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'He would never  dare,' Ali said.

'You  don't  see  it?'  he  asked.  'The  porters  are  segregated  from  the  rest  of  us  now. That  side cave  is a cage with no  door.  They  can  only  come  out  one  at  a  time,  and  that makes them easy  targets  if they  get tired of being cooped up.'

Ali  couldn't  believe  this  other,  meaner  layer  to  the  expedition.  'He's  not  going  to shoot them, is he?'

'No  need.  By  the  time  they  finally  decide  to  poke  their  heads  out,  we'll  probably  be long gone down the river.'

All  over  again,  the  quartermaster  opened  the  loads  and  laid  out  the  supplies  from Cache  I.  One  of  his  first  tasks  was  to  distribute  specially  made  survival  suits  to  the soldiers   and   scientists.   Made   by   Jagged   Edge   Gear   for   NASA,   the   suits   were constructed  of  a  ripstop  fabric  that  was  waterproof  but  land-friendly.  He  issued  the suits  in  sizes  from  small  to  extra  large.  A  wiry  mercenary  ran  them  through  the basics.

'You can walk  in  it,  climb  in  it,  sleep  in  it.  If  you  fall  overboard,  pull  this  emergency ring  and  the  suit  will  self-inflate.  It  preserves  your  body  heat.  It  keeps  you  dry.  And it's shark-proof.'

Someone made a joke about a magic suit of armor.

The   suits   were   a  composite  of  rubbery   shorts,   sleeveless   vests,   and  skintight oversuits.  The  fabric  was  night-striped  with  charcoal  gray  and  cobalt  blue.  As  the scientists tried on their elastic  clothing,  the  unsettling  effect  was  of  tigers  on  two  feet. There  were  a few wolf whistles, male and female.

They  tried  lowering  a  video  camera  to  examine  the  lowest  reaches  of  the  shaft. When that didn't work, Walker sent down his crash dummy: Ike.

Not  so  many  years  before,  a  trail  must  have  led  from  the  chamber  down  to  the river.  Ike  had  already  spent  part  of  a  day  looking  for  it.  But  along  the  most  likely tunnel,  there  was  a  boulder-choke  triggered  by  recent  tremors.  Hadal  evidence  was everywhere  –  carved  pillars,  washed-out  wall  paintings,  spouts  to  lift  streamlets, rocks  piled  to  divert  them  –  but  no  suggestion  that  the  hole  had  ever  been  used  the way  they  were  about to use it, to access the river  from straight above.

Ike  rappelled  into  the  stone  throat,  feet  braced  against  the  veined  rock.  At  the bottom  of  the  first  rope,  a  hundred  meters  down,  he  peeked  upward  through  the falling water.  They  were  watching him, waiting to see what would happen.

The  shaft gave  way  to  a  void.  Ike  had  no  warning.  His  feet  were  suddenly  pumping

against the blackness. He halted, dangling in a vast,  quiet bubble of night.

Casting  around  with  his  light  beam,  he  found  the  river  fifty  feet  below.  He  had descended into a long, winding geological cupola. Its  vaulted  ceiling hung above  the flat river  surface.  Strangely,  the  thunderous  noise  stopped  the  moment  he  left  the  shaft. It  was practically silent here. He could hear the water  slithering past, little more.

If  not  for  his  rope  leading  up  through  it,  the  shaft  hole  might  have  disappeared among  all  the  other  gnarled  features  above  and  around  him.  The  walls  and  ceiling were  scaled  with  igneous  puzzles.  It  was  a  complicated  space  with  one  logic  –  the river.

He let himself down the line  and  locked  off  within  reach  of  the  water.  It  ran  smooth as  black  silk.  Tentatively,  Ike  reached  his  fingertips  against  it.  Nothing  leaped  up  to bite  him.  The  current  was  firm.  The  water  felt  cool  and  heavy.  It  had  no  smell.  If  it had come from  the  Pacific  Ocean,  it  was  no  longer  sea  water;  the  journey  inward  had filtered any salt from it. It  was delicious.

He made his report  on a  short-range  radio  that  Walker  had  given  him.  'It  looks  fine to me,' he said.

They  lowered  like  spiders  on  silk  threads.  Some  required  coaxing  for  the  rappel, including several  of the soldiers. Clients, thought Ike.

The  launch was tricky.

The  rafts  were  roped down with their pontoons fully inflated  and  the  seats  and  floor assembled. They  reminded Ike  of lifeboats descending from a doomed ship.

The  river  swept  away  their first attempt.  Luckily, no one was in it.

At Ike's  instruction, the next  raft  was  suspended  just  above  the  water  while  a  team of  boatmen  rappelled  down  on  five  other  ropes.  They  might  have  been  puppets  on strings,  all  hanging  in  the  air.  On  the  count  of  three,  the  crew  pendulumed  into  the dangling  raft  just  as  it  touched  the  water.  Two  men  didn't  release  from  their  ropes quickly  enough,  and  ended  up  swinging  back  and  forth  above  the  river  while  the  raft drifted on. The  others grabbed paddles and began  digging  at  the  water  toward  a  huge polished natural ramp not far downstream.

The  operation smoothed out once a small motor  was  lowered  and  attached  to  one  of the  rafts.  The  motorized  boat  gave  them  the  ability  to  circle  in  the  water  and  collect passengers and bags of gear hanging on a dozen different ropes.  Some  of  the  scientists proved  to be quite competent with the ropes  and  craft.  Several  of  Walker's  forbidding avengers  looked seasick. Ike  liked that. The  playing field was growing more level.

It  took  five  hours  to  convey  their  tons  of  supplies  down  the  shaft.  A  small  flotilla  of rafts  ferried  the  cargo  to  shore.  Except  for  the  one  raft,  and  the  sacrifice  of  their porters,  the  expedition  had  lost  nothing.  There  was  general  contentment  about  their streamlining. The  Jules Verne  Society was feeling able and  sanctioned,  as  though  they could handle anything hell had to throw at them.

Ali dreamed of the porters  that night. She saw their faces fading into blackness.

Send forth the best ye breed – Go, bind your sons to exile

To serve your captives' need.

– RUDYARD KIPLING, 'The White Man's Burden'

15

MESSAGE IN A BOTTLE

Little America, Antarctica

January had expected  a raging white hell with hurricanes and  Quonset  huts.  But  their landing  strip  was  dry,  the  windsock  limp.  She  had  pulled  a  lot  of  strings  to  get  them here today, but wasn't quite sure what to  expect.  Branch  could  only  say  that  it  had  to do  with  the  Helios  expedition.  Events  were  developing  that  could  affect  the  entire subplanet.

The  plane  parked  swiftly.  January  and  Thomas  exited  down  the  Globemaster's cargo ramp, past forklifts and bundled GIs.  'They're  waiting,' an escort told them. They  entered  an  elevator.  January  hoped  it  meant  an  upper-story  room  with  a view.  She  wanted  to  watch  this  immense  land  and  eternal  sun.  Instead  they  went down. Ten  stories deep, the doors opened.