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ain Kailas。 Tourists rode it to Lhasa。 This morning； as far as the eye could see； the highway was empty in both directions。 The Tibetan Plateau lay polished bare。 The absence of people was beginning to rattle him。 They had been swept away； it seemed； even the animals。 Even the birds。 What did the solitude mean？ How far did it stretch？
Nathan Lee headed due east； which put the wind； in general； at his back。 During the first few days； he felt weled into this land of wind and light。 The sun warmed him。 For hours at a time； the wind would blow so smoothly from behind that he didn't need to pedal。 With his back and shoulders as a mast； it felt as if he might sail the whole way home。 For the time being there was no need for a map。 Instead of a magnetic north； he had the southern horizon studded with giant white mountains。 He had memories。
His father's idea of a present had always been some invitation into his own world。 For his tenth birthday； Nathan Lee got a pair of crampons。 While other kids his age were plowing intoSilver Surfer orConan orPlayboy； Nathan Lee was stuck with books by Hermann Hesse； Rene Daumal； Han Shan； and other mountain mystics。 Like many American climbers of his era； his father treated the mountains as a blue collar shaolin temple filled with special wisdom and muscular； brooding fraternity。 Poverty； risk； even death： they were all part of the vertical Way。We're made in the image of the mountains； Nate； his father would spontaneously declare。There's no hiding who we are。 Our souls stand out against the sky。 Embarked on her own magical mystery tour； his mother went along with these noble chestnuts； helplessly in love with the man。
Cho Oyu appeared； then Everest； thirty miles off； the summit plume smoking like a volcano。 Nathan Lee's memories of the expedition with his father were clean and simple。 He'd been a happy…go…lucky kid back then； a favorite with everyone； helpful on the trail； guileless； strong as a yak。 Stronger； it turned out； than his own father。 They were both surprised by that。 Neither was quite ready for it。 One stormy afternoon near the end of the expedition； he and his father had climbed to the North Col to strike the last tent。 It wasn't high； but the saddle dropped off on either side and made for good theater。 〃Here；〃 his father said； and gave Nathan Lee his ice axe。 That was a big moment。 Then they went down。
He moved deeper into Tibet。 The sky was so blue it verged on black。 Night was worst。 It was so cold。 He had stolen a tent in Kathmandu； then discarded it。 Now he suffered in the open。 Mostly he curled in shallow pits along the road or huddled behind rocks。 The wind stalked him。 The stars strafed him。
He came upon an olddzong or fortress and sheltered in its roofless ruins。 One night he found a meditation chamber cut into the earth。 Monk after monk had taken turns here； spending months； even years； walled inside the hole； praying and fasting。 It was scarcely bigger than a coffin； and he had nightmares of jail。 Another time he crawled into a cave and slept atop a pile of hundreds of crumbling clay plaques imprinted with Buddhas。
One afternoon he stopped by a road sign with faded Chinese characters that meant nothing to him。 Tibetan pilgrims had tied one end of their long streamers of prayer flags to the metal post。 Most of the prayer flags were stamped with a cartoon horse。 Among the monsters and gods of Tibet； thelung ta …or wind horse…was an important creature。 Animated by the wind； the little horse flew to the heavens with prayers on its back。 Nathan Lee cut down a flag。 It weighed as much as a feather。 You could see right through the fabric； except for the ink of the horse。 He laid it betwen the pages for Grace。
The helpful wind turned mean and fitful。 Gusts slapped him from the sides。 Weaving like a drunk； he would make a few hard miles。 Day after day he fought the wind。 It bruised his face。 Dust caked his mouth and fouled his sinuses。 Bit by bit； the green paint on his bike was sand…blasted to bare metal。
By mid…December he still hadn't reached Lhasa。 In the lee of a shattered monastery； he spread out his Bartholomew's map of Asia and pinned the edges with rocks。 He'd traced three major alternatives； one along the Yangtze River to the South China Sea； and one boldly to Beijing； where he fantasized the American Embassy might take pity on him。 His final option； the most lonely； was to stick to the wastelands。 By threading the Gobi Desert north through Mongolia； he could strike out across Siberia and try to reach the Bering Sea。
Looking at the map debilitated him more than the wind or cold。 It showed him reality。 Even once he reached Lhasa； he would barely have gone an inch。 Getting home was going to take him many months； maybe even years。 After so much patience learned in jail； Nathan Lee hated the idea of being patient longer。
Then one day the dirt road became asphalt。 It transformed slowly。 Heaps of brown dirt had drifted across the highway； and the asphalt surfaced like an old memory。 Gradually the puddles of blacktop spanned open。 Nathan Lee lay down his bike。 He lifted his eyes and the paved road stretched off into the distance and went around a hill。 He pried away his dark glasses and stamped his good foot； relishing the fossil hardness。
His wilderness was over！ He knew that wasn't so。 Still； America suddenly seemed close enough to touch。 He got the bike upright again； all eighty pounds of it； and straddled the seat； and gave a stroke to the pedals。 The asphalt felt like a river slinging him on。 The knobby tire treads thrummed pleasantly。
There would be a town ahead； if not around this bend； then the next。 If there were people； he would beg。 If not； he would steal。 He would replenish his food； sleep in a bed； find wood； start a fire。 He remembered it was almost Christmas。
The highway dipped。 He picked up speed。 His luck had changed。 Even the wind had quit。 The last thing he expected were the corpses。
Before he could safely stop； he was deep among them。 Big trucks had careened right and left from the highway and tipped or else trundled to lazy halts。 Some had nosedived into a ravine； others had coasted far out upon the plateau and looked like tiny islands。 For the first time since the French couple spoke about an apocalypse； Nathan Lee saw a human body。 Not one； but many。 Many hundreds。 Thousands。
It was like being dropped into the middle of a battlefield。 What had happened here？ The road was littered for miles。 Everywhere； everyone； dead。 He emptied the slight； leather odor of them from his lungs and approached a nearby truck。
The driver lay propped against the window as if taking a nap。 His hair was straight and black。 One hand still rested on the steering wheel。 It was covered with a white cotton glove； an odd； delicate affectation even the roughest truckers shared。 His head was turned away； and Nathan Lee couldn't see the face。 Had the skin turned transparent？ Was he an invisible man？
He selected a second corpse； one that was in the open； away from the tangled heaps。 It was a young woman lying face down。 Her hands were exposed； and her skin was not transparent； but black； baked by the sun； preserved and polished by the cold and wind。 She had bound her black braids with strands of turquoise strung on white yak hair。
Nathan Lee remembered being awestruck at the sight of Tibetan girls like her。 She would have had powerful high cheekbones and almond eyes and very white teeth。 They could be awesome beauties； and awesome flirts。 He remembered some of the archaeologists at Everest razzing him。Have one； Professor Ochs had urged him。 That came back to him； Ochs prodding him； even in the beginning； to do what he should not do。
His first assumption was that they were plague victims。 The French couple had been right； but wrong。 Nothing about these cascades of bodies falling from the truck beds suggested forgetfulness。 Certainly there were no invisible men or women。 Whatever it was； the disease was not supernatural。 It was infectious。 It killed quickly。 Almost instantaneously。
And yet something didn't seem right。 Why had so many people died in one place at one time？ What were they doing out here？ Where were they running to？ What were they running from？ Only then did Nathan Lee notice that the entire convoy had been heading west。。。away from China and into the barrens。
They had been racing away from the center。 Something sudden had spooked their stampede。 It was almost as if a gun had been fired。
He looked through the sprawled bodies。 There were no soldiers。 No settlers from the eastern lowlands。 These were all ethnic Tibetans。 He frowned。 Had the races been separated out？ A different； more grisly pattern presented itself。 Could it be that this was no die…off； but a killing field？
But if this were a massacre； where was its agent？ Where were the machine gun shells？ Where were the exploded trucks？ And where were the vultures and dogs？ Not one of the bodies had been touched。 Not one had a wound。
Then he found a vulture。 And dogs。 And ravens。 And mice。 They lay scattered among the dead。 They had been stricken down in the act of taking their feast。 A few minutes later； he happened across a dull orange canister。 It was partially embedded