They were, Gordon knew, not half-way up Buck
Mountain. There were no dwellings between them
and Greenstream village, no houses immediately at
their back. The road wound up before them toward
the pure splendor of sheer space. The cold
steadily increased. Gordon's jaw chattered, and he
saw that Buckley's face was pinched and blue.

"Got to move," Gordon articulated; "freeze out
here." He lifted his feet, stamped them on the hard
earth, while the pain leaped and flamed in his side.
He labored up the ascent, but Buckley Simmons remained
where he was standing. I'll let him stay,
Gordon decided, he can freeze to death and welcome,
no loss... after a thing like that. He moved
forward once more, but once more stopped.

"C'mon," he called impatiently; "you'll take no
good here." He retraced his steps, and roughly
grasped the other's arm, urging him forward.
Buckley Simmons whimpered, but obeyed the pressure.

The long, toilsome course began, a trail of frequent
scarlet patches marking their way. Buckley
lagged behind, shaking with exhaustion and
chill, but Gordon commanded him on; he pulled
him over deep ruts, cursed him into renewed energy.
This dangerously delayed their progress.

"I got a good mind to leave you," Gordon told
him; "something's busted and I want to make the

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v?