Ken threw his head far back. His bound hands scrabbled for a hold on the slippery wood. With all his might he pushed his heels against the floor, trying to hold his position against the pull of the deck beneath him.
He was fighting a losing battle when the barge reached the depth of its dive and began to climb.
Slowly, a fraction of an inch at a time, he moved backward onto the seat of the chair.
“You’re almost on!” Across the room Sandy had abandoned his own efforts for a moment in his anxiety over Ken. “Push!”
Ken gave one final shove and then let his breath out with a gasp. He had made it! He slumped against the chair back, his chest rising and falling with the gulps of air he was sucking into his lungs.
After a moment he swung his feet up off the floor and onto Cal’s chest. They landed some six inches from Cal’s chin.
“O.K.,” Ken said. “He’s under control. One little backward jerk and I can subdue any ambitions he might develop. The only trouble is I can’t see his face. So give me a signal if you see him beginning to open his eyes.”
“It will be a pleasure,” Sandy assured him.
Then the redhead returned to his own problem. The cupboard knobs were more than five feet above the floor. There was no way to reach them without standing up.
Sandy made one more gigantic effort to thrust himself upright from his knees.