“Still, I wouldn’t have missed this evening. It was a peculiar experience for me, hearing Sanders tell that story about the affair at Baskul. You see, I’d heard it before, and hadn’t properly believed it. It was part of a much more fantastic story, which I saw no reason to believe at all, or well, only one very slight reason, anyway. Now there are two very slight reasons. I daresay you can guess that I’m not a particularly gullible person. I’ve spent a good deal of my life travelling about, and I know there are queer things in the world—if you see them yourself, that is, but not so often if you hear of them secondhand. And yet…”

Rutherford and the narrator of the Prologue voice skepticism in framing the narrative. In doing so, they ironically enhance the story’s credibility. Rutherford’s comment that Sanders is the second person to tell him about Baskul emphasizes the increasing likelihood of the story Conway told being true. The acknowledgement that “there are queer things in the world” hints that Conway’s story is going to seem extraordinary or unbelievable, but since a skeptic like Rutherford believes it, the reader should also take Conway’s story as fact.

“Conway was not bothering. He was used to air travel, and took things for granted. Besides, there was nothing particular he was eager to do when he got to Peshawar, and no one particular he was eager to see; so it was a matter of complete indifference to him whether the journey took four hours or six. He was unmarried; there would be no tender greeting on arrival. He had friends, and a few of them would probably take him to the club and stand him drinks; it was a pleasant prospect, but not one to sigh for in anticipation.”

This passage highlights Conway’s genuine dispassion, a character trait in which he lacks attachments to the world, as well as the desire to form such attachments. Instead, he thinks of things in terms of pleasantness, taking various elements of life for granted until they prove to be unpleasant. Conway is not concerned with the pilot’s unusual behavior until he realizes that they do not know where they are being taken, at which point he spurs to action, taking charge of the passengers.

“Conway was not apt to be easily impressed, and as a rule he did not care for ‘views,’ especially the more famous ones for which thoughtful municipalities provide garden seats. Once, on being taken to Tiger Hill, near Darjeeling, to watch the sunrise upon Everest, he had found the highest mountain in the world a definite disappointment. But this fearsome spectacle beyond the windowpane was of different caliber; it had no air of posing to be admired. There was something raw and monstrous about those uncompromising ice cliffs, and a certain sublime impertinence in approaching them thus. He pondered, envisioning maps, calculating distances, estimating times and speeds.”

Another component, narratively, of Conway’s dispassion is that it emphasizes the importance of moments like sighting the Tibetan mountain range. The fact that Conway is so rarely impressed tells the reader that these mountains are exceptional.