Paths of Glory

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

GEORGE LEANED OVER the railing of the SS Caledonia and, along with the rest of the team, stared down at the dockside in disbelief. None of them could believe what they were witnessing. As far as the eye could see, the dockside was crowded with people clapping, cheering, and waving Union Jacks.

“Who are they cheering for?” asked George, wondering if perhaps some American film star was on board.

“I think you’ll find, George, that they’re welcoming you home,” said Somervell. “They must be suffering from the delusion that you reached the summit.”

George continued to stare down at the clamoring crowd, but there was only one person he was looking for. It wasn’t until they had tied up to the dock that he finally caught a fleeting glimpse of her: a lone figure who kept appearing and disappearing among the vast mêlée of raised hats, waving hands, and Union Jacks.

George would have been the first down the gangplank if Finch hadn’t beaten him to it. The moment he placed a foot on the dockside he was engulfed by a mass of out-thrust arms, which brought back vivid memories of Bombay-except that this time they were trying to slap him on the back rather than begging or proffering secondhand goods.

“Do you still hope to be the first man to conquer Everest, Mr. Mallory?” shouted a journalist with his notepad open, his pencil poised.

George made no attempt to reply, but fought his way through the crowd toward the spot where he’d last seen her.

“I’ll certainly be going back!” shouted Finch, as the press surrounded him. “After all, I only have just over 1,000 feet left to climb.” The man with the poised pencil wrote down his every word.

“Do you think you’ll make it to the top next time, Mr. Mallory?” a pursuing journalist persisted.

“There isn’t going to be a next time,” mumbled George under his breath. And then he saw her, just a few yards in front of him.

“Ruth! Ruth!” he called, but she clearly couldn’t hear him above the clamor of the crowd. At last their eyes met, and he saw that smile she reserved only for those she truly cared for. He stretched out a hand, and several strangers tried to shake it. He finally lunged forward and took her in his arms.

“How are we ever going to escape from this lot?” he shouted in her ear.

“The car’s just over there,” she said, clinging to his hand and pulling him away from the crowd, but his newfound friends were unwilling to let him escape quite that easily.

“Have you accepted the position as climbing leader for next year’s trip?” shouted another journalist.

“Next year’s trip?” asked George, taken by surprise. But by then Ruth had reached the car, opened the door, and pushed him into the passenger seat. George couldn’t hide his astonishment when she climbed behind the wheel.

“When?” he asked.

“A girl has to find something to occupy her time when her husband is off visiting another woman,” Ruth said with a smile.

He took her in his arms again, and kissed her gently on the lips.

“I’ve spoken to you before about kissing strange women in public, George,” she said, not letting go of him.

“I remember,” George replied, kissing her again.

“Let’s get moving,” said Ruth reluctantly, “before this becomes the closing scene of a Lillian Gish picture.”

She switched on the ignition and cranked the gear lever into first, then tried to inch her way through the crowd, but it was another twenty minutes before she was able to change into second gear and leave the baying pack behind her, and even then one last admirer banged the bonnet with his hand and shouted, “Well done, sir!”

“What was all that about?” asked George, looking out of the rear window as some of the mob continued to pursue them.

“You had no way of knowing, but the press has been covering your progress since the day you left, and over the past six months they’ve turned you into something of a national figure.”

“But I failed,” said George. “Didn’t anyone take that into account?”

“They don’t seem to care. The fact that you remained behind with Odell after he’d collapsed, and let Finch go on, is what caught the public’s imagination.”

“But it’s Finch whose name’s in the record books-he climbed at least three hundred feet higher than I managed.”

“But only with the aid of oxygen,” said Ruth. “In any case, the press thinks you would have climbed far higher than Finch if you’d had the opportunity-possibly even made it to the top.”

“No, I wouldn’t have been able to climb much further than Finch that day,” said George, shaking his head. “And it was because I wanted to prove that I was better than him that seven good men lost their lives. One of them just might have stood by my side on the summit.”

“But surely all the climbing team survived?” said Ruth.

“He wasn’t part of the official party,” said George. “But I’d already decided that he and Somervell would accompany me on the final assault.”

“A Sherpa?” said Ruth, unable to mask her surprise.

“Yes. Sherpa Nyima. I never did find out his family name.” George remained silent for some time before he added, “But I know that I was responsible for his death.”

“No one blames you for what happened,” said Ruth, taking his hand. “You obviously wouldn’t have set out that morning if you had thought even for a moment there was the slightest chance of an avalanche.”

“But that’s the point,” said George. “I didn’t think. I allowed my personal ambition to cloud my judgment.”

“Your latest letter only turned up this morning,” said Ruth, wanting to change the subject.

“And where was I?” George asked.

“In a small tent 25,000 feet above sea level, explaining to Finch why you wouldn’t consider using oxygen.”

“If I’d taken his advice,” said George, “I might have reached the top.”

“There’s nothing to stop you trying again,” said Ruth.

“Never.”

“Well, I know someone who’ll be delighted to hear that,” she said, trying not to reveal her own feelings.

“You, my darling?”

“No, Mr. Fletcher. He called this morning and asked if you could drop in and have a word with him at ten o’clock tomorrow.”

“Yes, of course I will,” said George. “I can’t wait to get back to work. I know you won’t believe it, but I even missed the lower fifth and, more important, I need to start earning a salary again. Heaven knows we can’t go on living off your father’s largesse forever.”

“I’ve never heard him complain,” said Ruth. “In fact, he’s very proud of what you’ve achieved. He never stops telling all his friends at the golf club that you’re his son-in-law.”

“That’s not the point, my darling. I must get back behind my desk in time for the first day of term.”

“No chance of that,” said Ruth.

“But why not?”

“Because the first day of term was last Monday,” replied Ruth, smiling. “Which is no doubt why the headmaster’s so keen to see you.”

“Now tell me about our son,” said George.

When they finally drove through the gates of The Holt some six hours later, George said, “Slow down, my darling. I’ve been thinking about this moment for the past two months.”

They were halfway down the drive when George saw his daughters waving from the steps. He couldn’t believe how much they’d grown. Clare was cradling a small bundle in her arms.

“Is that who I think it is?” said George, turning to smile at Ruth.

“Yes. At last you’re going to meet your son and heir, Master John Mallory.”

“Only a complete fool would ever leave you for a day, let alone six months,” said George as the car came to a halt in front of the house.

“Which reminds me,” said Ruth, “someone else phoned and asked you to call him urgently.”

“Who?” asked George.

“Mr. Hinks.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

RUTH HELPED GEORGE on with his gown before handing him his mortar board and umbrella. It was as if he’d never been away.

After he’d kissed her and said good-bye to the children, he marched out of the front door and began to stride down the path toward the main road. Beridge asked, “Is Daddy going away again?”

George checked his watch, interested to see how long it would now take him to reach the school gates. Ruth had made certain that he left well in time for his appointment with the headmaster.

The Times had been particularly generous that morning, giving extensive coverage to the “triumphant homecoming” of the Everest team. It didn’t seem to concern their correspondent that no one had reached the summit, although he reported Finch as saying that he had every intention of going back next year to do just that. Toward the end of the article there was a guarded quote from Mr. Hinks, hinting that George would be the Everest Committee’s first choice as climbing leader for the second expedition, which was no doubt what Hinks wanted to speak to him about so urgently. But George intended to tell Hinks exactly what he would be telling the headmaster in a few minutes’ time: His climbing days were over. He was looking forward to a life of domesticity, while at the same time continuing to teach the lower fifth about the exploits of Elizabeth, Raleigh, Essex, and…

A smile crossed George’s face when he thought about the dilemma Hinks would face when it came to selecting who would take his place as climbing leader. The obvious choice was Finch-he was unquestionably the most skilled and experienced climber, and was the man who had reached the highest point on the last expedition. But George was in no doubt that Hinks would come up with some utterly compelling reason to resist any such suggestion, and that the committee would end up by appointing either Norton or Somervell as climbing leader. Even Hinks, however, wouldn’t be able to stop Finch reaching the summit well ahead of both of them, particularly if he was assisted by his faithful oxygen cylinders.

When the school chapel came into view, George checked his watch again. He might be thirty-six years old, but he’d lost none of his speed. As he marched through the school gates, he might not have set a new record, but he was damned close.

George strolled across the main quad in the direction of the headmaster’s study, smiling at a couple of boys he didn’t recognize. It was clear from their response that they had no idea who he was, which brought back memories of his first days at Charterhouse, and of how nervous he had felt whenever he came face to face with a pupil, let alone the headmaster.

Mr. Fletcher was a stickler for punctuality, and would no doubt be pleased, and possibly even surprised, that George was five minutes early. George straightened his gown and took off his mortar board before knocking on the door of the outer office.

“Come in,” said a voice. George entered the room to find Fletcher’s secretary, Miss Sharpe, seated at her desk. Nothing changes, he thought. “Welcome back, Mr. Mallory,” she said. “May I say,” she added, “how much we’ve all been looking forward to seeing you again following your triumph on Everest.” On Everest, thought George, but not on top of it. “I’ll let the headmaster know you’re here.”

“Thank you, Miss Sharpe,” said George as she went into the adjoining room. A moment later the door opened. “The headmaster will see you now,” she said.

“Thank you,” George repeated, and marched into Mr. Fletcher’s study. Miss Sharpe closed the door behind him.

“Good morning, Mallory,” said the headmaster as he rose from behind his desk. “Good of you to be so punctual.”

“Not at all, headmaster,” said George. “Can I say how nice it is to be back,” he added as he sat down.

“Allow me to begin,” said the headmaster, “by congratulating you on your achievements during the past six months. Even allowing for the press’s tendency to exaggerate, we all feel that given a little more luck, you would undoubtedly have made it to the top.”

“Thank you, headmaster.”

“And I’m sure I speak for everyone at the school when I say that I’m in no doubt that you’ll fulfill your ambition next time.”

“There won’t be a next time,” George replied. “I can assure you that my climbing days are over.”

“However, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate, Mallory,” continued the headmaster as if he hadn’t heard him, “running a school like Charterhouse necessitates being able to rely on all members of staff at all times.”

“Yes, of course, headmaster, but-”

“Your decision to join the armed forces despite the fact that you were exempt, although commendable in itself, severely disrupted the school timetable, as I made clear at the time.”

“You did indeed, headmaster, but-”

“And then your decision, rightly taken in my view, to accept the invitation from the Everest Committee caused even more disruption to the running of the school, especially as you had recently been appointed senior history master.”

“I do apologize, headmaster, but-”

“As you know, I had to appoint Mr. Atkins to take over from you in your absence, and I’m bound to say that he has carried out his duties with commendable diligence and authority, and has shown unswerving commitment to the school.”

“I’m glad to hear that, headmaster. However-”

“I’m also bound to say, Mallory, that when you failed to report for the first day of term, no doubt through no fault of your own, I was left with little choice but to offer Atkins a permanent appointment as a full member of staff, which ipso facto means, regrettably, that there is no position for you at Charterhouse at the present time.”

“But-” spluttered George, trying not to sound desperate.

“I have no doubt that many of our leading schools will jump at the opportunity of adding Mallory of Everest to their numbers. Indeed, were I to lose a member of the history staff, you would be among the first candidates I would consider interviewing.”

George no longer bothered to interrupt. He felt as if Everest’s relentless east wind was hitting him in the face again.

“Do let me assure you, Mallory, that you leave Charterhouse with the respect and affection of both the staff and the pupils. It goes without saying that I will be delighted to supply you with a reference confirming that you were a valued member of staff.”

George remained silent.

“I’m sorry it had to end this way, Mallory, but allow me to add on behalf of myself, the governing body, and all of us at Charterhouse, that we wish you good fortune in whatever it is you decide to do in the future. Should that turn out to be one more stab at Everest, our thoughts and prayers will be with you.”

Mr. Fletcher rose from behind his desk. George stood up, dutifully shook hands, doffed his mortar board, and left the study without another word.

Ruth was reading about her husband in The Times when the phone rang. Only her father ever called at that time of the day.

“Hello,” she said cheerfully as she picked up the phone. “Is that you, Daddy?”

“No, it isn’t, Mrs. Mallory. It’s Hinks of the RGS.”

“Good morning, Mr. Hinks,” she said, her tone of voice immediately changing. “I’m afraid my husband isn’t here at the moment, and I’m not expecting him back until this evening.”

“I’m pleased to hear that, Mrs. Mallory, because I was hoping to have a private word with you.”

Ruth listened carefully to what Mr. Hinks had to say, and assured him that she would think it over and let him know her decision. She had just returned to reading the paper when she heard the front door open. She feigned surprise when George marched into the drawing room and slumped down on the sofa opposite her.

“That bad?” she ventured.

“It couldn’t have been much worse,” he said. “The damned man sacked me. It seems I’m so unreliable that he’s offered my job to Atkins, who he assured me is diligent, conscientious, and, more important, reliable. Can you believe it?”

“Yes, I can,” said Ruth. “In fact, I can’t pretend that it comes as a great surprise,” she added, folding the paper and placing it on a side table.

“What makes you say that, my darling?” asked George, looking at her more closely.

“It worried me that the headmaster asked to see you at ten o’clock.”

“Why was that important?”

“Because that man’s whole life is dominated by a timetable. If all had been well, my darling, he would have invited both of us for a drink at six in the evening. Or he would have arranged your morning meeting for eight o’clock, so that you could accompany him in triumph when he presided over assembly.”

“So why did he ask to see me at ten?”

“Because at that time all the boys and staff would be safely in their classrooms, and he’d be able to get you on and off the premises without anyone having the chance to speak to you. He must have planned the whole exercise down to the minute.”

“Brilliant,” said George. “You’d have made a first-class detective. Do you have any clues about what’s going to happen to me next?”

“No,” admitted Ruth. “But while you were out, I had a call from Mr. Hinks.”

“I hope you made it clear to him that I’m not available to play any part in next year’s expedition.”

“That wasn’t why he called,” said Ruth. “It seems that the American Geographical Society wants you to do a lecture tour of the East Coast-Washington, New York, Boston…”

“Not a hope,” said George. “I’ve only just got home. Why would I want to troop off again?”

“Possibly because they’re willing to pay you a thousand pounds for half a dozen lectures on your experiences of climbing Everest.”

“A thousand pounds?” said George. “But that’s more than I’d earn at Charterhouse in three years.”

“Well, to be accurate,” said Ruth, “the AGS think the lectures could bring in as much as two thousand pounds, and the RGS is willing to split the profits with you fifty-fifty.”

“That’s unusually generous of Hinks,” said George.

“I think I can also explain that,” said Ruth. “It seems that if you turn down the offer, there’s only one other person the Americans would consider inviting in your place.”

“And Hinks would never agree to that,” said George. “So what did you tell him?”

“I said I’d discuss the idea with you, and then let him know your decision.”

“But why did he call you in the first place? Why didn’t he want to speak to me?”

“He wondered if I might like to join you on the trip.”

“The cunning old devil,” said George. “He knows that’s the one thing that might clinch the deal for me.”

“But not for me,” said Ruth.

“But why not, my darling? You’ve always wanted to visit the States, and we could turn this into a second honeymoon.”

“I knew you’d come up with some reason why I should agree to the idea, and so, obviously, did Mr. Hinks. But you seem to forget that we have three children.”

“Can’t nanny take care of them while we’re away?”

“George, the girls haven’t seen you for six months, and John didn’t even know who you were. Now, no sooner has his father returned than he disappears off to America with their mother for another six weeks. No, George, that’s no way to bring up children.”

“Then you can tell Hinks that I’m not interested.”

“Good,” said Ruth, “because heaven knows I don’t want you to leave again when you’ve only just come home.” She hesitated before saying, “In any case, we can always go to America another time.”

George looked directly at her. “There’s something you haven’t told me.”

Ruth hesitated. “It’s just that Hinks did say that before you turn down such a lucrative offer, you mustn’t forget that, to quote the Americans, you’re hot property at the moment and they’re evidently a nation whose enthusiasms cool fairly quickly. And frankly, I doubt if you’ll find an easier way to earn a thousand pounds.”

“And if I don’t go,” said George quietly, “I may well have to make another appointment to see your father, and end up being even more indebted to him.”

Ruth said nothing.

“I’ll agree to do it, on one condition,” said George.

“And what might that be?” asked Ruth suspiciously.

“That you’ll let me take you to Venice for a few days. And this time,” he added, “just the two of us.”

1923
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

GEORGE HAD BEEN on deck for over an hour by the time the SS Olympic steamed into New York harbor. During the five days of the Atlantic crossing, Ruth had been constantly in his thoughts.

She had driven him down to Southampton, and once he had reluctantly left her to board the ship, she’d remained on the dockside until it had sailed out of the harbor and become a small speck on the horizon.

Mr. and Mrs. Mallory had spent their promised break in Venice, which turned out to be something of a contrast from the last visit George had made to that city, because on this occasion he booked a suite at the Cipriani Hotel.

“Can we afford it?” Ruth had asked as she looked out of the window of the lagoon-side suite her father usually occupied.

“Probably not,” George replied. “But I’ve decided to spend a hundred of the thousand pounds I’m going to earn in America on what I intend to be an unforgettable holiday.”

“The last time you went to Venice, George, it was unforgettable,” Ruth reminded him.

The newlyweds, as most of the other guests assumed they were, because they came down so late for breakfast, were always holding hands and never stopped looking in each other’s eyes, did everything except climb St. Mark’s Tower-inside or out. After such a long time apart, the few days really did feel like a honeymoon, as they got to know each other again. By the time the Orient Express pulled into Victoria Station a week later, the last thing George wanted to do was leave Ruth again and sail away to the States.

If his bank statement hadn’t been among the unopened post on their arrival back at The Holt, he might even have considered canceling the lecture tour and staying at home.

There was one other letter George hadn’t anticipated, and he wondered if he ought to accept the flattering invitation, given the circumstances. He’d see how the tour went before he made that decision.

George’s overwhelming first impression of New York as the ship came into harbor was the sheer size of its buildings. He’d read about skyscrapers, even seen photographs of them in the new glossy magazines, but to see them standing cheek by jowl was beyond his imagination. The tallest building in London would have appeared as a pygmy among this tribe of giants.

George leaned over the ship’s railing and looked down at the dock, where a boisterous crowd were smiling and waving as they waited for their loved ones and friends to disembark. He would have searched among the throng for a new friend, had he had the slightest idea what Lee Keedick looked like. Then he spotted a tall, elegant man in a long black coat holding up a placard that read MALLORY.

Once George had stepped off the ship, a suitcase in each hand, he made his way toward the impressive figure. When he was a stride away, he pointed to the board and said, “That’s me.”

That’s when George saw him for the first time. A short, plump man who would never have made it to base camp stepped forward to greet him. Mr. Keedick was wearing a beige suit and an open-necked yellow shirt with a silver cross dangling from a chain around his neck. It was the first time George had ever seen a man wearing jewelry. Keedick must have stood a shade over five feet, but only because his crocodile-skin shoes had higher heels than those Ruth usually wore.

“I’m Lee Keedick,” he announced, after removing the stub of an unlit cigar from his mouth. “You must be George. Is it OK to call you George?”

“I think you just did,” said George, giving him a warm smile.

“This is Harry,” said Keedick, pointing to the tall man. “He’ll be your chauffeur while you’re in the States.” Harry touched the rim of his hat with the forefinger of his right hand, then opened the back door of what George had thought was a small omnibus.

“Somethin’ wrong?” asked Keedick, as George remained on the sidewalk.

“No,” said George as he stepped inside. “It’s just that this is the biggest car I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s the latest Caddie,” Lee told him.

George thought a caddie was someone who carried a golfer’s clubs, but then recalled George Bernard Shaw once telling him, “England and America are two nations divided by a common language.”

“It’s the finest darn car in America,” added Keedick, as Harry pulled away from the curb to join the morning traffic.

“Are we picking up anyone else on the way?” asked George.

“I just love your English sense of humor,” said Keedick. “Nope, this is all yours. You gotta understand, George, it’s important for people to think you’re a big shot. You gotta keep up appearances, or you’ll never get anywhere in this town.”

“Does that mean the bookings for my lectures are going well?” asked George nervously.

“They’re just swell for the opening at the Broadhurst Theater tomorrow night.” Keedick paused to light his cigar. “And if you get a good write-up in The New York Times, we’ll do just fine for the rest of the tour. If it’s a rave, we’ll sell out every night.”

George wanted to ask him what “rave” meant, but satisfied himself with looking up at the skyscrapers as the car inched its way through the traffic.

“That’s the Woolworth Building,” said Keedick, winding down the window. “It’s seven hundred and ninety-two feet tall. The tallest building in the world. But they’re planning one that will be over a thousand feet.”

“That’s just about how much I missed it by,” said George as the limousine came to a halt outside the Waldorf Hotel.

A bellboy rushed forward to open the car door, with the manager following close behind. He smiled the moment he saw Keedick step out onto the sidewalk.

“Hi, Bill,” said Keedick. “This is George Mallory, the guy who conquered Everest.”

“Well, not quite,” said George. “In fact-”

“Don’t bother with the facts, George,” said Keedick. “No one else in New York does.”

“Congratulations, sir,” said the manager, thrusting out his hand. George had never shaken hands with a hotel manager before. “In your honor,” he continued, “we’ve put you in the Presidential Suite, on the seventeenth floor. Please follow me,” he added as they walked across the foyer.

“May I ask where the fire escape is?” asked George, before they’d reached the elevator.

“Over there, sir,” said the manager, pointing to the other side of the lobby, a puzzled look appearing on his face.

“The seventeenth floor, you say?”

“Yes,” confirmed the manager, looking even more puzzled.

“I’ll see you up there,” said George.

“Don’t they have elevators in English hotels?” the manager asked Keedick as George strode across the lobby and through a door marked Fire Escape. “Or is he mad?”

“No,” replied Keedick. “He’s English.”

The elevator whisked both men up to the seventeenth floor. The manager was even more surprised when George appeared in the corridor only a few minutes later, and didn’t seem to be out of breath.

The manager unlocked the door to the Presidential Suite, and stood aside to allow his guest to enter the room. George’s immediate reaction was that there must have been some mistake. The suite was larger than the tennis court at The Holt.

“Did you think I was bringing my wife and children with me?” he asked.

“No,” said Keedick, laughing, “it’s all yours. Don’t forget, the press may want to interview you, and it’s important that they think this is how they treat you back in England.”

“But can we afford it?”

“Don’t even think about it,” said Keedick. “It all comes out of expenses.”

“How nice to hear from you, Geoffrey,” said Ruth when she recognized the familiar voice on the other end of the line. “It’s been far too long.”

“And I’m the one to blame,” said Geoffrey Young. “It’s just that since I took up my new post at Imperial College, I don’t get out of town much during term-time.”

“Well, I’m afraid George isn’t at home at the moment. He’s in America on a lecture tour.”

“Yes, I know,” said Young. “He dropped me a line last week to say he was looking for a job, and that if anything came up I should let him know. Well, a position has arisen in Cambridge that just might be ideal for him, but I thought I’d run it past you first.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Geoffrey. Shall we try and meet up when I’m next in London?”

“No, no,” said Young, “I can always pop down to Godalming.”

“When did you have in mind?”

“Would next Thursday suit you?”

“Of course. Will you be able to stay for the night?”

“Thank you, I’d like that, if it’s not inconvenient.”

“If you were able to stay for a month, Geoffrey, it wouldn’t be inconvenient.”

George couldn’t sleep on his first night in New York, and the time difference wasn’t to blame, because the five-day Atlantic crossing had taken care of that. It was just that he’d never spent a night in a city before where the traffic never came to a halt and police and ambulance sirens screamed incessantly. It reminded him of being back on the Western Front.

He finally gave up, climbed out of bed, and sat at a large desk by the window overlooking Central Park. He went over his lecture once again, then checked all the large glass slides. He was delighted to find that none of them had been broken during the voyage from England.

George was becoming more and more apprehensive about what Keedick kept referring to as “opening night.” He tried not to think of the consequences of it being a flop, another of Keedick’s words, even though the agent kept assuring him that there were only a few seats left unsold, and all that mattered now was what the New York Times thought of the lecture. On balance, George decided he preferred mountains. They didn’t give a damn what the New York Times thought of them.

He crept back into bed a couple of hours later, and eventually fell asleep at around four o’clock.

Ruth sat in her chair by the window enjoying George’s first letter from America. She laughed when she read about the Caddie and the Presidential Suite with its central heating, aware that George would have been quite content to pitch a tent on the roof, but she doubted if that was an option at the Waldorf. When she turned the page, she frowned for the first time. It worried her that George felt that so much rested on the opening night. He ended his letter by promising to write and let her know how the lecture had been received just as soon as he returned to the hotel later that evening. How Ruth wished she could have read the review in The New York Times before George saw it.

There was a knock on the door, and George answered it to find a smiling Lee Keedick standing in the corridor. He was dressed in his usual open-necked shirt, but this time it was green, while his suit was a shade of light blue that would have been more appropriate if worn by a blade in Cambridge. The chain around his neck had turned from silver to gold, and the shoes from crocodile to white patent leather. George smiled. Lee Keedick would have made George Finch look elegant.

“How are you feelin’, old buddy?” asked Keedick as he stepped into the room.

“Apprehensive,” admitted George.

“No need to,” said Lee. “They’re gonna love you.”

An interesting observation, George thought, considering Keedick had only known him for a few hours and had never heard him speak in public. But then he was beginning to realize that Lee Keedick had a set of stock phrases whoever his client was.

Outside the hotel, Harry was standing by the car. He opened the back door, and George jumped in, feeling far more nervous than he ever did before a demanding climb. He didn’t speak on the journey to the theater, and was grateful that Keedick remained silent, even if he did fill the car with cigar smoke.

As they drew up outside the Broadhurst Theater, George saw the poster advertising his lecture. He burst out laughing.

BOOK NOW!

GEORGE MALLORY

The man who conquered Everest single-handed

Next week: Jack Benny

He smiled at the photograph of a young man playing a violin, pleased that he would be followed by a musician.

George stepped out onto the sidewalk, his legs trembling and his heart beating as if he was a few feet from the summit. Keedick led his client down a side alley to the stage door, where a waiting assistant accompanied them up a stone staircase to a door with a silver star on it. Keedick told George before he left that he’d see him before he went on stage. George sat alone in the cold, slightly musty dressing room lit by several naked light bulbs surrounding a large mirror. He went over his speech one last time. For the first time in his life, he wanted to turn back before he’d reached the top.

There was a tap on the door. “Fifteen minutes, Mr. Mallory,” said a voice.

George took a deep breath, and a few moments later Keedick walked in. “Let’s get this show on the road, pal,” he said. He led George back down the stone steps, along a brick corridor, and into the wings at the side of the stage, leaving him with the words, “Good luck, buddy. I’ll be in the front row, cheering you on.”

George paced up and down, becoming more nervous by the minute. Although he could hear loud chattering coming from the other side of the curtain, he had no idea how many people were in the audience. Had Keedick exaggerated when he said there were only a few unsold tickets?

At five minutes to eight, a man dressed in a white tuxedo appeared at George’s side and said, “Hi, I’m Vince, the compère. I’ll be introducing you. Is there some special way of pronouncing Mallory?”

This was a question George had never been asked before. “No,” he replied.

George looked around for someone, anyone, to talk to while he waited nervously for the curtain to rise. He would even have been happy to see Keedick. He realized for the first time how Raleigh must have felt just before he had his head chopped off. And then suddenly, without any warning, the curtain rose and the compère marched out onto the stage, tapped the microphone, and announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s my pleasure to present to you for your entertainment this evening George Mallory, the man who conquered Everest.”

At least he didn’t add “single-handed,” thought George as he walked onto the stage feeling desperately in need of oxygen. But he quickly recovered when he was greeted by warm applause.

George began his lecture hesitantly, partly because he couldn’t see the audience, who must have been out there somewhere, but while several spotlights were trained on him it was impossible to see beyond the front row. However, it took only a few minutes for him to become accustomed to the strange experience of being treated like an actor rather than a lecturer. He was encouraged by intermittent bursts of applause, and even the occasional roar of laughter. After a bumpy start, he battled on for nearly an hour. It wasn’t until he called for questions, and the lights went up, that he saw just how many people he had been addressing.

The stalls were almost full, even if the dress circle remained in darkness. George was relieved by how many people seemed keen to ask questions, and it quickly became clear that there were some seasoned alpinists and genuine enthusiasts among the audience, who offered observations that were both thoughtful and relevant. However, George was nearly stumped-not that the questioner would have known the derivation of the word-when a slim blonde seated in the third row asked, “Mr. Mallory, could you tell us how much it costs to mount such an expedition?”

It was some time before George replied, and not just because he didn’t know the answer. “I’ve no idea, madam,” he finally managed. “The financial details are always handled by the RGS. However, I do know that the Society will be launching an appeal in the near future to raise funds for a second expedition that will set out for the Himalaya early next year with the sole purpose of putting an”-he stopped himself just in time from saying “an Englishman”-“a member of that team on the summit.”

“Can those of us who might consider donating to that fund,” the young lady inquired, “assume that you will be a member of the team, in fact its climbing leader?”

George didn’t hesitate. “No, madam. I have already assured my wife that the Society will have to look for someone else to lead the team next time.” He was surprised when several groans of disappointment emanated from the audience, even one or two muffled cries of “Shame!”

After a couple more questions, George recovered, and was even a little disappointed when Lee stage-whispered from the wings, “Time to wrap it up, George.”

George immediately bowed and quickly left the stage. The audience began to applaud.

“Not so fast,” said Keedick, pushing him back onto the stage to laughter and even louder applause. In fact, he had to send him back three times before the curtain finally came down.

“That was great,” said Lee as they climbed into the back of the limousine. “You were fantastic.”

“Did you really think so?” asked George.

“Couldn’t have gone better,” said Lee. “Now all we have to pray for is that the critics love you as much as the public does. By the way, have you ever come across Estelle Harrington before?”

“Estelle Harrington?” repeated George.

“The dame who asked if you were going to lead the next expedition.”

“No, I’ve never seen her before in my life,” said George. “Why do you ask?”

“She’s known as the cardboard-box widow,” said Lee. “Her late husband, Jake Harrington, the inventor of the cardboard box, left her so much money she can’t even count it.” Lee inhaled deeply and puffed out a plume of smoke. “I’ve read a ton of stuff about her in the gossip columns over the years, but I never knew she took any interest in climbing. If she was willing to sponsor the tour, we wouldn’t have to worry about The New York Times.”

“Is it that important?” asked George.

“More important than all the other papers put together.”

“So when will it deliver its verdict?”

“In a few hours’ time,” replied Lee, blowing out another cloud of smoke.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

“THE WORKERS’ EDUCATIONAL Association,” said Geoffrey Young as they strolled around the garden.

“I’ve never heard of them,” said Ruth.

“It was founded in the early days of the Labor movement, and its aim is to assist people who weren’t given the chance of a decent education in their youth, but would benefit from it in later life.”

“That sounds very much in line with George’s Fabian principles.”

“In my opinion,” said Geoffrey, “the job was made for him. It would allow George to combine his teaching experience with his views on politics and education.”

“But would it also mean us having to move to Cambridge?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. But I can think of worse places to live,” responded Geoffrey. “And don’t forget that George still has a lot of old friends there.”

“I think I should warn you, Geoffrey, that George is becoming quite anxious about what he describes as his financial predicament. In his latest letter he hinted that the tour wasn’t going quite as well as he’d hoped.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Young. “However, I do know that the basic salary for the job is three hundred and fifty pounds a year, with the opportunity to earn a further hundred and fifty through extra tuition fees, which would make it up to around five hundred pounds.”

“In that case,” said Ruth, “I think George will jump at the opportunity. When would they want him to start?” she asked.

“Not until next September,” said Young. “Which would mean, dare I mention it, that George could even reconsider-”

“Not now, Geoffrey,” Ruth said, as they walked back toward the house. “Let’s discuss that particular matter over dinner. For now, why don’t you go and unpack, and then join me in the drawing room around seven.”

“We don’t have to talk about it, Ruth.”

“Oh yes we do,” she replied as they strolled back into the house.

“Taxi!” shouted Keedick, and when it screeched to a halt he opened the back door to allow his client to climb in. Harry and his Caddie were nowhere to be seen.

“So, how bad is it?” asked George as he slumped down in the back seat.

“Not good,” admitted Lee. “Even though The New York Times gave you a favorable review, the out-of-town bookings have still been”-he looked out of the window-“let’s say, disappointing, although you seem to have attracted at least one huge fan.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Come on, George, you must have noticed that Estelle Harrington’s turned up to every one of your lectures. I’d be willing to bet good money she’ll be there again tonight.”

“Well, at least tonight’s lecture is sold out,” said George, not wanting to dwell on the ever-present Mrs. Harrington.

“‘Sold’ would be the wrong word,” said Lee. “They refused to sign the contract unless we agreed to let students in gratis-not a word I’m comfortable with.”

“What about Baltimore and Philadelphia?” asked George, as the taxi swung off the main road and drove onto a campus George had always wanted to visit, but had never imagined he would be invited to lecture at.

“Sorry, old buddy,” said Lee between puffs, “but I had to cancel both, otherwise we might have lost what little dough we’ve made so far.”

“That bad?” said George.

“Worse. I’m afraid we’re gonna have to cut the tour short. In fact I’ve booked you onto the Saxonia, which sails outta New York on Monday.”

“But that means-”

“This’ll be your last lecture, George, so be sure to make it a good one.”

“So how much profit have we made?” asked George quietly.

“I can’t give you an exact figure at the moment,” said Lee as the taxi drew up outside the private residence of the President of Harvard. “There are one or two out-of-pocket expenses I still have to calculate.”

George thought about the letter that had arrived at The Holt the day before he sailed. Once Hinks learned that the tour had failed to make the anticipated profit, would George’s invitation to deliver the Society’s annual memorial lecture be withdrawn? Perhaps the best solution would be for George to decline the invitation, and save the Society unnecessary embarrassment.

“You’ve been avoiding the subject all evening,” said Ruth as she led Young through to the drawing room.

“But it was such a magnificent meal,” said Geoffrey, sitting down on the sofa. “And you’re such a wonderful hostess.”

“And you’re such an old flatterer, Geoffrey,” said Ruth as she passed him a cup of coffee. She sat down in the chair opposite him. “So, were you hoping to try to persuade me that George should reconsider leading the next expedition to the Himalaya? Because I’m not altogether convinced that’s what he really wants.”

“Are we telling each other the truth?” asked Geoffrey.

“Yes, of course,” said Ruth, looking a little surprised.

“When George wrote to me just before he sailed, he made it clear that, to quote him, he still wanted one more crack at his wildest dream.”

“But-” began Ruth.

“He also said that he wouldn’t consider leaving you again unless he had your complete support.”

“But he’s already told me that he wouldn’t go back again under any circumstances.”

“He also begged me not to let you know how he really felt. By telling you, I’ve betrayed his confidence.”

“Did he give you one good reason why he would want to put himself through all that again?” asked Ruth.

“Apart from the obvious one? If he were to succeed, just think about the extra income that would generate.”

“You know as well as I do, Geoffrey, that he didn’t do it for money.”

“It was you who reminded me that he’s anxious about his current financial predicament.”

Ruth didn’t speak for some time. “If I were to agree to lie to George about how I really feel,” she eventually said “-and it would be a lie, Geoffrey-you must promise me that this will be the last time.”

“It would have to be,” said Geoffrey. “If George were to take the job as director of the WEA, the board won’t want him to be disappearing for six months at a time. And frankly, my dear, he’ll be too old by the time the RGS considers mounting another expedition.”

“I just wish there was someone I could turn to for advice.”

“Why don’t you seek a second opinion from the one person who will understand exactly what you’re going through?”

“Who do you have in mind?” asked Ruth.

When Young told her, Ruth simply said, “Do you think she’d agree to see me?”

“Oh yes. She’ll see the wife of Mallory of Everest.”

George immediately recognized the attractive woman who was chatting to Keedick on the far side of the room. She was not someone he was likely to forget.

“Congratulations, Mr. Mallory, most stimulating,” said the president of Harvard. “Most stimulating. May I also say that I hope you pull it off next time?”

“That’s kind of you, Mr. Lowell,” said George, not bothering to repeat once again that he wouldn’t be going on the next expedition. “And allow me to thank you for organizing this reception.”

“My pleasure,” said the president. “I’m only sorry that Prohibition prevents me from offering you anything other than orange juice or a Coca-Cola.”

“An orange juice will be just fine, thank you.”

“I know that many of the students are keen to ask you questions, Mr. Mallory,” said the president, “so I won’t monopolize you.” He walked off to join the woman speaking to Keedick.

Within moments, George was surrounded by eager young faces that brought back memories of his days at Cambridge.

“Have you still got all your toes, sir?” asked a young man who was peering down at George’s feet.

“They were all there when I checked in the bath this morning,” said George, laughing. “But my friend Morshead lost two fingers and a toe, and poor Captain Norton had half his right ear trimmed off after he’d set a new altitude record.”

A voice from behind him asked, “Are there any mountains in America, sir, that you might consider a worthy challenge?”

“Most certainly,” said George. “I can assure you that Mount McKinley presents as great a challenge as any to be found in the Himalaya, and there are several peaks in the Yosemite Valley that would test the skills of the most experienced climber. If it’s rock climbing that interests you, you need look no further than Utah or Colorado, if you hope to prove your worth.”

“Something has always puzzled me, Mr. Mallory,” said an intense-looking young man. “Why do you bother?”

The president, who had just returned to George’s side, coughed and tried to hide his embarrassment.

“There’s a simple answer to that,” said George. “Because it’s there.”

“But-”

“I apologize for interrupting you, Mallory,” said Mr. Lowell, “but I know that Mrs. Harrington is keen to meet you. Her late husband was an alumnus of this university, and indeed a generous benefactor.”

George smiled as he shook hands with the young woman who had asked him about the expedition’s finances in New York and had since attended every one of his lectures. She didn’t look much older than some of the undergraduates, and George assumed that she must have been at least the third Mrs. Harrington, unless the cardboard king, as Keedick kept describing him, married very late in life.

“I confess, Estelle,” said the President, “I had no idea you were interested in mountaineering.”

“Who could fail to be entranced by Mr. Mallory’s charisma?”-a word George had never heard used in that way before, and would have to look up in his dictionary to find out if in fact it had a second meaning. “And of course, we all hope,” she gushed, “that he will be the first person to stand on top of his mountain, and then he can come back and tell us all about it.”

George smiled and gave her a slight bow. “As I explained in New York, Mrs. Harrington, I shall not-”

“Is it true,” continued Mrs. Harrington, who clearly wasn’t in the habit of being interrupted, “that this evening’s lecture was your last before your return to England?”

“I’m afraid so,” replied George. “I take the train back to New York tomorrow afternoon, and then sail for Southampton the following morning.”

“Well, if you’re going to be in New York, Mr. Mallory, perhaps you might care to join me for a drink tomorrow evening.”

“That’s extremely kind of you, Mrs. Harrington, but sadly-”

“You see, my late husband was a very generous benefactor, and I feel sure he would have wanted me to make a substantial donation to your cause.”

“Substantial?” repeated George.

“I was thinking about”-she paused-“ten thousand dollars.”

It was sometime before George said, “But I won’t get back to New York until around seven tomorrow evening, Mrs. Harrington.”

“Then I’ll send a car to pick you up from your hotel at eight. And, George, do call me Estelle.”

After breakfast had been cleared and nanny had taken the children off for their morning walk, Ruth went through to the drawing room. She sat down in her favorite chair by the window and opened George’s latest letter.

March 22nd, 1923

My dearest Ruth,

I’m sitting on a train traveling between Boston and New York. Some good news for a change. Harvard was everything I could have hoped for. Not only was the Taft Hall packed-hanging from the rafters is how Keedick described the audience-but the undergraduates and the dons couldn’t have made me feel more welcome.

I came away from the president’s reception in high spirits, despite not being allowed to drink more than an orange juice because of Prohibition. But when I woke this morning, reality set in once again. My tour has been cut short, and I’ll be returning to England far earlier than expected. It’s a pity I didn’t talk you into coming with me, since the whole trip has turned out to be less than a month. Mind you, our short holiday in Venice was unforgettable, despite not climbing St. Mark’s. This is to warn you that I’ll be back some time next week. I’ll cable you from the ship with details of when we dock at Southampton.

The second piece of good news is that I’m to be given one last chance to top up the Society’s funds in New York this evening.

The only good thing about the trip being cut short is that I’ll be able to see you and the children earlier than expected. But back to reality. The first thing I’ll have to do when I return is to start looking for a job.

See you soon, my darling,

Your loving husband,

George

Ruth smiled as she put the letter back in the envelope and placed it in the top drawer of her desk, along with all the letters George had written to her over the years. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Her train to London wasn’t due to leave Godalming for another hour, but Ruth felt she ought to set out for the station fairly soon, as this was an appointment for which she mustn’t be late.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

GEORGE KNOCKED ON the front door of a brownstone on West 64th Street a few minutes before nine o’clock. A butler dressed in a long black tailcoat and white tie answered the door.

“Good evening, sir. Mrs. Harrington is expecting you.”

George was shown into the drawing room, where he found Mrs. Harrington standing by the mantelpiece below a Bonnard oil of a nude woman stepping out of a bath. His hostess was wearing a bright red silk dress that didn’t quite cover her knees. There was no sign of an engagement or wedding ring, although she was wearing a necklace of diamonds with a matching bracelet.

“Thank you, Dawkins,” said Mrs. Harrington, “that will be all.” Before the butler had reached the door she added, “And I won’t be requiring you again this evening.”

“As you wish, madam,” said the butler, bowing before closing the door behind him. George could have sworn he heard a key turning in the lock.

“Do have a seat, George,” said Mrs. Harrington, gesturing him toward the sofa. “And let me fix you a drink. What would you like?”

“I suppose I’ll have to settle for orange juice,” said George.

“Certainly not,” said Mrs. Harrington. She walked across to the other side of the room, touched a leather-bound volume of Hard Times and the bookcase immediately swiveled around to become a drinks cabinet. “Scotch and soda?” she suggested.

“Is there anything you don’t know about me?” asked George with a smile.

“One or two things,” said Mrs. Harrington as she took a seat next to him on the sofa, her dress rising several inches above the knee. “But given a little time, I should be able to remedy that.” George nervously touched his tie. “Now, do tell me, George, how my little donation might help your next expedition?”

“The truth is, Mrs. Harrington,” said George, taking a sip of his Scotch-it was even his favorite blend-“we need every penny we can lay our hands on. One of the things we learned from the last trip was that we just weren’t well enough prepared. It was the same problem Captain Scott faced on his journey to the South Pole, and it resulted in him losing his life along with the rest of his polar party. I’m not willing to take that risk with my men.”

“You’re so very serious, George,” said Mrs. Harrington, leaning over and patting him on the thigh.

“It’s a serious business, Mrs. Harrington.”

“Do call me Estelle,” she said, as she crossed her legs to reveal the top of her black stockings. “Do you think you’ll reach the top this time?”

“Possibly, but you always need a bit of luck,” said George, “not least with the weather. If you can get three, or perhaps even two, clear days in a row with no wind, you’re in with a chance. Just when I thought I had my chance, sadly a disaster befell me.”

“I do hope that if I get my chance,” said Mrs. Harrington, “a disaster won’t befall me.” Her hand was now resting on George’s thigh. George turned the color of Mrs. Harrington’s dress, and decided the time had come to look for an escape route. “There’s no reason to be nervous, George. This is one little adventure that no one need find out about, and it certainly doesn’t have to end in disaster.”

George was just about to get up and leave when she added, “And when you do stand on top of your mountain, George-and I’m sure you will-do spare a thought for me.”

She reached into her sleeve and drew out a slip of paper, which she unfolded and placed on the table in front of her. George looked down at a check which read Pay: The Royal Geographical Society $10,000. He thought about Mr. Hinks, and remained seated.

“Now, you just think about that for a moment, George, while I slip into something a little less formal. Do help yourself to another drink while I’m away. Mine’s a gin and tonic,” she added before leaving the room.

George picked up the check, and was about to place it in his wallet when he saw the edge of a small photograph sticking out between two dollar bills. He pulled out the picture of Ruth he had taken during their honeymoon, and which he always carried with him on his travels. He smiled, put the photograph back in his wallet and tore the check in half. He walked across to the door and slowly turned the handle, only to discover that it was locked. What a pity the RGS hadn’t selected Finch for the American tour, he thought, because then the Society’s coffers would undoubtedly have been swelled by $10,000, and he felt confident Mrs. Harrington would have considered it a good investment.

George walked across to the other side of the room, slipped the latch on the sill, and quietly slid open the window. He stuck his head out, and considered the best possible route. He was pleased to see that the façade of the building was made up of large rough stone slabs, evenly placed. He stepped out onto the ledge and began to make his way slowly down the building, and when he was five feet from the ground, he jumped down onto the sidewalk. George walked quickly across the street. He knew that a climber should never look back, but he couldn’t resist it, and was suitably rewarded. There, standing by an open upper-story window, was a beautiful woman wearing only a sheer negligee that left little to the imagination.

“Damn,” said George when he remembered he hadn’t bought a present for Ruth.

Ruth knocked gently on the front door of No. 37 Tite Street; a moment later it was opened by a maid, who curtsied and said, “Good morning, Mrs. Mallory. Would you be kind enough to follow me?”

When Ruth entered the drawing room, she found her hostess standing by the fireplace beneath an oil painting of her late husband approaching the South Pole. She was wearing a simple long black dress, no make-up, and no jewelry other than an engagement and wedding ring.

“What a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Mallory,” said Kathleen Scott as they shook hands. “Please come and join me by the fire,” she added, ushering her to a comfortable chair opposite her.

“It’s extremely kind of you to agree to see me,” said Ruth. As she sat down the maid reappeared, carrying a silver tray laden with tea and biscuits, which she placed on a table by her mistress’s side.

“You can leave us, Millie,” said Captain Scott’s widow. “And I don’t wish to be disturbed.”

“Yes, of course, my lady,” said the maid, leaving the room and closing the door quietly behind her.

“Indian or China, Mrs. Mallory?”

“Indian, please.”

“Milk and sugar?”

“Just milk, thank you,” said Ruth.

Mrs. Scott completed the little ceremony and passed Ruth a cup of tea. “I was intrigued by your letter,” she said. “You indicated there was a personal matter that you wished to discuss with me.”

“Yes,” replied Ruth tentatively. “I need your advice.”

Ruth’s hostess nodded before giving her a warm smile.

“My husband,” began Ruth, “is currently on a lecture tour in the United States, and I’m expecting him back any day now. Although he’s told me several times that he doesn’t wish to lead the next RGS expedition to Everest, I have no doubt that that is exactly what he does want.”

“And how do you feel about him returning to the Himalaya?”

“After his long absence during the war, followed by the expedition to Everest, and now his trip to America, I really don’t want him to be away for another six months.”

“I can appreciate that, my dear. Con was exactly the same-just like a child, never able to settle in the same place for more than a few months at a time.”

“Did he ever ask how you felt about that?”

“Constantly, but I knew he only wanted reassurance, so I told him what he wished to hear, that I believed he was doing the right thing.”

“And did you?”

“Not always,” the older woman admitted with a sigh. “But however much I yearned for him to stay at home and lead a normal life, that was never going to be a possibility, because just like your husband, Mrs. Mallory, Con wasn’t a normal man.”

“Surely you must now regret not telling him how you really felt?”

“No, Mrs. Mallory, I do not. I would rather have spent two years with one of the most exciting men on earth, than forty with someone who thought I had prevented him from fulfilling his dream.”

Ruth tried to compose herself. “I can bear the thought of being apart from George for another six months.” She paused. “But not for the rest of my life.”

“No one understands that better than I do. But your husband is no ordinary man, and I’m sure you knew about his overriding ambition long before you agreed to be his wife.”

“Yes, I did, but-”

“Then you cannot, indeed must not, stand in the way of his destiny. If he were to see some lesser mortal achieve his dream, it could be you who spends the rest of your life regretting it.”

“But does it have to be my destiny to spend the rest of my life without him?” asked Ruth. “If he only knew how much I adore him…”

“I can assure you he does know, Mrs. Mallory, otherwise you would not have asked to see me. And because he knows, you will have to convince him that you believe it is nothing less than his duty to lead the next expedition. And then, my dear, all you can do is pray for his safe return.”

Ruth raised her head, tears streaming down her face. “But your husband didn’t return.”

“If I could turn the clock back,” came the quiet reply, “and Con were to ask me, ‘Do you mind me going off again, old gal?’ I would still reply as I did thirteen years, one month, and six days ago. ‘No, my darling, of course I don’t mind. But do remember to take your thick woolen socks with you this time.’”

George was up, packed, and ready to leave by six the following morning. When he checked out of the hotel, he wasn’t altogether surprised to find that Keedick hadn’t settled the bill. He was only relieved that his final night was spent in a single room in a guest house on the Lower East Side, and not the Presidential Suite at the Waldorf.

When George stepped out onto the sidewalk, he didn’t hail a cab, for more than one reason. He strode off on the forty-three-block route march, a suitcase in each hand, dodging the natives as he crossed the sweating, teeming jungle of Manhattan.

When he reached the dockside just over an hour later he saw Keedick standing by the ship’s gangway, cigar in mouth, smile etched on his face, and the appropriate line ready. “When you make it to the top of your mountain, George, gimme a call, ’cause that could be the clincher.”

“Thank you, Lee,” said George, and after hesitating for a moment he added, “for an unforgettable experience.”

“My pleasure,” said Keedick, thrusting out his hand. “Delighted to have been of assistance.” George shook hands, and was stepping onto the gangway when Keedick called out after him, “Hey, don’t go without this.” He was holding out an envelope.

George turned and walked back down, not something he enjoyed doing.

“It’s your share of the profits, old boy,” he said, trying to imitate George’s English accent. “Fifty percent, as agreed.”

“Thank you,” said George, placing the envelope in an inside pocket. He had no intention of opening it in front of Keedick.

When George went in search of his cabin, he wasn’t surprised to discover that he’d been downgraded to steerage, four levels below the main deck, and that he and three other men were sharing a cabin which wasn’t much larger than his tent on the North Col. He stopped unpacking when he heard the first blast of the foghorn announcing their departure, and made his way quickly up on deck so he could follow the ship’s slow progress out of the harbor.

Once again he leaned over the railing and looked down on the dockside; friends and families were now waving good-bye. He didn’t bother to look for Lee Keedick, whom he knew would have long gone. George watched as the giant skyscrapers became smaller and smaller, and when the Statue of Liberty was finally out of sight, he decided the time had come to face reality.

He took the envelope out of his pocket, tore it open, and extracted a check. Pay: The Royal Geographical Society $48. He smiled, and thought about Estelle for a moment, but only for a moment.