'How far is Gjeiteryggen?' I asked.
'Ba't twenty miles.'
'Twenty miles!' My heart sank. I glanced back at the flickering glow from the saeter window. My feet felt like lead as I followed the track of Sunde's skis through the snow. Twenty miles! He might as well have said two hundred. The pack tore at my shoulders. My feet felt blistered and raw. Every muscle in my body cried out against further movement. I put my head down and trudged on, automatically, trying to think of something other than the utter weariness that engulfed me.
At the top of a long incline Sunde paused. I stood beside him and looked back. The stars were a myriad pinpoints of light in the frosted darkness of the sky. Below us stretched a wide plain of virgin snow. And in the centre of it lay Osterbo saeter, a dark huddle of huts with the firelight still shining in a dull, warm glow through the window. I thought — a man has been killed down there to-night. We have killed a man and thrown his carcase in the lake. But it meant nothing. It was as though it had never happened. Like a dream, it seemed unreal. Only my feeling of exhaustion was real. Nothing else mattered.
We turned and trudged on up the path, winding steadily until we were climbing below cliffs that reached their dark shadows to the stars. A curtain of silvery water, like flowing lace, rippled down from above. We climbed and climbed until I thought we should never reach the top. But at last there was nothing above us but the stars. And ahead of us was the distant murmur of a waterfall.
We went on, down to the water, and then turned away along the side of a racing torrent till we reached the bridge. The moon came up, throwing the serried edges of the mountains into black outline before it topped their summits. Then suddenly the circle of its light was shining on the silver tracery of countless lakes running up a long valley. And beyond, were the mountains, hard and crystal-white with snow and ice.
We descended by sudden rushes to the lakes, our skis sizzling pleasantly on the frost-glistening snow. The joy of moving without effort! And always we followed in the track of the other skis. Farnell and Lovaas had been this way before us. Along by the lakes the going was better. Our skis slid forward with little effort. Only my pack seemed heavy. But soon we were climbing again. Whether it was the cold freshness of the night or the fact that my muscles were becoming resigned to the unaccustomed work I was giving them, I couldn't tell. But I found I was now able to keep pace with Sunde. Of course I was bigger than he was. And plenty of pully-hauly work on the boat had kept me fit. Diving wasn't a particularly healthy occupation, sweating underwater in a rubber suit.
He was pausing quite often now. And whenever I caught glimpses of his face in the moonlight, it looked white and strained. Once I suggested he took a rest. But he replied sharply: 'Lovaas won't be restin', will 'e now?'
And the mention of Lovaas turned my mind to the chase that was going on ahead of us. Farnell had had a longer rest than Lovaas. He was slight and wiry and his muscles were probably hardened to this sort of work. But Lovaas was bigger, more powerfull. He was probably a good skier — he had all the winter in which to ski. Soon perhaps we'd catch sight of them. There would be Farnell out in front, a lone small figure, in the waste of the moonlit snow. And behind him two other figures, seemingly connected to him by the slender twin threads of his ski tracks. And Lovaas would stop at nothing. That was obvious from what had happened to us down at Osterbo. He knew now what he was after — knew that the prize was big enough for him to get away with anything so long as he held the information Farnell had possessed.
The thought made me press on faster. And now I found myself held back by Sunde. Several times I moved out ahead of him and had to wait for him to come up. Now strength seemed flowing into my muscles, whilst he flagged more and more. I began to chafe at his slowness. His face looked white and drained in the moonlight. The sweat glistened on his forehead, whilst I was no longer sweating. Twice, when he paused, he peered at the map. His breath was coming in short, haggard gasps.