In a novel not being written, there is a high and stormy mountian. It is a chain of mountains, actually--vast, razor-sharp peaks soaring skyward. The particular mountain in question is often angry, battering itself and all about it with snow and ice and hail and lightning. Sometimes it subsides into a sullen fog, wrapped in merciless cold.

There was a traveler who tried to climb this mountain once. He made it much farther than he should have, but finally--worn out, gasping, frozen--he came to the end and collapsed, clawing vainly, at The Door he sought.

But then what happened? Did a hand reach out at the Last Minute and save him--pulling him inside The Door to warmth and light and life? Or if he Entered after all, was it to new challenges, and perhaps once more to Despair? Or did he sleep eternally there on the mountain, to be covered by snow and ice and nevermore remembered? Did he leave anyone behind who would miss him when he was gone? Would they look for him--call for him, perhaps--and sorrow when he could not be found? Or was there no one--no one at all--to even notice that someone's place was empty?

We shall never know, perhaps, as the novel is not being written.