“Hold it. Not that you’re going anywhere...” His hand felt back and forth. “I know what you mean by the ledge; it’s about a foot deep here. But I need something... Wait. I think I’ve got it. A root, I hope. Hang on while I tug on it and see if it’ll take my weight.”
There was a faint cry from below, carried to them on the still air. Da Silva turned his head; Wilson above him clutched madly.
“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Somebody down below called out. I just turned my head.”
“Well, don’t turn your head! Let me do the sightseeing, eh? You scared the hell out of me.” He glanced over his shoulder, the sweat running down his face. “Three people down there with big straw hats. I don’t know what they’re selling, but they’ll have to wait.” He reached up again and found the handhold he had been seeking. “I’ve got something. Put your hands under my feet and lift me slowly. Slowly! This isn’t the shotput, you know! There!”
He pulled himself up carefully, got one knee on the narrow ledge, turned enough to come to his feet without falling, and looked down at Da Silva’s upturned face.
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to hold down the fort. You can look around all you want now. I can reach the cave from here, and I can’t get you up here.” He scratched at his sweaty face. “Don’t go away.”
He turned slowly, facing the cliff, edging his way along the ledge. His hands examined helping holds and accepted or discarded them according to their worth; his feet shuffled slowly along, testing each step of the way. The unpleasant thought suddenly came to him that while the inaccessibility of the cave probably rendered it worthless as a home for wild animals, or even snakes, it still might well serve as an aerie for some large bird, and the thought of being attacked — or even critically examined — by some giant winged creature this far up in the air, was not a pleasant one. He put it away as being nonproductive and kept edging along the face of the cliff. And then the mouth of the dark cave was suddenly just above him, within reach.
He stared upwards into the dark cavern; there seemed to be no means of getting from where he was up to and into that opening, so close and yet so far away. His hand went up and probed the unseen floor of the cave as far as he could reach; it appeared exceptionally smooth. There was nothing to get hold of. His disappointment must have showed in the set of his shoulders because he heard Da Silva call out.
“Hold it there. I’ll try to get below you and push you up.”
Wilson glanced down, shaking his head.
“No chance. You stay where you are. Eventually I’m going to need to get down, and you’re my ladder. If you’re sticking head-first in a rice paddy, you’ll be small help.” He withdrew his hand from its barren exploration of the cave floor and used it to feel about on the wall before him. His fingers encountered a small niche about hip-high, a minor niche in the cliff, but one that satisfied him. “I think I can do it. Patience, patience...”
His hand dug at the small opening, slowly loosening small layers of shale, carrying them slowly to one side and dropping them; he could hear them clatter down the slope below him. The hole deepened; when he considered it sufficiently deep, he tested it by placing his knee into it and raising himself slowly, pressing himself tightly against the face of the cliff as his other foot was forced to relinquish its purchase on the ledge. His head rose slowly above the cave entrance; it was empty of bird or animal, but in the dimness he did see a jagged rock sticking out of one wall within reach. His fingers found it and locked themselves about it; he pulled and found himself lying on his stomach inside the cave, his feet dangling over space outside, his breath coming in great gasps of relief.
He sat up and crawled to the mouth of the opening, staring down. About the edge of the rice paddies a large group of men had formed, all in wide-brimmed straw hats, silently watching the drama being played out above them. Da Silva grinned up at him. Wilson put his forefinger to his thumb in a gesture of success, grinned back, and disappeared into the cave. He returned to the entrance in what Da Silva later claimed was an hour, but which was actually about five minutes, wiping the blade of his pocketknife on his trousers, folding it against his leg, and putting it away in a pocket. His other hand carried a package the size of a large book. He sat down in the cave opening, legs dangling, and proceeded to start stripping the stiff plastic from it. Da Silva yelled.
“Hey! I’m hanging on here by my eyebrows! That can wait!”
“Who knows?” Wilson looked down at him. “Maybe fifteen people hid packages here. I’ll admit it’s doubtful, but I’m the cautious type. Because I don’t want to go through this Pearl White bit again just because I later find I dug out the wrong one and we’ve got somebody’s lunch instead.” He removed the cover from the small box, studied the contents a moment, and nodded as he replaced the cover and rewrapped the box. “No — he must have left his lunch someplace else. This is the stuff.”
“Then let’s move.”
“Right.” Wilson came to his feet. He knotted the plastic tightly, half-removed his belt and slipped it through the knot, replacing the belt through its loops so that the package was firmly fixed in the small of his back. He placed the pistol that had been there in his hip pocket and looked down at Da Silva. “Incidentally, we have quite an audience. A pity we couldn’t charge admission. And for your information, the view from here is lovely...”
“Will you come on down!”
“I can see the sanatorium from here. Not a bad-looking layout. I think we ought to stop in and see the director and say hello. It’s the only polite thing to do. We probably won’t be back in a hurry.”
“You won’t be back, because if you don’t come on down, you’ll still be here for a long time,” Da Silva said darkly. “Either you come now or I go down alone. And you can stay.”
“I can always go back and look for that lunchbox—” Da Silva made a move. Wilson hastily turned on his stomach and dropped his legs into the void below, his foot groping for the ledge. “My God, I’ve never seen such an impatient person...!”
“Sorry about this, honey,” McNeil said apologetically, “but the mon won’t believe you didn’t call out with a good reason unless it’s open on the face of it you couldn’t, don’t you see.”
Diana Cogswell sat on the deck in the opening to the roundhouse. Her hands were firmly bound behind her back; her lovely face was expressionless. McNeil had taken her pistol and tossed it on one of the cots; the other cot had been folded back against the bulkhead revealing the opening to the between-decks lazaret. McNeil took a clean handkerchief and bound it tightly around her mouth, giving the appearance of gagging her without being too uncomfortable.
“There,” he said, studying his handiwork. “That ought to sell the ugly bostards. Once we get our mitts on the package, honey, we’re off and away and domned to the two of them stuck here for life.” He licked his lips, thinking about it, and then held up his hand. He turned his head, listening. “What’s that?”
The sound he had heard was a faint crashing in the distance, a body pushing its way through heavy brush. He picked up his rifle and stood back of the girl; he considered the position a bit, and then shook his head.
“No. You get on your feet and step forward a bit; I’ll stay here in the hatchway. I want him to see you clearly.” The girl stepped forward and stopped. McNeil nodded in satisfaction. “That’s good, honey. Get ready...”
The sound of the movement through the reeds increased; there was the final sound of the tearing of cloth, a faint curse, and then silence as footsteps crossed the sand. There was a hail.