for the highest” seemed to him a less reasonable and perhaps more commonplace proposition than “the much for the high.” He did not, in fact, care for excessive striving, and he was bored by mere exploits.
While he was still contemplating the scene, twilight fell, steeping the depths in a rich, velvet gloom that spread upwards like a dye. Then the whole range, much nearer now, paled into fresh splendor; a full moon rose, touching each peak in succession like some celestial lamplighter, until the long horizon glittered against a blue-black sky. The air grew cold and a wind sprang up, tossing the machine uncomfortably. These new distresses lowered the spirits of the passengers; it had not been reckoned that the flight could go on after dusk, and now the last hope lay in the exhaustion of gasoline. That, however, was bound to come soon. Mallinson began to argue about it, and Conway, with some reluctance, for he really did not know, gave as his estimate that the utmost distance might be anything up to a thousand miles, of which they must already have covered most. “Well, where would that bring us?” queried the youth miserably.
“It’s not easy to judge, but probably some part of Tibet. If these are the Karakorams, Tibet lies beyond. One of the crests, by the way, must be K2, which is generally counted the second highest mountain in the world.”
“Next on the list after Everest,” commented Barnard. “Gee, this is some scenery.”
“And from a climber’s point of view much stiffer than Everest. The Duke of Abruzzi gave it up as an absolutely impossible peak.”
“ Oh, God !” muttered Mallinson testily, but Barnard laughed. “I guess you must be the official guide on this trip, Conway, and I’ll admit that if I only had a flash of cafe cognac I wouldn’t care if it’s Tibet or Tennessee.”
“But what are we going to do about it?” urged Mallinson again. “Why are we here? What can be the point of it all? I don’t see how you can make jokes about it.”
“Well, it’s as good as making a scene about it, young fellow. Besides, if the man is off his nut, as you’ve suggested, there probably isn’t any point.”
“He must be mad. I can’t think of any other explanation. Can you, Conway?”
Conway shook his head.
Miss Brinklow turned round as she might have done during the interval of a play. “As you haven’t asked my opinion, perhaps I oughtn’t to give it,” she began, with shrill modesty, “but I should like to say that I agree with Mr. Mallinson. I’m sure the poor man can’t be quite right in his head. The pilot, I mean, of course. There would be no excuse for him, anyhow, if he were not mad.” She added, shouting confidentially above the din: “And do you know, this is my first trip by air! My very first! Nothing would ever induce me to do it before, though a friend of mine tried her very best to persuade me to fly from London to Paris.”
“And now you’re flying from India to Tibet instead,” said Barnard. “That’s the way things happen.”
She went on: “I once knew a missionary who had been to Tibet. He said the Tibetans were very odd people. They believe we are descended from monkeys.”
“Real smart of ’em.”
“Oh, dear, no, I don’t mean in the modern way. They’ve had the belief for hundreds of years, it’s only one of their superstitions. Of course I’m against all of it myself, and I think Darwin was far worse than any Tibetan. I take my stand on the Bible.”
“Fundamentalist, I suppose?”
But Miss Brinklow did not appear to understand the term. “I used to belong to the L.M.S.,” she shrieked, “but I disagreed with them about infant baptism.”
Conway continued to feel that this was a rather comic remark long after it had occurred to him that the initials were those of the London Missionary Society. Still picturing the inconveniences of holding a theological argument at Euston Station, he began to think that there was something slightly