He was excited then, his words coming faster: "Can you imagine, Paul-how I felt? The sudden realization. All those paintings. And nobody to share my discovery, no means of telling the world what I had found." He laughed then, that same hard jeering laugh that I remembered and hated. But this time he was laughing at himself, at the irony of it. "All my life-seeking. And now suddenly I had stumbled by chance on what I had been searching for. I struck match after match. I was crazed with excitement." He paused. Then added slowly, "In the end there were no more matches. I was in darkness, complete darkness, standing like a fool in the greatest art gallery in the world and I couldn't see it." He sighed, a dreadful, tearing sigh. "Well, that's how it was. That's how I stumbled on the work of Levkas Man." He repeated those words slowly-Levkas Man. "That's the name I have given to him. Sitting here in the dark I've had time to think-about this cave and about what it means. I've no doubts now. My theory was right. A land-bridge did exist. And now I must start at the other end-at Pantelleria. If something similar exists on Pantelleria. . Give me that torch again." His hand clawed at my arm. "I've been in the dark so long. Ho^v long have I been here, did you say? Three days?"
"About that."
"Seventy-two hours."
"But not all in darkness," I said. "You had a spotlight, didn't you?"
"Yes. For a few hours. It was magnificent-very bright. But then it faded."
"Bert could have lielped you. He was an expert diver. He could have got you out." I was angry, angry at his stupidity. "Why did you do it? If you'd only spoken to him. ."
"So it was Barrett. I didn't know." His voice sounded suddenly tired. "If he'd spoken to me, explained who he was. I thous;ht-"
'How could he?" I cut in. "You damn near killed him. He's suffering from concussion and a broken arm."
"I'm sorry. It was that torch of his. I had to see."
"He was lucky to get out alive."
His hand was on my arm again. "You don't understand. You can't imagine. To be alone-in the dark-unable to see these paintings. All my life-"
"To hell with your life, and your scientific searchings! We're talking about people now. Live people. A man called Barrett." And I added harshly, 'There's Holroyd, too. He's dead now. But he was alive Avhen he came down that rope."
There ^\as silence then, a ghastly stillness, no sound of breathing even. It was as though the shock of my words had rendered him speechless.
"What happened to him?"
Silence.
"He was dead when you hooked the spotlight onto his fingers. He'd been dead some time."
"The battery was just about exhausted then," he murmured, as though that constituted some sort of an explanation.
"Was that why you took Bert's spot-for fear he'd see what you'd done?"
He sighed. "You don't know what it's like to be in total darkness and then to watch his glow-worm figure climbing down out of that hole in the cave roof."
"You knew who it was then?"
"Of course. " His voice sounded remote, infinitely sad. And then, as though Holroyd's death was of no real importance, he said, "When I began my Journal, I was endeavouring to strike a balance between the good and the evil
that was inside me, to find out whether there was any hope for our species-what sort of a being Man really was. Well, now I know." There was a pause, and then he said, "Do you remember that night you came to me, up above in the entrance to the cave-shelter, I said this place was evil?"
"It was outside," I said. "Under the stars, and you were holding that stone lamp in your hand."
"Yes. I could feel it in the stone of that lamp. And all the time I have been alone here in the dark, that sense and knowledge of evil has burned itself into me. Man is a killer, and he carries the seed of his own destruction in him. Switch the torch on again, just for a moment-so that you can see what I'm talking about."
I did so and his skull-like head leaped out of the dark at me, its beetling brows, its deep lines and the mane of white hair standing up from the dome of his forehead. He was leaning back, his head against the wall, pressed against the red belly of that bull. His eyes stared past me as I swept the beam of the torch over the cave. "Now, just the two of us- seeing it for the first time. There have been bears here- those pits in the floor are their hibernating beds. But no humans. We are back twenty thousand years at least and in all that time man hasn't changed."
'You killed him? Is that what you're saying?"
He stared at me, frowning. "Haven't you understood a word I've been saying? I'm talking about my Journal-about my attempt to define the nature of Man."
"And I'm talking about Holroyd," I said, trying to pin him down. "I have to know what happened."
"Why? What possible interest is it to you?" And he added slowly, staring up at the bison pawing the roof, "He shouldn't have come here. You shouldn't have let him." And he added wearily, "He could have climbed back up that rope."
"He was trapped, trying to rescue you."
But my words didn't register. "Instinctive defence of territory," he murmured. "It's in all of us, and it goes very deep." He gave a dry cough. "You didn't bring any water with you, I suppose?"
"No. Nor any food."
"The food doesn't matter. But I'm dry-very dry. It makes it difficult to talk." He leaned forward, his eyes fastening on mine. "All my life has been a struggle. Always seeking after truth. Nothing else has ever mattered to me-not since your mother was killed. There was a moment when I thought I could live life differently, through you. But I failed in that, and afterwards I resumed my restless seeking." He reached out suddenly, grabbing hold of my hand, his fingers hard and dry, his voice urgent. "When we get out of here-we'll go on together, eh? Promise me, boy." His gTip was weak, his hand trembling. "You're bound for Pantelleria, isn't that right? We'll start there-on Pantelleria. Then we'll complete the chain of evidence-irrefutable proof. They'll have to recognize me then. They'll have to accept my theory."
It was fascinating, almost terrifying, his sheer egotism. He seemed to be living in a world of his own, divorced from other people. "All the time we've been talking," I said, "there are men up above us working at that rock fall, trying to get through to you."
His eyes widened, suddenly blazing. "Then stop them."
"They're trying to reach you."
"I don't want them here. This-" His hand moved, indicating the cave-"This is something between us alone. Just the two of us. Nobody else. Tell them I'm dead, anything- but keep them out of here. I'm not going to have anybody else-"
"They're also looking for Holroyd," I said.
"Then tell them you've seen him and that they needn't bother any more."
I shook my head. "There's still the Greek. There was a Greek with him."
He was suddenly very still, his body sagging. "Who's up there-Cartwrigh t?"
"Cartwright and Hans Winters, about half a dozen men from Vathy. Zavelas, too, and Kotiadis." He didn't say anything after that and I got to my feet. "If they don't get through that fall by tonight, I'll have to try and get you out underwater."
"No." He said it emphatically, a total rejection of the possibility that made me turn and look at him. His eyes were closed and there was a stillness about him, a resignation. I had a feeling then that he had accepted the inevitability of death and that his closed eyes were a conscious rejection of sight, preparation for the darkness that would close in on him again when I had left. This feeling was so strong that for a moment I felt completely numb. It was strange, the two of us so distant all these years and yet the sense of closeness, of communication without words.
"You can't stay here," I heard myself murmur.
He didn't say anything for a moment, his body shuddering. "I'm not afraid of death." It was a declaration. His eyes opened and he stared about him with extraordinary intensity, as though trying to fix the painted walls of his prison firmly on the retina of his brain. And then suddenly he put his hands up to his face, covering his eyes, and his body shook with a strange sobbing sound.