'Bloody rope has jammed,' Boris yelled back. 'Can you see where it is
stuck?'
Nicholas peered up and realized that the rope had rolled into a vertical
crack in the face, probably the same one that had almost stopped the
dik-dik reaching the top.
However, his own weight was almost five times that of the little
antelope, and had forced the rope much more deeply into the crack.
He was suspended high in the air, with a drop of almost a hundred feet
under him.
'Try and swing yourself loose! Boris shouted down at him. Obediently,
Nicholas kicked himself back and twisted on the rope to try and roll it
clear. He worked until the sweat streamed down into his eyes and the
rope had rubbed him raw under the arms.
'No use,' he shouted back at Boris. 'Try to haul it out with brute
force!
There was a pause, and then he saw the rope above the crack tighten like
a bar of iron as five strong men hauled on the top end with all their
strength. He could hear the trackers chanting their working chorus as
they threw all their combined weight on the line.
His end of the line did not budge. It was a solid jam, and he knew then
that they were not going to clear it. He looked down. The surface of the
water seemed much further than a hundred feet below.
'The terminal velocity of the human body is one hundred and fifty miles
an hour,' he reminded himself. At that speed the water would be like
concrete. 'I won't be going that fast when I hit, will I? he tried to
reassure himself.
He looked up again. The men on the top of the cliff were still hauling
with all their weight and strength. At that moment one of the strands of
the nylon rope sheared against the cutting edge of the rock crack, and
began to uncurl like a long green worm.
'Stop pulling!' Nicholas screamed. 'Vast heaving!' But Boris was no
longer in sight. He was helping his trackers, adding his weight to the
pull.
The second strand of the rope parted and unravelled.
There was only a single strand holding him now.
It was going to go at any moment, he realized. 'Boris, you ham-fisted
bastard, stop pulling!' But his voice never reached the Russian, and
with a pop like a champagne cork the third and final strand of the rope
parted.
He plunged downwards, with the loose end of the severed rope fluttering
above his head. Flinging both arms straight upwards over his head to
stabilize his flight, he straightened his legs, arrowing his body to hit
feet first.
He thought about the island under him. Would he miss its red rock fangs
or would he smash into it and shatter every bone in his lower body? He
dared not look down to judge it in case he destabilized - his fall and
tumbled in midair. If he hit the water flat it would crush his ribs or
snap his spine.
His guts seemed to be forced into his throat by the speed of his fall,
and he drew one last breath as he hit the surface feet first. The force
