The Descent

She looked around camp, and most had already  rifled  their  care  packages  and  eaten treats  sent  from  home  and  shared  the  snapshots  from  their  families  and  loved  ones. Everyone  had  gotten  something,  it  seemed,  even  the  porters  and  soldiers.  Only  Ike appeared  to  have  nothing.  He  kept  busy  with  a  new  spool  of  candy-striped  climbing rope, measuring it in coils and cutting and burning the tips.

Not  all  the  news  was  good.  In  the  far  corner,  a  man  was  trying  to  talk  Shoat  into getting him extracted  via the drill hole. Ali could hear him  over  the  music.  'But  it's  my wife,' he kept  saying. 'Breast cancer.'

Shoat  wasn't  buying  it.  'Then  you  shouldn't  have  come,'  he  said.  'Extractions  are only for life-and-death  emergencies.'

'This is life and death.'

'Your  life  and  death,'  Shoat  stated,  and  went  back  to  uplinking  with  the  surface, making his reports  and getting instructions and feeding the  expedition's  collected  data through  a  wet,  dangling  communications  cable.  They'd  been  promised  a  videophone line  at  each  cache  so  people  could  call  home,  but  so  far  Shoat  and  Walker  had  been monopolizing it. Shoat told them there  was a hurricane  on  the  surface  and  the  drill  rig was in jeopardy. 'You'll get your  chance, if there's  still time,' he said.

Despite  the  glitches  and  some  serious  homesickness,  the  expedition  was  in  high spirits.  Their  resupply  technology  worked.  They  were  loaded  with  food  and  supplies

for the next  stage. Two months down, ten to go.

Ali  squinted   into  their   holiday  of  lights.  The   scientists   looked  jubilant  tonight, dancing,  embracing,   downing   California   wines   sent   as   a   token   of   C.C.   Cooper's appreciation,  howling  at  the  invisible  moon.  They  also  looked  different.  Filthy.  Hairy. Downright antediluvian.

She'd  never  seen  them  this  way.  Ali  realized  it  was  because,  for  over  a  month,  she had  not  really  seen.  Since  casting  loose  of  Esperanza,  they  had  been  dwelling  in  a fraction of their normal light. Tonight their  twilight  was  at  bay.  Under  the  bright  light she  could  see  them,  freckles,  warts,  and  all.  They  were  gloriously  unbarbered  and bewhiskered  and  smeared  with  mud  and  oil,  as  pale  as  grubs.  Men  bore  old  food  in their beards. Women had rat's nests. They  had started  doing a cowboy  line  dance  –  to the birdcatcher Papageno singing 'Love's Sweet  Emotion.'

Just then someone ambushed the  opera  and  plugged  in  a  Cowboy  Junkies  disc.  The tempo slowed. Lovers  rose, clenched, swayed  on the rocky  floor.

Ali's scanning arrived  at Ike  on the far side of the chamber.

His  hair  was   growing  out  at   last.   With  his  cowlick  and  sawed-off   shotgun,  he reminded   Ali  of  some  farm   kid  hunting  jackrabbits.   The   glacier  glasses   were   a disconcerting  touch;  he  was  forever  protecting  what  he  called  his  'assets.'  Sometimes she  thought  the  dark  glasses  simply  protected  his  thoughts,  a  margin  of  privacy.  She felt unreasonably glad he was there.

The  moment her glance touched on him, Ike's  head  skated  off  to  the  other  side,  and she  realized  he'd  been  watching  her.  Molly  and  a  few  of  Ali's  other  girlfriends  had teased  that he had his eye  on her, and she'd called them wicked. But here was proof. Fair's  fair, she  thought,  and  spurred  herself  forward.  There  was  no  telling  when  he might vanish into the darkness  again.

The  wine  had  an  extra   kick   to  it,  or  the   depths   had  lowered   her   inhibitions. Whatever,  she made herself bold. She went directly  to him and said, 'Wanna dance?' He  pretended  to  have  just  noticed  her.  'It's  probably  not  a  great  idea,'  he  said,  and didn't move. 'I'm rusty.'

He was going to make her work for this? 'Don't worry,  I've  had my  tetanus  shots.'

'Seriously, I'm out of practice.'

And I'm in practice?  she didn't say.  'Come on.'

He  tried  one  last  gambit.  'You  don't  understand,'  he  said.  'That's  Margo  Timmins singing.'

'So?'

'Margo,'  he  repeated.  'Her  voice  does  things  to  a  person.   It   makes   you   forget yourself.'

Ali  relaxed.  He  wasn't  rejecting  her.  He  was  flirting.  'Is  that  right?'  she  said,  and stayed  right  there  in  front  of  him.  In  the  pale  light  of  the  tunnels,  Ike's  scars  and markings had a way  of blending with the rock. Here, lit  brightly,  they  were  terrible  all over  again.

'Maybe  you  would  understand,'  he  reconsidered.  Ike  stood  up,  and  the  shotgun came with him; it had pink climber's webbing for a  sling.  He  parked  it  across  his  back, barrel down, and took her hand. It  felt small in his.