surpluscarvings. Cheers for the 1890s architect!
Qualified cheers. The first three lifts were easy, with handholds in afrieze of lotus. For the next, he had to heft with his side-jaw againsta boss of stone. A window ledge made the next three facile. The finalfive stared, an open gap without recourse. He made two by grace of thejanitor's having swabbed his broom a little closer to the wall. Hismuscles began to wobble and waver: in his proportions, he'd madetwo-hundred feet of almost vertical ascent.
But, climbing a real ice-fall, you'd unleash the last convulsive effortbecause you had to. Here, when you came down to it, you could always sitand bump yourself down to the car which was, in that context, a meresafe forty feet away. So he went on because he had to.
He got the rubber tip off one stick. The bare metal tube would bore intothe snow pack. It might hold, _if_ he bore down just right, and swunghis weight just so, and got just the right sliding purchase on the wall,and the snow didn't give underfoot or undercane. And if it didn'twork--it didn't work.
Beyond the landing, westwards, the sky had broken into April blue, faraway over Iowa and Kansas, over Operation Seed-corn, over the refuge forrebels that lay at the end of all his roads....
He got set ... and lifted. A thousand miles nearer the refuge! Got set... and lifted, balanced over plunging gulfs. His reach found a roundpilaster at the top, a perfect grip for a hand. He drew himself up, andthis time his cleated foot cut through snow to stone, and slipped, buthis hold was too good. And there he was.
No salutes, no cheers, only one more victory for life.
Even in victory, unlife gave you no respite. The doorstep was three feetwide, hollowed by eighty years of traffic, and filled with frozendrippings from its pseudo-Norman arch. He had to tilt across it andcatch the brass knob--like snatching a ring in a high dive.
No danger now, except sitting down in a growing puddle till someone camealong to hoist him under the armpits, and then arriving at the general'slate, with his seat black-wet.... You unhorse your foeman, curvet up tothe royal box to receive the victor's chaplet, swing from your saddle,and fall flat on your face.
But, he cogitated on the bench inside, getting his other cleat off andthe tip back on his stick, things do even out. No hearty helper hadintervened, no snot-nosed, gaping child had twitched his attention,nobody's secretary--pretty of course--had scurried to helpfully knockhim down with the door. They were all out front superintending arrivalof the computer.
* * * * *
The general said only, if tartly, "Oh yes, major, come in. You're late,a'n't you?"
"It's still icy," said Ed Scott. "Had to drive carefully, you know."
In fact, he _had_ lost minutes that way, enough to have saved his exactdeadline. And that excuse, being in proportion to Filipson's standarddimension, was fair game.
* * * * *
I wondered what dimension Clyde would go on to, now that the challengeof war was past. To his rebels refuge at last maybe? Does it matter?Whatever it is, life will be outclassed, and Scott-Esterbrook's brand oflife will fight back.
THE END
FOOTNOTES:
[A] Hall, "Whole Upper Extremity Transplant for Human Beings." Annals ofSurgery 1944, #120, p. 12.
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from _Astounding Science Fiction_ August 1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note.
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends