of damp
clay that rose sheer above him. Far above, bars of dim sunlight crossed
the upper reaches of the cavern. He had seen no sign of Dhuva ... or the
Gels.

He encountered a sodden timber that projected above the surface of the
pool, clung to it to rest. Bits of flotsam--a plastic pistol, bridge
tallies, a golf bag--floated in the black water. A tunnel extended
through the clay wall ahead; beyond, Brett could see a second great
cavern rising. He pictured the city, silent and empty above, and the
honey-combed earth beneath. He moved on.

An hour later Brett had traversed the second cavern. Now he clung to an
outthrust spur of granite directly beneath the point at which Dhuva had
disappeared. Far above he could see the green-clad waitress standing
stiffly on her ledge. He was tired. Walking in water, his feet
floundering in soft mud, was exhausting. He was no closer to escape, or
to finding Dhuva, than he had been when the fat man cut the rope. He had
been a fool to leave the man alone, with a knife ... but he had had no
choice.

He would have to find another way out. Endlessly wading at the bottom of
the pit was useless. He would have to climb. One spot was as good as
another. He stepped back and scanned the wall of clay looming over him.
Twenty feet up, water dripped from the broken end of a four-inch water
main. Brett uncoiled the rope from his shoulder, tied a loop in the end,
whirled it and cast upward. It missed, fell back with a splash. He
gathered it in, tried again. On the third try it caught. He tested it,
then started up. His hands were slippery with mud and water. He twined
the rope around his legs, inched higher. The slender cable was smooth as
glass. He slipped back two feet, then inched upward, slipped again,
painfully climbed, slipped, climbed.

After the first ten feet he found toe-holds in the muddy wall. He worked
his way up, his hands aching and raw. A projecting tangle of power cable
gave a secure purchase for a foot. He rested. Nearby, an opening two
feet in diameter gaped in the clay: a tunnel. It might be possible to
swing sideways across the face of the clay and reach the opening. It was
worth a try. His stiff, clay-slimed hands would pull him no higher.

He gripped the rope, kicked off sideways, hooked a foot in the tunnel
mouth, half jumped, half fell into the mouth of the tunnel. He clung to
the rope, shook it loose from the pipe above, coiled it and looped it
over his shoulder. On han