Blind Descent

Laymon was digging in a vein that had been mined out in the first few minutes of their interview. She could tell he wanted more, but there wasn't any more she could give. It made her feel stupid. Stupid was turning to a

A

Clearly, Laymon felt the interview to be at an end. He stood. A

The words out, she waited. Laymon looked blank, then, as the import struck, shock twisted his even features. Lines cut between his eyes and around his mouth. He sat down, this time in his official chair and in his official capacity.

A

"You realize how serious this is?"

She did.

"You've given us nothing to go on-not your fault," he added quickly. "Just the nature of the beast. Frieda was sure?"

A

"And this print in the dirt, you're a hundred percent sure of that?"

A

The chief of resource management blew out a lungful of air and turned to face her squarely across the desk. "Holden is coming in later. I'll meet with him, the superintendent, and Oscar when he gets out of Lechuguilla. We'll take it from there."

"Thanks," A

Now the interview was indeed over. Laymon rose and walked around his desk, nudging her toward the door with repeated thanks.

She managed one question of her own before it was closed between them.

"What next?" The question was purposefully vague. She wanted to take the temperature of resource management, to find out if Holden, Oscar, Zeddie, or anyone else was going to be targeted as scapegoat. Her cynicism was uncalled for. Laymon was thinking only of the cave. A rescue, even one as carefully orchestrated as Frieda's, could go sour. Despite Holden's care, damage had been done. Possibly irreparable damage. Even without the rock slide, that many people, that much equipment couldn't be dragged through the fragile and pristine underground without leaving a mark. Since there was no way of guaranteeing that cavers would not injure themselves, and since the American public would never condone the idea of a "no rescue" wilderness where visitors went in at their own risk to come out or die as the gods and their own skills decreed, the only way to protect the cave, at least this newest and most virginal part, was to close it off. Until a truly compelling reason to allow people in arose, the cave could rest. Unlike the surface of the earth it would not be able to regenerate, to cure the wounds they'd left behind-or not on a timeline short-lived humanity could appreciate-but further impact would be stopped.

That was fine by A

Cavers were another matter. Before she could get a clearer picture of the survey team that had been with Frieda, she needed to know more about the personalities involved. She had little idea how to go about gleaning background information. They were such a disparate bunch. Curt was a New York university professor, Brent a geologist for somebody, Peter a midwestern gynecologist. Who would she call, the AMA, the PTA? Sondra, at least, had a face, address, and phone number.

A

"Ah, good, you're still here," he said, and A

The body.

Laymon was businesslike, nothing disrespectful in word or ma

What she said was, "Sure," and, "Vehicle?"

Laymon nodded at his secretary. "Jewel?" Without waiting for her to respond, he shut himself back into his office.

Not only was A

Jewel saw to it A

Clouds were as thick over the town of Carlsbad as they were over the caverns, but, as the town was considerably lower in elevation, small planes were able to sneak in below the overcast. It was in one of these puddle-jumpers that Dottie Dierkz arrived. A

Frieda's mother was tall, five-foot-ten or so, and impeccably groomed. Money and taste were evident in the perfectly brown, perfectly styled hair, the cashmere mock turtleneck in fuchsia, and the tailored navy jacket. Unlike her daughter, Mrs. Dierkz was thin and angular with high cheekbones and a clean fine jawline, bone structure that would keep her beautiful as long as she lived. From the look of her, A

"Flying! Ooh!" Mrs. Dierkz mock shuddered as A

This and similar flight-related comments got them across the parking lot and out toward the highway. A

As A

"Frieda-" A

Mrs. Dierkz plucked one hand from between her knees and fluttered it; a woman batting away gnats. The hand was in keeping with the rest of her: nails shaped and painted, a heavy gold wedding band embracing a few carats' worth of engagement ring. Tasteful, affluent, but not off-putting. A