Kim Robinson - The Martians

“Down where?” Roger says involuntarily.

“Well, I thought to the cave, anyway. Or at least to here—our tent’s crushed, she’s pretty much out in the open right now—in her bag, you know, but the tent’s not doing much.”

Grimly Eileen and Roger begin to pull their climbing clothes on.

Outside the wind rips at them and Roger wonders if he can climb. They clip on to the rope and jumar up rapidly, moving at emergency speed. Sometimes the blasts of wind from above are so strong that they can only hang in against the rock and wait. During one blast Roger becomes frightened—it seems impossible that flesh and bone, harness, jumar, rope, piton, and rock will all hold under the immense pressure of the downdraft. But all he can do is huddle in the crack the fixed rope follows and hope, getting colder every second.

They enter a long snaking ice gully that protects them from the worst of the wind, and make better progress. Several times rocks or chunks of ice fall by them, dropping like bombs or giant hailstones. Dougal and Eileen are climbing so fast that it is difficult to keep up with them. Roger feels weak and cold; even though he is completely covered, his nose and fingers feel frozen. His intestines twist a little as he crawls over a boulder jammed in the gully, and he groans. Better to have stayed in the tent on this particular day.

Suddenly they are at Camp Nine—one big box tent, flattened at one end. It is flapping like a big flag in a gale, cracking and snapping again and again, nearly drowning out their voices. Frances is glad to see them; under her goggles her eyes are red-rimmed. “I think I can sit up in a sling and rappel down if you can help me,” she says over the tent noise.

“How are you?” asks Eileen.

“The left arm’s broken just above the elbow. I’ve made a bit of a splint for it. I’m awfully cold, but other than that I don’t feel too bad. I’ve taken some painkillers, but not enough to make me sleepy.”

They all crowd into what’s left of the tent and Eileen turns on a stove. Dougal dashes about outside, vainly trying to secure the open end of the tent and end the flapping. They brew tea and sit in sleeping bags to drink it. “What time is it?” “Two.” “We’d better be off then.” “Yeah.”

Getting Frances down to Camp Eight is slow, cold work. The exertion of climbing the fixed ropes at high speed was just enough to keep them warm on the climb up; now they have to hug the rock and hold on, or wait while Frances is belayed down one of the steeper sections. She uses her right arm and steps down everything she can, helping the process as much as possible.

She is stepping over the boulder that gave Roger such distress when a blast of wind hits her like a punch, and over the rock she tumbles, face against it. Roger leaps up from below and grabs her just as she is about to roll helplessly onto her left side. For a moment all he can do is hang there, holding her steady. Dougal and Eileen shout down from above. No room for them. Roger double-sets the jumar on the fixed rope above him, pulls up with one arm, the other around Frances’s back. They eye each other through their goggles—she scrambles blindly for a foothold—finds something and takes some of her weight herself. Still, they are stuck there. Roger shows Frances his hand and points at it, trying to convey his plan. She nods. He unclips from the fixed rope, sets the jumar once again right below Frances, descends to a good foothold, and laces his hands together. He reaches up, guides Frances’s free foot into his hands. She shifts her weight onto that foot and lowers herself until Roger keeps the hold in place. Then the other foot crosses to join Roger’s two feet—a good bit of work by Frances, who is certainly hurting. Mid-move another gust almost wrecks their balance, but they lean into each other and hold. They are below the boulder, and Dougal and Eileen can now climb over it and belay Frances again.

They start down once more. But the exertion has triggered a reaction inside Roger, and suddenly peristalsis attacks him. He curses the cave silt and tries desperately to quell the urge, but it won’t be denied. He signals his need to the others and jumars down the fixed rope away from them, to get out of the way of the descent and obtain a little privacy. Pulling his pants down while the wind drags him around the fixed rope is actually a technical problem, and he curses continuously as he relieves himself; it is without a doubt the coldest shit of his life. By the time the others get to him he is shivering so hard he can barely climb.

They barge into Camp Eight around sunset, and Eileen gets on the radio. The lower camps are informed of the situation and given their instructions. No one questions Eileen when her voice has that edge in it.

The problem is that their camp is low on food and oxygen. “I’ll go down and get a load,” Dougal says.

“But you’ve already been out a long time,” Eileen says.

“No no. A hot meal and I’ll be off again. You should stay here with Frances, and Roger’s chilled down.”

“We can get Arthur or Hans to come up.”

“We don’t want movement up, do we? They’d have to stay up here, and we’re out of room as it is. Besides, I’m the most used to climbing in this wind in the dark.”

Eileen nods. “Okay.”

“You warm enough?” Dougal asks Roger.

Roger can only shiver. They help him into his bag and dose him with tea, but it is hard to drink. Long after Dougal has left he is still shivering.

“A good sign he’s shivering,” Frances says to Eileen. “But he’s awfully cold. Maybe too hypothermic to warm up. I’m cold myself.”

Eileen keeps the stove on high till there is a fug of warm air in the tent. She gets into Frances’s bag with her, carefully avoiding her injured side. In the ruddy stove light their faces are pinched with discomfort.

“I’m okay,” Frances mutters after a while. “Good’n warm. Get him now.”

Roger is barely conscious as Eileen pushes into his bag with him. He is resentful that he must move. “Get your outers off,” Eileen orders. They struggle around, half in the bag, to get Roger’s climbing gear off. Lying together in their thermal underwear, Roger slowly warms up. “Man, you are cold,” Eileen says.

“’Preciate it,” Roger mutters wearily. “Don’t know what happened.”

“We didn’t work you hard enough on the descent. Plus you had to bare your butt to a windchill factor I wouldn’t want to guess.”

Body warmth, seeping into him. Long hard body pressed against him. She won’t let him sleep. “Not yet. Turn around. Here. Drink this.” Frances holds his eyelids up to check him. “Drink this!” He drinks. Finally they let him sleep.

Dougal wakes them, barging in with a full pack. He and the pack are crusted with snow. “Pretty desperate,” he says with a peculiar smile. He hurries into a sleeping bag and drinks tea. Roger checks his watch—midnight. Dougal has been at it for almost twenty-four hours, and after wolfing down a pot of stew he puts on his mask, rolls to a corner of the tent, and falls into a deep sleep.

Next morning the storm is still battering the tent. The four of them get ready awkwardly—the tent is better for three, and they must be careful of Frances’s arm. Eileen gets on the radio and orders those below to clear Camp Seven and retreat to the cave. Once climbing they find that Frances’s whole side has stiffened up. Getting her down means they have to hammer in new pitons, set up rappelling ropes for her, lower her with one of them jumaring down the fixed rope beside her, while occasionally hunkering down to avoid hard gusts of wind. They stop in Camp Seven for an hour to rest and eat, then drop to the cave. It is dusk by the time they enter the dark refuge.