Sandy was lying perfectly still on his back, his legs hanging over the side of the bunk. Ken watched him tensely. Finally Sandy gave a long, shuddering sigh. Then he lifted his head slightly to take a sight on the door, shifted his body a few inches, and slowly brought his knees up toward his chest. If he thrust them out they would strike the outer edge of the door as it was flung open.
Ken’s own sigh of relief came all the way from his numb and nerveless toes. Sandy was going to be all right.
“This look O.K. to you?” Sandy muttered.
“Just right,” Ken told him. “Perfect.”
“But I won’t be able to hold this position for very long. And if I let my legs down—”
“No! Don’t do that!” Ken said urgently. “We won’t get any warning. He’ll just burst in when he comes.”
The engine started up once more.
“See?” Ken said. “It’s going again. Any second now—”
He broke off and listened intently. There was a lull in the storm, and in the unexpected quiet they could hear the pumping engine ticking smoothly away. They could even hear the gurgle of water spouting out of its pipe.
A long minute passed, and then another. Ken watched Sandy, and his heart thudded in sympathy. Sometimes Sandy’s legs would sink forward and down, and Ken would catch his breath. But Sandy always pulled them back again, the muscles of his neck drawn tight with the effort.