Suspense, which is usually heard at this hour on Thursday nights, is taking its customary summer holiday. Suspense returns to the air six weeks from tonight on Thursday, September 1st. You were hanging by your fingertips on the sheer face of an icy cliff, suspended a thousand feet above instant death, with your strength running out and with no chance for escape. We offer you Escape, designed to free you from the four walls of today for a half hour of high adventure. Tonight we escape to the cold loneliness of a glacier high in the Swiss Alps and to a man who learned much about death, as C.E. Martigew tells it in his famous story, Action. High in the Swiss Alps, well above 12,000 feet, a man plings with desperation to the frozen glass wall of the Chaliyoc Glacier. Thousand feet jammed into shallow steps, chopped in the iron-hard ice. A cold wind drives a spray of dusty sleet along the overhanging wall, and the sun has fallen away among the crags to the west. Darkness lies one hour ahead. The man has climbed with painful care a thousand feet up the glacier's face from the broken moraine at the foot, and has moved now on to the underside of a great bulge in the ice, a part of the wall which breaks out beyond the perpendicular. And the man is forced to hang from slots cut by his axe, such as a sloth hangs from a tree branch. Twelve more feet lie between him and the brow of the overhang, six more steps to be chopped out with the axe, and a thousand feet of void space waits beneath him. The man is unable to lift his heavy axe for even one more stroke. He is tired, and he is 52 years old. No experienced mountaineer would ever attempt the west face of the Chaliyoc Glacier, and yet this man is an experienced mountaineer. And why? Why? What strange events have conspired to bring him along the path of his life, and leave him hanging now, in peril, on the brink of eternity? Through what shadows has that path led him, and where are those who saw him pass? Can we ourselves move along it, move back step by step against the river of time, move backward along the life path of Christopher Bell? My name is Jean Vajour. I'm a guide for all the mountain trails on the Weisshorn and the Chalihorn. I talked with Mr. Bell this morning as he was leaving the village. Of course, at the time I did not know that was his name. The season is over, you understand. Winter will come in another week or two, and most all the visitors are gone. So you see, I was very surprised to hear a stranger call out to me in English. Hello there. Which of these paths takes me to the foot of the Chaliyoc? The one on the left. But you will find no chimney there, sir. One arrives very soon at the glacier and can go no farther. Except of course, to climb up it. The glacier? But that is impossible. It has never been done. Of course not. It's never been tried. There is not anyone who would be so foolish, monsieur. No, it isn't that. There are plenty of foolish people in the world. But even they hold onto their margin of safety. Eh, margin of safety? Yes, the difference between the point where a man thinks he's reached his limit, and the point where that limit really is. I'm afraid I do not understand this. All right, take a mountaineer such as yourself. You look at a slope and you estimate the effort needed to climb it. Then you estimate your own endurance. And if there isn't a good size safety factor, just don't make the climb. But it would be foolish not to do so. I dare say. Oh, it's all tied up in the fear of death. Take that out of a man for one instant. There's no telling what he might be able to do, or what limit he might reach. And how should a man lose that fear? He can't. He can't lose it. It has to be done for him by things outside. He turned and left me then, this Mr. Bell, and walked up the path towards the glacier. That was early this morning, and I did not see him again. His talk with me made no sense, and I could not understand what he meant to do, or why he was going to do it. I remember thinking, what a strange man. But I really know nothing more about him. I believe he arrived in the village only last night, and took a room in the Sinhal Inn. My name is Greta de Gaspar, and I am staying out the week here in Sinhal to close up the inn for the winter. I have known Mr. Bell for the last 30 years, always before he came in the summer season for the climbing, and I was most surprised when he arrived last night. I opened one of the rooms, and I found something for him to eat, and then later we sat and talked in front of the fire in the big empty lounge. This is very good coffee, Madame Gaspar. Thank you, Mr. Bell. Had you let me know you were coming, I would have had everything ready for you, just like all the other times. Like all the other times. This one's a little different, Madame Gaspar. You might call it a special visit. Oh, it is all so different now from the old days. Then it was you and your Madame would come here, and it was Gaspar and I. And the summers seemed to last forever. I thought everything would last forever when she was alive. Now I'm really alone in the world. As am I. And it is not good to be alone. It gives one no reason for living. But there may be stronger reasons for not wanting to live. Is there something troubling you, Mr. Bell? No, no, not now. There may have been, but not now. I shall be leaving quite early in the morning for a climb, so I think I'll go on to bed. Good night, Madame Gaspar. Mr. Bell left the inn this morning before I awakened, and I have not seen him again. I have never known him to act so strange before. I have no idea what the reason is or what he may be planning to do, but I am sure something is troubling him. Perhaps it may be something connected with his business in London. My name is Matthew Brough. I have been Chief Clerk of Mr. Bell's London office over the past 25 years. I have always found him to be a considerable, independent employer. I have never noticed anything you might call unusual about him until one day about three weeks ago. Mr. Bell entered the establishment a bit late, as I recall, and passed immediately into his own office without acknowledging my customary greeting. A little while afterward, he sent for me. Well, Matthew, where do we go from here? I can't say that I follow you, Mr. Bell. I mean the company's on a steady footing, so if we use our heads at all, we don't stand much chance of losing anything. Yes, our position is quite secure. On the other hand, we can't expect to do any more growing or through expanding. Now on, it's merely a matter of operation. Most enviable condition, sir. Is it? There's nothing more to look forward to, nothing more to work for. So where do we go from here? Well, sir, I... Matthew, I'm putting you in charge of the business, turning it over to you effective this week. Mr. Bell, you can't possibly mean that. Oh, yes. Yes, I've just decided. But what are you going to do, sir? I'm taking a trip. I'm going to Switzerland, maybe do a little mountain climbing. Oh, well, then at least it's only temporary, just for whatever time you're gone. Yes, that's right. For whatever time I'm gone. Just for whatever time I'm gone. Before the end of the week, he had arranged all the necessary papers and had left London. I haven't heard a word from him since, as though I presume he's somewhere in Switzerland. Actually, however, I haven't the faintest idea where Mr. Bell may be right at this moment. On the glacier, minutes pass and the shadows grow longer from the jagged peaks to the west of the Chaléoc and reach out with dark fingers toward the man who clings to the icy wall. The man's thoughts have grown as unwieldy as the heavy ice axe gripped in his hand. He keeps trying to remember that he is Christopher Bell, a human being and not a part of this free and empty space. For he knows if he stops remembering that, he may forget all else too. And then, let go. There's been no reason for trying to locate Mr. Bell since nothing of any importance has occurred during these three weeks. I'm sure he's quite all right. Only one thing still puzzles me a bit. The remarkable change in him on that morning three weeks ago. I'd never heard him talk like that before. And whatever the reason for it, I'm quite sure it was something that happened that morning before he came to the office. My name is John Oxford. I've been a conductor on the Westminster route for some 14 years now. And during all that time, Mr. Bell has been a daily passenger of mine on the early morning inbound run. As I recall it, the first time anything you might say, well, out of the way ever happened between us was one morning about three weeks ago. I saw Mr. Bell waiting at the usual place, so I signaled the driver to a stop. Good morning. Good morning, Mr. Bell. I'll be right there. Yeah, now let me come down and help you up, sir. I'll make it. If you'll just take my arm, Mr. Oxford. My arm, please. But I have taken it, Mr. Bell. Oh, yes, of course. I'm sorry. There we go. There we are, sir. Oh, thank you. I had a bit of a shock this morning. I'm quite all right now. Well, if it's all right now, then it's fine, I'd say. You take hold of that strap there now. Oh, yes, of course. Oh, just a moment. I have the fare here somewhere. Oh, yes. Here you are. Thank you, sir. No, no, thank you. Well, I don't quite understand what you mean, sir. Mr. Huxford, have you ever had anyone take your arm and help you up a flight of steps? No, and I might say I hope the day never comes when I... Well, I'm sorry, sir. Not at all. Thank you, Mr. Huxford. Thank you very much. I don't rightly know what was wrong with him, though it's certain that something was. I haven't seen him for nearly three weeks now. I can't imagine what it might have been that happened to him that morning before he got on the bus. My name is Jenkins, and I've been Mr. Bell's personal valet for the past 12 years and seven months. The Master is traveling somewhere on the continent of just the present, been gone something over two weeks now, decided rather suddenly, I believe. In fact, I rather think something happened one morning about three weeks ago that caused him to make up his mind, though I really haven't the faintest idea of what it might have been. I can remember noticing a very strange look on his face when he came down to breakfast that morning, but I thought nothing of it at the time. Good morning, Jenkins. Good morning, sir. I trust you had a pleasant night's rest. Oh, yes, yes, I did. Thanks, Jenkins. I'll be having the usual, orange juice, toast. No, no, no, no, I want nothing except some coffee. Very well, sir, I'll bring it right away. I can't let him find out. I can't let anyone find out about it. Maybe it's a little better now. Maybe it's going away. Maybe I'm giving it too much importance. No, no, it's still there, that same lack of feeling clear down the whole right side of my body. There. I can move my arms, my leg all right. There's no feeling in them. They're numb. It's simply that at 52 years of age, I've had a light stroke. Your coffee, sir. Oh, thank you, Jenkins. Would you care for something more, sir? No, no, that's all. If you'll pardon me, sir, you don't seem quite yourself this morning. I do hope you're not ill. Oh, no, no, I'm quite all right, Jenkins. I hope you won't mind my saying this, Mr. Bell, but you don't take very good care of yourself anymore. Oh, no, Jenkins. It's been years now since you had a checkup, sir. Not since the mistress passed away, in fact. I'm quite all right, Jenkins. I'm quite all right. Then I'm relieved to hear it, sir. I'll bring your paper now. Good Lord, is this what a man slaves his life away for, to end up helpless, dependent upon others, to be wheeled about, put out in the sun, taken in like some great fat lava? Oh, it's disgusting. But I've got to face it. This stroke is the first warning. There'll be others, worse ones, and in a short time I'll be helpless. Oh, there must be some way out. Not suicide, but some way. There's got to be some way. The icy wall hardens into cold, vitreous steel as the dust-borne shadows chill its surface. The merciless ice is beginning to freeze the cramped joints of the man's fingers now, and a heavy axe swings idly at his belt, tracing a fumbling pattern on the thin air of the void. How much longer now can he cling to those slots in the glacier's face? How much longer does he have to live? Thirty seconds? A minute? What's the margin of safety now? And what does a man think of while his pulse beats slower and he waits to die? Strange how I'm able to go on hanging to this slope, clinging on to life, when I can't feel another ounce of strength left in me. I was right. Dying isn't so bad, really. Not when it's like this. It's rather pleasant, in fact. It looks so soft down there, with the shadows and the snow and the wind. Perhaps I could let go and float out in the wind like an eagle, and be blown along by it like drifting snow. Ah, the sun's gone now. It'll be full dark in a few minutes. Maybe I can hold on that long, till everything is dark, even the snow and the ice. Who knows? Perhaps I'll watch the sunrise tomorrow and set again, and even beyond the... Oh no, no. I can't last even one full minute longer. I'm through, I'm finished. I can't even last a half minute. Chips of ice sliding over the edge. Funny how a glacier sheds off that way. And I suppose the difference in temperature between day and... Wait. An ice axe. That was an axe. No other sound in the world like it. It fell from up above the overhang there. There must be somebody up there on the slopes, coming down from the top. There is. Wait. That's... Five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. That's a mountaineer's call for help. Someone's dropped his axe and he's in trouble up there. It's right above this bulge. If I can only... No. Throat's too dry. Well, six more steps to cut to reach the edge there. All right. Six more steps. Now, five more steps. Just about does it. The last step. Cut the rope and let me go. There's no use. I'm going to get you. I'm going to get you. Good Lord. It's a woman. Hold on there. I'll be with you in a minute. There. Somebody's coming. There's someone down here. Over the edge. Take it easy there. Everything's going to be all right. Oh, thank heaven. I don't know where you came from. Thank heaven you're here. Yes, I am. I'm going to get you. I'm going to get you. I'm going to get you. I'm going to get you. I'm going to get you. I'm going to get you. I'm going to get you. I'm going to get you. I'm going to get you. I'm going to get you. You're here. Here, here. Easy now. Let's get a step out for your feet here. I was just below the overhang there. I heard the fellow up above call out. He's got quite a voice on him. It's my husband. Oh, please, Harry. Easy now. Have a step out here in a second. You can put your feet on it. You get your breath. Then we'll tackle the slope. There now. That's it. I'll just scrape you with his ice away. Easy there. Oh, that's better, isn't it? Oh, good Lord. I'm going to get you. I'm going to get you. I'm going to get you. Oh, that's better, isn't it? Oh, yes. Oh. You're all right now. You just lean there. And when you feel like it, we'll go on up. Oh, my name is Christopher Bell, by the way. I'm Anna Gollum. Oh, thank you. I thought we were done. I was cutting steps down ahead in the slope, and I slipped and dropped my axe. The rope held me, but neither of us dared to move. Well, you're all right now. As soon as you rest a minute, we'll cut some more steps back up the slope. You know, you shouldn't have started down this way. You'd never have been able to pass that bulge. Yes, I can see that now. Of course, it's harder to tell when you're moving downslope. Yes, I suppose it is. You were coming up the slope, weren't you? Yes, I came up from the foot. I was down and without a rope, and you deliberately climb onto the underside of an overhanging wall. Let's just say we're both foolhardy. Is that what you call it? Well, if you've got your breath back now, suppose we start up the slope. My name is Theodore Gollin, and I am the husband of the woman who slipped and fell on the wall of the glacier. I'm a physician, formerly of Harley Street, London. I've practiced in Paris for several years now. I met Mr. Bell when he and my wife reached the ice ledge where I stood waiting above them. I was not immediately aware of his trouble, but found out about it a short time later when we reached the rest hut at the top of the ridge. While my wife heated water for tea at the far side of the room, Bell and I fell into a much more personal conversation than strangers normally do. This sometimes happens when people have been very close to death. Well, at any rate, Dr. Gollin, you can see how it is. The life of an invalid doesn't seem very appealing to me. Tell me something, Mr. Bell. I gather you were pretty well done in when I called out there in a glacier. Couldn't lift a hand. Then how do you account for being able to chop six steps into that ice in a matter of some five minutes? I don't know exactly. I was through. I couldn't have lasted 30 seconds more. But when I realized somebody was in danger, I forgot about it. And this numbness, this lack of feeling in your right side, didn't bother you? No, I didn't notice. It isn't quite so bad even now. Here's your answer, Mr. Bell. I don't believe I follow you. Action. When you were in action, working because you had a reason, living because you had to, because somebody was depending on you, then you were all right. Something was back in its place again. Perhaps. But a man can't spend all his time climbing up a mountain. I don't mean physical action, movement. Call it incentive, if you like. Maybe that's a better way to put it. Incentive, huh? It's the one top pressure that keeps life moving and growing. And it's what you need. Well, it's an interesting theory, Doctor. But it's only a theory. I'll have the tea ready in a moment. Anybody interested? I am, my dear. It's like we brought it. If no one minds, I believe I'll have a turn outside while we're waiting. Be careful out there in the dark. The ridge breaks off pretty sharply here. Oh, I'll be careful. Doctor Gollum, if things were turned around, I wonder if it'd be any more than just a theory to you. Mr. Bell, where are you? I'm over here, Mrs. Gollum. Beautiful, isn't it? With the stars so clear and bright. Yes. Well, there won't be many more clear nights before the winter storms. It would be a shame to give it up, you and I. What do you mean? I've got to say this quickly. We're not the kind to commit suicide, you and I. What? You deliberately climbed into a dead end out on that glacier. And I did the same thing. I went ahead and I picked the route down that slope. Sure you... No, wait, wait. In 30 seconds, I would have cut myself loose from that rope. Oh, we went to an awful lot of trouble so we wouldn't have to call it suicide. You? But why? I have a brain condition. There's no point in going into it, but it's incurable. Sooner or later, at any moment, I shall go blind. Oh, no. My husband doesn't know about it and I don't want him to know. I'll make a bargain with you. What sort of bargain? I'm not brave, really. To go on living, I need something to cling to. I need to know all the time that there's someone else with courage, too. Mr. Bell, I'll go on living if you will. I'd say you're amazingly brave. If I were, I could do it alone without having to make myself dependent on you and on your courage. That sort of thing would work both ways. I wouldn't dare let you down. Nor could I you. Do you want to make that bargain? Shall we go on living, Mr. Bell? As I said before, I am Dr. Thurda Gollin. They met Mr. Bell some three hours ago on the Shalyukh Glacier. At the moment, he's outside the hut a few yards away talking to my wife. I can hear the sound of their voices, but I can't make out the words. However, I know what they're talking about and what his answer would be. My wife and I discussed that before she went to join him. You may have heard of my wife, incidentally, but would likely have been under the stage name she uses in the Paris theater. You see, she's quite a talented actress. Escape is produced and directed by Norman MacDonald. Tonight we have presented Action by C.E. Montague, adapted for radio by Les Crutchfield. Featured in the cast were Joseph Kearns as Mr. Bell, with Maria Palmer, Wilms Herbert, Ben Wright, Jeff Corey, Tudor Owen, and Bill Johnstone. Special music arranged and conducted by Wilbur Hatch. Next week, you are trapped in the native quarter of Mozambique with the police closing in on you while at your feet lie two dead men and standing beside you is a sultry girl who offers you escape. Next week, we escape with a gripping story by Percival Gibbon entitled Second Class Passenger. Be with us next week at the same time when once again we offer you escape. And now stay tuned for Casey, crime photographer, to hear the story of Durable Dennis. It'll be along in just a few moments on most of these same CBS stations. This is Tip Corning speaking. This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.
