—RocknRolla Wind smacked the side of the oval tent, sounding like a machine gun, as Mikael refilled Crocker’s mug with Teerenpeli single malt whisky poured from a tin flask. Then the Norwegian slipped the flask into his sleeping bag next to his iPod, water bottles, and other items he wanted to keep from freezing. The Teerenpeli went down smoothly. Rich and old, its distilled essence of earth warmed Crocker’s body. Several other Norwegian climbers slept in sleeping bags behind them, snoring and occasionally passing gas—which became more of a problem the higher one climbed, according to Boyle’s law (pV = K). Mancini had explained earlier that for a fixed amount of a gas kept at a fixed temperature, pressure and volume are inversely proportional. In other words, once you lower the atmospheric pressure the gas will escape. One of the sleeping Norwegians called out the name Berit. Whoever she was. The rest of Crocker’s team had returned to their tent, where their team leader hoped they were resting for the climb ahead.
