"I'll be careful. You'll be all right?"
"Sure. I've got him for company."
"Well ... . here goes."
One direction seemed as good as another. Bruce kept the line taut to keep from walking in a circle. The rock curved up presently and his flash showed that it curved back on itself, a dead end. He followed the wall to the left, picking his way, as the going was very rough. He found himself in a passage. It seemed to climb, but it narrowed. Three hundred feet and more out by the ropes, it narrowed so much that he was stopped.
Bruce switched off his light and waited for his eyes to adjust. He became aware of a curious sensation. It was panic.
He forced himself not to turn on the light until he was certain that no gleam lay ahead. Then thankfully he stumbled back into the main cavern.
Another series of chambers led steadily downward. He turned back at a black and bottomless hole.
The details varied but the answers did not: At the furthest reach of the lines, or at some impassable obstacle, he would wait in the dark - but no gleam of light ever showed. He went back to Sam after having covered, he estimated, about 1800.
Sam had crawled up to the heap of fallen dust. Bruce hurried to him. "Sam, are you all right?"
"Sure. I just moved to a feather bed. That rock is terribly cold. What did you find?"
"Well, nothing yet," he admitted. He sat down in the flaky pile and leaned toward Sam. "I'll start again in a moment."
"How's your air supply?" asked Sam.
"Uh, I'll have to crack my reserve bottle soon. How's yours?"
"Mine is throttled to the limit. You're doing all the work; I can save my reserve bottle for you - I think."
Bruce frowned. He wanted to protest, but the gesture wouldn't make sense. They would have to finish up all even; naturally he was using much more air than was Sam.
One thing was sure - time was running out. Finally he said, "Look, Sam - there's no end of those caves and passages. I couldn't search them all with all the air in Luna City."
"I was afraid so."
"But we know there's a way out right above us."
"You mean in."
"I mean out. See here - this morning glory thing is built like an hour glass; there's an open cone on top, and this pile of sand down below. The stuff trickled down through a hole in the roof and piled up until it choked the hole."
"Where does that get you?"
"Well, if we dug the stuff away we could clear the hole."
"It would keep sifting down."
"No, it wouldn't, it would reach a point where there wasn't enough dust close by to sift down any further - there would still be a hole."
Sam considered it. "Maybe. But when you tried to climb up it would collapse back on you. That's the bad part about a morning glory, Bruce; you can't get a foothold."
"The dickens I can't! If I can't climb a slope on skis without collapsing it, when I've got my wits about me and am really trying, why, you can have my reserve air bottle."
Sam chuckled. "Don't be hasty. I might hold you to it. Anyhow," he added, "I can't climb it."
"Once I get my feet on the level, I'll pull you out like a cork, even if you're buried. Time's a - wastin'." Bruce got busy.
Using a ski as a shovel he nibbled at the giant pile. Every so often it would collapse down on him. It did not discourage him; Bruce knew that many yards of the stuff would have to fall and be moved back before the hole would show.
Presently he moved Sam over to the freshly moved waste. From there Sam held the light; the work went faster. Bruce began to sweat. After a while he had to switch air bottles; he sucked on his water tube and ate a march ration before getting back to work.
He began to see the hole opening above him. A great pile collapsed on him; he backed out, looked up, then went to Sam. "Turn out the light!"
There was no doubt; a glimmer of light filtered down. Bruce found himself pounding Sam and shouting. He stopped and said, "Sam, old boy, did lever say what patrol I'm from?"
"No. Why?"
"Badger Patrol. Watch me dig!" He tore into it. Shortly sunlight poured into the hole and reflected dimly around the cavern. Bruce shoveled until he could see a straight rise from the base of the pile clear to the edge of the morning glory high above them. He decided that the opening was wide enough to tackle.
He hitched himself to Sam with the full length of all the glass ropes and then made a bundle of Sam's pack save air and water bottles, tied a bowline on Sam's uninjured foot, using the manila line and secured the bundle to the end of that line. He planned to drag Sam out first, then the equipment. Finished, he bound on skis.
Bruce touched helmets. "This is it, pal. Keep the line clear of the sand."
Sam grabbed his arm. "Wait a minute."
"What's the matter?"
"Bruce - if we don't make it, I just want to say that you're all right."
"Uh ... oh, forget it. We'll make it." He started up. A herringbone step suited the convex approach to the hole. As Bruce neared the opening he shifted to side - step to fit the narrow passage and the concave shape of the morning glory above. He inched up, transferring his weight smoothly and gradually, and not remaining in one spot too long. At last his head, then his whole body, were in sunshine; he was starting up the morning glory itself.
He stopped, uncertain what to do. There was a ridge above him, where the flakes had broken loose when he had shoveled away their support. The break was much too steep to climb, obviously unstable. He paused only a moment as he could feel his skis sinking in; he went forward in half side - step, intending to traverse past the unstable formation.
The tow line defeated him. When Bruce moved sideways, the line had to turn a corner at the neck of the hole. It brushed and then cut into the soft stuff. Bruce felt his skis slipping backwards; with cautious haste he started to climb, tried to ride the slipping mass and keep above it. He struggled as the flakes poured over his skis. Then he was fouled, he went down, it engulfed him.
Again he came to rest in soft, feathery, darkness. He lay quiet, nursing his defeat, before trying to get out. He hardly knew which way was up, much less which way was out. He was struggling experimentally when he felt a tug on his belt. Sam was trying to help him.
A few minutes later, with Sam's pull to guide him, Bruce was again on the floor of the ca\'e. The only light came from the torch in Sam's hand; it was enough to show that the pile choking the hole was bigger than ever.
Sam motioned him over. "Too bad, Bruce," was all he said.
Bruce controlled his choking voice to say, "I'll get busy as soon as I catch my breath."
"Where's your left ski?"
"Huh? Oh! Must have pulled off. It'll show up when I start digging."
"Hmmm .. . how much air have you?"
"Uh?" Bruce looked at his belt. "About a third of a bottle."
"I'm breathing my socks. I've got to change."
"Right away!" Bruce started to make the switch; Sam pulled him down again.
"You take the fresh bottle, and give me your bottle."
"But - "
"No 'buts' about it," Sam cut him off. "You have to do all the work; you've got to take the full tank."
Silently Bruce obeyed. His mind was busy with arithmetic. The answer always came out the same; he knew with certainty that there was not enough air left to permit him again to perform the Herculean task of moving that mountain of dust.
He began to believe that they would never get out. The knowledge wearied him; he wanted to lie down beside the still form of Abner Green and, like him, not struggle at the end.
However he could not. He knew that, for Sam's sake, he would have to shovel away at that endless sea of sand, until he dropped from lack of oxygen. Listlessly he took off his remaining ski and walked toward his task.