And at last, on a ridge that sloped away on either side, something square and solid emerged out of the snow-storm. It stood on a platform of half-exposed rock. It wasn't until I had almost reached it that my brain recognised it for what it was. The hut. It was the hut that Sunde had mentioned. The hut on the very summit of Sankt Paal.
I struggled to leeward of it and found the door. My frozen fingers fumbled with the bindings of my skis. But at last I had them off. Then I lifted the latch. It opened. I stumbled in and dosed it behind me.
The sudden stillness was like oblivion. Outside the wind roared and I could hear the silent falling of the snow. But inside all was quiet. I was in a little passage. It was very dark after the glare of the snow. It wasn't warm. But the wind no longer cut through my clothing. There was an inner door. A pair of skis clattered to the floor as I opened it. Inside was a big room with a long deal table and benches. There was a rucksack on the table and an opened packet of sandwiches. A dull glow of warmth met me as I staggered towards a seat. That warmth — it seemed to rise up and lap me round. I felt suddenly dizzy. The table began to move. Then the whole room started spinning. I felt my legs buckle under me. I heard somebody cry out. Then everything was a blank and I was sinking down, down, into a soft, warm darkness.
Was the hut all a dream? Was this how it felt to die in the snow? I struggled back to half-consciousness. I mustn't lie here in the snow. That way lay death. I knew that and I fought it. A man mustn't cease to fight because he's dead beat. To die in the snow! That was no way to end one's life. I fought back. I got my eyes open. A face swam in my vision, blurred and convulsed like something in a tank of water. It was a girl's face. I thought of Jill. If only I could get to Jill. Somebody spoke my name. It was far away. I was hearing things. It wasn't real. I relaxed. Everything slowly faded into oblivion.
CHAPTER NINE
George Farnell
I emerged into consciousness reluctantly, like a sleeper clinging to each separate minute of his bed. I felt numb and drowsy. I could hear the wind. But I could not feel it. It was as though I had lost the power to feel. I was shivering uncontrollably and felt damp and chill. What was it I had dreamed about? A hut and a woman's voice. I opened my eyes quickly and found the outline of a boarded ceiling above me. I was lying on a wooden floor. I could feel it with my hands. And my head was pillowed on something soft, yet firm and warm. There was a warmth to the right of me. I turned my head. An old-fashioned, cast-iron stove showed the flicker of flames through a crack. On the top of it a tin kettle poured out a stream of steam. 'Feeling better?' It was a woman's voice, soft and gentle, and vaguely familiar. It sounded very far away. I sighed and relaxed. I felt so tired. I never wanted to stir again.
'Drink some of this.' My head was raised and the rim of a glass tipped against my lips. The smell of hot brandy brought me back to full consciousness. I drank and warmth spread comfortingly through my body.
I mumbled my thanks and struggled into a sitting position. Then I turned and found myself looking into Jill's level, grey eyes. 'How in the world did you get up here?' I asked.
She smiled. 'On ski.' Then suddenly serious: 'What happened, Bill? Where's George? I couldn't stay down at the hotel, waiting, whilst they all gathered for the kill. I left early this morning, when it was barely light. I thought I might go as far as Gjeiteryggen. Then the snow came and I had only just made this hut. Have you seen George?'