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to prevent him from spending all his holidays in the mountains; although he lived in Paris, and so at some distance from his paradise, he was rarely to be found in town at week-ends.
    Louis Lachenal had been an amateur, climbing for his own pleasure, until he became, a few years ago, an instructor at the National School of Ski-ing and Mountaineering. To the inhabitants of Chamonix he ranked as a ‘foreigner’, which means that he was not a native of the valley – he came from Annecy. In spite of this dubious origin, as it seemed to the local people, who are jealous of their mountains, he had succeeded, along with Gaston Rébuffat and Lionel Terray, in being admitted to the Company of Guides of Chamonix, a body unique both for the quality and number of its members. He was of medium height, with a piercing eye, and in conversation could administer a very pretty repartee. He loved exaggeration in everything, and his judgments could be devastating. Absolutely honest with himself, he was perfectly ready, if occasion arose, to own himself in the wrong. As often as they could manage it he and Lionel Terray would go off together, as amateurs, to enjoy themselves on the finest climbs in the Alps.
    Lionel Terray, although a native of Grenoble, was also a Chamonix guide, and he and Lachenal formed a crack partnership: they were a couple of regular steam-engines. Like his friend, Terray had a weakness for dogmatic and exaggerated statements, and there was continuous rivalry between them to see who could go one better than the other. Terray was unbeatable and would never give in. Although the son of a doctor, and a highly cultured man, he liked to be thought a well-meaning tough, all brawn and nothing more. It was pure love of the mountains that brought him to climbing, and he was entirely happy as a guide. During the war he farmed a holding at Les Houches; anyone who came to help him there had to be fond of mountains and of hard work – and he measured their capacities by his own. He went over to Canada last year to teach the new French method of ski-ing, and brought back some notable additions to his repertory of curses. ‘Just now,’ he wrote to me, ‘I am ski-ing
en tabernacle
’ – ski-ing like hell. He was in Canada at the moment and would get back only a week before we sailed. Until then everything had to be done by letter.
    Gaston Rébuffat had a scandalous origin for a mountaineer, and even worse for a guide. He was born at the seaside! It would take the Company of Guides many years to live this down. All the same, it was on the cliffs of the Calanques, between Marseilles and Cassis, that he did his first climbs. He was the tallest man of the party, towering over the rest of us by nearly a head. He had done all the finest expeditions in the Alps, and thought nothing of going straight on from one big climb to another without a rest between. His young wife, Françoise, and his daughter seldom saw him during the season’s round of Chamonix, Cortina d’Ampezzo, Zermatt and so on. He was away in Italy giving a series of lectures, but I had asked him to return at once.
    These men formed the assault parties, and no better men could be found in France. No one disputed this – not even secretly. If a vote had been taken among climbers, the same names would have been put forward.
    Nor was there any question about our camera-man: Marcel Ichac indeed was one of our trump cards. He had already been to the Himalaya, in 1936, and had taken part in a great many expeditions. As soon as he arrived I should have the benefit of his advice, but just now he was in Greenland with Paul-Emile Victor, and immediately afterwards he would be off to the USA to film the world ski championships, at Aspen, arriving back only a few days before we left for India. He would have several jobs to do. Not only would he film the expedition, he would be responsible for everything connected with photography. We should each have a camera, but the maintenance,