"What has happened?" Tirseng said as Annette stumbled into the doorway of the hut, her clothes streaming water. She sat by the fire, haggard, and said "he still pursues us, Tirseng. He's not satisfied with having killed his brother." Bierce took an antique Colt Navy Revolver from beneath his bed and stalked to the door, clicking back the hammer. Tirseng said "that will do no good, Ambrose. Have you some dry clothing?" Bierce turned back, disgruntled. "Yes. In the trunk. Damn it, I haven't fired this thing in anger since 1914. I was kind of looking forward to it."

*****

The three stepped carefully along the path that paralleled the river, at times bathed in the spray from the enormous rapids and whirlpools that it held. The canyon was dark and deep, the boulders hung with mosses , the path slippery. Yet the air was somehow warm, fragrant with the strange musk of unknown blooms. At last, sunlight illuminated the distant canyon walls, and a huge Banyan Tree stood, enormous roots tapping down into the water. Two men stood by the tree, one a heavy-set man in typical sherpa attire, the other a short fellow with close-cropped reddish blond hair. "Hallo Bierce!" called the short man, and Tirseng felt an odd sensation of familiarity with the voice. The intense blue eyes, too, were the same as his friends had been. But it was impossible, Tirseng thought; he had disappeared on the flank of Everest more than 10 years ago. The man smiled. "Hello Tirseng," he said.

"Hello George," Tirseng answered. "Annette...Mr George Mallory".