We turned and trudged on up the path, winding steadily until we were climbing below cliffs that reached their dark shadows to the stars. A curtain of silvery water, like flowing lace, rippled down from above. We climbed and climbed until I thought we should never reach the top. But at last there was nothing above us but the stars. And ahead of us was the distant murmur of a waterfall.
We went on, down to the water, and then turned away along the side of a racing torrent till we reached the bridge. The moon came up, throwing the serried edges of the mountains into black outline before it topped their summits. Then suddenly the circle of its light was shining on the silver tracery of countless lakes running up a long valley. And beyond, were the mountains, hard and crystal-white with snow and ice.
We descended by sudden rushes to the lakes, our skis sizzling pleasantly on the frost-glistening snow. The joy of moving without effort! And always we followed in the track of the other skis. Farnell and Lovaas had been this way before us. Along by the lakes the going was better. Our skis slid forward with little effort. Only my pack seemed heavy. But soon we were climbing again. Whether it was the cold freshness of the night or the fact that my muscles were becoming resigned to the unaccustomed work I was giving them, I couldn't tell. But I found I was now able to keep pace with Sunde. Of course I was bigger than he was. And plenty of pully-hauly work on the boat had kept me fit. Diving wasn't a particularly healthy occupation, sweating underwater in a rubber suit.
He was pausing quite often now. And whenever I caught glimpses of his face in the moonlight, it looked white and strained. Once I suggested he took a rest. But he replied sharply: 'Lovaas won't be restin', will 'e now?'
And the mention of Lovaas turned my mind to the chase that was going on ahead of us. Farnell had had a longer rest than Lovaas. He was slight and wiry and his muscles were probably hardened to this sort of work. But Lovaas was bigger, more powerfull. He was probably a good skier — he had all the winter in which to ski. Soon perhaps we'd catch sight of them. There would be Farnell out in front, a lone small figure, in the waste of the moonlit snow. And behind him two other figures, seemingly connected to him by the slender twin threads of his ski tracks. And Lovaas would stop at nothing. That was obvious from what had happened to us down at Osterbo. He knew now what he was after — knew that the prize was big enough for him to get away with anything so long as he held the information Farnell had possessed.
The thought made me press on faster. And now I found myself held back by Sunde. Several times I moved out ahead of him and had to wait for him to come up. Now strength seemed flowing into my muscles, whilst he flagged more and more. I began to chafe at his slowness. His face looked white and drained in the moonlight. The sweat glistened on his forehead, whilst I was no longer sweating. Twice, when he paused, he peered at the map. His breath was coming in short, haggard gasps.
We came to a waterfall, tumbling down to the lake we were leaving. I waited for him and let him pass to lead the way. As I followed, my eyes bent on the ground as we climbed through a jungle of giant boulders, I suddenly noticed a red spot on the snow. A few yards on was another, and another. I glanced up at Sunde. He was bent forward under the weight of his pack and — his left arm hung slack in front of him. Good God! I suddenly had an awful sense of shame at my feeling of impatience. At the top he paused. I came up to him and glanced at his left hand. Blood was dripping slowly on to the snow. It had congealed on his fingers, but down the back of his hand a crimson line glistened wet in the moonlight. 'You're hurt,' I said.
'It's nuffink,' he answered. 'The bastard got me in the shoulder.'
I thought of the weight of the pack he was carrying and squirmed inside. God, how that pack must hurt him! 'Let's have a look at it,' I said.
But he shook his head. I saw his lips were bleeding where he had bitten through them with the pain. 'We're not far from Steinbergdalen. I'll stop there. You'll have to go on alone.'
I shook my head. 'I can't leave you alone up here.'
'I'll be all right,' he said angrily. 'It ain't nuffink serious.' And he turned and went on, trudging steadily forward on his skis.
I followed, my head bent, seeing nothing but the crimson spots on the snow that became more and more frequent. And I had thought I was tougher than him, that diving had softened him up! I thought of all the times he had paused for me on the way up to Osterbo. And I hadn't been wounded. I'd just been tired.
