The girls stared blankly at the wreckage, hoping against hope that Bud was still alive. As they waited,
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A formation of up-jutting rocks caught the
MAROONED ON THE MESA
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frantic because they could not help, the seconds seemed like centuries.
Suddenly Sandy grabbed Phyl’s arm. She had heard a faraway creaking sound. Slowly the twisted door of the helicopter was being forced open. Bud staggered out, seemingly uninjured. The girls called down to him.
“I feel like a one-wheeled tricycle,” Bud replied. His voice was barely audible to the girls. “Pretty banged up but all in one piece.”
Sandy and Phyl sighed in relief but their elation was short-lived. Bud was still trapped! Hanging precariously, halfway down the cliff, he could neither climb down nor locate any footholds for an ascent.
Bud, realizing the near futility of his situation, knew he must not become panicky.
Settling back against the helicopter, he surveyed the scene. A descent was out of the question. The cliff walls rose in a sheer line from the desert floor. One slip and he would be battered against broken boulders that fanned out at the base.
His only chance was to risk a climb. He would have to do it without the assistance of caulked climb-Skeeter like a giant outstretched hand
142 TOM SWIFT AND HIS GIANT ROBOT
ing shoes or a pickax. But one essential he could not do without was a rope.
Bud examined the wreckage for a rope, but there was none aboard. There were, however, control cables. These were built into the fuselage and ran from the cabin to the engine and rotors.