"At 10:50 A.M., the radio flared into life. It was Mick's voice. He sounded weak and distant. "Bear. This is Mick. Do you copy?" The message then crackled with intermittent static. All I could make out was something about oxygen. I knew it was bad news. "Mick, say that again. What about your oxygen, over?" There was a short pause. "I've run out. I haven't got any." The words hung in the quiet of the tent at camp two. Through eyes squeezed shut, all I could think was that my best friend would soon be dying some six thousand feet above me--and I was powerless to help. "Keep talking to me, Mick. Don't stop," I said firmly. "Who is with you?" I knew if Mick stopped talking and didn't find help, he would never survive. First he would lose the strength to stand, and with it the ability to stave off the cold. Immobile, hypothermic, and oxygen-starved, he would soon lose consciousness. Death would inevitably follow. "Alan's here." He paused. "He's got no oxygen either. It's...it's not good, Bear." I knew that we had to contact Neil, and fast. Their survival depended on there being someone else above them. Mick came back on the net: "Bear, I reckon Alan only has ten minutes to live. I don't know what to do." I tried to get him back on the radio but no reply came."