"Work those chicken bones of yours," exhorted Doctor Banks. "Give me four more reps."

"I am," wheezed Lt. Ypsilanti, "not a chicken." His arms wavered as he pressed the weights up into the air, again.

"You are what I say you are." Her voice was loud and her syllables were clipped, the signature style of the drill sergeant. "And I say you're a chicken who owes me three more reps.

"Oui, Madame, oui." The features on his face puffed out, his chest heaved.

"You think you're worthy to climb the Chamonix?" The rising hackles made the doctor's large form all the more imposing.

"Oui, Madame." His voice lacked breath but not confidence. The barbells rose and fell again.

"You know what they call that mountain? They call it the death sport capital of the world. And that's what's going to happen to chickens who can't give me two more. They're going to fall off the mountain top and tumble all the way down, waving their useless chicken wings."

"Not a chicken," wheezed Ypsilanti. One elbow faltered, and Banks' hand dipped low to spot the weights, but Ypsilanti recovered, straightened, and pressed.

Banks' disappointing glower never failed, however. "A real gendarme has one more in him. Are you a hawk, or just a chicken?"

Lungs burning, muscles quavering, feathers standing on end, Ypsilanti squawked in triumph as he lifted the weights one last time.

Banks quickly grabbed the bar with both paws, and Ypsilanti was almost lifted off the bench, she moved so quickly to set the weights aside. The bird's arms hung limply at his sides as he panted furiously.

With the dexterity of a surgeon, Banks' large fingers opened a tiny bottle of water. "Your P.F. is fine, but I don't know how fixed you are for mountain sickness." She pressed the bottle into his hand. "When was the last time you were above three thousand meters?"

Ypsilanti's laugh was more of a gargle, his long throat pulsing as he guzzled the cool water. "Ah," he sighed. "Do not worry about this old bird. If there's one thing we can handle, it's the height. Come." He jumped to his feet with such quickness that Banks actually flinched. "We must clean up, or we'll keep Gräfenburg waiting, and she is not one who likes to wait."