The Wind That Tramps the World
The little City of the Big Winds lies on the very roof of the world, among the bleak, barren storm-blown peaks of the Himalayas, as though flung there by some monstrous frenzied hand, or snapped from the tip of a whip in the hand of a giant. A grayer or more desolate spot would be hard to imagine, or a spot where the tumult of discord is more frightful.
At first John Steppling had been unable to sleep upon his arrival in the City. It was like being in another world, living in a cloud-land of drifting shadows, where every breath was an effort and prolonged exertion an almost physical impossibility. He felt like an empty box, strained to the breaking point by external things, in danger of collapsing at any moment. At night as he gazed toward the stars, he almost imagined that he could extend his hand and pick them out of the sky much as one might pick blue-white flowers in a fragrant garden. The sky was so intensely clear, it was breath-taking. It almost made him gasp. Though possibly the rarefied air may have made him gasp in any case. He had arrived at the City quite by chance during an exploring expedition in Northern India. He had intended remaining in the weird little town
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