His voice sounded distant, strained. "Yeah. 1 can hear you."
"Are you all right?"
He didn't answer for a moment. "Not really. Get me a rope. Fast."
"Okay. Where are you?" she yelled. "Hanging on the tablet, but I don't know how much longer it's going to hold me."
Dorian glanced over her shoulder at Doumas. "Stephanos, hurry. A rope."
Doumas looked around as if he expected to see one lying nearby. "I'll have to go back. There's one in the stable."
"Well, don't stand there, damn it. Get it. Fast." "Run to the stable, Grigoris," Doumas said. "Quick. Get the rope hanging on the hook by the door."
"I didn't tell you to send him for it," Dorian snapped, but Doumas was already waddling after the villager who had scampered away. Close behind him were his assis tants. Neither of them apparently wanted to stay with her. She wondered why not.
Shaking her head, she turned back to the hole. "It's coming, Jones. In a couple of minutes."
She should have gotten the rope herself. She didn't trust any of them.
There was no reply. "Jones. Are you okay?"
Again no reply.
If he had fallen, wouldn't he have yelled?
"Indy, answer me!"
"Yeah," a faint voice responded after a long moment. "Hurry."
14
LAST GRASP
Indy straddled the tablet as if it were a saddle. He pressed his face against it, and wrapped his arms tightly around it. He could feel the etched lettering against his cheek. How much longer would he have to wait?
He tried to take his mind off his precarious situation by going over what had happened. He'd no sooner finished scribbling the translation of the tablet when the rope had started unraveling. He'd desperately pulled himself up the rope, but it had snapped just as he'd grasped the end above the fray. He'd dangled a moment, then felt a jerk from above, and the rope had slipped through his grasp. But his free hand had been reaching up, and as he fell he'd snagged the other rope and slid down it onto the tablet. He'd yelled, and the rope had gone slack and tumbled down, nearly knocking him off his precarious perch.
Indy's thoughts were interrupted by a creaking as the tablet slipped downward under his weight. It tilted at a forty-five degree angle and it was getting difficult to maintain his grasp.
He realized that he was still wearing the knapsack with the tools. Nothing like digging your own grave.
He didn't need the weight. He carefully shed the pack, one arm at a time. He was about to let it drop when he realized that the pick might still come in handy. He slipped his hand into the pack, felt its sharp tip, and pulled it out. Then he dropped the pack, and a moment later heard a clatter as it crashed against something. Must have bounced off the wall, he thought. He listened for it to strike bottom. He shook his head when he didn't hear anything.
"No bottom. Swell."
Talking aloud seemed to ease his fear. "Gotta do some thing. But what?"
He felt the tablet slip another inch. He closed his eyes. He remembered Dorian stressing the use of the pick and how he should attach the rope to the tablet. She should've been more concerned about what was going on at the other end. Hell, she should've inspected the damn rope before he went down. And what about Doumas? But there was little time to ponder what had happened. He was too busy trying to stay alive.
He felt the net beneath his legs, and wondered if he should unhook the rope to lighten the load. No, that would require too much maneuvering. A good jolt now and the tablet might break loose. Besides, he was the excess weight, not the rope.
"That's it. I've got to get off."
If he could carve footholds and handholds with the pick, he might be able to balance himself on the wall.
But for how long?
"Better to die trying to save my ass than doing nothing," he muttered.
The tablet groaned and slipped again. It wouldn't hold much longer. Slowly, he worked his way up the tablet toward the wall. A few more inches, he told himself. Patience. Finally, he was close enough to touch the wall with the pick. "Now, get some leverage."
He stretched his hand above his head and slammed the pick at the wall. But to his surprise, he struck something, and the pick flew from his hand. The tablet groaned, tilted even further, and he slid down several inches before he caught himself.
Christ, he'd hit the torch holder. He'd forgotten about it. It was still there, secured to the wall by four prongs. Now it was his only hope. He had to get back up to the wall, and get a hand on it. If he distributed his weight between the base of the tablet and the holder he might save himself yet.
He imagined himself a feather-light acrobat gliding up the tablet and effortlessly balancing himself. The tablet groaned again, and he forgot about acrobatic maneuvers. He froze, but the tablet was shaking, and he was sliding back. He cursed. He thought of his whip still coiled on the wall in his room back in Paris. If he had it now, he could lash it around the torch holder with an easy snap of his wrist. He swore that if he lived to go on another archaeo logical dig, the whip was going with him.
He slipped another few inches. The further he slid, the more the tablet pulled away from the wall. The groaning grew louder; the tablet was about to fall. Desperately, he clambered up the tablet and lunged for the wall. His fedora fell off his head and tumbled into the darkness, but his fingers hooked over the torch holder, first one hand, then the other. He tested the strength of the holder. The pick had knocked it slightly askew, and the prongs started to pull away.
"Real nice." Carefully, he stood up on the tablet, using the holder and wall to balance himself.
"Indy. . . are you all right?" Dorian's voice echoed eerily down the fissure. "Indy?"
"No."
"The rope should be here any moment. Hold on."
"Good advice," he said.
She was calling him Indy again. Lot of good it would do if he fell. Pythia will swallow you like a mouse.
The old man's words echoed in his head. Maybe he hadn't been talking about Dorian, but about the mythical python, and how he was dangling precariously inside the creature's gullet. A shiver ran up his spine. "I hate snakes, even mythical ones."
But the morbid thoughts kept coming. Maybe his first professional archaeology experience would be his last. A short career. "Good joke, Indy. Keep 'em up."
He looked up toward the spot of light high overhead. "Hurry with that rope."
Another stray thought pushed against his mind like an annoying burr. What if no one was getting a rope? If Dorian had dispatched Doumas, he might not return at all. The bastard had probably cut the rope, and when he found out Indy had managed to save himself on the other one, he let it go. What else could it be, an accident? He doubted it.
Someone, probably Doumas, had already been down here and cleaned the tablet. That was why Doumas hadn't wanted him sent down here in the first place. Then he'd changed his mind when he realized he could protect Pythia by getting rid of him.
That made him angry. He'd show Doumas. Somehow he was going to get out of here alive. "I'm going to make it," he said between clenched teeth. "I'm not going to fall."
Hell, he might even be able to salvage the tablet yet. When the rope got here—and it would get here—and he was firmly attached to it, he'd grab the rope that was still knotted to the tablet. He was sure that a tug from the top would loosen it. But he'd wait until he was out of this damn hole before he'd try it.
"Indy?"
"You got it?" he yelled hopefully.
"No. I'm going to go see what's taking them so long. I should have gotten it myself. Doumas is useless."
Great. More waiting.
He tried to relax by adjusting his feet. A mistake—but