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Brew City Magazine | |
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Guidelines About the Magazine Editor-in-Chief: Managing Editor: Associate Editor: |
Edward Rodosek
The climber leaned against the vertical concrete wall, shrinking his right leg, and adjusted his left leg with his hands. Then he started to call. He yelled as loudly as he could, then waited for a moment for a response, and repeated his shout. But the roaring wind carried away his calls, and nothing moved on the empty terrace. The nape of the climber's neck was stiff from looking upwards; he took a short break and tried to knead the neck muscles with his equally rigid hands. Then he roared again a couple of times, as penetratingly as he could; but then he noticed his voice became hoarse. He hadn't much hope left that anybody would hear his calling, when he looked upwards once more. A face was staring at him from the terrace. In the lights from the façade, the climber saw the face belonged to a teenager dressed in an anorak with a fashionable head-covering, which copied an astronaut's cap. The boy was leaning against the fence with both arms, his chin on his hands, and stared at the climber as if he'd observed a rare animal. "Hey, you! Please call for somebody!" The boy remained motionless. "I need help, do you hear me? I'm wounded and I'll freeze to death if somebody doesn't help me–do you understand? Call your mother, or father, or some waiter–just tell somebody inside that I'm here. Quickly, please!" The boy moved to the left and bent down over the fence as low as he could. It seemed he didn't believe what he saw. Perhaps the boy was afraid of him, thought the climber. Maybe he'd begun it wrongly. He had to encourage him, to entangle him into conversation. "Listen, pal, my name's Jim. And what's is yours?" No answer. The boy only inclined his head a bit and wiped his nose on his sleeve. "How old are you? I bet you arrived up here by a hang-glider or a helicopter, didn't you? The elevator is only for small children and older people, don't you agree? Come on, call somebody and afterwards I'll buy you a nice, big cake." The boy's head disappeared. The climber sighed with relief. Finally, he'd succeeded in finding the right way of communication. Now the youngster was probably talking with his parents and they will at once– A drop of tepid liquid dripped on his arm, then three or four drops more on his forehead and cheeks. The sky was cloudless and the stars were shining–so where had the rain come from? He glanced upwards again and saw a thin trickle ripped from wind, which originated from an opening between the fence's banisters. The boy was urinating on him. The climber was numb with astonishment. For an instant, he wanted to laugh–but then a blind fury grasped him and he roared so inhumanly the trickle stopped. A moment later, he heard the door on the terrace open and then close again. The climber collected a dozen stones and started to throw them upwards, one after another. Because of the steepness of his throwing, the most of the stones rebounded from the fence and fell without any effect. Some rolled over the terrace's pavement and only two or three of them weakly rattled on the glass façade. After the climber rested for awhile, he tried to gather a new stock of stones. But for this purpose, he had to creep several yards around, which wasn't easy because of the pain in his wounded leg. He continued with the throwing despite feeling his strength weakening more and more. When he'd almost given up, it happened; one of the stones luckily hit something metallic, which must be loaded on a window ledge. The climber heard the loud clank of a tin salver, and then a magnificent bang of a loaded hip of glassware. After a while, he heard the door on the terrace open and several subdued voices uttered. He saw two or three astonished faces, waved his hands to them and succeeded in grinning weakly before he slipped to his knees and fainted. *** His bed was heavenly comfortable; the sheets smelt of the fashionable softener Fluff, and all the lights in the bedroom were subdued. "Oh, you're awake now," a woman's voice stated. A young woman dressed in a nurse uniform stood at the head of the climber's bed and cheerfully nodded to him. "You know, you're my first patient." The climber looked around. "Is this the first aid station? On Platform Four? And you are a nurse in here? Was I unconscious for a long time?" "Yes, yes, yes, and not too long," she answered with a hearty smile. "You're asking a lot of questions at the same time. Fortunately I've an excellent memory." He lifted himself on his elbows and slightly moved the toes on his left foot, just for a test. Then he bent it with trouble and found out it was stiff but still movable. His thigh was bandaged, and on his forehead he had a big plaster. "Easy, Mister Stone. You've had a shot against pains and the flying doctor ordered me not to let you out of bed for the next day or two." "Where do you know my family name from? And who is the flying–" He recalled her remark about his way of questioning and hushed. She burst into laughter, showing a row of tiny teeth. "Yesterday we had to undress you and the representative of MRS wanted to see your documents. He said you'd caused them a problem twice in the same day." "Mountain Rescue Service? Now I understand. You called them and they then brought that doctor, didn't they?" "Of course; that's one of their basic duties." He shrugged. "I didn't expect to see them again so soon. Did they pull me up on the terrace?" She shook her head. "Oh no. These dandies have just been buzzing around with their dazzling lights. Then they landed on the flat roof of the building and declared they couldn't do anything." "But how–" "That tiny chap climbed down to you and tied a rope around you. He was already here to look see how you are, early in the morning, when you were still asleep." The climber was a bit confused. "I can't follow you. Why weren't those specialists from the Mountain Rescue Service able to come down those meager fifteen yards to fetch me?" She shrugged. "I don't know. Those specialists said that kind of rescue hadn't been in their training programme. They only dealt with machines." Her voice was full of contempt. "The man I'd mentioned before, Collins, volunteered his services in that matter." "So he was the one who dared to climb down to me? An ordinary guest in an evening suit?" She shook with her curls. "Why… I wouldn't say he was in an evening suit. No, he was dressed almost as oddly as…" She paused, hesitatingly. "… As oddly as I?" he helped her. "Well–yes, if you say so. He climbed like a goat; I've never seen such thing before. And meanwhile he shouted some orders; half of them nobody understood, but everyone obeyed him." The climber nodded. "I see. And after that you found my credit cards and put me in this expensive room." "Yes; the manager said he wasn't worried about the payment." She laughed again. "Now, I'm about to bring to you a restorative soup, and after that you must sleep for a while. Otherwise both of us will be blamed by the flying doctor, you know." She fluffed his pillow and hurried away with quick, tiny steps. *** The climber must have been dead tired, for he awoke at eleven o'clock. Then he ordered an abundant meal–breakfast joined with lunch. After that he pressed several numbers on the phone set, which were nicely written on a small piece of hotel paper. At the second ringing tone, some firm male voice uttered, "Collins." "It's me, Stone. That awkward fellow who you pulled up last night." "I see." After several seconds Collins added: "Listen–just now I'm about to go out for some errands, and you probably need to get as much rest as possible. So, we could meet... say, about four?" "Perfect. Where shall I come to?" "Well, I believe in the piano bar there's the least noise." The climber felt his leg almost didn't hurt at all and he was longing for some exercise. After a while he simply couldn't endure being in the room anymore, so he put on his clothes and went for a walk. Two or three floors of the Platform Four were stuffed with many small shops, where all sorts of trumped up souvenirs and useless but expensive stuff were on sale. Unfortunately, the climber couldn't find a rucksack anywhere; so he had to be satisfied with a plastic bag for golf clubs, which he could put across his shoulders. Although it was still early in the afternoon, many mountain-fanciers were already dancing in a big hall, which was filled with the heavy smoke of marijuana. Somehow the climber managed to push his way through the crowd and return to his room. There he comfortably showered and shaved himself and then, much too early, headed to the piano bar. When the climber felt somebody's tap on his shoulder, he turned around. Although Collins was short and slender, he seemed tough, and his shake was as firm as a vise. His skin was sunburned in a manner that solarium could provide. Collins nodded toward the stage, on which a few youngsters carried a series of baseball bats, enormous hammers, and even a big, toothed cudgel, from motion pictures about ancient Rome. "I was wrong about the relative silence, which ought to be here. If you don't mind, it'd be better if we move on." "I don't follow you." "Don't you see them? They are preparing the stage for the ensemble Mad Blaster. In each of their afternoon performances they smash all the guitars and the keyboard into pieces, and in the evening performance, besides that, the whole podium. The tickets are costly, but yet they're sold out for several weeks in advance." Both men passed the terrace on which a many group of mountain-fanciers crowded around the bet collector. The subject of the bet was who of the four competitors would manage to shape the best human face out of the mountain slope in front of the terrace. The tool for the shaping the face was a huge military laser. For the present, the slope was already demolished and several wagons of rock fragments in the hollow testified the efficiency of the artistic tool. The both men went round a corner just at the moment when some cleaner pushed a heap of litter–paper napkins, tin cans, plastic cups and containers, broken glasses and other rubbish–with a huge broom into a big square niche in a side wall of the corridor. Collins stopped and whispered to the climber, "Watch this." The cleaner pressed a key on the wall; a hatch in the niche opened and all the trash disappeared downwards with a rattling. For just a moment, both men caught a glimpse of a remote mountain slope, wrapped with a translucent haze. "For heaven's sake!" muttered the climber in astonishment. "I agree," said Collins. "Officially they cart off all the waste down to the valley on the public dumping ground. But the transport costs a lot so they cut the expense in that way." "But… but all this trash falls on the side of the hill!" The climber was irritated. "Such an illegal move destroys the natural environment, the biotope!" "What environment?" Collin's voice was embittered. "All the mountain animals have been exterminated long ago; nowadays, stein bocks and chamois can only be seen in the zoo. And the vegetation survives to some degree; at least the ones that stay unburied." They went to the empty club room and sat down on the armchairs near the window. "What about the people walking around? Certainly there are several tourists who sometimes go on foot and they could be hurt by that dirty mess." "On foot?" asked Collins sarcastically. "For what reason would anybody take pains on foot and ignore all that marvelous opportunity to move in all three directions? All the normal tourists are safely enclosed in the hovercrafts, gondolas, elevators, planes… The words ' climber', 'alpinist' or 'mountaineer' are queer notions. And, of course, nobody has to think about such fools." Collins persistently gazed through the window panes. A huge helicopter crammed with tourists, starving for pleasure, was just lowering on the landing surface of Platform Four. Its two roaring rotors were so noisy that conversation became impossible. When the climber spoke again, his voice was a bit hesitant. "May I ask you a personal question?" "Shoot." "Look–I'm deeply obliged to you for risking your own neck to save me. Those fools from MRS would have probably held a consultation for so long that I'd have been frozen to death." Collins tacitly waved his hand. "Obviously," insisted the climber, "you wouldn't be able to do it if you were 'a normal tourist' as you said. Mister Collins–are you a climber, too?" "Huh," said Collins. "Do you really mean you may ask anyone about that? Do you believe anybody–when sober–would confess that he's, for instance, a kleptomaniac, a pyromaniac or a pedophile?" The climber looked annoyed. "You can't be serious with such a comparison! All those… how should I say… inclinations are mental sicknesses and they're forbidden by law!" Collins glanced at him ironically. "How long would it last, in your opinion, before climbing will be among the forbidden categories? You see, the climbers disturb the set up order; you stepped out of a good, ordered line. And, above all, you don't buy any tickets, you eat your own food and drink, you prefer to sleep in a tent instead of paying for a room. In short, you cut the profit to all the other participants in tourism. You're a dangerous example for the other consumers, so climbing will be forbidden by law--soon--maybe in the next few months. I bet in this moment somebody in the government is preparing a draft of a bill, which would settle this matter for good." The climber stared at Collins. "I wouldn't insist further. Still, I don't believe you really mean what you're saying." Collins turned from the window and made two steps toward the climber. "Do you see this scar?" He strained the skin on his forehead with his fingers and the climber noticed a scar a bit paler than the skin around it. The scar extended from above Collins' eye to his temple. "This is a mark from a broken bottle or maybe from an open can–I'll never know–out of a garbage heap, which was dumped on me from a height of a couple of hundred yards, out of Platform Seven." The climber shook his head in a quiet compassion. Collins' face was gloomy when he stepped close to a drink dispenser and put a coin in a slot. For a moment, he stopped his forefinger over the knob for vodka but then he changed his mind and pressed on the knob for orange juice. "Where did you intend to be last night?" asked Collins. "You had a rope and a bunch of pitons on you." "Wright's bivouac, and the next day over the ridge to the Green Valley." Collins' eyes beamed in admiration. He nodded, took a seat in front of the climber and leaned forward. "That's a fairly good tour, man. By the way, call me Steve." "Jim," said the climber, smiling. "Well, Jim–have you been up there before?" Jim nodded. "Sort of. I was only nine when my grandfather and my great-uncle took me with them. They mostly dragged me with a rope and, sometimes, they carried me piggyback. In those bygone days the route was marked quite well. Last week I studied it thoroughly and I believe I'm capable of getting through it. Although I'm aware it'd be a little hard here and there." Steve Collins looked thoughtfully through the window. "I've closely examined that route, too," he said. "I even have several 3-D snapshots of the hardest slopes; although I'm a little embarrassed that I'd bought them. Do you know that under the west side of the ridge there are twenty or thirty pitons left on the slope? I've noticed them with my binoculars from Platform Seven." Jim eyed him for a while. "Well, Steve–who of us will say it first?" Steve grinned widely. "Shell we tackle this job together, Jim?" Jim stretched out his hand and Steve shook it firmly.
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