Indiana Jones & the Peril at Delphi

logical dig, the whip was going with him.

He slipped another few inches. The further he slid, the more the tablet pulled away from the wall. The groaning grew louder; the tablet was about to fall. Desperately, he clambered up the tablet and lunged for the wall. His fedora fell off his head and tumbled into the darkness, but his fingers hooked over the torch holder, first one hand, then the other. He tested the strength of the holder. The pick had knocked it slightly askew, and the prongs started to pull away.

'Real nice.' Carefully, he stood up on the tablet, using the holder and wall to balance himself.

'Indy. . . are you all right?' Dorian's voice echoed eerily down the fissure. 'Indy?'

'No.'

'The rope should be here any moment. Hold on.'

'Good advice,' he said.

She was calling him Indy again. Lot of good it would do if he fell. Pythia will swallow you like a mouse.

The old man's words echoed in his head. Maybe he hadn't been talking about Dorian, but about the mythical python, and how he was dangling precariously inside the creature's gullet. A shiver ran up his spine. 'I hate snakes, even mythical ones.'

But the morbid thoughts kept coming. Maybe his first professional archaeology experience would be his last. A short career. 'Good joke, Indy. Keep 'em up.'

He looked up toward the spot of light high overhead. 'Hurry with that rope.'

Another stray thought pushed against his mind like an annoying burr. What if no one was getting a rope? If Dorian had dispatched Doumas, he might not return at all. The bastard had probably cut the rope, and when he found out Indy had managed to save himself on the other one, he let it go. What else could it be, an accident? He doubted it.

Someone, probably Doumas, had already been down here and cleaned the tablet. That was why Doumas hadn't wanted him sent down here in the first place. Then he'd changed his mind when he realized he could protect Pythia by getting rid of him.

That made him angry. He'd show Doumas. Somehow he was going to get out of here alive. 'I'm going to make it,' he said between clenched teeth. 'I'm not going to fall.'

Hell, he might even be able to salvage the tablet yet. When the rope got here—and it would get here—and he was firmly attached to it, he'd grab the rope that was still knotted to the tablet. He was sure that a tug from the top would loosen it. But he'd wait until he was out of this damn hole before he'd try it.

'Indy?'

'You got it?' he yelled hopefully.

'No. I'm going to go see what's taking them so long. I should have gotten it myself. Doumas is useless.'

Great. More waiting.

He tried to relax by adjusting his feet. A mistake—but

he realized it too late. The shifting of his weight had been all that was needed to jar the tablet free. With a loud snap, it broke and tumbled away.

His legs kicked out, then scraped against the wall. He heard a crash as the tablet struck something. His feet searched for a foothold, but the wall was nearly smooth. The torch holder bent downward, the prongs slowly work ing their way free.

'Oh, shit.'

This was it. He gritted his teeth; his heart pounded in his ears as the prongs pulled out of the wall.

He fell. Again.

He was moving through a tunnel, toward a light. It was growing brighter and brighter. This is death.

Indy. Indy.

The sound echoed around him.

He blinked his eyes against the light. So bright. Like a ball of flames. So close now. What would happen when he reached the light? Where would he go?

His eyes slid sideways and in the light he saw his fedora and the pack he'd dropped, and pieces of the shattered tablet. It all came back to him. He'd fallen into the abyss. His thighs had jammed against his chest.

He'd felt searing pain.

Then nothing.

Now his ribs ached. His right hand throbbed; it was wet with blood. His throat was choked with dust, and one thigh felt as if it had been struck by a hammer. Was death this painful? Did you wake up feeling all the pain you missed when you lost consciousness? He tried to lift himself up, but couldn't. He was still moving toward the flaming light; it hurt his eyes.

Then he realized it was a torch. It was attached to a rope, and coming toward him. He was alive and still in the goddamn hole.

He cringed as he sat up. Why was he still alive? The torch was swinging several feet above him now and he could see that he was on an overhang that loomed from the wall. He squinted up into the light. He couldn't tell where the tablet had been, but he was sure now that he hadn't fallen far. Maybe only fifteen, twenty feet. He felt bits of rubble from the shattered tablet underneath him. If he hadn't been wearing his leather jacket, he would have been hurt much worse.

He watched as the torch continued down past him, and the brightness faded until it was just a glimmer below him. I'm supposed to stop it. But I didn't. 'Indy. Can you hear me?'

'Dorian, we've gone well past the depth of the tablet,' another voice said. 'He's gone. Face it.' The voice wasn't as loud as Dorian's, but the chasm was like a megaphone and it carried easily to him. Doumas.

The bastard was giving up on him.

It was getting bright again. The torch was rising. He understood exactly what was happening. He was being abandoned. But he was in a stupor, and couldn't coordi nate his thoughts with actions. He had to do something. He cleared his throat. With an effort, he yelled: 'Dorian.' But it came out as a whisper. His throat was dry and felt like it was caked with dirt. He tried again. Louder this time, a gravely sound. But not loud enough.

The torch swung at his knees, his waist, his chest. He reached out; snared it. He felt a tug, and pulled back. Then the rope slackened, and wriggled like a snake.

'It must have caught on something,' Doumas said. The snake rose until he felt the torch being pulled from his hand. He jerked on it.

For a moment there was no reaction, then he felt another tug on the rope, and he was pulled to his feet.

He felt as if he were fishing, only he was the fish. 'What is it?' Dorian asked.

'I don't know.'

'Give it to me. Indy. . . Indy.'

He bent over to pick up his hat, and realized he was standing a half step from the brink of the prominence.

'Indy. Please answer.'

He edged backward. He saw a cone-shaped rock pro truding from the wall and grabbed hold of it. He pulled on the rope, and tugged again, and a third time.

'It's him. I felt it. He's down there. Indy, pull again if you can hear me.'

He did. Quickly, they worked out a simplistic way of communicating. One tug, yes. Two, no. Was he badly hurt? No. Could he tie the rope around himself? Yes. Did he need more rope? Yes.

Another several feet coiled in front of him. He sat down to figure out the best way of attaching the rope.

He didn't want it around his waist or his chest. He had at least one cracked or bruised rib on each side.

Maybe more. He fumbled with the rope; his hand throbbed. He pressed his bloody palm against his stomach, trying to stop the bleeding. Finally, he tied a loop, threaded the rope through it, then stepped inside the large loop. He would sit in it like a swing.