like that of an inverted bowl. Only the cold presented a genuine hazard.
Surely there was no impediment to those who elected to descend again. Not all, or even most, but some must have given it up and returned to the foot, either choosing a less strenuous way to die or deciding to live after all. He could still turn about himself.
He picked the quiet bird from his shoulder, disengaging the claws with difficulty. 'How about it, Stupid? Have had enough?'
There was no response. The little body was stiff.
He brought it close to his face, not wanting to believe. He spread one wing gently with his fingers, but it was rigid. Stupid had died rather than desert his companion and Sos had not even known the moment of his passing
True friendship....
He laid the feathered corpse upon the snow and covered it over, a lump in his throat. 'I'm sorry, little friend,' he said. 'I guess a man takes more dying than a bird.' Nothing utterable came to mind beyond that, inadequate as was.
He faced up the mountain and tramped ahead.
The world was a bleak place now. He had taken the bird pretty much for granted, but the sudden, silent loss was staggering. Now there was nothing he could do, but through with it. He had killed a faithful friend, and there was a raw place, in his breast that would not ease.
Yet it was not the first time his folly had damaged another. All Sol had asked was friendship and, rather than grant him that, Sos had forced him into the circle. What had been so damned urgent about his own definition honor? Why had he resisted Sol's ultimate offer with such determination? Was it because he had used a limited concept of honor to promote his own selfish objectives ruthlessly, no matter who else was sacrificed? And, failing these, bringing further pain by wiping out whatever else might have been salvaged?
He thought again of Stupid, so recently dead upon his shoulder, and had his answer.
The mountain steepened. The storm intensified. Let it come! he thought; it was what he had come for. He cou no longer tell whether it was day or night. Ice rimmed his goggles, if they were still on. He wasn't sure and didn't care. Everywhere was whirling whiteness. He was panting his lungs were burning and he wasn't getting enough air the steep snowseape before him went on and on; there was no end to it.
He did not realize that he had fallen until he choked on the snow. He tried to stand up, but his limbs did not respond properly. 'Come on!' he heard Sola calling him, and he listened though he knew it for illusion. He did go on, but more securely: on hands and knees.
Then he was crawling on his belly, numb everywhere except for the heartache.
At last the pleasant lassitude obliterated even that.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
'Up muscles. It's better if you walk around, get the system functioning again and all that.'
Sos recovered unwillingly. He tried to open his eyes, but the darkness remained.
'Uh-uh! Leave that bandage alone. Even if you aren't snowblind, you're frostbit. Here, take my hand.' A firm man's hand thrust itself against his arm.
'Did I die?' Sos asked, bracing against the proffered palm as he stood.
'Yes. In a manner of speaking. You will never be seen on the surface again.'
'And-Stupid?'
'What?'
'My bird, Stupid. Did he come here too?'
The man paused. 'Either there's a misunderstanding, you are insolent as hell.'
Sos constricted his fingers on the man's arm, bringing a exclamation of pain. He caught at the bandage on his head with his free hand and ripped it off. There was brigit pain as packed gauze came away from his eyeballs, but he could see again.
