“Can we beat it?”
“If we can’t we can fight it. I’ve seen storms before.”
“Not a white storm.”
“Yes, white storms.”
“Not over the Himalayas.”
“Have it your own way,” he grumbled. “Anyway, we’ll fight. We’ve got it to do.”
Frightened within an inch of her life yet fascinated by the strangeness, the expression of power, the beauty of it all, she watched the storm arrive. Now there were twelve mountains in the calm that lay between them and their destiny. Now one more mountain smoked, leaving eleven. Now there were ten, eight, six, five, four, three.
“Sparky! It’s almost here!”
No answer—only a grim look of utter determination.
“Sparky! It’s here!”