The Descent

'What's  the  date?'   said  Ike.   He  knew   they   knew   the   next   cylinders   were   not scheduled  to  be  lowered  for  another  six  days.  That  didn't  keep  them  from  trolling hopefully  for  the  cache  signals.  All  of  them  had  tiny  cache  locators  built  into  their Helios  wristwatches.  First  Pia,  then  Chelsea,  used  up  their  watch  batteries  trying  to get  some  signal.  It  was  magical  thinking.  No  one  wanted  to  talk  about  what  would happen if Walker and his pirates reached the cache before them.

The  six days  passed,  and  still  they  didn't  find  the  cache.  They  were  covering  only  a few  miles  a  day.  Ike  took  on  more   and  more   of  their   weight.   Ali  found  herself struggling with barely  fifteen pounds on her back.

Ike  recommended  they  ration  themselves.  'Share  one  packet  of  MREs  with  two  or three  people,'  he  suggested.  'Or  eat  just  one  over  a  two-day  period.'  He  never  took away  their food and rationed it for them, though.

They  never  saw him eat.

'What's he living on?' Chelsea asked Ali.

For  twenty-three  days  Gitner  led  his  castaways  with  eroding  success.  It  seemed impossible, but in their second week  they  had  somehow  misplaced  the  river.  One  day it was there.  The  next  it was just gone.

Gitner  blamed  Ali's  day  maps.  He  pulled  the  rolls  of  parchment  from  her  leather tube  and  threw  them  on  the  ground.  'Good  riddance,'  he  said.  'Nothing  but  science fiction.'

With  the  river  gone,  they  had  no  more  use  for  their  water  gear.  They  abandoned their survival  suits in a rubbery  pile of neoprene.

By the end of the third week,  people were  falling behind, disappearing.

A  salt  arch  they  were  using  as  a  bridge  collapsed,  plunging  five   into  the   void. Unbelievably, both  of  the  expedition's  two  physicians  suffered  compound  fractures  of their  legs.  It  was  Gitner's  call  to  leave  them.  Physician,  heal  thyself.  It  was  two  days before their echoing pleas faded in the tunnels behind.

As  their  numbers  dwindled,  Gitner  relied  on  three  advantages:  his  rifle,  his  pistol, and  the  expedition's  supply  of  amphetamines.  Sleep  was  the  enemy.  He  still  believed they  would  find  Cache  III,  and  that  the  comm  lines  could  be  repaired.  Food  ran  low. Two  murders  soon  followed.  In  both  cases,  a  chunk  of  rock  had  been  used  and  the victims' packs had been plundered.

At  a  fork  in  the  tunnel,  Gitner  overrode  the  group's  vote.  Without  a  clue,  he  led them  straight  into  a  tunnel  formation  known  as  a  spongework  maze,  or  boneyard.  At first  they  thought  little  of  it.  The  porous  maze  was  filled  with  pockets  and  linked cavities  and  stone  bubbles  that  spread  in  every  direction,  forward  and  down  and  up and to the rear.  It  was like climbing through a massive, petrified sponge.

'Now   we're   getting   somewhere,'    Gitner    enthused.    'Obviously    some    gaseous dissolution ate upward from the interior. We can gain some elevation in a hurry  now.' They  roped up,  those  still  left,  and  started  moving  vertically  through  the  pores  and oviducts.  But  they  tangled  their  ropes  by  following  through  the  wrong  hole.  Friction braked  their  progress.  Holes  tightened,  then  gaped.  Packs  had  to  be  handed  up  and through and across the interstices. It  was time-consuming.

'We  have  to  go  back,'  someone  growled  up  to  Gitner.  He  unroped  so  they  could  not pull  on  him,  and  kept  climbing.  The  others  unroped,  too,  and  some  became  lost,  to which  Gitner  said,  'Now  we're  reaching  fighting  weight.'  They  could  hear  voices  at night  as  the  lost  ones  tried  to  locate  the  group.  Gitner  just  popped  more  speed  and kept  his light on.

Finally,  Gitner  was  left  with  only  one  man.  'You  screwed  up,  boss,'  he  rasped  to

Gitner.

Gitner  shot  him  through  the  top  of  the  head.  He  listened  to  the  body  slither  and knock  deeper  and  deeper,  then  turned  and  continued  up,  certain  the  spongework would  lead  him  out  of  the  underworld  into  the  sun  again.  Somewhere  along  the  way, he hung his rifle on an outcrop. A little farther  on, he left his pistol.

At 0440 on November  15,  the spongework stopped. Gitner reached a ceiling.

He  pulled  his  pack  around  in  front  of  him,  and  carefully  assembled  the  radio.  The battery  level  was  near  the  red,  but  he  figured  it  was  good  for  one  loud  shout.  With enormous  exactitude  he  attached  the  transmission  tendrils  to  various  features  in  the spongework,  then  sat  on  a  marble  strut  and  cleared  his  thoughts  and  throat.  He switched the radio on.