"How long has all this been here?" he asked as they slithered down the steep road.
"About two years. Like it?"
"Impressive."
They sped across the gravel parking area and banged into a retaining log before rocking to a stop. Jonathan climbed out slowly and stretched his back to regroup his bones. The unmoving earth underfoot was a pleasure.
It was not until they were sitting in the shadowy cool of the bar, concentrating on much appreciated glasses of beer, that Jonathan had leisure to look at his host. Robust virility was projected through every detail of Ben's face, from the thick, close-cropped silver hair to the broad leathery face that looked as though it had been designed by Hormel and shaped with a dull saber. Two deep creases folded in his heavily tanned cheeks, and the corners of his eyes crinkled into patterns like aerial photographs of the Nile Delta.
The first beers drained off, Ben signaled the Indian bartender for two more. Jonathan recalled Ben's epic fondness for beer that had been an object of comment and admiration among the climbing community.
"Very posh," Jonathan complimented, scanning his surroundings.
"Yeah, it begins to look like I'll make it through the winter."
The bar was separated by a low wall of local stone from the lounge, through which an artificial stream wound its way among the tables, each of which was on a little rock island connected to the walkways by an arched stone bridge. A few couples in sports clothes talked quietly over ice-and-foliage drinks, enjoying the air conditioning and ignoring the insipid music from ubiquitous but discreet speakers. One end of the lounge had a glass wall through which could be seen the pool and bathers. There was a scattering of prosperous-looking men with horizontal sun-tans who sat in drinking groups around white iron tables, or sat on the edges of gaudy padded sun chairs, concentrating on stock journals, their stomachs depending between their legs. Some waddled aimlessly along the sides of the pool.
Young ladies lolled hopefully on beach chairs, most of them with one knee up, revealing a beacon of inner thigh. Sunglasses were directed at books and magazines, but eyes above them scouted the action.
Ben regarded Jonathan for a moment, his droop-nig blue eyes crinkled up at the sides. He nodded. "Yeah, it's really good to see you, ol' buddy. My phony guests really make my ass weary. How you been doing? Keeping the world at arm's length?"
"I'm staying alive."
"How's that screwy church of yours?"
"It keeps the rain off my head."
"Good." He was pensive for a moment. "What's this all about, Jon? I got this telegram telling me to take care of you and get you into condition for a climb. They said they would pay all expenses. What does that mean, ol' buddy? 'All expenses' can cover a lot of ground. Are these people friends? Want me to take it easy on them?"
"By no means. They're not friends. Soak them. Give me the best accommodations you have, and put all your meals and drinks on my bill."
"Well now! Ain't that nice! Goddam my eyes if we don't have some kind of ball at this expense. Hey! Talking about climbing. I've been invited to be ground man for a bunch taking a shot at the Eiger. How about that?"
"It's great." Jonathan knew his next statement would cause comment, so he tried to drop it offhandedly. "Matter of fact, that's the climb I'm here to train for." He waited for the reaction.
Ben's smile faded frankly, and he stared at Jonathan for a second. "You're kidding."
"No."
"What happened to Scotty?"
"He had an auto accident."
"Poor bastard. He was really looking forward to it." Ben communicated with his beer for a moment. "How come they picked you?"
"I don't know. Wanted to add class to an altogether undistinguished team, I guess."
"Come on. Don't bullshit me, ol' buddy."
"I honestly don't know why they picked me."
"But you are going?"
"That's right."
A girl in an abbreviated bikini came up to the bar and squeaked her still-damp bottom onto a stool one away from Jonathan, who did not respond to her automatic smile of greeting.
"Beat it, Buns," Ben said, slapping her ass with a moist smack. She giggled and went back to the poolside.
"Getting much climbing in?" Jonathan asked.
"Oh, I gimp up some small stuff, just for the hell of it. Matter of fact, that part of the business is long gone. As you can see, my patrons come here to hunt, not climb." He reached over the bar and took an extra bottle of beer. "Come on, Jon. Let's go talk."
They threaded their way along the lounge walkway and over a bridge to the most secluded island.
After waving the waiter away, Ben sipped his beer slowly, trying to collect his thoughts. Then he carefully dusted the top of the table with his hand. "You're—ah—what now? Thirty-five?"
"Thirty-seven."
"Yeah." Ben looked out across his lounge toward the pool, feeling he had made his point.
"I know what you're thinking, Ben. But I have to go."
"You've been on the Eiger before. Twice, as I recall."
"Right."
"Then you know."
"Yes."
Ben sighed with resignation, then he changed the tone of his comments, as befitted a friend. "All right, it's your thing. The climb starts in six weeks. You'll want to get to Switzerland for some practice runs, and you'll need a little rest after I'm done with you. How long do you want to spend conditioning here?"
"Three, four weeks."
Ben nodded. "Well, at least you don't have any fat on you. But you're going to have to sweat, ol' buddy. How are the legs?"
"They reach from the crotch to the ground. That's about all you can say for them."
"Uh-huh. Enjoy that beer, Jon. It's your last for a week at least."
Jonathan finished it slowly.
ARIZONA: June 16-27
The insistent grind of the door buzzer insinuated itself into the narrative structure of Jonathan's dream, then it shattered his heavy sleep, and local reality flowed in through the cracks. He stumbled to the door and clawed it open without ever getting both eyes open at the same time. As he leaned against the frame, his head hanging down, the Indian bellboy wished him a good morning cheerily and told him that Mr. Bowman had left instructions to be sure Dr. Hemlock was wide awake.
"Whadymizid?" Jonathan asked.
"Pardon me, sir?"
"What... time... is... it?"
"Three thirty, sir."
Jonathan turned back into the room and fell across the bed, muttering to himself, "This can't be happening."
No sooner had he slipped into a vertiginous sleep than the phone rang. "Go away," he mumbled without picking up the receiver, but it rang on without mercy. He pulled it onto the bed and pawed around with his eyes clamped shut until he had located the receiver.
"Rise and shine, ol' buddy!"
"Ben—argh—" He cleared his throat. "Why are you doing this to me?"
"Breakfast in ten minutes."
"No."
"You want me to send someone up there with a bucket of ice water?"
"He better be someone you're tired of having around."
Ben laughed and hung up. Jonathan rolled out and groped his way around until he lucked into the bathroom where he let a cold shower drum consciousness into him until he felt the danger of accident by failing was remote.
Ben pushed two more eggs onto Jonathan's plate. "Put them down, ol' buddy. And finish that steak."
They were alone in the lodge kitchen, surrounded by glowing, impersonal, stainless steel. Their voices had a cell-block bounce.
Jonathan looked at the eggs with nausea constricting his throat. "Ben, I've never lied to you, have I? Honest to God, I believe I'm dying. And I've always wanted to die in bed."