But this, this was an incarceration no supplication
could end, a doom not to be stayed. Silently, evenly, unmeasuredly the
well deepened and the walls became more sheer.

Like kittens about to be ignominiously drowned we slid into a huddled
bunch at the bottom of the sack, men and animals equally helpless and
distraught. Fortunately it was during one of the now rare periods of
resurgence that we saw the helicopter, for I do not think we should have
had the spiritual strength needful to help ourselves had it come during
our times of dejection. Gootes and I yelled and waved our arms
frenziedly, while Slafe, exhibiting faint excitement for the first time,
contorted himself to aim the camera at the machine's belly. Evidently
the pilot spotted us without difficulty for the ship came to a hovering
rest over the mouth of the well and a jacobsladder unrolled its length
to dangle rope sides and wooden rungs down to us.

"Snatched from the buzzsaw as the express thundered across the switch
and the water came up to our noses," chanted Gootes. "W R has a vilely
melodramatic sense of timing."

The ladder was nearest Slafe, but working more furiously than ever, he
waved it impatiently aside and so I grasped it and started upward. The
terror of the ascent paradoxically was a welcome one, for it was the
common fear which comes to men on the battlefield or in the creaking
hours of the night, the natural dread of ordinary perils and not the
unmanning panic inspired by the awful unknown within the grass.

The helicopter shuddered and dipped, causing the unanchored ladder to
sway and twist until with each convulsive jerk I expected to be thrown
off. I bruised and burned my palms with the tightness of my grip, my
knees twitched and my face and back and chest were wet. But in spite of
all this, waves of thankfulness surged over me.

The roaring and rattling above grew louder and I made my way finally
into the open glassfronted cockpit, pulling myself in with the last bit
of my strength. For a long moment I lay huddled there, exhausted. My eye
took in every trifle, every bolthead, rivet, scratch, dent, indicator,
seam and panel, playing with them in my mind, making and rejecting
patterns. They were artificial, made on a blessed assemblyline--no
terrifying product of nature.

I wondered how so small a space could accommodate us all and was
devoutly grateful that I, at least, had achieved safety. Reminded of my
companions, I looked out a