my hair straight back.

I was surprised by the result. As Zaleshoff had predicted, the long side-whiskers altered the proportions of my face. My mouth and chin looked somehow smaller. My forehead had become high and narrow. The hair brushed back accentuated those tendencies. The slight moustache made the nose more prominent.

I put my shirt, waistcoat and jacket on again and turned to the bundle Zaleshoff had stolen. It consisted of a good soft hat and a raincoat. Both were grey. I put them on and looked at myself again. Except for my dirty white collar and crumpled tie I looked respectable. Cheered by this and by the wash, I unlocked the door and stepped into the corridor.

Zaleshoff was lolling against the window outside. He looked round and I saw his shrewd eyes travel quickly from my head to my feet.

Not bad, he commented; but youve been a helluva time. Well be in in another ten minutes. Give me the razor and comb and get back inside there until we begin to slow down.

I gave him the razor and comb.

What about your clothes?

He tapped his stomach and I noticed that there was an oddly shaped bulge to the blue tunic.

While youre waiting, he said, youd better do something about your boots. Polish them as best you can. Theyre the only part of you that doesnt look right. And your hats a bit big. Put some paper in the band.

What about suitcases?

Leave that to me. Ill tap three times on the door when I want you to come out. Youd better wait for that.

He vanished along the corridor in the direction of the second class. I retired once more to the lavatory and attacked my boots. I had let the turn-ups of my trousers down in the engine shed, but now that I had to turn them back again the uppers looked bad. They were of crude and unpolished leather and were much scratched. I rubbed at them furiously with the muffler, but without much result. The top part of me was that of a respectable Italian business man; the bottom that of a labourer. I gave it up after a bit, and having let out my braces so that my trousers covered as much of the boots as possible, I lit a cigarette and composed myself to wait.

After a seemingly interminable eight minutes, I felt the train slowing. I pitched my cigarette away and prepared for Zaleshoffs knock. I was in a fever of anxiety. The thought that was gnawing at my mind was that Zaleshoff had been caught taking the suitcases or that the owner of the hat and coat which he had stolen and seen him wearing them and given the alarm. The train had nearly come to a standstill, and I could hear the station bell tolling and people moving along the corridors to get out, when there were three quick taps on the steel panels of the door.

I wrenched it open and nearly fell over a suitcase standing just outside. Zaleshoff was standing by the exit door; but for the moment I did not recognise him.

He had on a dark green overcoat and a green Alpine hat; but it was his face that had altered. He was clean shaven, but the shape of it was different. It was rounder. His upper lip projected slightly over the lower in an odd way.

He was handing down a suitcase to a porter below. Then, for a moment, he half turned and his eyes met mine. Then they dropped meaningly towards the suitcase at my feet. The next moment he was gone. I picked up the suitcase and went to the door.

Another porter was standing on the platform looking up at me expectantly. The suitcase was heavy, and I grasped the rail to swing it out for him to take. The next moment I nearly dropped it on his head. Standing on either side of the porter and looking up at the train were two blackshirt militiamen.

I could have hesitated only a fraction of a second; but in that moment my brain worked overtime. I saw that their hands were resting on their Mauser pistols and knew that it was no use turning back. They would shoot me in the back, and even if they missed there were probably more of them on the other side of the train. Had Zaleshoff got through, or had they caught him too? I felt the sweat start out from the pores of the skin.

The porter grasped the suitcase and I swung myself down to the platform. Then the unbelievable happened. I looked at the faces of the militiamen. They were not looking at me but past me up into the train. For a moment I stopped, hardly able to believe my eyes. Then:

Where to, Signore? said the porter.

I was gaping. I pulled myself together. To the cloakroom, I muttered.

My legs trembling, I followed him along the platform. There were two militiamen posted at every exit from the coaches. As the last of the alighting passengers left the third-class coaches at the front, I saw two of them, accompanied by an officer, board the train. Heads were being thrust out of the windows. The other passengers had realised that something out of the ordinary was happening.

Ahead of me I saw Zaleshoff, preceded by his porter, disappear through the door leading to the street. There were three more militiamen standing by it. I walked on. I was acutely conscious of my boots. They seemed to be making as much noise as a regiment on the march. They made a clumping, hollow sound as they touched the asphalt. I noticed for the first time that one of them squeaked. To take my mind off them I tried to decide what I should do if the owner of the suitcase, which the porter was carrying, were to identify it from a window of the train. It was a large, expensive-looking thing and easy to recognise. Should I run or attempt to brazen it out? But no! If I did that they would notice my accent. They might want to see my passport, they

But I was approaching the exit. There were only a few yards to go now. I could see the faces of the militiamen turned towards me. I was sure that one was looking at my boots. Their faces came towards me and, in my panic, I could not make up my mind whether I was approaching them or whether they were coming towards me to seize me. My feet felt ungainly and awkward, as if I were wearing snowshoes. Instinctively I altered my direction slightly to bring the porter ahead of me between myself and them. He passed them. I felt the calves of my legs go taut as I walked. The militiamen stared at me. I was almost level with them. I could see the details of their uniforms, the texture of the black cloth, the shape of the black leather revolver holster, the shiny brass stud that secured it. I waited for a black arm to go up blocking my path. I prepared to play the farce out to the end. To be indignant. Instinctively, my face screwed up into an indignant scowl. A moment later I was past them.

For a moment I could scarcely believe my good fortune. I walked on, expecting at any moment to feel hands grasping my arms, pulling me back. But no hands came. Then I was standing in a dream by the cloakroom counter and the porter was standing there waiting for a tip. I plunged my hand into my pocket and pulled out the first coin my fingers touched. I saw the porter stare at it as I dropped it into his hand and realised, too late, that I had made a mistake. I had given him ten lire. He would remember me. I waved away his thanks irritably and turned to go. The cloakroom attendant called me back. I had forgotten my counterfoil. I took it and, sweating profusely, clumped towards the station yard.

Zaleshoff was waiting for me a little way away. I told him what I had done. He shrugged.

It cant be helped. Have you got your cloakroom check? Well, tear it up and throw it away. I picked suitcases with name and address tags on them. The ownersll get them back eventually. Now lets go and have some breakfast. The shops wont be open for an hour or so yet.

By the time we had established ourselves in a caffe some distance from the station, reaction had set in. I was trembling from head to foot. The last thing I wanted was food. Zaleshoff grinned sympathetically.

Youll feel better when youve had some coffee. It wasnt so bad as all that. Dont forget that they were looking for a couple of guys in drivers uniforms.

Maybe. But Ive got the jitters.

Well, weve got plenty of time. We can take it easy for a bit. As soon as the shops are open, well get some shoes, two new hats, two shirts and a couple of small suitcases. Ill get you a pair of glasses, too. Theyre not much good as a disguise, but theyll give you confidence. We can change in a lavatory somewhere and put this stuff were wearing now into the suitcases. Then well buy tickets, like ordinary respectable folks, for Vicenza. We ought to get to Udine this afternoon.

If we dont get caught here. I noticed that his face was looking normal again. What did you do to your face?

Tore my handkerchief into strips and made me some little wads like the things dentists put in your mouth. They were poked inside my cheeks. They nearly made me throw up as I walked down the platform. Ive shaved my eyebrows a bit, too. He got up. Ill be back in a minute, Im going to get a paper.

By the time he returned I had drunk some coffee and was feeling cooler, both mentally and physically. He was looking solemn.

Whats the matter?

He gave me the paper. As the blue-eyed porter had said, Zaleshoffs description had been added to mine. We were still believed to be in the vicinity of Treviglio. But the paper had been printed some hours before.

I dont see, I said, that this makes it any worse.

No, it doesnt make it any worse. But its what they havent printed that Im worrying about.

Such as what?

But he did not answer. Theres something inside that may interest you, he said: page three, column two, near the top.

I found it. It was a short paragraph under the caption:

THE P OLICE S USPECT SUICIDE

It went on:

MILAN,

Friday.

A woman was found late to-night behind a house in the Corso di Porta Nuova. She was seriously injured, and is believed to have fallen from a fourth-storey window. She died on the way to the hospital. A servant, Ricciardo Fiabini, identified the dead woman as signora Vagas, wife of Maggiore Generale J. L. Vagas of Belgrade, who is well-known in Milan musical circles. The General is at present abroad.

I looked up. Why did she do it?

He shrugged. She was crazy; and when Vagas got away but you cant begin to explain how the mind of a dame like that works. He stopped and looked at me quizzically. What are you thinking about? Want to send a wreath?

I shook my head.

No, I said slowly; I was wondering if Ricciardo would attend the funeral.

As soon as the shops were open, we made our purchases. Soon after nine we boarded a slow omnibus train to Vicenza. We arrived there at about half-past ten. From Vicenza we doubled on our tracks by bus to Tavernelle, where we caught a train to Treviso. We repeated the doubling-back process at Castelfranco and later at Casarsa. We reached Udine at half-past nine that evening.

It was a worrying day. Most of the stations were heavily guarded and we travelled in constant fear of being asked to show our papers. From time to time we dozed fitfully. The early drizzle cleared away during the morning and it became sunny and very warm. As we drew out of a station our heads would nod forward and for a minute or two we would sleep, only to wake up with a nerve-racking jerk if the train slowed for a signal or crossed points. My eyes ached and smarted with fatigue. This misery was aggravated by the pair of thick pebble glasses which Zaleshoff had bought for me at a street market stall, and which rendered me practically blind when I was forced to look through instead of over them. To add to my discomfort, I developed a bilious attack. Zaleshoff ate a solitary luncheon out of a paper bag. The only redeeming feature of the journey was that for most of the time we travelled with compartments to ourselves.

At Udine we left our cases in the cloakroom.

Do you feel like something to eat yet? said Zaleshoff as we walked warily out of the station.

I might tackle an omelette.

Then well find somewhere good. We may as well take our time about it, too. Weve got time to kill.

I groaned. Isnt there some small shady hotel where we could spend the night without being asked for our passports. I know weve had a nap or two to-day, but its a bed I want. My back feels as if its got a hole in it.

So does mine. But youll find that the shadier the hotel the more fuss theyll make about passports. Still, if you know of a place well go there. Otherwise He shrugged. Weve spent a lot of money to-day one way and another. Weve got to wait for the banks to open in the morning or we shall run short.

Supposing the police

They wont. Ive got an account in another name with the Rome branch of the Industrial Bank. I told Tamara to write a letter in that name to the Rome office telling them to arrange drawing facilities at their branch here.

That sounds to me as if shed have to forge a signature.

Your hearings perfect. Thats just what she has done.

We found a restaurant and stayed there until it closed at midnight. The next two hours we spent in a caffe drinking coffee. Then we went for a walk. Towards three we returned to the station, found that there was a Vienna-Rome train due at a quarter to six and spent the rest of the dark hours at a nearby wine-shop on the pretext of waiting for it. We played a card game called scopa with the proprietor and two of the railway workers, for whose benefit the place was kept open all night. At five oclock we ordered spaghetti, ate it and left soon after, ostensibly to catch the Rome train. Actually we went for another walk. Twice we had to scuttle down side-streets to avoid encountering patrolling policemen, but a little before seven we found an open caffe.

By this time the sight and smell of coffee had become unbearable, and we disposed of the coffee we had to order by pouring it over the roots of the privets which stood in green wooden tubs along the pavement in front of the tables. I was feeling sick and wretched. Zaleshoff looked ghastly. We had sat there for an hour, and I was wondering how on earth we were going to spend the time until the banks opened, when I saw his face light up. He snapped his fingers.

Got it!

I grunted. What?

A Turkish bath.

My spirits rose. But will there be one?

More likely than an ordinary bath and in a town this size He broke off and summoned the waiter.

There was a Turkish bath. It opened at half-past seven and we spent the next four hours in it. We had left instructions with the attendant that we were to be called at half-past eleven. We slept soundly. Both of us, I think, could have slept the clock round and we were still tired when we were awakened; but we felt immeasurably better, and a cold shower apiece temporarily stifled the desire for more sleep.

It was decided that it would be wiser for Zaleshoff to go to the bank alone, and I went for a walk in the public gardens. He rejoined me there soon after twelve and displayed his bulging notecase with a grin. Over our lunch he expounded his plan of campaign.

The first thing, he said, is another change of clothes. I dont think for a minute that weve been traced this far, but it wont do any harm. Besides, where were going, these clothes would look a bit curious.

Where are we going, then?

Up into the mountains.

He brought the map out again. I looked at it while he traced a line north-east towards the Yugo-Slav frontier with the handle of a fork.

Thats all very well, I objected; but why clamber about mountains when we can go due east towards Laibach?

Ill tell you. The Gorizia-Laibach road may be more direct, but wed have to cross the frontier between Godovici and Planina. The frontier along that line is pretty well dead straight, and theres a road running along it on the Italian side. That means that its an easy stretch to guard. If we go north-east, the frontier between Fusine and Kranjska on the Yugo-Slav side is no farther away from Udine, and the country round there is better from our point of view. A mountain frontier is fine from a military standpoint, but its darn difficult to patrol effectively. Well go as a couple of hikers. Can you speak German?

Not a word.

Pity. German hikers are more usual. Still, we shall have to do the best we can with our Italian. As to the clothes, we shall need plus-fours, ski-ing boots and jerseys, and sticks-oh, and rucksacks.

Rucksacks!

All right, all right! we can bulk them with paper. Talking of paper. Theyve got my name in this mornings issues. And what do you think? Saponi has been arrested. That makes you laugh, doesnt it? I suppose that because they found his name on my office door they thought he had something to do with me. Theyll let him go again, but-he chuckled-it serves the dirty double-crosser right. He was as gleeful as a small boy with a new catapult.

I regarded him suspiciously. I thought you said that that hard-luck story of yours was untrue.

Not the bit about Saponi. He sold me a pup all right. I knew he thought he was making a sucker out of me when he sold me that agency, but I let him go on with it. It suited me to do so.

In your role of respectable American citizen? I said sarcastically, and thought I saw the beginnings of a blush spreading from his neck. Without answering, he referred to a slip of paper in his pocket.

I called in at the station. Theres a train at three-five to Villach in Germany. It stops at Tarvisio, which is about twelve kilometres from the Yugo-Slav frontier. We should be at Tarvisio at about five. Its a slowish train. Then we can start hiking. Well cross the frontier after dark. He beamed at me. Weve done the worst now. I said Id get you out, didnt I? The restll be easy.

Good.

I thought his jubilation a little previous, and for once I was right; but I did not voice the thought. It would have made no difference if I had done so. I remembered suddenly that I had done nothing about getting in touch with Claire. I mentioned the fact.

You can telephone from Belgrade to-morrow. Itll be quicker than a letter and you can have the call on me.

That was unanswerable.

An hour later we emerged from the municipal lavatories in our new clothes. Zaleshoff had added peaked caps to the outfit. We looked, I thought, extremely silly and very conspicuous, and I said as much. He waved the idea aside.

Its just that youre English and self-conscious, he stated; when we get up in the mountains itll be all right.

For the first part of the journey we shared a compartment with an old couple accompanied by their son-in-law. They took no notice of us. The woman and the son-in-law, an unpleasant young man with a huge wart on his chin, spent most of the time brow-beating the old man. He chewed unhappily at his toothless gums as he listened first to one and then the other. They were speaking a dialect and I could understand little of what they were saying; but I felt sorry for the old man. They got out at Pontebba. A man who looked like a farmer got in and slung a bundle on the rack.

We had been following a river valley, but now we began to climb more steeply. Through gaps in the lower hills I could see great pine-clad slopes rising steeply into drifting mists that seemed to move like long filmy grey curtains hanging from a lofty ceiling. I saw Zaleshoff frowning at them. The farmer had gone into the corridor and was leaning on the rail smoking. Zaleshoff got up and followed him. I remained where I was. The scene fascinated me. The clouds were constantly shifting, forming new shapes; their movements were like those of a conjurers hands moving mysteriously to invoke magic. There was a dramatic quality to them drifting sulphurously like that among the hills. They made me think of illustrations to Paradise Lost. There was no sun and the sky was leaden. I noticed suddenly that it was getting very cold. The train went into a tunnel.

Outside in the corridor, Zaleshoff was talking to the farmer. By the yellow electric light I could see his lips moving, but the noise of the train drowned the words. Then I saw him nod to the other man. He came back into the compartment, slid the door to behind him and sat down facing me with his hands on his knees. He was looking worried. Suddenly we ran out of the tunnel.

Whats the matter?

The corners of his mouth drooped. Bad news.

What is it?

That man comes from Fusine. Its been snowing for the past two days up there.

In May!

Summers always two months late in the mountains. Its bad, Marlow. He says its a yard deep above the three thousand feet mark. He tells me theyve had snow ploughs out on the roads, but that some of the villages higher up are still cut off. Its been freezing hard at night and all the snow isnt down yet. Theres been no sun either to thaw what is down. He looked at the leaden sky. That lotll probably come down to-night. Its the devils own luck.

Three thousand feets a long way up.

When you start from sea level, yes. But round about Fusine its over four thousand. Even if we stuck to the main road across the frontier wed still be above the snow line. But we cant even do that. Weve got to keep away from the road and that means going higher still. If the weather was good the walk would give us a nice appetite for breakfast to-morrow, but with a heavy fall of snow on the mountains and more on the way, well be in a mess.

A little snow wont hurt us, surely.

He snorted. A little snow! Were not in England now. Have you ever been in the mountains when its snowing?

No.

Well, then, dont talk out of the back of your neck. It wouldnt be a picnic if we could follow the road. Off the road itll be blue murder. And another thing. You see those clouds? Well, if it doesnt snow to-night were going to be trying to find our way through them.

Well, what do you propose?

He frowned. I dont know. Im darned if I know. If there was a train back to Udine to-night Id say we ought to take it. But the only train going back comes from across the frontier and they might be examining passports on the train. It might be O.K., but we cant risk it. If we hide out in the open we shall get pneumonia. Even if we stay below the snow line itll be cold and wet with those clouds about.

Isnt there a Turkish bath at Tarvisio?

Is that meant to be funny? he snarled.

Cant we do as we did last night?

Tarvisio is not much more than an overgrown village. Everythingll be shut by ten. They go to bed early in these parts.

Well, if we cant go back and we cant stay at Tarvisio, we shall have to go on. Is that it?

He grunted. There are times, Marlow, when that sort of logic is just damn silly. He shrugged. Well have to spend some money at Tarvisio.

What on?

Food and clothes. Wool caps to keep our ears warm, gloves, ski-ing gaiters to keep our ankles dry, an extra jersey apiece, woollen scarves, a bottle of rum and a better map than this one. I tried to pump that guy about routes. Naturally, I couldnt say any more than that we wanted some nice walks, but I did get out of him that theres an old disused road that runs over the frontier a few kilometres south of the motor road. Apparently its overgrown by trees now and little more than a path. He mentioned it to warn me. It seems that last summer four hikers wandered out along it, got on to the wrong side of the frontier by mistake and were fired at by the Yugo-Slav frontier guards. Thats the path well make for.

Ive always wanted to be fired at by a Yugo-Slav frontier guard.

Dont be a sap! Itll be dark. Besides, its the Italians weve got to worry about and they He broke off. The door slid open and the farmer returned to his seat. For the rest of the journey I watched the clouds in silence.

Shortly after six oclock we left Tarvisio along a secondary road running south of Fusine.

Almost immediately we found ourselves climbing. The road was cut in a series of diagonals across the face of a range of grey stone hills. Below us the ash trees and pines grew against the hill-side like the quills on a porcupine. Through the dense mist that drifted down into the valley below I caught occasional glimpses of snow on the sides of the cloud-capped heights ahead. There was no wind, but it was bitterly cold. The air had an astringent quality about it that made the skin of my face tingle. There was an almost heady smell of pine resin. But for the cold I should have felt sleepy earlier than I did. It was not until nearly eight oclock that we came upon the first traces of snow.

Shortly before we drew level with Fusine the road curled away to the left and we struck off up the hill-side to the right of us.

According to Zaleshoffs map and compass we were heading for the path mentioned by the farmer. We should, he had calculated, reach it before dark. For a time we climbed steadily through a dense pine forest, through which the mists drifted and curled like long eerie fingers searching absently for something lost. It was very still. Occasionally the loud, harsh croaking of mountain crows would break the silence. But that was all. The sound accentuated the silence. When we spoke it was in whispers. Then among the trees ahead of us we saw a patch of white.

The patches became more frequent. At first they were thin and looked, as our boots crunched across them, like granulated sugar. Then they grew thicker and merged one with another so that soon we could see nothing but white through the trees ahead. The air became colder.

Then, quite suddenly, we found ourselves fighting our way round a deep drift of snow that had accumulated in a small gully. Beyond the gully, however, it was nearly as deep. As I scrambled on I kept thinking that it would get easier when we were clear of that freakish drift; and yet somehow it never did get easier. It became more difficult. Now drift seemed to merge into drift. The snow was half-way up our thighs. It was a dry, cloying powder that dragged at the feet. Now the forest was full of sound, a rustling, secret sound as the dense roof of pine needles far above us shifted uneasily under the weight of snow, allowing it to hiss softly through the lower branches in chalky cascades. The mist had become thicker.

By a quarter to nine we got to the top of what appeared to be a long ridge. We were both of us breathless and Zaleshoff called a halt. Then, when he had got his breath back:

We ought to be above Fusine and slightly beyond it-about here. He jabbed the map. I did not bother to see where. If we keep going level for a bit now we should strike the path where it tops the ridge. That is, if we can see it at all. If this damned mist would lift

We went on. In spite of the exertion of climbing, in spite of the two jerseys, I began to feel terribly cold. I could feel the snow, melted by the heat of my body, soaking through the thick woollen socks above the gaiters. The top of the ridge was rocky and we toiled through drifts of snow that came up to our waists. By this time, too, night was falling. The mist seemed to be closing in on us. I began to feel panicky.

As the light went the mist cleared. It seemed to dissolve into the shadows. At one moment it was all round us; thirty seconds later it had gone and we saw the lights of isolated cottages on the hillside far away down the valley. There were no stars. The night hung like a black fog overhead. A few minutes later it began to snow hard.

The top of the ridge was partly screened by trees, but the shelter they gave was negligible. The snow did not fall in flakes, but in great frozen chunks. There was a frightening savagery about it. There was no wind and it fell vertically: but when we moved forward it beat against our faces with stinging force. Our arms shielding our faces, we blundered on a few steps at a time, pausing in between for breath.

We must have gone on for twenty minutes like that before we felt the ridge begin to dip slightly. Zaleshoff grasped my arm.

Were getting near the path now, he panted; keep your eyes open for it.

But that was easier said than done. I had long ago thrown away my spectacles. Now I wished that I had kept them. The strain of trying to peer through screwed-up eyes into the darkness beyond the streaming white mass in front of us was almost unbearable. The ridge dipped and rose again and still we had not found the path. My legs were beginning to feel leaden. We went on for another ten minutes. Then I stopped. Zaleshoff was a few paces ahead of me. I called out to him and he turned back.

What is it?

I waited to get my breath. Zaleshoff, I said at last, were lost.

For a moment he did not move. Then I saw him nod. For a minute we stood there in silence, the snow hissing through the trees and beating down on us. I remember that it had piled up on my shoulders so that if I bent my head sideways I could touch it with my cheek. I had begun to shiver.

Lets have a drink, he said, its in my rucksack.

I cleared the snow off the top of the rucksack and got out the rum. We took a stiff peg each. I could feel it, warm and sickly, trickling down to my stomach.

What do we do about it? I said as I replaced the bottle.

We cant be so far away from the path. If we get down the side of the ridge here, maybe we can find some place among the rocks where we can shelter until it gets light.

You mean spend the night out in this?

Weve got the rum.

All right. Anythings better than standing here.

We started to scramble down the side of the hill. It was steeper than the side by which we had come up and we slithered down most of the way. At last we came to rest on a shelf of rock.

This isnt getting us anywhere, muttered Zaleshoff; we shall end up on the floor of the valley. Well try going forward.

We edged our way along the shelf. Soon it sloped sharply upwards and we were climbing back towards the top of the ridge.

The snow was coming down as heavily as ever. We were both soaking wet and numb with cold. We had stopped to get our breath back and take stock of our position when we saw the light ahead of and above us.

The side of the ridge was scooped out in a series of hollows like huge teeth marks. We were at the edge of one of these hollows. The shelf turned away sharply to the left and the light could only be coming from somewhere farther along the top of the ridge as it curved southward.

The light seemed to flicker.

What is it? I said.

It might be someone with a lantern. But its a bit too steady for that. We cant be more than a kilometre from Fusine. It may be a house. Come on, well see.

Whats the use?

If theres a house it means we must be near the path that guy was talking about. It starts from Fusine. Lets go.

We started to climb again. The way was steep and dangerous. With each difficult step I could feel my strength going. The cold and the altitude were slowly overcoming me. My heart was pounding furiously. But I floundered on up after Zaleshoff. I was afraid of being left behind.

The light had disappeared. A feeling of lassitude began to steal over me. Now it did not matter if I was left behind. My head was swimming. I heard myself calling out to him to stop. Then suddenly I felt my feet sink through the snow on to a level surface. The light reappeared and it was nearer. I could see the shape of a window.

Zaleshoffs hand was on my shoulder. I heard him telling me to stay where I was. Then I saw him disappear towards a blackness beyond the snow. I stood still. Behind the thudding of the blood in my head I could hear the quiet, incessant rustle of the snow.

Suddenly there was a shout from the direction in which he had gone. The next moment I heard him yelling out something in a language I did not understand. Involuntarily I stumbled forward up the slope. Then, out of the white darkness ahead loomed two figures. Hands gripped my arms. I heard Zaleshoff shouting again; and this time he was using English.

Its O.K. Marlow. Take it easy. Dont resist. Were over.

Resist! I was too exhausted even to laugh at the idea.