The man put both his hands on the window sill. 'Sta stiller he ordered, and his eyes gleamed in the firelight.
Sunde took a step back as though he were scared, tripped over nothing and sprawled flat beside me, his head almost in the grate. The man at the window tensed, the gun gripped in his hand. My stomach turned over inside me. For a moment I thought he was going to fire. 'Hva er del De gjor? he snarled. Sunde moaned. His right hand was almost in the fire. He pressed his left hand over it and squirmed as though in pain. At first I thought he had burned himself. But as he explained what had happened in Norwegian, I saw his supposed injured hand move out towards one of the blazing logs.
I turned back to the window. The man was still watching us tensely. The muzzle of his Luger seemed pointed straight at my belly. The dark metal circle of it gleamed dully in the light of the flames. Then he relaxed. He held the revolver over the sill and, with a quick jerk, lifted his body on his two hands and got his knee on the sill. In that instant, Sunde half rose from the floor. His right hand came up and a blazing log flew like a flaming torch across the room. It crashed against the dark shadow in the window with a burst of sparks and then fell flaming to the floor. There was a cry of pain, a curse, and then the flash and crash of a gun. I heard the thud of the bullet hitting something soft as I rolled over towards my own pistol. Sunde was twisting round by the table. There was another shot from the window. I seized hold of my gun. The rough grip of the butt was comforting to my hand. I pushed up the safety catch. And just as I raised it to fire, there was a stab of flame from beside the table and in the sound of the explosion, there was a ghastly, choking scream and the figure in the gap of the window sagged like a rag doll and then slowly toppled backwards.
The next instant Sunde and I were alone in the smoke-filled room. Everything was silent as before. The only sound was the hiss and crackle of the flames in the grate. And the only indication of what had happened was the single log blazing on the floor below the window. The window itself was an open rectangle, showing the glimmer of white snow beyond. I picked up the log and threw it back on to the fire. Sunde leaned heavily on the table. His face was white and strained. 'Anybody'd fink we was at war again,' he said uncertainly. Then he straightened up and went to the door. A moment later his head appeared at the window. 'Give us a torch, will yer, Mr Gansert,' he said.
I got the torch from my rucksack and took it across to him. He shone the beam on the body huddled in a heap in the snow below the window. He turned it over. The skin of the man's face was very pale below his beard. His mouth was open and his eyes were beginning to glaze. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth, It had marked the snow in a blotch of livid crimson. A neat hole showed in his forehead.
I felt a shiver run down my spine. To Sunde this was just one more man killed up in these mountains. This was the sort of thing he'd been doing all through the war. But to me — well, I couldn't help thinking of the repercussions. Killing men during a war is legalised. But this was a peacetime killing. And Norway is a law-abiding country.
'We'll take 'im da'n ter the lake,' Sunde said.
I went out into the cold night air and helped tie the body to a pair of skis. Then we dragged it across the snow to the lake, near where the stream flowed down. We tied stones to the man's feet and tossed him in. I can still remember the cold, sickening splash with which he hit the dark water. For a moment ripples showed. Then all was still under the stars again. If it had been the carcase of a dog it couldn't have been disposed of with less ceremony. And I remember wondering then — as I have wondered before and since — whether man was as important in the scheme of things as he would like to believe.
Back at the hut again, Sunde began to get his rucksack on his shoulders. He had some trouble with it and I had to help him. Then he helped me on with mine. 'Where now?' I asked as we went outside and fixed on our skis.
'Steinbergdalen and then Gjeiteryggen — both turisthytten,' he replied. 'After that we'll see. Maybe Finse via the Sankt Paal glacier. Or maybe he'll turn off to the west, to Hallingdal and Myrdal an' pick up the railway there.'