“Patch!” he kept calling. “Patch!”
The frightening moments of anguish were relieved when Garry finally heard a faint voice.
“Patch, where are you?” Garry asked over and over, as he inched downward, ever downward.
“Here, Garry,” came the very weak voice.
Thinking Patch was still far off, Garry slid his feet with more urgent speed through the utter blackness. Then the toe of his boot kicked something soft.
“Garry, don’t!” came a low-pitched, terrified voice. “You’re kicking the hand I’m holding on by!”
Then Garry realized what had happened, and the thought of the costly mistake he had almost made sickened him for a moment. Patch’s radio antenna had evidently been damaged in his fall, making his call for help seem farther off than he really was.
Garry stooped down, his hands closing over the gloved hand he had nearly knocked from its precarious position.
“Garry!” Patch said, his voice still a little hysterical. “I’m hanging on a cliff of some kind, and my feet aren’t touching anything! Please, Garry, get me up before I let go! I feel my hands slipping!”
“Hold on, Patch! Try to keep holding! I’ve got to get a foothold or we both may go over!”