* * * * *
By morning of the second day they were in the clouds. They crawled
upward through opal-tinted steam, half liquid, hot and unbearable. They
crawled for two more days. The first night or two Sim sang during his
watch, while they rested on some ledge. After that he was too tired.
McLaren began to give out, though he wouldn't say so. Matt Harker grew
more taciturn and ill-tempered, if possible, but otherwise there was no
change. The clouds continued to hide the top of the cliff.
During one rest break McLaren said hoarsely, "Don't these cliffs ever
end?" His skin was yellowish, his eyes glazed with fever.
"Maybe," said Harker, "they go right up beyond the sky." The fever was
on him again, too. It lived in the marrow of the exiles, coming out at
intervals to shake and sear them, and then retreating. Sometimes it did
not retreat, and after nine days there was no need.