MacConnachie was concerned. Day had broken in the high ground above, but still they travelled downhill, enveloped now in a thick mist that had risen, pale and mysterious, with the dawn. Somewhere ahead the bulk of the main ridge loomed, but he was blind.

Then, as gently as it had come, the mist melted away, and the massif stood before them, two hundred yards to their front. A towering, scrub-grown scar rose straight up its sheer face, much like the one they had climbed the day before, but infinitely taller. It was the only available cover and, now that they were exposed to the sky, he led the way hurriedly towards it, humping over cracks and gullies, taking many anxious glances over his shoulder for the helicopter.

At the foot of the scar, he crouched and waited for Ansell.

‘We’re going up that. Stay close, but not less than ten feet. When the chopper comes, close up to talk.’

‘Right.’

‘And stop grinning all the time.’

‘I’m happy in my work.’

Ansell didn’t grin for long. The scrub was, if anything, even thicker than the day before, twisted and tough, gnarled and deep-rooted. Certainly the slope was steeper. Every yard had to be fought for and won; nothing was yielded; and the cost was measured in torn fingers, wrenched ankles, and nails laid back. He came to feel tiny again, in face of an impossible ascent. Sheer, repetitious labour took command.

Then the helicopter came, and they burrowed deep into the brush.

Ansell started to worm his way upwards through the binding growth, heading for the point at which he had last glimpsed MacConnachie, but somehow, with the dust puffing in his face, and the chopper swishing rapidly closer, he missed him. He rooted about with the beginnings of panic. Then MacConnachie called, ‘Here, here!’ and he turned left, wriggling towards the voice. From the height of a small animal’s head, it was impossible to see beyond the nearest stalks, and it was without warning that he came up suddenly against MacConnachie’s back. MacConnachie hissed, ‘Still! Lie still!’

The helicopter seemed to be almost directly overhead, its blades beating the air about them, the scrub rustling furiously in the buffeting down-draught. He didn’t want to risk exposing his face, so he shouted into the ground,

‘Has he spotted us?’

‘No.’

It was becoming oppressively hot again as the sun marched up the sky. Heat not only beat down on their unprotected heads and backs, but rose up into their faces in stifling waves from the earth. To gain some relief, Ansell very slowly raised his head a little until he could look back at the secondary feature; he saw to his disappointment that they were still below the level of the peak where they had spent the night; they had travelled no more than two hundred feet up the scarp. Sweat ran into his eyes and curled under his chin to hang there, tickling. He lowered his face again and listened to the helicopter as it moved off, the sound rising and falling, marking the pattern of the search they would have to avoid. After a while, MacConnachie said,