It floated endlessly out, the lead weight dropping slowly in the light gravity. Eight hundred, nine hundred feet. When there were five feet of rope left in Falken's hand it stopped.
"Well," he said. "There is a bottom."
Paul Avery caught his arm. "You aren't going down?"
"Why not?" Falken scowled at him, puzzled. "Stay here, if you prefer. Sheila?"
"I'm coming with you."
"All right," whispered Avery. "I'll come." His amber eyes were momentarily those of a lion caught in a pit. Afraid, and dangerous.
Dangerous? Falken shook his head irritably. He drove his alpenstock into a crack and made the rope fast.
"Hang onto it," he said. "We'll float like balloons, but be careful. I'll go first. If there's anything wrong down there, chuck off your other boot and climb up fast."
They went down, floating endlessly on the weighted rope. Little glints of light fled through the night-dark walls. It grew hot. Then Falken struck a jog in the cleft wall and felt himself sliding down a forty-five-degree offset. Abruptly, there was light.
Falken yelled, in sharp, wild warning.