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The rocks gradually became less frequent. Then suddenly we topped a ridge and there in the valley ahead of us was the hut. It was a square building, constructed of logs. At the back were outhouses. The little colony of huts, looking like models in the moonlight, was set on a big outcrop of rock, that showed black through powdery, wind-driven snow.

Ski tracks ran straight up to the door of the hut. I told Sunde to wait and skirted round the back, coming down on the far side. There, clear in the white light of the moon on snow, were the ski tracks going on and on until lost in the infinity of cold whiteness — three separate and clearly defined tracks.

I whistled to Sunde. 'They've gone on,' I told him as we approached the door of the hut. I lifted the latch. The door opened. Inside it was warm. The ashes of a log fire smouldered in the grate. With the door shut the warmth of the place stole over us like a soporific. I realised once more how tired I was. It was two o'clock. I had done some twenty-six miles of stiff climbing on foot and on ski in twelve hours. I dropped my pack on the floor and kicked the embers into a blaze. I got Sunde's pack off and then went out into the kitchen and found more logs. With a blazing pine fire to warm us I hacked at the blood-hard clothing of the little diver's shoulder. At last I had cut it free. The bullet had torn through the muscle on the outside of the upper arm, just by the shoulder joint. I heated some snow to water on the fire, bathed the wound and then bandaged it with strips from a torn shirt.

When I had helped him into a jersey, he pulled a wooden settle to the fire and sat down. 'Nah, Mr Gansert, yer'd best get movin' if yer goin' ter catch up wiv the others,' he said. 'We lost time on the last leg.'

Lost time! What sort of a pace did he expect us to keep up? I sat down on a bench and removed my boots and stockings. My feet were red and swollen. The flesh was tender and the bones ached as though they had been bruised. I looked across at Sunde. His face was white in the long moonbeams that slanted in through the windows. The firelight threw a grotesque shadow of him on the great logs that formed walls and ceiling. I cursed myself for not having realised that he'd been wounded. He'd lost a lot of blood. There was no question of his going on. But to go on alone! With him for company the mountains had seemed remote, but friendly. But now I thought of those white, jagged monsters waiting for me outside — and they suddenly seemed cold and wild and cruel. We were still climbing. Soon, if I kept on going, those ski tracks would lead me up to the ice-capped summits, on to the glaciers. Sunde knew this country. He was at home here. I had not had to trouble about direction. I had relied on him. But to go on alone — that was different. Suppose a mist came down? Then I should still be able to follow the other's ski tracks. But what about a snowstorm? With the ski tracks obliterated, how should I find my way then? I shivered. Every bone in my body cried out to stay here by the fire. I opened my mouth to tell him that I wouldn't go on alone. Then I remembered Farnell, and instead I said, 'I'll just change my socks, then I'll get moving.'' He nodded as though there had never been any doubt. And whilst I got myself ready, he produced map, and compass from his rucksack. 'The next leg ain't so bad,' he said. 'Keep followin' the line of the river till yer come ter a lot o' lakes. Yer'll find Gjeiteryggen there. Yer can't miss it.'

'I seem to have heard that one before,' I muttered as I pulled on my boots.

He grinned. 'Well, just you remember ter keep along the course o' the valley. There's a bit o' a climb at first up ter the Driftaskar — that's a pass up above the valley here where the farmers used ter ca'nt their cattle as they passed through. After that a good deal of the route's da'n 'ill.'

'How far to Gjeiteryggen?' I asked.

'Aba't fifteen kilometres,' was his reply.

Another eleven miles! I got wearily to my feet and began to eat flatbrod and goat's cheese. 'What's at Gjeiteryggen?' I asked. 'Another tourist hut?'

'That's right. Ain't as nice as Osterbo or Steinbergdalen. A bit wild like. But you'll get shelter there.'

'And after Gjeiteryggen?'

He hesitated. 'My guess is he'll make for Finse an' the railway. He'll by gettin' tired by the time he gets to Gjeiteryggen.'

'And how far is Gjeiteryggen from Finse?'