were up against. I used those men as whet-stones--used them to kick
fear out of myself. You notice that I limp a little? That's a legacy
from the days of the 'Mary R.'"

Olive looked at him with open admiration. "That's epic!" she exclaimed.
"How far are you going to climb?"

Larssen had never revealed to any man or woman--save only to his
wife--the great ultimate purpose of his life. He did not tell it to
Olive. She was to be used as a pawn in the great game, just as he was
using Sir Francis and the dead Clifford Matheson. It came upon him that
she was now a widow. He would fan her open admiration so as to make use
of it when she awoke to the fact of her widowhood.

So he answered: "How far I climb depends on the help of my best friends.
I don't hide that. When my dear wife was with me, she was an inspiration
to me. No man can drive his car to the summit without a woman to spur
him on."

"Did marriage change you much?"

"Strengthened me. Bolted me to my foundations.... But here I'm
monopolizing the conversation with talk about myself. Let's switch. What
are _your_ ambitions?"

Olive laughed--a laugh with a bitter taste in it. "I wanted to help a
man to drive his car to the summit, and the car has stuck. I could
inspire, but my inspiring goes to waste. I'm an engine racing without a
shaft to take up its energy. Clifford is developing scruples. I don't
know where he caught them. I can't stand sick people. That's my