those first
steps.

Suddenly, his thinking metamorphosed: He faced, not a miserable,
unwarranted forlorn hope, but the universe as it was. Titanic pressure
suit against the hurricanes of Jupiter, and against a gutter freshet,
life was always outclassed--and always fought back. Proportions didn't
matter, only mood.

He switched on his ICEG to record what might happen. I auditioned it,
but I can't disentangle it from what he told me. For example, in his
words: Multiply distances by five, heights by ten, and slickness by
twenty. And in the playback: Thirty chin-high ledges loaded with soft
lard, and only finger holds and toe holds. And you did it on stilts that
began, not at your heels, at your hips. Add the hazard of Helpful Hosea:
"Here, lemme giveya hand, Mac!", grabbing the key arm, and crashing down
the precipice on top of you.

Switching on the ICEG took his mind back to the snug apartment where its
receiver stood, the armchair, books, desk of diverting work. It looked
awful good, but ... life fought back, and always it found a way.

* * * * *

He shucked his windbreaker because it would be more encumbrance than
help in the showdown. He checked, shoelaces, and strapped on the cleats
he had made for what they were worth. He vetoed the bag of sand and salt
he kept for minor difficulties--far too slow. He got out of the car.

This could be the last job he'd have to do incognito--Seed-corn, he'd
get credit for. Therefore, he cherished it: triumph for its own sake.
Alternatively, he'd end at the bottom in a burlesque clutter of
chrom-alum splints and sticks, with maybe a broken bone to clinch the
decision. For some men, death is literally more tolerable than defeat in
humiliation.

Eighteen shallow steps to the turn, twelve to the top. Once, he'd have
cleared it in three heartbeats. Now, he had to make it to a
twenty-minute deadline, without rope or alpenstock, a Moon-man adapted
to a fraction of Earth gravity.

With the help of the car hood, the first two pitches were easy. For the
next four or five, wind had swept the top of the balustrade, providing
damp, gritty handhold. Before the going got tougher, he developed a
technic, a rhythm and system of thrusts proportioned to heights and
widths, a way of scraping holds where ice was not malignantly welded to
stone, an appreciation of snow texture and depth, an economy of effort.

He was enjoying a premature elation when, on the twe