We began to climb then. The ache of my shoulders was less now the rucksack was freed from the skis. But my legs felt like the legs of a sawdust doll from which the sawdust is gradually seeping. The bones seemed to be no longer solid, but liquid sticks that bent and folded. I had difficulty in keeping my skis straight. If only we could get a nice long run down. But I had a vivid picture in my mind of the route. It was steadily up-hill all the way from Aurland to Finse — a good fifty miles the way we were having to come.
From Holmen Saeter we climbed in a steep zigzag, sometimes on foot. At the top there was a chill breeze. The mist was being blown to the head of the valley. It was like a white fog, one moment drawn aside to show the silver line of the river far below us and the black cliffs opposite, the next sweeping down, thick, impenetrable, choking. The snow was crisper here. But after only a short, downhill run boulders began to show like white molehills and we had to tramp forward on foot. Soon we were at the river again on a broad path where skiing was possible. The valley.widened and the river became a series of lakes. Beside the largest of these was a well-cared-for saeter. But again the marks of the skis ahead of us ran on past it. Doors and windows were bolted. An outhouse was similarly locked.
Sunde stopped and pointed to the ski tracks. Three ski tracks ran off at an angle, crossing the tracks we were following. 'Peer has gone back,' he said. 'See their marks?'
'Why didn't we meet them?' I gasped. I didn't really care. I was past caring. My mind was a haze in which the ability to keep going was all that mattered.
'Probably they went the long way round for the ski-ing,' he answered. 'Besides, the Bjornstigen would be difficult going down.'
He went on. I stumbled after him, trying to hold the killing pace. I wanted to pick up snow and cram it into my mouth. I wanted to lie down in the white softness of it that packed so easily with a crunching sound under our skis. But above all those desires was the thought of Farnell, alone now, sitting by a log fire in some lonely saeter farther up in the hills. The ski tracks would be plain — plain as though his route had been marked off on a map. And whilst he sat there, tired and lonely, Lovaas and his two companions would be approaching him. It was that thought that spurred me on. We had to catch up with Lovaas. We had to warn Farnell. If we got there too late… I wasn't afraid that Farnell would talk. He wouldn't tell Lovaas where the thorite deposits lay. Nothing would induce him to do that. But if they killed him… I remembered the hot temper that had blazed in Lovaas's grey eyes. I remembered what Dahler had said of him. Frustrated, he might well kill Farnell. And if they killed him, then all that he had worked for would be lost for ever.
Near the end of the lake the path hugged a sheer cliff. Wooden boards on iron supports took us across a gap below overhanging rock. Beneath us the lake lay black and cold. It was then I think that I first noticed that the light was beginning to fade. I looked at my watch. It was nearly seven. We climbed again for a few minutes. Then we were out on a hillside and looking up a widening valley. The mountains fell back as we advanced, opening out till they were no more than grey shapes, slashed with cold, dirty white. The mist swept down again, as though in sudden alliance with night. The grey of the valley deepened to a sombre half-dark in which rocks and river had a remote, unreal quality.
Soon it was dark. It came slowly and our eyes were given a chance to accustom themselves to it. But even so, it was pretty dark. Only the snow at our feet glimmered faintly to prove that we had not been struck with blindness. Sunde went slowly now, picking his way with care, his head thrust forward as though he were smelling out the route. He had a compass and he worked on that. Sometimes we were close to the water's edge, going forward by the sound of it rippling over the stones, at other times we were clambering over some shoulder of land. The rocks were thick and dangerous on these shoulders. But at last we were out in the open, clear of rocks and river, with the vague, white glimmering of snow all around us. Our skis slid crisply over the even surface. And then he found the ski tracks of the others and followed them through the black and glimmering white that was night in the mountains. There was not a sound in all the world. It was as though time stood still. This might be that world of shadow between life and death; it was chill, remote and utterly silent. The only sound was the slither and hiss of our skis. I wasn't panting now. The blood no longer throbbed in my ears. I felt numb and cold. The loneliness of the place ate into me.
Sunde slithered up beside me. 'Listen!' he said.
