inca.gold-第9部分

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　　　　Next　he　rigged　a　hook　from　the　buckle　of　his　accessory　belt；　bending　it　with　the　pliers　until　it　resembled　a　C。　He　then　fastened　the　second　section　of　line　to　the　hook　with　another　step…in　loop。　When　he　was　finished；　he　had　functional；　though　rudimentary；　climbing　tools。
　　　　Now　came　the　tough　part。
　　　　Pitt's　climbing　technique　was　not　exactly　that　of　a　veteran　mountaineer。　The　sad　truth　was　that　he　had　never　climbed　any　mountain　except　on　a　beaten　trail　by　foot。　What　little　he'd　seen　of　experts　scaling　vertical　rock　walls　came　from　public　service　television　or　magazine　articles。　Water　was　his　element。　His　only　contact　with　mountains　was　an　occasional　ski　trip　to　Breckenridge；　Colorado。　He　didn't　know　a　piton　（a　metal　spike　with　a　ring　in　one　end）　from　a　carabiner　（an　oblong　metal　ring　with　a　springloaded　closing　latch　that　hooks　the　climbing　rope　to　the　piton）。　He　vaguely　knew　rappelling　had　something　to　do　with　descending　a　rope　that　wrapped　under　a　thigh；　across　the　body；　and　over　the　opposite　shoulder。
　　　　There　wasn't　an　expert　climber　in　the　business　who　would　have　given　five　hundred　to　one　odds　Pitt　could　make　it　to　the　top。　The　problem　with　the　odds　was　that　Pitt　was　too　stubborn　to　even　consider　them。　The　old　diehard　Pitt　came　back　on　balance。　His　mind　felt　clear　and　sharp　as　a　needle。　He　knew　his　life；　and　perhaps　the　lives　of　the　others；　hung　on　an　unraveling　thread。　Cold；　self…possessed　inner　resolve　took　hold　as　it　had　so　many　times　in　the　past。
　　　　With　a　mitment　bred　of　desperation；　he　reached　up　and　stuck　the　belt　hook　into　a　small　protruding　edge　of　limestone。　He　then　stepped　into　the　loop；　grasped　the　upper　end　of　the　line　and　pulled　himself　out　of　the　water。
　　　　Now　he　lifted　the　hammer　as　high　as　he　could　reach；　slightly　off　to　one　side；　and　rapped　the　pick　end　of　the　hammer　into　a　limestone　pocket。　Then　he　placed　his　free　foot　in　the　loop　and　pulled　himself　to　a　higher　stance　up　the　limestone　wall。
　　　　Crude　by　professional　standards；　Pitt　mused；　but　it　worked。　He　repeated　the　process；　first　with　the　C　hook；　then　with　the　pick　hammer；　moving　up　the　steep　wall　with　his　arms　and　legs　articulating　like　a　spider。　It　was　exhausting　effort　even　for　a　man　in　good　physical　condition。　The　sun　had　vanished　below　the　tops　of　the　trees　as　if　jerked　to　the　west　by　a　string　when　Pitt　finally　climbed　onto　the　small　outcropping　halfway　up　the　steep　wall。　Still　no　sign　from　anyone　above。
　　　　He　clung　there；　thankful　for　the　resting　place；　even　though　it　was　barely　large　enough　to　sit　one　of　his　buttocks　on。　Breathing　heavily；　he　rested　until　his　aching　muscles　stopped　protesting。　He　could　not　believe　the　climb　had　taken　so　much　out　of　him。　An　expert　who　knew　all　the　tricks；　he　presumed；　wouldn't　even　be　breathing　hard。　He　sat　there　hugging　the　sheer　side　of　the　sinkhole　wall　for　almost　ten　minutes。　He　felt　like　sitting　there　for　another　hour；　but　time　was　passing。　The　surrounding　jungle　was　quickly　turning　dark　once　the　sun　was　gone。
　　　　Pitt　studied　the　crude　climbing　tool　that　had　taken　him　this　far。　The　hammer　was　as　good　as　new；　but　the　C　hook　was　beginning　to　straighten　from　the　constant　strain　of　supporting　the　dead　weight　of　a　human　body。　He　took　a　minute　to　recurl　the　hook　by　beating　it　against　the　limestone　with　his　pick　hammer。
　　　　He　had　expected　the　darkness　to　shroud　his　vision；　forcing　him　to　scale　the　limestone　by　feel　only。　But　a　strange　light　was　forming　below　him。　He　turned　and　stared　down　into　the　water。
　　　　The　pool　was　emitting　an　eerie　phosphorescent　green　light。　No　chemist；　Pitt　could　only　assume　the　strange　emission　was　caused　by　some　sort　of　chemical　reaction　from　the　decaying　slime。　Thankful　for　the　illumination；　however　dim；　he　continued　his　grueling　climb　upward。

　　　　The　last　3　meters　（10　feet）　were　the　worst。　So　near；　yet　so　far。　The　brink　of　the　sinkhole　seemed　close　enough　to　touch　with　his　outstretched　fingertips。　Three　meters；　no　more。　Just　ten　feet。　It　might　as　well　have　been　the　summit　of　Mount　Everest。　A　high　school　track　star　could　have　done　it　in　his　sleep。　But　not　Pitt。　A　few　months　on　the　low　side　of　forty；　he　felt　like　a　tired　old　man。
　　　　His　body　was　hard　and　lean；　he　watched　his　diet　and　exercised　just　enough　to　maintain　a　steady　weight。　There　were　the　scars　from　numerous　injuries；　including　gunshot　wounds；　but　all　the　joints　still　functioned　in　a　reasonably　satisfactory　manner。　He'd　given　up　smoking　years　ago；　but　still　indulged　himself　occasionally　with　a　glass　of　good　wine　or　a　tequila　on　the　rocks　with　lime。　His　tastes　had　changed　through　the　years　from　Cutty　Sark　scotch　to　Bombay　gin　to　Sauza　memorativo　tequila。　If　asked　why；　he　had　no　answer。　He　met　each　day　as　if　life…was…a…game　and　games…were…life；　and　the　reasons　for　doing　certain　things　were　hermetically　sealed　and　buried　inside　his　head。
　　　　Then；　when　he　was　within　reach　of　the　sinkhole's　edge；　he　dropped　the　loop　attached　to　the　C　hook。　One　moment　stiffening　fingers　were　tugging　it　from　the　limestone；　the　next　it　was　falling　toward　the　water　where　it　entered　the　weirdly　glowing　algae　layer　with　hardly　a　splash　to　mark　its　entry。　In　bination　with　the　pick　hammer；　he　began　using　the　pockets　of　limestone　as　toe…　and　handholds。　Near　the　top　he　swung　the　hammer　in　a　circle　above　his　head　and　hurled　it　over　the　edge　of　the　sinkhole　in　an　attempt　to　implant　the　pick　end　into　soft　soil。
　　　　It　took　four　tries　before　the　sharp　point　dug　in　and　remained　firm。　With　the　final　reserve　of　his　strength；　he　took　the　line　in　both　hands　and　pulled　his　body　up　until　he　could　see　flat　ground　before　him　in　the　growing　darkness。　He　lay　quiet　and　studied　his　surroundings。　The　dank　rain　forest　seemed　to　close　in　around　him。　It　was　dark　now　and　the　only　light　came　from　the　few　stars　and　a　crescent　moon　that　breached　the　scattered　clouds　and　the　intertwined　branches　of　the　crowded　trees。　The　dim　light　that　filtered　down　illuminated　the　ancient　ruins　with　a　ghostly　quality　that　was　equaled　by　the　sinister；　claustrophobic　effect　of　the　invading　walls　of　the　forest。　The　eerie　scene　was　enhanced　by　the　almost　plete　silence。　Pitt　half　expected　to　see　weird　stirring　and　hear　ominous　rustling　in　the　darkness；　but　he　saw　no　lights　or　moving　shadows　nor　heard　voices。　The　only　sound　came　from　the　faint　splatter　of　a　sudden　light　rain　on　the　leaves。
　　　　Enough　laziness；　he　told　himself。　Get　on；　get　moving；　find　out　what　happened　to　Giordino　and　the　others。　Time　is　slipping　away。　Only　your　first　ordeal　is　over。　That　was　physical；　now　you　have　to　use　your　brain。　He　moved　away　from　the　sinkhole　as　fleetingly　as　a　phantom。
　　　　The　campsite　was　deserted。　The　tents　he'd　observed　before　being　lowered　into　the　sacrificial　well　were　intact　and　empty。　No　signs　of　carnage；　no　indications　of　death。　He　approached　the　clearing　where　Giordino　had　landed　the　NUMA　helicopter。　It　was　riddled　from　bow　to　tail　by　bullets。　Using　it　to　fly　for　help　was　a　dashed　hope。　No　amount　of　repair　would　put　it　in　the　sky　again。
　　　　The　shattered　rotor　blades　hung　down　like　distorted　arms　twisted　at　the　elbow。　A　colony　of　termites　couldn't　have　done　a　better　job　on　a　decaying　tree　stump。　Pitt　sniffed　the　aroma　of　aviation　fuel　and　thought　it　incredible　the　fuel　tanks　had　failed　to　explode。　It　was　too　painfully　obvious　that　a　group　of　bandits　or　rebels　had　attacked　the　camp　and　blasted　the　craft　into　scrap。
　　　　His　fears　lessened　considerably　at　discovering　the　gunfire　he'd　heard　in　the　sinkhole　was　directed　against　the　helicopter　and　not　human　flesh。　His　boss　at　NUMA's　national　headquarters　in　Washington；　D。C。；　Admiral　James　Sandecker；　wouldn't　take　kindly　to　the　write…off　of　one　of　the　agency's　fleet　of　aircraft；　but　Pitt　had　braved　the　feisty　little　sea　dog's　wrath　on　numerous　occasions　and　lived　to　tell　about　it。　Not　that　it　mattered　what　Sandecker　would　say　now。　Giordino　and　the　archaeology　project　people　were　gone；　taken　captive　by　some　force　unknown　to　him。
　　　　He　pushed　aside　the　entry　door　that　sagged　drunkenly　on　one　hinge　and　entered；　making　his　way　to　the　cockpit。　He　groped　under　the　pilot's　seat　until　he　found　a　long　pocket　and　retrieved　a　flashlight。　The　battery　case　felt　undamaged。　He　held　his　breath　and　flicked　on　the　switch。　The　beam　flashed　on　and　lit　up　the　cockpit。
　　　　〃Score　one　for　the　home　team；〃　he　muttered　to　himself。
　　　　Pitt　carefully　made　his　way　into　the　cargo　partment。　The　hurricane　of　shells　had　torn　it　into　a　jagged　mess；　but　nothing　seemed　vandalized　or　removed。　He　found　his　nylon　carry　bag　and　pulled　out　the　contents。　His　shirt　and　sneakers　had　escaped　unscathed　but　a　bullet　had　pierced　the　knee　of　his　pants　and　caused　irreparable　damage　to　his　brief　boxer　shorts。　Removing　the　shorty　wet　suit；　he　found　a　towel　and　gave　his　body　a　vigorous　rubdown　to　remove　the　sinkhole's　slime　from　his　skin。　After　pulling　on　his　clothes　and　sneakers；　he　then　rummaged　around　until　he　came　upon　the　box　lunches　packed　by　the　chef　on　board　their　research　ship。　His　box　was　splattered　against　a　bulkhead；　but　Giordino's　had　survived　intact。　Pitt　wolfed　down　a　peanut　butter　sandwich　and　a　dill　pickle　and　drained　a　can　of　root　beer。　Now；　he　felt　almost　human　again。
　　　　Back　in　the　cockpit；　he　unlatched　a　panel　door　to　a　small　partment　and　pulled　out　a　leather　holster　containing　an　old　。45…caliber　automatic　Colt　pistol。　His　father；　Senator　George　Pitt；　had　carried　it　from　Normandy　to　the　Elbe　River　during　World　War　II　and　then　presented　it　to　Dirk　when　he　graduated　from　the　Air　Force　Academy。　The　weapon　had　saved　Pitt's　life　at　least　twice　in　the　ensuing　seventeen　years。　Though　the　blueing　was　pretty　well　worn　away；　it　was　lovingly　maintained　and　functioned　even　more　smoothly　than　when　new。　Pitt　noted　with　no　small　displeasure　that　a　stray　bullet　had　gouged　the　leather　holster　and　creased　one　of　the　grips。　He　ran　his　belt　through　the　loops　of　the　holster　and　buckled　it　around　his　waist　along　with　the　sheath　of　the　dive　knife。
　　　　He　fashioned　a　small　shade　to　contain　the　beam　of　the　flashlight　and　searched　the　campsite。　Unlike　the　helicopter；　there　was　no　sign　of　gunfire　except　spent　shells　on　the　ground；　but　the　tents　had　been　ransacked　and　any　useful　equipment　or　supplies　that　could　be　carried　away　were　gone。　A　quick　survey　of　the　soft　ground　showed　what　direction　the　exodus　had　taken。　A　path　that　had　been　hacked　out　by　machetes　angled　off　through　the　dense　thickets　before　vanishing　in　the　darkness。
　　　　The　forest　looked　forbidding　and　impenetrable。　This　was　not　an　expedition　he　would　have　ever　considered　or　undertaken　in　daylight；　much　less　nighttime。　He　was　at　the　mercy　of　the　insects　and　animals　that　found　humans　fair　game　in　the　rain　forest。　With　no　small　concern　the　subject　of　snakes　came　to　mind。　He　recalled　hearing　of　boa　constrictors　and　anacondas　reaching　lengths　of　24　meters　（80　feet）。　But　it　was　the　deadly　poisonous　snakes　like　the　bushmaster；　the　cascabel；　or　the　nasty　fer…de…lance；　or　lance…head；　that　caused　Pitt　a　high　degree　of　trepidation。　Low　sneakers　and　light　fabric　pants　offered　no　protection　against　a　viper　with　a　mean　streak。
　　　　Beneath　great　stone　faces　staring　menacingly　down　at　him　from　the　walls　of　the　ruined　city；　Pitt　set　off　at　a　steady　pace；　following　the　trail　of　footprints　under　the　narrow　beam　of　the　flashlight。　He　wished　he　had　a　pl