The Tower of Mount Everest

Another six months passes by and the pace at which Lattimer is proceeding shows no signs of letting up. In fact, he has gotten his “second wind.” He has become the foremost expert at high altitude mountain construction. Lower New Everest is now ready for public viewing, but the final cost in human currency is still waiting to be tabulated. Mountain climbing has all but stopped on the North Face of Everest, a fact that is particularly poignant to the Sherpa tribe people. The Sherpa migrated from Tibet to neighboring Nepal, 500 years ago. They became permanently acclimated to the higher elevations of the Khumba Valley in Nepal, the southern gateway to Mount Everest. Prior to exposure to Western influences, the Sherpa worshipped Mount Everest as the mother goddess of the earth, even climbing the mountain was considered blasphemy. However, the corrosive effects of the Western world had compromised their behavior. They had become entrepreneurs, paid to haul huge amounts of supplies on their backs needed by the well-heeled mountaineers who required their assistance. They helped Sir Edmund Hillary become one of the first to ever scale the mountain, and right beside him was a Sherpa, named Tenzing Norgay. Since then, hundreds of climbs have been attempted on Mount Everest: None of them would have been possible without the help of the tough, enduring Sherpa people.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the press!” Snyder announces into a microphone on a podium in the central atrium of Synderville. “May I have your attention, please!” He smiles, tapping the microphone as he waits for the throng of people there to settle down. “Ladies and gentlemen, I believe we have a real treat in store for you this evening.”

“Are the trams working yet?” a reporter yells out from the audience. “How about New Everest?” another one yells. “Is the roof still collapsing? Has anyone died yet?” Snyder raises his hands in an attempt to calm everyone down.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please. All of your questions will be answered in due time. But first, let’s have a lottery to see which of you will be able to take the first tram ride up to Lower New Everest.” The reporters rush forward like rock fans attacking a celebrity. The security guards fend them off the stage. “Everybody, please! I need your attention... NOW!” The authority in Snyder’s voice catches everyone off guard and they hesitate to listen.

Snyder speaks more softly, this time in a more calm and deliberate fashion. “I said we would have a lottery... not a free-for-all! The ushers will hand everybody a ticket on which you need to write your complete name. Hand the tickets back to the ushers and they will bring them up here and put them into the lottery basket. One of my assistants will rotate the basket and I will pull out 10 names. The tram gondola holds a maximum of 50 people. But as you can see, I can only control about 10 reporters at a time.” Chuckles rippled through the crowd. “See you on Everest!” He shouts.

After the selection, the reporters and celebrities are escorted into the waiting train, which whisks them away from Snyderville to the base of the tram. During normal operations, one of the train’s airlocks engages with the tram so passengers do not have to experience any unpleasant drops in air pressure. Ever the showman, however, Snyder dons his oxygen mask and begins to dismount through one of the train’s other airlocks so he can ceremoniously herd people into the tram. He has on a wireless microphone, which allows him to speak to the tram’s occupants as they proceed on their way. As Snyder steps out of the airlock he is greeted by Lattimer and Jose, both of who seem a bit anxious. They pull him away from the prying eyes of the crowd.

“Sam,” Lattimer whispers, “We have a little bit of a problem here.”

Snyder switches off his mike. “What kind of a problem?” Snyder snaps, “You know I don’t like surprises!”

Lattimer clears his throat. “Well, it seems that some of the Sherpa tribe people believe what we are doing here is generating a bad karma of some kind.”

“So, what do we care?” Snyder snorts.

“Well, they sort of showed up here at the tram,” Lattimer says.

“Well, run them off! Do what you have to do, but get rid of them! I don’t want them giving any of these reporters bad karma. I’ll stay here and entertain the reporters. You let me know when it is safe to fill up the tram. Now get going.” Switching his mike back on, he turns to face the crowd gathering in the windows of the train. “Folks, before we enter the tram I want to give you a little history about the development of Lower New Everest...”

While Snyder is speaking, Lattimer and Jose move over to the tram to disperse the Sherpas, a motley group of 15 stern-faced men, arms folded defiantly.

Lattimer quickly scan the band of men. “Do any of you speak English?” he asks.

“We all speak English, sir,” one of the older Sherpas steps forward.

“Why are you here?” Lattimer asks. “I mean, we’ve been working up here for two and one-half years now and you never said a word. Why now?”

The elder Sherpa speaks up, “We have tried time and again to speak about this to your boss, Mr. Snyder. But he would not listen to us.”

“Well, he’s sure not going to listen to you now,” Lattimer says. “So you better listen to me. He’ll be coming over here in just a few minutes. If you’re not gone by then, he’ll have your hides and mine!”

The Sherpas are unfazed. “We will not leave, sir,” the Sherpa says again. “We know about the reporters. They will listen to us. That is why we are here today.”

Lattimer, exasperated, turns and looks at Jose and whispers, “What are we gonna do, Jose?”

“I don’t know, boss,” Jose whispers back. “Look, Dr. Lattimer,” Jose says pointing toward the train. “It’s Snyder and all those reporters!” The reporters, sensing a story, have all donned oxygen masks and left the confines of the train.

Lattimer’s eyes open wide in alarm as he whispers to himself, “We’re in real trouble now!”

Snyder approaches Lattimer with open arms and a grin so wide you could almost see it through his mask. “Well, Dr. Lattimer! I’m glad you were able to get the Sherpas to come up here, today. I was afraid they wouldn’t be able to make it this evening!”

“Yes sir!” Lattimer says, his face a contorted mixture of confusion, alarm and surprise.

Snyder turns to face the reporters, clasping his hands together. “The Sherpas have some really interesting superstitions about the mountain they wish to share with you tonight. I think you will find it to be informative as well as entertaining. Go ahead.” Snyder bows to the elder Sherpa, “tell them what you want, sir.” The elder Sherpa looks at Snyder first with alarm, and then with cold disdain. He steps forward and points a finger at him.

“You sir, are the reason for all of this, is this not true?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Snyder responds.

The Sherpa looks at the reporters. “You people of the West do not understand our mountain. It is not just rocks, snow, ice, and wind. It was not put here for your simple amusement,” he glances back at Snyder, “or as you say, Mr. Snyder, entertainment,” his voice thick with sarcasm. “Our mountain is ALIVE,” he says sharply as he looks skyward, raising his arms. “It comes from above. A gift from God,” he says, lowering his arms slowly. The Sherpa becomes angry and shakes his weather-beaten finger at Snyder. “You do not know what you are doing because you have no respect for anyone or anything but yourself! But I tell you now. The mountain has only so much patience. Abuse it at your own peril! Many have come here before you, and many have died here. They are here still. The mountain has swallowed them up!” His face grows dark, his eyes becomes mere slits as he glares at Snyder, hissing at him malevolently like a snake about to strike. “So it will be with YOU, Mr. Snyder,” he turns to look at the reporters, “and all those who follow you.” With that, the Sherpa steps back, the tribesmen all turn together, and like phantoms, slip silently into the evening dusk.

Snyder watches them leave. For the first time in a very long time, he senses a loss of control. His face feels a little flushed, his blood slightly chilled. Tiny currents of electricity seem to be flowing up and down his spine. He gulps slightly and tugs at his collar, clearing his throat. He turns to face the reporters and speaks, his throat tight, his voice a little hoarse.

“Well, I told you it would be entertaining didn’t I?” He forces a small, shallow laugh. The reporters are silent, transfixed in awe and horror. Snyder regains his composure. “So, what are you waiting for folks?” he says, clasping his hands together again. “Let’s get on that tram and go to Lower New Everest!” The Sherpa’s spell is suddenly broken and the reporters, though more subdued, become animated once again. They quickly file into the tram’s airlock, talking in hushed tones, followed by muffled laughter.