Indiana Jones & the Peril at Delphi

"What if the vapors start early?" He was curious about her reaction, since she'd said little about her experience.

"We have no reason to believe that they won't continue to follow the pattern," she answered, evading the intent of his question.

Indy glanced at his pocket watch again, then put it away. It was 10:35. He wondered what they were going to do until noon. "I suppose I should get some rest before noon. You going back to the hotel?" If she recognized his sly overture, she didn't show it.

"I said we have work to attend to, Jones. Let's go to the workshop, I want to go over the tools with you."

She walked at a quick pace toward the hotel where the horses were hitched. "Coming, Jones?" she called over her shoulder.

He tugged at his fedora, and strode after her.

"Hey, what about Doumas?" Indy asked as they mount ed their horses.

She frowned. "What about him?"

"I heard he was against my going down for the tablet."

She waved a hand. "Oh, he's over that now. It was just a matter of wounded pride."

Indy nodded, but he couldn't help thinking about Doumas's connection with the Order of Pythia. As they rode out of town, he wondered if the archaeologist was as interested as Panos and his son in protecting Dorian from outsiders. If so, going into the crevice with him anywhere in the area could be dangerous. But Doumas was also interested in the tablet, he rationalized, and probably would do nothing to endanger its recovery.

They'd ridden almost halfway to the workshop when Indy spotted a lone figure standing on the roadside.

As they neared him, he saw it was the old man in the Greek sailor hat who had talked to him in the taverna.

The Crazy One. With everything else that had happened since that night, he'd forgotten about him. He tried to recall what the man had said to him. Something about Pythia. She would swallow him. That was it. Now it meant considera bly more than it had at the time. Still, it was probably just an old-timer's barroom babble.

The old man stared as they cantered by. "Do you know him?" Indy asked.

She smiled, and it was obvious that she did. "He's no one to be concerned about."

"I've heard he's a member of the Order of Pythia, and that he's made predictions."

She laughed, and shook her head. "Maybe that's why he's known as the village fool. No one takes him seriously." As if to tell him she didn't want to talk about the old man any longer, she prodded the sides of her horse and galloped ahead.

Indy chased her all the way to the stable where they left

the horses, then walked to the nearby workshop. It was a wood frame building that looked on the inside like a dusty, poorly lit library. But instead of books, the rows of shelves held artifacts. As far as he could tell, none was the type of ancient handiwork that would interest treasure hunters. No gold, silver, or valuable stones. No sign of a single piece of the vast treasure that Croesus had donated for a single reading: one hundred seventeen bricks of precious metals, a gold lion weighing five hundred seventy pounds, a four-and-a-half foot statue of his pastry cook, and a variety of other treasures. The entire fortune had long ago vanished, claimed by emperors and kings and others. Nero alone had stolen five hundred gold statues from Delphi.

Most of the shelves were stacked with row after row of hand-size tablets on which were inscribed ancient read ings. A dozen or so were laid out on the long table where Dorian did most of her work. "Been catching up on your reading?" Indy asked as he ran his fingers over one of the tablets.

"I read a couple of hundred tablets yesterday," she said.

"Why?"

"I haven't read any of them for years. It's good to refresh myself from time to time on the nature of the readings."

Indy picked up one of the tablets, and translated the ancient Greek. It was a mundane reading regarding a merchant's plans to sell six hundred bales of wool to a new customer. The oracle had told him to hold firm on his price, then drop it slightly before sealing the bargain, and he would establish a strong, profitable relationship with the customer that would last years.

He laid the tablet down, wondering what Dorian could gain from reading such material. Maybe it was simply a way of relaxing after her breakdown. He was interested in hearing about her experience, but the only time he'd

broached the subject, she had said nothing to reveal her thoughts about the matter.

He watched her as she removed a shoulder bag from a locker, and carried it over to the table. She spread out six picks with heads of different lengths, and explained that all of them originally had been the same size, but were worn by use.

"Many archaeologists prefer to use trowels because they cause less damage to artifacts. But I've found that if you're careful, the pick is a much handier tool. Go ahead and take one."

Indy ran the point of the one he selected over his palm. "You sure I won't damage the tablet?"

"Not unless you hit it. Take your time and work around the base. From what's visible I'd say that about six to eight inches of it is buried. You don't have to go very close to it."

"Why did they use large tablets sometimes, and smaller ones other times?" he asked.

"Most of the readings were recorded on small ones. But important readings that were not for one individual, but for everyone, were sometimes inscribed on larger tablets like the one you'll recover."

Indy pointed to a set of brushes inside her bag, and asked if he would need one. She shook her head.

"The tablet will be cleaned after it is out of the hole."

She reached into the bag, and picked up a brush with wiry bristles. "But take , this one just in case you hit something unexpected. And before I forget here is a torch holder and a mallet to pound it into the wall."

As Indy placed each of the tools into his knapsack, Dorian looked around as if she were missing something. "Stephanos must have taken the ropes and net already. One rope goes around you, of course, and the other is for the tablet. Cover the tablet with the net as soon as you're down, and then attach the hooks at the opening to the loop at the end of the rope."

"I think I can handle that." The way she was treating him was annoying. Maybe he didn't have experience, but he wasn't an imbecile, and he knew how to attach hooks to a rope.

"Any questions?"

"Don't think so."

She pursed her lips, he couldn't read her expression. "This may seem very elementary to you, but what I've been telling you can make a difference between success and failure. I don't want you to get down there and not know what to do or worse, do it the wrong way."

"How long should it take?"

"You're not going to be able to work comfortably dan gling at the end of a rope for very long. We'll pull you up after forty-five minutes. Then, if you're up to it, we'll send you down again after a fifteen-minute rest."

"Maybe I'll finish the first time down."

She grinned. "Don't count on it. Working in that posi tion won't be easy. If you haven't finished by the second period, we'll wait until after the vapors have cleared, and try again around three o'clock."

"So the vapors are dangerous?"

She zipped her shoulder bag shut. "It would be difficult working in the vapors. Don't you think?"

She was hedging, he thought. "Yes, especially if they are dangerous."

She carried the bag over to her locker, and put it away. It was time to press her. "What do you remember?"

She walked back, and stopped in front of him. "Pardon me?"

"In the vapors. What happened?"

Her eyes shifted from him to the row of tablets on the table. "I'm not sure, Indy." Her was voice was suddenly weary. "I guess I've been avoiding thinking too much about it."

It was the first time she'd called him Indy since they'd arrived in Delphi. "It might be a good idea to remember.'

She nodded, and slowly turned to face him. "I remem ber entering the mist, inhaling and thinking that there was nothing mephitic at all about it. That it was harmless. In fact, now that I think about it, I felt good, better than I have for a very long time."

"But you passed out."

"I don't remember anything else."

"Maybe you were reacting to your relief that the vapors were harmless," he suggested. "You were tired, you overworked yourself, and that's all it took."

"That's possible, I suppose, but I'm not the fainting sort. The other explanation, of course, is that the vapors were the cause."

Indy made a face. More than ever he suspected Dorian was prone to the same sort of fascination with the mystical that consumed his father. "Think about it. If the vapors were dangerous, then the man who carried you out— Panos—would have suffered a similar reaction. I'm sure he didn't hold his breath like Nikos. He was in there too long."

A floorboard creaked behind them, and they both turned. Doumas was standing inside the doorway. "It's almost noon, Dr. Belecamus."

Dorian straightened, and nodded. "Yes. I think we're ready."

Dorian watched the top of Jones's fedora vanish into the fissure as Doumas and two of his assistants slowly threaded the rope through their hands. Soon they would have the tablet. It might prove interesting, but was probably noth ing of consequence.

The excavation of Delphi, for all practical matters, was over. Anything that was found would probably only reaffirm

what was already known. Of course, she hadn't told that to Jones, and in his naivete he had followed her here thinking that he would be involved in a major discovery. But Jones would play an important role, and soon. He had no idea how important.

Alex's ally in the king's office had done his job perfectly. Everything had worked out fine. The king had been persuaded. If anything, she was surprised with the swift ness of the decision.

Yet, she was having a hard time focusing on Alex's mission. Which was exactly it, she thought. Alex's mis sion, not hers, not really.

The vapors had changed everything. By the time she had walked into the vapors, the mystery of the oracle had dominated her thoughts. That in itself was odd. She had never really thought of the oracle as a mystery. It was a phenomenon of ancient times, of a prescientific era. Yet now she saw it as something more, as a phenomenon with a future as well as a past.

But maybe this was all wrong. Was it really possible that she could be Pythia? She needed to talk to Panos. That was critical. But she had to make sure that no one saw them.

"Can I help?"

Dorian's head jerked around. Standing behind her and to one side was a young Greek she'd seen in the village. "What are you doing here?"

"That's Panos's son," Doumas said. "Come on over here, Grigoris, and help with the rope."

Dorian watched suspiciously. Suddenly, the rope went slack, and Doumas yelled down to Jones.

"He must be there by now," Dorian said.

Doumas shook his head. "No. He hasn't gone far enough yet."

"Then pull it tight," she barked, thinking that Jones must have wedged himself between the walls. "Hurry up."

But Doumas didn't react fast enough, and the rope snapped taut with a twang.

Dorian leaned over the crevice, and called down to Jones. He answered after a moment that he was all right, but that he had lost his torch. Another one was quickly fastened to the rope that was intended for the tablet, and sent down. When Jones signaled that he had the torch. Doumas and the others resumed lowering him.

"Be careful with him," Dorian cautioned. It wasn't long before Jones called out that he had spotted the tablet, and they slowly lowered him the rest of the way.

Dorian paced back and forth along the crevice. If Jones was lucky, he might be able to complete the job and return to the surface within half an hour. A lot depended on how difficult he found the work. If her primary concern had been the tablet, she would never have let him go after it. Although he had a good mind and was surprisingly well informed about archaeology, he lacked experience. Of course Doumas had been right about him; he was unquali fied. She'd chosen him for the task, though, because she realized that she had to create a challenge for him, or his interest would fade and he might return to Paris in disgust.

She couldn't let that happen. Not now. He was too much a part of her plan.

She was near the far end of the chasm when she heard an excited exchange of words between Doumas and the others. Jones couldn't have loosened the tablet already. Not that fast. Not unless it was cracked and had broken. When she reached the men, Doumas was holding one of the ropes in his hand as it dangled loosely above the hole.

"What happened?" she yelled.

"Dr. Belecamus. The rope broke. I don't know how it happened."

"Which rope?" she demanded.

"The one Jones was on," Doumas answered.

"What? No!"

She dropped to her knees and peered into the chasm, but she could see only blackness. She grabbed the rope from Doumas and quickly pulled it to the surface. It looked as if it had been cut partway through, then rubbed in the dirt to look as if it were frayed. She stood up and held out the rope accusingly. The bastard Grigoris was smirking. She swore he was, though his expression was blank. And Doumas? He rocked from side to side as though he would tumble over if he didn't keep adjusting his balance. Then she suddenly remembered the other rope. Maybe Jones had grabbed it when the first one snapped. She scanned the ground, but it wasn't there. "Where is the other one, the other rope?"

Doumas glanced at Grigoris. "He lost it. In the excitement."

Just then she heard a sound, a sound she couldn't believe, coming from the crevice. She dropped to her knees, and cupped her hands at her mouth. "Indy, can you hear me?"

His voice sounded distant, strained. "Yeah. 1 can hear you."

"Are you all right?"

He didn't answer for a moment. "Not really. Get me a rope. Fast."

"Okay. Where are you?" she yelled. "Hanging on the tablet, but I don't know how much longer it's going to hold me."

Dorian glanced over her shoulder at Doumas. "Stephanos, hurry. A rope."

Doumas looked around as if he expected to see one lying nearby. "I'll have to go back. There's one in the stable."

"Well, don't stand there, damn it. Get it. Fast." "Run to the stable, Grigoris," Doumas said. "Quick. Get the rope hanging on the hook by the door."

"I didn't tell you to send him for it," Dorian snapped, but Doumas was already waddling after the villager who had scampered away. Close behind him were his assis tants. Neither of them apparently wanted to stay with her. She wondered why not.

Shaking her head, she turned back to the hole. "It's coming, Jones. In a couple of minutes."

She should have gotten the rope herself. She didn't trust any of them.

There was no reply. "Jones. Are you okay?"

Again no reply.

If he had fallen, wouldn't he have yelled?

"Indy, answer me!"

"Yeah," a faint voice responded after a long moment. "Hurry."

14

LAST GRASP

Indy straddled the tablet as if it were a saddle. He pressed his face against it, and wrapped his arms tightly around it. He could feel the etched lettering against his cheek. How much longer would he have to wait?

He tried to take his mind off his precarious situation by going over what had happened. He'd no sooner finished scribbling the translation of the tablet when the rope had started unraveling. He'd desperately pulled himself up the rope, but it had snapped just as he'd grasped the end above the fray. He'd dangled a moment, then felt a jerk from above, and the rope had slipped through his grasp. But his free hand had been reaching up, and as he fell he'd snagged the other rope and slid down it onto the tablet. He'd yelled, and the rope had gone slack and tumbled down, nearly knocking him off his precarious perch.

Indy's thoughts were interrupted by a creaking as the tablet slipped downward under his weight. It tilted at a forty-five degree angle and it was getting difficult to maintain his grasp.

He realized that he was still wearing the knapsack with the tools. Nothing like digging your own grave.

He didn't need the weight. He carefully shed the pack, one arm at a time. He was about to let it drop when he realized that the pick might still come in handy. He slipped his hand into the pack, felt its sharp tip, and pulled it out. Then he dropped the pack, and a moment later heard a clatter as it crashed against something. Must have bounced off the wall, he thought. He listened for it to strike bottom. He shook his head when he didn't hear anything.

"No bottom. Swell."

Talking aloud seemed to ease his fear. "Gotta do some thing. But what?"

He felt the tablet slip another inch. He closed his eyes. He remembered Dorian stressing the use of the pick and how he should attach the rope to the tablet. She should've been more concerned about what was going on at the other end. Hell, she should've inspected the damn rope before he went down. And what about Doumas? But there was little time to ponder what had happened. He was too busy trying to stay alive.

He felt the net beneath his legs, and wondered if he should unhook the rope to lighten the load. No, that would require too much maneuvering. A good jolt now and the tablet might break loose. Besides, he was the excess weight, not the rope.

"That's it. I've got to get off."

If he could carve footholds and handholds with the pick, he might be able to balance himself on the wall.

But for how long?

"Better to die trying to save my ass than doing nothing," he muttered.

The tablet groaned and slipped again. It wouldn't hold much longer. Slowly, he worked his way up the tablet toward the wall. A few more inches, he told himself. Patience. Finally, he was close enough to touch the wall with the pick. "Now, get some leverage."

He stretched his hand above his head and slammed the pick at the wall. But to his surprise, he struck something, and the pick flew from his hand. The tablet groaned, tilted even further, and he slid down several inches before he caught himself.

Christ, he'd hit the torch holder. He'd forgotten about it. It was still there, secured to the wall by four prongs. Now it was his only hope. He had to get back up to the wall, and get a hand on it. If he distributed his weight between the base of the tablet and the holder he might save himself yet.

He imagined himself a feather-light acrobat gliding up the tablet and effortlessly balancing himself. The tablet groaned again, and he forgot about acrobatic maneuvers. He froze, but the tablet was shaking, and he was sliding back. He cursed. He thought of his whip still coiled on the wall in his room back in Paris. If he had it now, he could lash it around the torch holder with an easy snap of his wrist. He swore that if he lived to go on another archaeo logical dig, the whip was going with him.

He slipped another few inches. The further he slid, the more the tablet pulled away from the wall. The groaning grew louder; the tablet was about to fall. Desperately, he clambered up the tablet and lunged for the wall. His fedora fell off his head and tumbled into the darkness, but his fingers hooked over the torch holder, first one hand, then the other. He tested the strength of the holder. The pick had knocked it slightly askew, and the prongs started to pull away.

"Real nice." Carefully, he stood up on the tablet, using the holder and wall to balance himself.

"Indy. . . are you all right?" Dorian's voice echoed eerily down the fissure. "Indy?"

"No."

"The rope should be here any moment. Hold on."

"Good advice," he said.

She was calling him Indy again. Lot of good it would do if he fell. Pythia will swallow you like a mouse.

The old man's words echoed in his head. Maybe he hadn't been talking about Dorian, but about the mythical python, and how he was dangling precariously inside the creature's gullet. A shiver ran up his spine. "I hate snakes, even mythical ones."

But the morbid thoughts kept coming. Maybe his first professional archaeology experience would be his last. A short career. "Good joke, Indy. Keep 'em up."

He looked up toward the spot of light high overhead. "Hurry with that rope."

Another stray thought pushed against his mind like an annoying burr. What if no one was getting a rope? If Dorian had dispatched Doumas, he might not return at all. The bastard had probably cut the rope, and when he found out Indy had managed to save himself on the other one, he let it go. What else could it be, an accident? He doubted it.

Someone, probably Doumas, had already been down here and cleaned the tablet. That was why Doumas hadn't wanted him sent down here in the first place. Then he'd changed his mind when he realized he could protect Pythia by getting rid of him.

That made him angry. He'd show Doumas. Somehow he was going to get out of here alive. "I'm going to make it," he said between clenched teeth. "I'm not going to fall."

Hell, he might even be able to salvage the tablet yet. When the rope got here—and it would get here—and he was firmly attached to it, he'd grab the rope that was still knotted to the tablet. He was sure that a tug from the top would loosen it. But he'd wait until he was out of this damn hole before he'd try it.

"Indy?"

"You got it?" he yelled hopefully.

"No. I'm going to go see what's taking them so long. I should have gotten it myself. Doumas is useless."

Great. More waiting.

He tried to relax by adjusting his feet. A mistake—but

he realized it too late. The shifting of his weight had been all that was needed to jar the tablet free. With a loud snap, it broke and tumbled away.

His legs kicked out, then scraped against the wall. He heard a crash as the tablet struck something. His feet searched for a foothold, but the wall was nearly smooth. The torch holder bent downward, the prongs slowly work ing their way free.

"Oh, shit."

This was it. He gritted his teeth; his heart pounded in his ears as the prongs pulled out of the wall.

He fell. Again.

He was moving through a tunnel, toward a light. It was growing brighter and brighter. This is death.

Indy. Indy.

The sound echoed around him.

He blinked his eyes against the light. So bright. Like a ball of flames. So close now. What would happen when he reached the light? Where would he go?

His eyes slid sideways and in the light he saw his fedora and the pack he'd dropped, and pieces of the shattered tablet. It all came back to him. He'd fallen into the abyss. His thighs had jammed against his chest.

He'd felt searing pain.

Then nothing.

Now his ribs ached. His right hand throbbed; it was wet with blood. His throat was choked with dust, and one thigh felt as if it had been struck by a hammer. Was death this painful? Did you wake up feeling all the pain you missed when you lost consciousness? He tried to lift himself up, but couldn't. He was still moving toward the flaming light; it hurt his eyes.

Then he realized it was a torch. It was attached to a rope, and coming toward him. He was alive and still in the goddamn hole.

He cringed as he sat up. Why was he still alive? The torch was swinging several feet above him now and he could see that he was on an overhang that loomed from the wall. He squinted up into the light. He couldn't tell where the tablet had been, but he was sure now that he hadn't fallen far. Maybe only fifteen, twenty feet. He felt bits of rubble from the shattered tablet underneath him. If he hadn't been wearing his leather jacket, he would have been hurt much worse.

He watched as the torch continued down past him, and the brightness faded until it was just a glimmer below him. I'm supposed to stop it. But I didn't. "Indy. Can you hear me?"

"Dorian, we've gone well past the depth of the tablet," another voice said. "He's gone. Face it." The voice wasn't as loud as Dorian's, but the chasm was like a megaphone and it carried easily to him. Doumas.

The bastard was giving up on him.

It was getting bright again. The torch was rising. He understood exactly what was happening. He was being abandoned. But he was in a stupor, and couldn't coordi nate his thoughts with actions. He had to do something. He cleared his throat. With an effort, he yelled: "Dorian." But it came out as a whisper. His throat was dry and felt like it was caked with dirt. He tried again. Louder this time, a gravely sound. But not loud enough.

The torch swung at his knees, his waist, his chest. He reached out; snared it. He felt a tug, and pulled back. Then the rope slackened, and wriggled like a snake.

"It must have caught on something," Doumas said. The snake rose until he felt the torch being pulled from his hand. He jerked on it.

For a moment there was no reaction, then he felt another tug on the rope, and he was pulled to his feet.

He felt as if he were fishing, only he was the fish. "What is it?" Dorian asked.

"I don't know."

"Give it to me. Indy. . . Indy."

He bent over to pick up his hat, and realized he was standing a half step from the brink of the prominence.

"Indy. Please answer."

He edged backward. He saw a cone-shaped rock pro truding from the wall and grabbed hold of it. He pulled on the rope, and tugged again, and a third time.

"It's him. I felt it. He's down there. Indy, pull again if you can hear me."

He did. Quickly, they worked out a simplistic way of communicating. One tug, yes. Two, no. Was he badly hurt? No. Could he tie the rope around himself? Yes. Did he need more rope? Yes.

Another several feet coiled in front of him. He sat down to figure out the best way of attaching the rope.

He didn't want it around his waist or his chest. He had at least one cracked or bruised rib on each side.

Maybe more. He fumbled with the rope; his hand throbbed. He pressed his bloody palm against his stomach, trying to stop the bleeding. Finally, he tied a loop, threaded the rope through it, then stepped inside the large loop. He would sit in it like a swing.

He was about to signal Dorian that he was ready when he took another look at the rock he'd been grasping. It was black, shaped like a cone, and still partially buried in the wall. He held the torchlight over it.

Its surface was thatched as if it had once been encased in a rope sheath and the strands had petrified.

"What is this?" he whispered hoarsely.

He grabbed the pack and took out the hard-bristle brush. He scraped away some of the dirt encrusted on it and ran his fingertips over the rough surface. He lowered the torch until it was almost touching the cone.

It looked like obsidian, or iron, and the thatching, he was con vinced, was not natural, but man-made.

"Indy, are you all right?" Dorian called down to him.

He glanced up, then tugged once on the rope.

"Ready?" Dorian called.

This time he jerked twice. "Not quite." He'd lost the tablet, but maybe he could salvage the cone. He didn't know why, but he sensed it was something important, something he shouldn't leave behind.

He wrapped his arms around the cone to see if he could loosen it. He pulled, and he thought it moved. He took in a deep breath and pulled again. There. It moved. He was sure of it. He laid his chest against the cone to catch his breath. He was exhausted, dizzy.

Then he saw the eagle.

It was winging skyward. He watched it.

The eagle. His eagle.

Here to help.

The eagle. His guardian, his protector.

But where have you been? I needed you. Indy heard his thoughts as if he were talking, but he was sure his lips weren't moving. The eagle continued soaring higher and higher. His skin tingled. He was neither asleep nor awake.

His thoughts drifted back to when he was fourteen and had met an old Navajo named Changing Man while on a desert hike with his father. The Indian had taken a liking to young Indy, and said he would see him again. It hardly seemed likely, because a few months later Indy had moved to Chicago. The summer after he graduated from high school he returned to the Southwest to work on his uncle's ranch, but by then his encounter with the old Indian was only a distant memory.

However, one day he stopped at a trading post to buy supplies, and there was Changing Man. He not only remembered Indy, but acted as though he'd been expecting him. Was he ready for his vision quest? he asked. Indy didn't know what he meant, but he was curious about the old Indian and his ways and said yes, he was ready. The

following day, he met Changing Man at daybreak outside the trading post and they hiked up a mesa. By nightfall Indy found himself alone and without food on the windswept surface. Changing Man had told him he must wait there until an animal approached him, and from that time on it would be his protector and spiritual guide.

After two days he was delirious from hunger and his canteen was nearly empty. It was a mistake, a big mistake. Maybe vision quests worked for Indians, but no animals were interested in him, unless it was to pick at his bones after he was dead. He walked away from the stone shelter he'd built, hoping he had enough strength for the trek down. He would find water and food, go back to the ranch, and in another few weeks he would be home in Chicago again where he would start college. As he reached the edge of the mesa, he heard a voice behind him. The voice of Changing Man. Where are you going? Startled, he turned around. No one was there. He was hallucinat ing. But he hesitated. The trail was too steep. The sun was low.

Feeling defeated, he headed back to the shelter for the night. He would wait until morning.

Suddenly, an eagle swooped low over the mesa and landed on the top of the wall of his shelter. He stopped and stared, and again heard the voice of Changing Man. He will always guide you. In spite of everything, or maybe because of it, he had found his protector.

He recalled all of it as he watched the eagle soaring above him. He could see it turn its head as if it were looking for prey. Or maybe back at him. It made a noise. What was it saying? The eagle faded, but the sound continued.

"Indy, Indy."

It was Dorian. She sounded frantic. "Answer me."

He tugged on the rope.

"There's not much time. The vapors."

Vapors. Christ. He'd forgotten all about that. Had he been down here that long? He pulled his pocket watch

from inside his jacket. It had survived his fall and was still working. It was 2:44. He stood up and tightened the loop of rope. He wasn't convinced the vapors were dangerous, but there was no reason to take any chances.

No time now for the cone. He must have drifted off for a minute. But he'd come back for it, he told himself. He tugged once.

A moment later, he felt himself rising and swinging out from the debris-strewn overhang. His eyes focused on the black object frozen in the wall. Then it was blanketed in darkness, lost in a lightless abyss.

He held the torch out and watched for the spot where the tablet had been. Ten, fifteen, twenty feet. He contin ued rising. It was hazy from the torch smoke, but then he saw it. A dark hole, and above it a smaller indention where the torch holder had been yanked from the wall. God, he was lucky People fell three feet and broke bones. He'd tumbled two stories through pitch darkness and sur vived with cuts, bruises, probably a couple of cracked ribs.

He heard a deep rumble from somewhere below. It was followed by the same hissing that preceded the rising of the vapors, and he knew he would not escape them. The slow, easy swing of the ascent continued, and there was nothing he could do to speed it up. He swung the torch in front of him, noticing a haze. There was too much of it to be torch smoke.