Free Solo Faces by James Salter

not stop. Rand wiped his fingers on the rock and tried to collect fleeing thoughts. He hammered in a piton and clipped them both to it. Cabot’s head had fallen forward as if he were asleep. A thousand feet lay below them. There were two or three hours of daylight left. In any case they could not stay here.
    Some distance above was an overhang that might conceal a ledge. That was the best hope. Perhaps he could reach it.
    “I’m going up to see if there’s a ledge,” he announced.
    Cabot was silent.
    “If there is, I’ll get you up. Will you be all right? I’ll bring you up afterwards.”
    Cabot raised his head slightly, as if in farewell. His eyes were dim, he managed to part his lips in a faint, terrifying smile, the smile of a corpse. His teeth were outlined in blood.
    “Hang on,” Rand said.
    A sickening fear spilled through him as he started, nor did it lessen. He was alone, climbing unprotected. He was worse than alone. He made his way upward, chilled by the malevolence of the wall, imagining it might shed him completely by merely letting loose the entire slab he held to.
    The last train had long since gone down from Montenvers. The only eyes at the telescope were those of curious guests of the hotel out for a stroll before dinner. What they saw were details of a magnificent landscape, roseate and still. The light was pure, the sky clear. They, as well as all of creation, were unaware of the chill shadow beneath the overhang and the man, heart-empty, who was hidden in it.
    He worked slowly outward, hammering pitons into a narrowing crack and standing in his étriers —slings which bore his entire weight. The crack stopped. He searched desperately, there was no place for a piton. Leaning out, he reached around the lip and felt for holds. His hand found one. He might be able to pull himself up, brace one foot against the last piton, and somewhere farther on find another. His fingers felt and refelt the unseen rock. He still had the strength for one big effort. He took a breath and swung out, bent backward, his free hand searching. Nothing. He managed to get a little higher. Nothing. A rush of panic. He was feeling about frantically. At the very top of his reach he found a hold. In tribute to his struggle the rock had relented. He pulled himself up and lay panting. The ledge was two feet wide, uneven, but it was a ledge. He set about bringing up Cabot.

14
    T HE SUN HAD GONE down behind Mont Blanc. It was colder. The sky was still light, the small Bleuet stove making tea.
    Cabot sat slumped and motionless. The blood had dried on his head and face but his eyes, staring down, were vacant.
    The cup was passed between battered hands.
    “How’s your head? It seems to have stopped bleeding.”
    Cabot bared his black-edged teeth. He nodded slightly.
    “I think we’re all right for now,” Rand told him.
    Cabot was silent. After a moment, he murmured, “How’s the weather?”
    The sky was clear. The first pale star had made an appearance.
    “We don’t want to fool with the weather,” he mumbled. This seemed to exhaust him. He sank into meditation. Rand took the cup from his hand.
    In the distance the lights of Chamonix were visible. As it grew darker they became more numerous, distinct. They meant warm meals, conversation, comfortable rooms, all of it unattainable as the stars. It was colder now, it had come quickly, covering the peaks. The long vigil of night began.
    Cabot was covered, hands in his pockets, bootlaces loosened. The wall was in shadow, the brown of ancient monuments. A feeling of intense isolation, a kind of claustrophobia came over Rand. It was as if he could not breathe, as if space were crushing him. He fought against it. The three cold stars in the belt of Orion shone above. His mind wandered. He thought of condemned men waiting out their last hours, days in California, his youth. His feet were cold, he tried to move his toes. Hours passed, periods of oblivion, of staring at the stars. There