The Madman Theory Read Free

rubber soles. He stared in amazement, eyebrows bushing out over his eyes. “Buck! You’re not planning to wear those things? You need boots.”
    â€œNot me. You don’t like weight hanging around your neck, I don’t like it on my feet.”
    â€œWhat if you sprain your ankle? We’d have to carry you out.”
    â€œI guess I just won’t sprain my ankle.”
    Genneman gave his head a quick decisive shake. “When you’re depending on your legs to get you into the mountains and out again, you don’t take chances.”
    â€œEverybody takes chances,” grinned Buck. “Kershaw might start dancing and fall into a lake. Nobody’s carrying life preservers.”
    â€œLet’s be serious,” snapped Genneman. “Spraining an ankle on a loose rock is a real danger. Since you don’t have any experience—”
    â€œI’ve walked here and there,” said Buck airily. “Look at these heels.”
    â€œThe Sierras aren’t the Wisconsin woods. This is rough country!”
    Buck brought out the official park brochure. He read: “‘In the event of serious emergency, helicopters are usually available for rescue duty. In general, helicopters sent in to pick up persons for other than a life or death emergency must be chartered at the rate of one hundred and fifty dollars per eight hours.’ In other words, if I break my ankle, I don’t need to hold the rest of you up. Just send in the helicopter when you get back to civilization.”
    Genneman stared at Buck a long ten seconds. Then he turned away. “Don’t say you haven’t been warned.”
    â€œI’ve been warned all my life,” said Buck. “But I’m sane, healthy, practical, courageous—”
    Genneman forced a laugh. “One thing for sure, you’re articulate. I shouldn’t complain; who ever heard of a tongue-tied salesman?” Genneman turned away to make up his own pack, while Bob Vega shook his head in disapproval at Buck’s obstinacy over the boots.
    The five men took their packs to Genneman’s big white Buick station wagon, then went into the restaurant for lunch. “Eat hearty while you can,” said Genneman. “You’ll be doing your own cooking for a week.”
    â€œThat I don’t mind,” said Red Kershaw. “But I’ll miss the candlelight and wine.”
    â€œWhat about the whisky and the gin?” asked Genneman. “Think you can stand it?”
    Kershaw rubbed his chin. “Be nice if one of you fellows cached liquor along the trail.”
    The crack appeared to amuse no one.
    â€œJust thought I’d ask,” said Kershaw.
    After lunch the five climbed into the Buick, and Genneman drove into the vast glacial gorge which was Kings Canyon. Granite cliffs reared over the road; peaks soared to a neck-craning altitude. Thirty miles from the lodge they passed the Cedar Grove Campground and Ranger Station; after another six miles the road ended at a turn-around and parking area. From this point trails led off into the High Sierra, to north, south, and east.
    Genneman parked and locked the car, and hid the keys inside a bumper-guard. Each man strapped on his pack, effecting a curious change in his appearance. Earl Genneman became a burly cinnamon bear; Retwig a finicky and fastidious gnome. With a white sweatshirt slung loosely over his pack-frame Buck James appeared more debonair than ever. Bob Vega walked about as if his feet hurt, while Red Kershaw seemed bemused by the astonishing set of circumstances which had brought him to his present predicament.
    Genneman pointed to the Forest Service sign which read: COPPER CREEK TRAIL. “There it is, me buckos. Take your last look at civilisation. Anyone want to back out?”
    No one spoke, although Kershaw and Vega looked wistfully toward the station wagon.
    Genneman said in brassy good cheer, “Everybody champing at the bit, eh?