I got back in time for afternoon tea, and just after that Youngjohn came running down the slope with a scribbled note from Dr. John saying, "Red John collapsed. Send oxygen." Dr. Jack rushed off, followed by Alison, Youngjohn and a Sherpa carrying a tank. They were a long time gone, but looking through Rosamond's binoculars I finally saw them, first only a glimpse of Dr. Jack's umbrella, which, like a proper Englishman, he had taken along. Then came Red John, picking his way down the slope under his own steam.
"Just a touch of hypothermia, I believe," said Dr. Jack.
Only five of the group made it to the top of the peak, which was named—in honor of that master scribbler of bulletins from Cooks—Mt. Harry Grant. It occurred to me that I had forgotten to name my own peak, or ridge, or what McPherson would say, ach'chly, was just a rock on a hill. But what's in a name?
Two days later we started down, our caravan highlighted by the sight of Rosamond Twistington-Higgins, packed into a hamper and carried on the six-day trip all the way to Pokhara on the porters' backs, bobbing like a cork.
Whereas before we had gone down to go up, we now often went up to go down, which was all right with me. Shipton said, "I see you've found your pace," and so I had. We came much too fast to that last mountain stream. "If you can get across this without falling in." said Dr. John, "I'll know you've learned some—"
Then it was off to Pokhara, where Air India and Harry Grant, who had flown out from London, waited to welcome us back.
"Mt. Harry Grant has been conquered," we told him.
"I am never conquered." said the man from Cooks.
And finally came London, where at the airport Eric Shipton, his Whymper under one arm, his ice ax under the other, simply disappeared. No words. We were back at sea level.