Although he remained securely anchored, the very act of letting go of
anything at that height made the vomit rise in his throat once more.
He gagged, held it down, quickly recovered.
He was balanced on four points: his right hand on the shorter rope, now
only two feet from the window post; his left hand on the line with which
he would rappel down; his right foot; his left foot. He clung like a
fly to the side of the highrise.
Keeping his eyes on the piton that thrust up between his spread feet, he
jerked on the rappelling line several times. Hard. The piton didn't
move. He shifted his weight to the longer line but kept his right-hand
grip on the safety tether. Even with a hundred and fifty pounds of
downward drag, the piton did not shift in the crack.
Convinced that the peg was well placed, he released the safety tether.
Now he was balanced on three points: left hand on the long line, both
feet on the wall, still at a forty-five.
degree angle to the building.
Although he would not be touching it again before he reached the ledge,
the safety rope would nevertheless bring him up short of death if the
longer line broke while he was rappelling down to Connie.
He told himself to remember that. Remember and stave off panic.
Panic was the real enemy. It could kill him faster than Bollinger
could. The tether was there. Linking his harness to the window post.
He must remember ...
With his free hand, he groped under his thigh, felt behind himself for
the long rope that he already held in his other hand. After a maddening
few seconds, he found it. Now, the line on which he would rappel came
from the piton to his left hand in front of him, passed between his legs
at crotch level to his right hand behind him. With that hand he brought
the rope forward, over his right hip, across his chest, over his head,
and finally over his left shoulder. It hung down his back, passed
through his right hand, and ran on into empty space.
He was perfectly positioned.
The left hand was his guiding hand.
The right hand was his braking hand.
He was ready to rappel.
For the first time since he had come through the window, he took a good
look around him. Dark monoliths, gigantic skyscrapers rose eerily out
of the winter storm. Hundreds of thousands of points of light, made
hazy and even more distant by the falling snow, marked the night on
every side of him. Manhattan to his left.
Manhattan to his right. Manhattan behind him. Most important-Manhattan
below him. Six hundred feet of empty night waiting to swallow him.
Strangely, for an instant he felt as if this were a miniature replica of
the city, a tiny reproduction that was forever frozen in plastic; he
felt as if he were also tiny, as if he were suspended in a paperweight,
one of those clear hemispheres that filled with artificial snow when it
was shaken. As unexpectedly as it came, the illusion passed; the city
became huge again; the concrete canyon below appeared to be bottomless;
however, while all else returned to normal, he remained tiny,
insignificant.
