there’s an open cone on top, and this pile of sand down below. The stuff trickled
down through a hole in the roof and piled up until it choked the hole.”
“Where does that get you?”
“Well, if we dug the stuff away we could clear the hole.”
“It would keep sifting down.”
“No, it wouldn’t, it would reach a point where there wasn’t enough dust
close by to sift down any further- there would still be a hole.”
Sam considered it. “Maybe. But when you tried to
climb up it would collapse back on you. That’s the bad part about a morning glory,
Bruce; you can’t get a foothold.”
“The dickens I can’t! If I can’t climb a slope on skis without collapsing
it, when I’ve got my wits about me and am really trying, why, you can have my
reserve air bottle.”
Sam chuckled. “Don’t be hasty. I might hold you to it. Anyhow,” he added, “I
can’t climb it.”
“Once I get my feet on the level, I’ll pull you out like a cork, even if
you’re buried. Time’s a-wastin’.” Bruce got busy.
Using a ski as a shovel he nibbled at the giant pile. Every so often it
would collapse down on him. It did not discourage him; Bruce knew that many yards of
the stuff would have to fall and be moved back before the hole would show.
Presently he moved Sam over to the freshly moved waste. From there Sam held
the light; the work went faster. Bruce began to sweat. After a while he had to
switch air bottles; he sucked on his water tube and ate a march ration before
getting back to work.
He began to see the hole opening above him. A great pile collapsed on him;
he backed out, looked up, then went to Sam. “Turn out the light!”
There was no doubt; a glimmer of light filtered down. Bruce found himself
pounding Sam and shouting. He stopped and said, “Sam, old boy, did lever say what
patrol I’m from?”
“No. Why?”
“Badger Patrol. Watch me dig!” He tore into it. Shortly sunlight poured into
the hole and reflected dimly around the cavern. Bruce shoveled until he could see a
straight rise from the base of the pile clear to the edge of the morning glory high
above them. He decided that the opening was wide enough to tackle.
He hitched himself to Sam with the full length of all the glass ropes and
then made a bundle of Sam’s pack save air and water bottles, tied a bowline on Sam’s
uninjured foot, using the manila line and secured the bundle to the end of that
line. He planned to drag Sam out first, then the equipment. Finished, he bound on
skis.
Bruce touched helmets. “This is it, pal. Keep the line clear of the sand.”
Sam grabbed his arm. “Wait a minute.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Bruce-if we don’t make it, I just want to say that you’re all right.”
“Uh . . . oh, forget it. We’ll make it.” He started up. A herringbone step
suited the convex approach to the hole. As Bruce neared the opening he shifted to
side-step to fit the narrow passage and the concave shape of the morning glory
above. He inched up, transferring his weight smoothly and gradually, and not
remaining in one spot too long. At last his head, then his whole body, were in
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sunshine; he was starting up the morning glory itself.
He stopped, uncertain what to do. There was a ridge above him, where the
flakes had broken loose when he had shoveled away their support. The break was much
too steep to climb, obviously unstable. He paused only a moment as he could feel his
skis sinking in; he went forward in half side-step, intending to traverse past the
unstable formation.
The tow line defeated him. When Bruce moved sideways, the line had to turn a
corner at the neck of the hole. It brushed and then cut into the soft stuff. Bruce
felt his skis slipping backwards; with cautious haste he started to climb, tried to
ride the slipping mass and keep above it. He struggled as the flakes poured over his