“Certainly. The armor will easily be heavy enough to serve as anchor, and if you take a turn of the rope about your own body you can pay it out gradually. I don’t see any difficulty; the load will be only a few of your pounds.”
“Not that way, perhaps, but there’s another point. Your rope is very thin indeed, and the handling clamps of my armor are somewhat clumsy when it comes to managing small objects. What if the cord slips out of my grip?” That silenced Barlennan for a moment.
“What is the smallest object you could handle with reasonable security?”
“Oh — one of your masts, I should say.”
“There is no trouble, then. We will wind the rope about a mast, and you can use that as a windlass. You can toss mast and rope over afterward; if the stick is broken the loss will not be too great.”
Lackland shrugged. “It’s your health and property, Barl. I don’t have to say I’ll be careful; I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you, especially through my negligence. I’ll be out shortly.” The Mesklinite, satisfied, leaped back to the ground and began to give the necessary orders to the few remaining sailors. The second last load went down with all of these; and a few moments later the Earthman emerged from his conveyance.
Barlennan was waiting for him. A single raft now lay at the cliff edge, tied in its sling and ready to go. A radio and the bundled remains of the scaffolding lay upon it, and the captain was dragging the mast which had the line wrapped about it toward Lackland. The man’s approach was slow, for the terrible fatigue seemed to grow with every instant; but he finally reached a point about ten feet from the edge, reached over as far as his clumsy garment would permit, and took the mast from the tiny being who had reared up to meet him. Without a word of caution or any other suggestion of doubt in his big friend, Barlennan turned back to the raft, made sure its cargo was lashed securely, pushed it until it was teetering on the edge of the cliff, and climbed aboard.
He turned for a last look at Lackland, and the man could have sworn that he winked. Then, “Hang on, Charles,” came the voice over the radio; and the captain stepped deliberately to the outer edge of the precariously balanced raft. His pincers were securely caught in the lashings, which was all that kept him aboard as the platform teetered once and slipped over the rim.
There was enough slack in the line Lackland was holding to permit a couple of feet of fall; and raft and passenger vanished instantly. A sharp jerk told the man that at least the line was still holding, and an instant later Barlennan’s voice cheerfully conveyed the same information. “Lower awayl” was the concluding phrase; and Lackland obeyed.
It was rather like handling a kite, at least in the form of windlass he was using — simply a cord wound on a stick. It revived childhood memories; but if he lost this kite he would, he knew, be much longer in getting over it. He did not have the best possible grip on the mast, and he slowly pivoted so as to wind the cord about his body before he tried to change holds. Then, satisfied, he paid out slowly.