Spoils Of The Ages

Beautiful place Idaho, says Pauline.  Esto perpetua, that's our motto.

What's that mean? asks Sweezus.

Let it be forever, says Pauline. Of course, these days it's unlikely.

She is interrupted by froglets. Wrrack-ack!

She looks into the bottle.

How do they look? asks Sweezus.

Green, trembling, says Pauline. What altitude do they normally live at?

Dunno, says Sweezus. Anyway, these frogs are different. They've had an overdose.

Overdose of what? asks Pauline.

Of pool salt, says Arthur. It either kills them or makes them grow fast. These two are survivors.

Not so sure about that, says Pauline.

The froglets are not too sure either. But they do know what altitude they like.

Not this one.

Pauline goes on.

So you guys never heard of Simón Bolívar?

Nup, says Sweezus. But I guess he climbed Chimborazo.

And wrote a visionary poem, says Pauline. Mi delirio sobre el Chimborazo.

No kidding, says Sweezus. Delirio. That's like..... what, delirium?

Yes, says Pauline. He climbed right to the summit, it affected him deeply. No human foot had been planted on that sparkling crown, placed by the hands of Eternity on the high temples...

What? says Sweezus.

I'm quoting, says Pauline. Time appears to him, looking like an old man carrying the spoils of the ages...

Arthur feels in his red waterproof pocket.

Nothing.

Shorts, suggests Sweezus.

Arthur loosens the rope holding up his red waterproof trousers, shoves his hand under the waistband and tries his shorts pocket.

Brings out a pencil (Lydia's), an old bloody bandage, and the packet of Sea Salt.

Spoils of the ages, says Arthur.

Is that the salt that the frogs overdosed on? asks Pauline

No, says Arthur. This is our Prognosticating Sea Salt. We sell it.

Pauline laughs. Then she stops laughing. One can't laugh forever.

Prognosticating! says Pauline. I don't buy that! What's it's provenance?

The sea, says Sweezus. And the Great White Teacher in Newcastle. We've had trouble with the packaging.

Great White Teacher? says Pauline.

A shark, says Sweezus. A Great White. Not a racist.

Did you ask him? says Arthur.

Well, no. But why would you? says Sweezus.

I would have, says Pauline.

By now they are within sight of the first refuge, at four thousand eight hundred metres.

There's the refuge, and beyond it a graveyard.

Paco is waiting outside.

Cielos! thinks Paco. Doble reservado de nuevo!

(looks like he's double booked again)