equipment to pay his remark any heed. She slid the headphones briefly off her ears.
“Would you mind repeating that, Father?”
Benson Hazelhurst merely raised his eyebrows in response. He knew he must look as absurd as he felt, far more like an astronaut than a sixty-nine-year-old professor of archaeology. The white suit covering him from neck to foot was thermally warmed and cooled, adjusted automatically by body temperature. An oxygen tank with a twenty-minute supply was strapped to his back. The hose running from it snaked up over his shoulder and finished in a mask attached to his equipment vest at lapel level. The vest was equipped with special pockets that held two flashlights angled downward to provide as good a view of his descent as possible without tying up his hands. He would need them to steady himself and feel his way in the darkness for walls and corners, Melissa knew.
Her father’s helmet, meanwhile, looked at first glance like a motorcyclist’s. Actually, though, it was equipped with an infrared visor to maximize vision. And built into its crown was a miniature video camera that, over a limited range, would beam pictures of everything he saw up to a recorder at ground level. This would allow her to monitor his progress, as well as preserve the step-by-step process of whatever he uncovered.
His gloves were reinforced with Kevlar to prevent scrapes to his hands. His shoes were fitted with special rubberized soles that prevented slipping when the total weight of the wearer was brought to bear. A microphone and receiver were built into his helmet.
“I feel like a fool.” Hazelhurst sighed.
“A safe fool.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t forget, I’m bringing you up at the first sign of trouble.”
“Then you’re still expecting some.”
“Whoever killed Winchester must have run into it.”
Her father seemed maddeningly unmoved. “Perhaps.”
“Knowledge won’t protect you, Father.”
“Ignorance couldn’t have helped those who descended before me.”
“Turn around,” Melissa ordered.
As he crouched at the edge of the chasm, she fastened the winch holds into the two slots in her father’s vest, which was tailored for them. The winch apparatus would serve as Hazelhurst’s express elevator up when it came time for his return, or in the event of trouble. It would also lower him at a slow, careful pace that he could control with a remote transistor box. Additionally, the mechanism was fitted with mercury switches that snapped the line taut in the event of a sudden drop, responding much faster than the reflexes of any standard line bearers could ever hope to.
“I think I’m ready, then,” Hazelhurst said, and pushed the helmet tight over his head.
With his visor still raised, he swung round and eased his legs into the chasm ahead of him. Melissa touched him on the cheek and lowered his visor.
“Keep in touch,” she said.
“I suspect you’ll be sick and tired of my voice before this day is over,” Hazelhurst answered, and then lowered himself into the darkness.
Melissa returned to her machines instantly, searching out the comfort and security they provided. Throughout the two hours of setup and preparation, she had been haunted by memories of childhood nightmares of monsters with spade-claw hands. She was only three, almost four, when they started. Night after night she would wake up screaming. Her mother would come into the room and still her trembling. In between the tears, Melissa would tell her about the monsters. They weren’t real, her mother would say. They were just the product of dreams.
Dream Dragons.
And one night when the nightmares came, she didn’t cry out to her mother. Another night, she woke up without screaming. Then, finally, the nightmares stopped altogether.
But today, strangely, the memory of them had returned.
“Can you hear me, Daddy?”
“Not so loud, Daughter, please. And don’t call me ‘Daddy’ on a tape with historic
“Would you mind repeating that, Father?”
Benson Hazelhurst merely raised his eyebrows in response. He knew he must look as absurd as he felt, far more like an astronaut than a sixty-nine-year-old professor of archaeology. The white suit covering him from neck to foot was thermally warmed and cooled, adjusted automatically by body temperature. An oxygen tank with a twenty-minute supply was strapped to his back. The hose running from it snaked up over his shoulder and finished in a mask attached to his equipment vest at lapel level. The vest was equipped with special pockets that held two flashlights angled downward to provide as good a view of his descent as possible without tying up his hands. He would need them to steady himself and feel his way in the darkness for walls and corners, Melissa knew.
Her father’s helmet, meanwhile, looked at first glance like a motorcyclist’s. Actually, though, it was equipped with an infrared visor to maximize vision. And built into its crown was a miniature video camera that, over a limited range, would beam pictures of everything he saw up to a recorder at ground level. This would allow her to monitor his progress, as well as preserve the step-by-step process of whatever he uncovered.
His gloves were reinforced with Kevlar to prevent scrapes to his hands. His shoes were fitted with special rubberized soles that prevented slipping when the total weight of the wearer was brought to bear. A microphone and receiver were built into his helmet.
“I feel like a fool.” Hazelhurst sighed.
“A safe fool.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t forget, I’m bringing you up at the first sign of trouble.”
“Then you’re still expecting some.”
“Whoever killed Winchester must have run into it.”
Her father seemed maddeningly unmoved. “Perhaps.”
“Knowledge won’t protect you, Father.”
“Ignorance couldn’t have helped those who descended before me.”
“Turn around,” Melissa ordered.
As he crouched at the edge of the chasm, she fastened the winch holds into the two slots in her father’s vest, which was tailored for them. The winch apparatus would serve as Hazelhurst’s express elevator up when it came time for his return, or in the event of trouble. It would also lower him at a slow, careful pace that he could control with a remote transistor box. Additionally, the mechanism was fitted with mercury switches that snapped the line taut in the event of a sudden drop, responding much faster than the reflexes of any standard line bearers could ever hope to.
“I think I’m ready, then,” Hazelhurst said, and pushed the helmet tight over his head.
With his visor still raised, he swung round and eased his legs into the chasm ahead of him. Melissa touched him on the cheek and lowered his visor.
“Keep in touch,” she said.
“I suspect you’ll be sick and tired of my voice before this day is over,” Hazelhurst answered, and then lowered himself into the darkness.
Melissa returned to her machines instantly, searching out the comfort and security they provided. Throughout the two hours of setup and preparation, she had been haunted by memories of childhood nightmares of monsters with spade-claw hands. She was only three, almost four, when they started. Night after night she would wake up screaming. Her mother would come into the room and still her trembling. In between the tears, Melissa would tell her about the monsters. They weren’t real, her mother would say. They were just the product of dreams.
Dream Dragons.
And one night when the nightmares came, she didn’t cry out to her mother. Another night, she woke up without screaming. Then, finally, the nightmares stopped altogether.
But today, strangely, the memory of them had returned.
“Can you hear me, Daddy?”
“Not so loud, Daughter, please. And don’t call me ‘Daddy’ on a tape with historic
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