Rocks crunched and cracked loudly beneath the treads of the Chariot as it manoeuvred through a narrow gorge. The noise echoed up and down the chasm, sounding like a small avalanche was about to drop right on top of the vehicle's occupants. The rumbling of the Chariot's motor only increased the effect.

One pair of piercing, intelligent brown eyes stared straight ahead, ignoring everything but the rough terrain before them. Another pair of eyes, blue and clearly frightened, darted everywhere else.

"Major," began the quivering voice, already sounding a bit shrill. "You are going to invite an early demise for the both of us if you don't turn around and extricate us immediately."

Major Don West gave no more than a cursory glance toward his co-pilot who, at that moment, was worse than useless. He decided not to waste his breath on assurances. He liked seeing his passenger squirm. It was one way to vent his frustrations, since his companion typically raised his ire just by doing nothing at all. And that was precisely what Dr. Zachary Smith had done most of the morning--nothing. He'd bellyached about the hard work. He'd complained about the cold. He'd griped about the "deplorable conditions" of their present landing site for at least the thousandth time. But, most of all, he'd grumbled about being cooped up in the small Chariot for most of the day with a man he intensely disliked. At least he liked to pretend he thoroughly detested the pilot of the Jupiter Two, because baiting the major was too much fun to ignore, especially when other activities became boring.

Unbeknownst to Smith, the major was having similar thoughts of his own. After calculating his course through the small boulders littering the path, West allowed his mind a few moments' respite. Immediately he dreamed up ways to pay Smith back for having done next to no labor at the first weather station site. Still, he reasoned, the doctor's constant prattling had kept his mind off how routine such work had become. He was grateful for that much at least. Not that he was going to let Smith know it.

The mutual respect the two men had developed for each other rarely surfaced in public. Secretly, West earned Smith's respect because the major was a capable pilot, hard-working, diligent, self-sacrificing for the good of all crew members, brave and steadfast. All excellent qualities for someone interested in exploring the vast reaches of unexplored space.

Conversely, Smith rarely displayed any of those qualities. Nevertheless, West admired the doctor's quick intellect, his adaptability under duress (though he always managed to make it appear as if he was anything but adaptable), his survivor's instincts and his cleverness at getting out of the never-ending chores thrown his way.

The latter assessment brought a quick smirk to his lips. The day was still young, as the saying went. West drew up some hasty plans, along with alternatives, all designed to elicit the most discomfort out of Smith's middle-aged body.

Next to him, Dr. Smith suppressed a shiver, as if he knew what his companion was planning. He pulled the parka closer, trying to hold in the warmth, and reached for the temperature controls.

Irritably, West swiped at the hand, gratified to see Smith jerk it out of harm's way. "Leave it alone," the major muttered. "You've turned it up three times already. I'm about roasted as it is."

"Indeed," Smith sniffed disdainfully. "I suspect you are just as cold as I am; you simply want to see me suffer." Mentally he flinched, realizing he'd just opened himself up for another verbal attack.

"Who, me?" Don asked ingenuously, hiding a grin--barely. "Nah! But look at it this way, there's plenty of work to do setting up the weather station at the next site. We'll get that body of yours moving and, believe me, all the activity will make you feel real toasty in no time."

"Oh, joy," groaned Smith, letting the sarcastic inflection of his words drone out from the pit of his stomach.

Suddenly the Chariot thumped down hard as some rocks gave way beneath the treads. West quickly adjusted the twin levers, pulling the vehicle onto more stable ground.

Grabbing the seat, Smith figuratively bit his tongue, unwilling to distract the Chariot's driver. His breath caught in his throat as an agonizing jolt of heat streaked from his tailbone all the way to his mid-back. The muscles spasmed painfully a few times from the rude jostling they'd just received, but Smith hid the discomfort by sitting up stiffly. Eventually the burning sensation eased and he was able to relax a little.

Out of the corner of his eye, Don noticed the doctor's rigid posture and the tightening of his jaw. That, and the ensuing silence rather than the typical complaints, led the major to ponder previous assumptions.

Smith was always complaining about back problems. Always used the excuse to get out of heavy lifting. No one believed it, especially Don. They'd all seen Smith pull his weight when his life depended on it. But seeing the tension in the doctor's stocky frame made him wonder. Was the momentary jostling just making Smith uptight or had Don really caught a quick glimpse of pain?

Shrugging mentally, West guided the vehicle ever deeper into the ravine. Despite the green-hued atmosphere above them, little light penetrated the depths of the gorge. The colorful strata on the cliff sides became a merged blurring of brown as the light dissipated.

Five minutes later the walls above them merged into one solid canopy. West grunted in consternation. Smith shivered, as much from concern as from the increasing cold. He was about to adjust the heat again, but thought better of it.

Don flipped on the headlamps, illuminating the path before them. It was narrow, distressingly so. They couldn't see much farther than the next bend. The only advantage was that the rocky terrain had levelled out a bit. The surface appeared sandy and darkly colored, like crushed obsidian.

"Major," Smith barked suddenly, "surely you can't mean to head in there? Admit it! Your short cut has turned out to be a dismal failure! Reverse our course before you wedge us in so firmly we can't extricate ourselves!"

Abruptly Don brought the vehicle to a halt. Wordlessly he scanned the increasing darkness before them, as if he could pierce it just by concentrating harder. Under ordinary circumstances he would have heeded the advice and backed out. But it was Smith issuing the orders and Don was never one to let the doctor's blustering manner force him into surrender.

Cautiously, he slid out his door, stood on the tread a moment, then dropped lightly to the ground. The sand beneath his boots hissed as his heels sank in slightly. He reached back inside, retrieved a flashlight from behind his seat and turned the beacon on. It flashed high overhead and bounced back at him blindingly.

Inside the Chariot, he could hear Smith yell. No doubt the doctor was already attempting to shield his eyes, just as Don was. Almost immediately, West lowered the beam to the sandy surface. He waited a few moments, trying to rid his retinas of the orange orb that remained in his vision. Not too far from him, he could hear Smith shifting in his seat.

"Major, where are you?" The tone was hesitant and frightened.

"Here. Don't sweat it. I'm not going anywhere until I can see better."

Sounding a bit calmer, Smith murmured, "Well, at least you can see something. I think you should know you've blinded me, thank you very much!"

West let a small smile perk up the corners of his lips. The peeved tone of his companion let him know there was nothing seriously wrong.

It took several minutes before the after-image faded away. Gradually, West brought the beacon upward, using his hand to block out most of the light overhead. Brownish, glittering veins shot throughout the walls, mingled with equally numerous veins of shimmering orange crystals. The canopy seemed to swirl with gleaming laser-like particles. Closer to the bottom the walls were smoother and didn't reflect nearly as much light. If anything, the sediment seemed to absorb it. The Chariot's powerful head lamps didn't illuminate much beyond twenty feet and that was pushing it.

"More strange anomalies," Smith grumbled aloud. "Why can't these misbegotten dust balls follow the principles of geology and physics?"

As his voice echoed toward the major, Don turned slightly but made no comment before continuing on. There was no point in arguing with Smith, who probably knew next to nothing about those scientific topics beyond Geology and Physics 101.

Besides, at that moment, Don only wanted to consider two things connected with those subjects: One, whether it would harm them in some way right then, and two, whether it would harm them in some way later on. He hoped they wouldn't be remaining on this world long enough to worry about the planet's natural inclinations, whether they followed "universal laws" or not.

There was one fact he did know. Unlike Earth, this inhospitable ball of rock didn't have a particularly strong molten core. Little lived on the surface. And, from past explorations of small caverns near the landing site, they knew that this planet's underground temperature was considerably colder than Earth caverns, which tended to maintain an even fifty-five degrees.

West's breath rolled out in vaporous white waves. Arriving at the bend in the cavern, he carefully trained his light beam on the sandy bottom and moved it until it hit another smoky-looking wall. "Too narrow," he muttered. "For the Chariot at least."

Much as he was loathe to admit it, this short cut through the small mountain range had turned out to be no short cut at all. Perhaps they could walk, but he had no more desire to haul equipment than Smith did. Darn! He was sure they were fairly close to the weather station coordinates. Now they'd have to turn back and start from scratch, which meant spending more time with Smith's grumbling, on top of all the other aggravations.

Without comment, Don climbed back up into the Chariot. He slammed the door hard enough to make it rattle and wished he hadn't. In the greenish glow of the instrument panel, he saw the doctor turn to face him.

"You should have at least arranged for air reconnaissance prior to getting us into this predicament," Smith said smugly. It was an "I told you so" statement if ever there was one.

Don rewarded him with a glowering glance but refrained from comment. West had to admit it. Smith had brought it up shortly after they'd deviated from the prescribed route. "Don't worry," the major had boldly stated. "I've found a great short cut."

"When did you locate this?" Smith had queried, uncertainty in his voice.

"I've passed the gorge before. I'm sure it'll exit just about near where we need to be. I've seen the exit point on the other side and the slope's gentler from there." Seeing Smith's continued frown, he'd added, "I'm doing this for you. I know how you hate rough climbs."

Of course he could have discussed his plans prior to leaving the Jupiter Two. The professor would have gladly donned the jet pack and reconnoitred the area before they had actually set out on their trip, but no, Don had let self-assurance cloud his judgment.

Now West was forced to face facts. This idea, however convenient it had appeared, would cause a major delay as they attempted to back out of the ravine. Neither of them was fooled. This wasn't going to be an easy task. There were no convenient places to turn the Chariot around.

Muttering an oath, West switched on the rear spotlights and, looking over his shoulder, prepared to reverse course.

Smith, typically "deaf" when commands and orders for duty assignments were given, jerked his head around and arched one eyebrow. The sardonic look spoke volumes, but for once, he didn't add insult to injury. The major appeared to be in a foul enough mood as it was and he was loath to have West booting him outside. It was uncomfortable enough riding in the sorry excuse of a contraption, but walking would be infinitely worse.

Closing his eyes in quiet contemplation, Smith felt the Chariot shift into reverse. Slowly, it retraced its path.

Expertly guiding the large machine back around boulders and tight bends for about one hundred feet, Don paused to rest. Looking back over his shoulder the whole way was uncomfortable. He thought about utilizing Smith as a guide, but realized it would be like driving blind. Instructions of "left," "right" or "straight" wouldn't be completely descriptive.

Moving at a snail's pace, they travelled another hundred feet before Don made his decision. "Smith! Get back there and guide me."

"Surely you jest!" Smith retorted, wondering how advisable it would be to give verbal directions. Without hesitation, he voiced his doubts.

Don sighed loudly. "Don't give me any excuses. Just do it."

"If something happens, I refuse to be held responsible."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" muttered West, once more setting the Chariot in motion, inching backward.

A second later Smith called out, "Left for five feet."

"Mine or yours?"

"This is destined to fail," moaned Smith before answering. "Yours."

West complied. More instructions followed. Amazingly, they made progress without many miscalculations or mishap. Soon the rock canopy's edge drew into view about two hundred feet away. They could see the lime green sky beyond it. An area wide enough to pivot the chariot around presented itself and the major quickly turned the nose toward the sunlight. Seconds later Smith rejoined him.

Well within view of the open sky, both men let out an audible sigh of relief. Then they heard it, an odd rumble. Immediately after, the ground beneath the treads began to vibrate, sending particles of sand bouncing around like water in a hot frying pan. The Chariot began to rock. Don fought with the controls and Smith clutched the seat, white-knuckled and perspiring despite the cold.

The first boulder crashed to their left, sending broken shards of rock through Smith's window. Startled, the doctor howled. One arm flew up to cover his face. As he shied away from that side, he bumped into Don, who was grimly clutching the controls as the vehicle bobbed from side to side. More rocks rained down. One crashed through the dome bubble as another rolled into the Chariot's side. More boulders continued to tumble down. The pile grew higher and higher as the canopy seemed to fold in toward them.

The supporting walls began to give, pouring down like foaming waves. Dust flew toward the helpless vehicle, enveloping it, plunging in through the broken glass.

Suddenly gasping for air, both men could do nothing but fight for each breath. What appeared to last hours was actually over in less than two minutes. An eternity as far as Smith was concerned, though he couldn't clearly recount much of what happened. Brief flashes of imagery raced through his mind. And, along with that, the realization that he was still breathing, albeit barely, and therefore still alive--at least for the moment.

Coughs wracked his body. Minutes went by before he could open his smarting eyes. Somehow he could detect twin beacons of light amidst the swirling dust. It took him a few seconds to realize the Chariot's headlamps had miraculously survived the bombardment. Grunting, he turned toward the major. The sight greeting him wasn't encouraging.

West was leaning back in the seat, head thrown back. All panel lights were out, limiting Smith's visual exam. With trembling fingers, he reached behind his seat and, after a moment's fishing around, managed to locate another flashlight. His fingers refused to cooperate as he attempted to switch it on. He mentally muttered an oath that would have shocked West and the entire Robinson clan had they heard him actually verbalize it.

Finally, he got the light on and focused it on the major. A small reddish bruise was swelling on his temple but, other than that, there appeared to be no obvious injury. Yet the man's stillness brought a touch of panic to Smith's heart. What would he do if West died here? How would he get back to the ship? How would he survive the harsh conditions outside? He had no idea how to answer the questions. The only thing he knew was he needed West alive and in command.

Without much thought, he reached out his left hand. Placing his trembling fingers against the major's neck, he felt for the carotid pulse. Expertly, he located it immediately and almost cried out with relief. The heartbeat was strong and steady.

At the doctor's touch, Don jumped and rapidly regained consciousness. In the barely lit cockpit, he saw Smith withdraw his hand as if he'd been burned. A quick assessment told him his injuries weren't serious. Scooping up his own flashlight, he began a cursory examination of the instrument panel.

As the major performed his preliminary exam of the equipment, Smith collapsed back against his seat, drawing in a ragged breath. Dust particles still floated heavily in the stagnant air. Gradually he became aware of a trickle of sweat rolling down his cheek. Irritably, he swiped at it and immediately felt a sharp stab of pain.

Bringing his own flashlight beam down upon his extended fingers, he noted the red blotches on the tips. Blood. Worse yet, his own blood. Gingerly he felt his face and found small shards of glass sticking in his skin. The panicking part of his brain wondered how much damage there was. The more level-headed portion of his mind located the painful spots so that he could extract the pieces of glass.

Totally consumed in his task, he wasn't aware that Don had stopped his work.

"You okay?" West queried. He swung the light in Smith's direction and caught a startlingly bloody sight. Genuinely concerned, he hastily searched for the first aid kit, but a firm hand stopped him.

"It undoubtedly looks worse than it is," Smith calmly informed him. He didn't want assistance, he wanted to get out of there. Now! "Minor flesh wounds on the head often bleed heavily given the skin's higher vascularity in that region."

"You sound like a walking textbook," Don complained, wondering if Smith had actually sustained a more serious blow to the head. A Smith who wasn't complaining about pain was a Smith who wasn't normal. "Are you sure you're all right?"

Out of the semi-darkness, Don heard "Oh, the pain, the pain of it all!" Then there was a brief pause before Smith added, "There. Happy now?"

In spite of their situation, West laughed. If Smith could make jokes, especially jokes at his own expense, then perhaps their situation wasn't as bad as he first feared.

Slowly Don pushed against his door. It didn't budge. He pushed harder and was rewarded with a metallic groan. Finally, the door sprang open and he slid outside. A quick view of their surroundings revealed what he'd most feared. "Sealed up tight," he called out to Smith

"Obviously, otherwise we'd be seeing sunlight. Don't waste your breath stating what is already evident. I'd prefer to hear your suggestions concerning our escape from this granite sepulchre."

"You want the good news or the bad news first?" Don replied, not without a strong note of sarcasm. He heard a door open and the sound of booted feet hit the sand. Presently, Smith joined him in the illumined area in front of the Chariot.

Giving West a piercing look, Smith muttered, "Kindly refrain from playing games with me, Major. Right now it all looks like bad news to me and my sole interest lies in whichever direction extricates us most expeditiously."

Tight-lipped, West shook his head. "Why does everything you say turn into a dissertation? Just for once, can't you talk like a normal person?"

Smith frowned, the creases on his brow buried deep in shadows. "Fine. Get me the heck out of here," he growled a moment later. "Satisfied?"

A clipped, humourless chuckle rushed out of West's parted lips. "Yeah, it'll do. For now." Pulling his parka tighter about him, he cautiously picked his way through the rocks to the mountain of boulders stacked before him. Climbing up a few feet, he gave a few haphazard shoves on some of the higher ones, causing some loose dirt to trickle down. Nothing else budged. Not that he expected much.

With more haste, he returned to the Chariot and examined the exterior communications array. Though he knew the odds of it having survived weren't good, he'd hoped to get some positive news for a change.

"Well?" Smith prompted from below him as he gazed up expectantly.

"Damaged beyond repair," was the despondent reply. "We won't be sending any messages, that much is for sure. Not that it matters. I don't think it would transmit through this much rock anyway."

"I thought we had portable communications equipment. Perhaps we can use that."

Don shook his head. "Not with all this over us. We'll need to be outside, free of any obstructions, in order for it to work well. Besides, it has a limited range. Once we get out of here, we'd have to climb up to a reasonably high point to use it to its best advantage."

Smith plopped down wearily onto the Chariot's tread. "Oh, woe, we're doomed!" he cried to no one particular. "I don't want to die like this. In fact, I don't want to die at all." Suddenly, as if realizing he needed to turn self-pity into accusation, he glared at Don. "Major, you're to blame for all of this. That short cut of yours is going to cost us our lives. No one knows we're here and we have no idea if there is another way out. Your suppositions could have us walking into a dead end, provided there is sufficient oxygen to get us that far. And at the rate things are developing, I'll likely exsanguinate before the air runs out." He thrust his chin out belligerently, though the lighting was too poor for the gesture to be seen.

Walking over to the doctor, West thrust his face right up to Smith's to the point where their noses were almost touching. Startled, Smith lurched back, banging his head against the vehicle's door. Before he could completely recover, he heard West murmur in a devilish tone, "Given your earlier medical assessment, I wouldn't worry about bleeding to death, Doctor. However, if you make one more complaint, I am going to strangle you. And when I get out, I'll simply say the rock slide got you!"

Rubbing the developing bruise on the back of his skull, Smith glared back and growled, "You wouldn't dare harm me!" Seeing the evil-shadowed façade before him, he amended more meekly, "Would you?"

Although Don doubted that Smith was genuinely humbled, he let the situation blow over without response. Let him think I'd do it, he laughed to himself. Maybe it'll make him more compliant for a change. After all, he had enough troubles and he had no desire to see Smith countermanding his orders every step of the way.

After a few seconds, he sat down next to the doctor and pondered his next move. There were enough supplies to last them two days. Certainly, long before then, the Robinson's would be looking for them. If the terrain remained unchanged, the tread marks might still be left in the dirt, acting as a signpost to indicate the direction travelled. Of course, their luck might have run out. The robot had reported snow was on its way--again. If that happened early on, it might obscure their tracks.

Mentally he chided himself once more. Smith had been right. This was his fault. His own bursts of animosity toward the doctor had clouded his judgment. Still, the temptation to blame the doctor was overpowering. It almost always boiled down to Smith having done "something." How often had Smith brought danger down on all of them? How often had danger stalked them due to Smith's cowardice? And how often had his avarice for wealth or a fast ticket back to Earth gotten him into tight situations where he invariably required someone else to rescue him?

Worse yet, Don was forced to recognize that Smith's doom-saying often turned into a fulfilment of that prophecy. The doctor's instincts were too good in that regard. West had made the cardinal mistake of ignoring his warnings simply because they were delivered in such an incessant, irritating manner.

Uncharacteristically, the doctor remained silent. Briefly, Don wondered if there was a problem. Smith's shoulders were hunched, his head hanging listlessly. In the dim light he could see Smith's hands hanging limply between his legs. Sitting there would do them no good at all, Don knew. If he waited much longer, he feared Smith would become too depressed to be of any use whatsoever.

He clapped Smith on the shoulder. The other man jerked as if startled. "Come on, Smith. Time to head out." Turning behind him, he pulled neon yellow equipment bags out of the Chariot. Hastily, he placed the contents safely back inside the vehicle, then jury-rigged the equipment bags to act as backpacks. "Here," he grunted, thrusting one sack to Smith, who took the item reluctantly. "Open it up, will you? We haven't got all day."

Smith threw West a scathing look, but offered no rebuttal. Still shooting daggers at the major's back, he pulled the yellow bag open and waited. Several items were stuffed inside. A first-aid kit, half of the pre-packaged survival rations they had with them, several power packs for the flashlights, a lightweight survival blanket, some of the cooking gear and a large jug of water. Don threw a tablet into the water. The naturally occurring compound, one they'd discovered on a previous expedition, was not only safe for ingestion, but lowered the freezing point of fluids.

When Smith's sack was full, he unceremoniously pulled it from the doctor's hands and sealed it up. He parked it against Smith's legs to keep it upright and handed over the second pack. In it went the rest of the food, a second blanket, two wraps designed to protect the lower face from cold, some tough rope, a hand-held medium range walkie-talkie and the communications equipment.

Smith grunted as Don released the larger radio into the bag. It wasn't hard to reassemble and was quite compact, but inordinately heavy for something so small. Mentally Smith began planning how to pawn that particular pack off on the major. He didn't relish being a packhorse for anyone, but if he had no choice in the matter, he was going to take the lighter of the two loads. A small spasm crept up his spine in anticipation of the work ahead. He flinched slightly at the discomfort. It poked at him again as if to show him who was boss, then went dormant.

Working efficiently, Don continued to pack. In his own pockets he stuffed the compass, a large folding knife and a warm pair of gloves. He gave a second pair to Smith, who didn't hesitate to don them immediately.

Much to Smith's delight, the major took the heavy sack and set it down on the tread. Bending down, West picked up Smith's pack and held it out. When the doctor simply stood there, Don physically turned him and slammed the pack against Smith's spine. In that position, Don didn't see the slight grimace on Smith's face as a sharp edged "something" pushed into his delicate back. Nevertheless, the doctor stuck his arms through the straps.

Feeling a tad guilty at being so rough, Don helped manoeuvre the burden higher and tightened the straps. Next he shouldered his own bag, securing it as he had Smith's--not failing to notice that the other man had made no move to help him. Par for the course, he muttered mentally. Finally he strapped on a laser pistol and handed one to Smith, who grimaced distastefully at it before belting it around his waist.

"I presume we're to follow this path back into the bowels of the earth," Smith blurted out the obvious as the major secured the Chariot, turned head lamps off and flashlight on. When no answer was immediately forthcoming, he added bitterly, "I hope you're correct about an exit farther down. I loathe the thought of trekking for miles only to meet an early demise in this God-forsaken place."

In irritation, Don swung the flashlight full into Smith's face. The doctor flinched, but made no effort to protect himself. Don noted the blood-streaked face, dishevelled hair and grey pallor of the skin. The fine dust stirred up by the cave-in appeared to coat nearly every inch of Smith's exposed skin. In brief, he looked terrible and Don felt a momentary spark of pity for the man.

Withdrawing the light, he muttered, "Let's go. I don't want to delay any longer. The quicker we move, the more daylight we'll have waiting for us when we get out of here." He hoped the positive words would provide an encouragement.

Smith sniffed petulantly. "Humph! You mean if we get out of here."

"Smith!" Don barked angrily, making the other man jump. West was about to unburden all of his frustrations on the defenceless doctor, but thought better of it. Slowly he uncurled his balled fists. No use beating you to a pulp, he mused to himself. I'd only have to carry you out of here.

As if aware of his companion's hostile thoughts, Smith took an unwary step backward. His boot heel snagged on a rock and he felt himself pitch over backward. Arms akimbo, he flailed for balance. Suddenly a strong hand clasped his and pulled him upright. Taking a few deep breaths, Smith almost said "thank you" but he had no intention of expressing thanks for anything at the moment. After all, he wouldn't be in this predicament in the first place if that pig-headed major had listened to him right from the onset.

During the same moment, West was actually considering leaving Smith behind. The man was worse than useless in these situations. He daydreamed briefly about how good it would be to unburden himself of this sorry excuse for a human being, then felt his face grow hot. Leaving Smith behind would make him no better than the individual he professed to loathe.

With a self-deprecatory grunt, he snagged Smith's sleeve and physically propelled him into the dark corridor.

"I shall never survive this, I tell you!"

After walking three miles, Smith was still intoning a string of negative sentiments, all of which cantered around his own discomfort. He asked for another rest stop, but Don ignored him. Finally he switched tactics. "Major! I simply can't take another step. If I don't rest, I'll collapse."

"Be my guest!" muttered West, flashing a bold grin. He wasn't worried. Unless Smith turned on his flashlight, the doctor would never see it.

Smith's tone changed. It sounded odd and almost child-like. "Really, Major. I must have twisted my ankle when I stumbled by the Chariot. The pain grows worse with each step."

"If it was broken or badly sprained, you wouldn't be able to walk on it," Don replied, not eager to face another delay.

"True, but I probably strained it."

That remark caught Don off-guard. He knew enough first aid to understand the difference between a strain and a sprain. For Smith to select the lesser of two evils, or to give an accurate assessment of his condition for that matter, told West there might be a genuine problem.

"Okay, let's say you did. If we stop, what will you do aside from look at it? You can't bandage it or you'll never get your boot back on. If it's swelling, keeping your boot on is probably the best thing for it anyhow."

From the near darkness came a dejected sigh. "Very well, Major. Let us proceed."

The surrender made him feel guilty. "Look, I'll give you ten minutes to sit down and take some weight off that leg, but no more." He located the nearest wall and propped his back up against it, pack and all. In truth, he didn't want to sit down for fear he'd stiffen up and be reluctant to start out again.

They'd passed the reflective chamber long ago. The ravine had continued to narrow to the point where two men could barely walk abreast. Since the surface remained sandy in most parts, it played havoc with weaker joints. As they'd delved deeper into the cave, Don began to despair of ever finding a way out. Yet, keeping his thoughts to himself seemed best. If Smith panicked, there would be no reasoning with him except through threats and physical violence, and neither option appealed to Don under the current circumstances. He needed Smith whole, fairly healthy and able to carry the supplies. The threats would be saved for a dire emergency if one should arise. They were nowhere near that point as far as Don was concerned.

Taking his flashlight, West laid it gently on the floor. Its beacon shone in Smith's direction.

The doctor had unceremoniously sunk to the sand and was gingerly massaging his ankle. That finished, he removed one glove and tentatively explored the sore spots on his face. He wrinkled his nose with distaste at the constant stinging that had plagued him since their departure from the Chariot. Mentally, he reviewed the items in the first aid kit and found there was nothing in it to alleviate his discomfort. He looked at the slashed sleeve where glass had penetrated right into his forearm. As they'd walked, he'd tried to brush some of the slivers free. He'd been moderately successful, but he could still feel pieces pricking his skin as he moved. Ignoring the major's pointed stare, Smith took a few moments to work the irritating slivers free from the cloth. A contented sigh escaped his lips as he stroked the ripped material and realized nothing remained to stick him.

"Time's up," West's voice echoed in the cave. Striding to Smith, he extended a hand.

Replacing his glove, Smith allowed West to pull him upright. He brushed off his coat and pants where the crystalline particles clung tenaciously. A sudden chill ripped through him, making him draw his coat tighter around him. In Don's flashlight beam he could faintly see billowing clouds of breath.

"It's growing positively frigid," he informed the major needlessly. "If we don't get out of here soon, we'll freeze to death. That cooking equipment won't provide heat for long." He hung back a pace as if expecting West to verbally attack him. He was in for a surprise.

Calmly, Don replied, "I know. The Robot said the temperature was dropping and I'm sure you heard him predict several inches of snowfall. And he's never been wrong--so far."

"That bumptious booby had better be in error this time!" Smith spat out, then added in a fear-edged voice, "I hope it hasn't already started snowing. The vicissitudes of this journey are trying enough without adding more problems."

Don shrugged. Worrying about the unknown was a waste of energy as far as he was concerned. Looking back at their rest area, he checked to make sure they still had everything with them. Then he, too, pulled his parka tighter about himself and suppressed a shiver.

As they resumed their trek, the major glanced surreptitiously at Smith from time to time. At first he noticed the faint limp, but that faded as the numbing cold blotted out the pain. Wearily they staggered on. Their burdens grew heavier. Smith began to lag behind, his energy reserves depleting faster. Finally Don was forced to admit that he, too, was running on "empty."

Abruptly West halted. Smith, chugging along on autopilot, nearly collided with him, but caught himself just in time. "Warn me the next time you plan to do that!"

"Sorry," Don said quietly. He was too tired and too cold to rebuke Smith's indignant warning. "Time out! Let's fix something to eat and rest a while." He checked his chronometer. A half-hour break, he promised himself, no more.

Fixing lunch with numbed fingers turned out to be far more difficult than either man wanted to profess. Finally they got the small stove lit, heated up some coffee and some of the dried rations mixed with water. The green mush was distinctly unappetizing, but it was nutritious and warm.

They ate quietly until Smith broke the silence. "This is taking us far too long. I believe you mentioned the foothills above us weren't all that wide. You stated the Chariot could get through the ravine in less than an hour."

"True," West admitted without hesitation. "However, what've you observed about our course?"

At first Smith turned a blank stare upon the major. Did West really want him to make an assessment, or was this a chance for the man to denigrate him further? "It's a meandering path." He paused, gazing at West. "I gather that, in your own inimitable fashion, you are pointing out that we may be physically traversing one mile but perhaps only advancing a quarter of a mile in the general direction of our intended destination."

"You got it, Smith. That means two things. I have no idea how much farther we need to go, and I can't even begin to calculate how long it will take us to get out."

A solitary word then echoed softly in the chamber, "Doomed."

*  *  *  *

After the meal, West cleaned the small bowl and utensils with a generous handful of glittering sand, then rinsed them out with a small amount of their precious water supply. Rather than risk Smith wasting water, he cleaned up the doctor's things as well.

The chronometer showed the passage of forty-five minutes by the time the two men were once more on their way. With warm food and drink in them, they made good time for the next mile until the walls tightened in again.

What to do? mused West. Go first and risk losing Smith behind me? Or put him ahead and be forced to slow to a crawl because he's too timid to charge onward.

Ultimately Smith decided for them. He stopped at a particularly narrow point and peered around a curve in the way. Without hesitation, Don slipped by him and assumed the lead. Behind him, he heard Smith muttered about "The perils of throwing caution to the wind," but the older man reluctantly tagged along just the same. Smith might be a lot of things, but he was no fool. There was nothing to go back to and the doctor knew it.

They trudged on single file for an even longer period of time. When Don's battery pack failed, he replaced it with one from Smith's pack. The spare flashlight he left tucked safely inside in case their present one was accidentally damaged. The corridor drew tighter about them, and a sense of claustrophobia began to set in Intense discomfort led Smith to resume voicing a continuous stream of complaints about everything from the frigid temperature to the inept leadership of the major.

West felt his tolerance levels falling, but fought for control. He wasn't about to waste his breath telling the doctor to shut up. If anything, Smith would make sure he complained more vociferously than before.

Soon after, it became difficult to pass between the walls. In some places they had to carefully squeeze past unyielding stone, sending the packs through separately. Smith moaned and groaned as he slid his stocky frame through a particularly narrow spot.

"Told you to go on a diet, Smith!" Don laughed maliciously as they slung the packs back on. "This is what you get for cleaning off your plate every meal and helping yourself to seconds to boot!"

Glaring mightily at West, Smith hissed, "Are you accusing me of being a glutton, Major?"

"I call 'em like I see 'em!"

"Indeed! Major, I warn you, my patience is wearing thin," Smith replied in a particularly grating tone of voice. He drew himself up to his full height, bringing him eye to eye with the younger man. The hard, combative gleam in them reflected back at West.

For a split second, Don actually thought Smith was riled enough to take him on, but that was all. A bluffing expert, that's what Smith was. He'd puff himself up, posture and bellow a bit, then expertly extricate himself from the situation. Whenever Don raised the ante by drawing up his fists, Smith invariably backed down.

"Pity I can't take you up on your challenge, Smith. But I'd only wind up having to drag your fat carcass the rest of the way."

Smith harrumphed scornfully. "Perhaps I should remind you--yet again--that I'm not the fathead that got us into this?"

That tore it. Don had had enough. Angrily, he shoved Smith into the rock wall. The equipment in the pack rattled under the impact. To West's utter amazement, Smith shoved him back, continuing to glare at his opponent. The vapour from their breaths swirled angrily between the few feet separating them.

Anger surged. West had been cheated out of this opportunity too many times in the past. He no longer cared about possible consequences.

The major threw a quick jab in the doctor's direction and was astounded to see Smith not only duck in time, but draw back a clenched fist. Don saw the blow coming but he was wedged into the tighter area and had little room to manoeuvre. A right cross connected solidly with his cheek. The padded glove did little to dissipate the force. Don's head rocked sideways. As he recovered, he drew up both hands for protection and sought the opportunity to return the offence in kind.

Years of frustration were finally going to be vented. This is going to feel good, West thought as he feinted.

Smith shifted sideways as much as the tight quarters would allow, but he wasn't fast enough to avoid the blow to his midsection. He grunted as the air whooshed out of his lungs. Almost falling to one knee, he waited for Don to close in for the kill. He saw the major's feet approach and instantly heaved an uppercut right under West's chin.

A whirling kaleidoscope of stars circled inside the major's brain. Once more West went on the defensive as he fought to clear his mind. Years of combat training came to his aid. He was alert in seconds. This time he was also more wary. For a cowardly, out-of-shape, snivelling older man, Smith packed one heck of a punch.

Who'd have believed it? he mused as he feinted again and waited for an opening. Come to think of it, no one will believe it, he amended silently. Pity I didn't have a camcorder!

Don dropped his pack onto the sand. The other pack quickly followed suit.

By Don's feet, the flashlight sputtered, apparently jarred by being dropped. Smith made the mistake of glancing at it. It cost him. A large square fist connected below his chin, snapping his head back. He felt his knees buckle, but somehow found added reserves of strength and regained his footing. Pain swirled around him like angry hornets. He hated this part of it. Hated it enough to always play the pacifist. But for once in his life, he hated something more than the discomfort.

His thoughts raced through a host of uncomfortable memories--of the major taunting him, badgering or threatening him. Fear of being hurt had always shoved back the rage. At least it had in the past.

As fury swelled, Smith's last fears dissipated in an almost audible pop. With an angry howl, he rushed West, but not before taking a shot to the temple.

Half-conscious, Smith collided with the major. Together they crashed into the wall, rebounded and fell into a heap on the sandy floor whereupon they proceeded to roll around like school kids in a brawl. Punches connected with bone. Punches landed on the walls, drawing further howls of pain. As West's discomfort levels grew, so did his respect for his opponent. But that respect didn't stop him from popping Smith every chance he got. Heavy blows pummelled West's side and face when Smith was lucky enough to get a clear shot.

Finally West heaved his body around and landed squarely on top of the panting, glazed-eyes doctor. Fresh blood was flowing, but Smith seemed oblivious to it. Don drew back his arm, about to deliver the coup de grace, and found himself hesitating. Pounding a snivelling, conniving worm into the dust was one thing. Plastering a downed opponent who gave as good as he got was another.

Still, Smith deserved it, if only because he'd almost gotten everyone else killed nearly fifty times over in the last three years. Yeah, the heck with fair play.

Unconsciously his arm was tensing up, his fist rock-like beside his ear. Just as his punch started to drop, he felt a round object jab his side.

"I think not, Major," growled Smith through bloodied lips.

Don didn't need to look down to know that a laser pistol was pointed at his ribs.

He stared into Smith's eyes, finding them cold and determined. "Coward's way out," he told Smith disdainfully.

Those blue eyes remained fastened on his, but, surprisingly, he felt the gun leave his side.

Instantly Don backhanded the pistol away, yanked his own weapon free, then virtually jammed it up Smith's nose. They glared at each other for what seemed like eons before West gave voice to his thoughts. "Do that to me again, Smith, and, believe me, I'll put a quick end to your miserable life."

Rather than the cringing he could have expected, Smith simply snarled, "Watch yourself in the future, Major. You might get more than you bargained for!"

Suddenly the meager light in the cave winked out of existence. With a muffled curse, Don withdrew his weapon, holstered it and groped for Smith's pack. After locating it, tripping over the doctor in the process, he found the spare flashlight.

Muttering more oaths, he hastily turned it on, expecting the worst--a gun trained on him. Instead, he found Smith resting against the rock wall, gingerly rubbing his jaw.

The doctor squinted at the harsh light, but made no effort to retrieve his weapon, which lay on the floor within easy reach. Instead, Don bent over and scooped it up and jammed it into his holster belt. Then he towered over Smith. "Get up!" he ordered. "We're moving out!"

Irritably, West wiped a persistent trickle of blood away from his nose. Now, not only was he angry, he was bruised from head to waist. His mood darkened further. Perhaps he should have killed Smith when he had the chance. Then they'd never have to worry about his mischief-making ever again.

Smith staggered to his feet, bent over, spit out sand and blood, coughed twice and reached for his pack. But instead of shouldering it he yanked out the smaller canteen and took a sip of the cool water, then another long drink. It was only after he'd had his fill that he repacked the canteen and swung the pack up.

A stifled groan echoed in the small chamber as the weight of it settled onto Smith's back. Other than that, he made no comment.

Without warning, West withdrew the spare pistol from his belt and levelled it at Smith's chest. His eyes were dark, cold pools.

Though the major couldn't see it, Smith shivered fearfully. The doctor recognized the look. Nausea flared up, making him sick, but he fought it down. Groveling in public gave him a chance to weasel his way out of almost any problem, but no matter what, in the private environs of this cave, he was not about to grovel before West.

Still stone-faced, West abruptly flipped the laser pistol up, caught it sideways and tossed the weapon at the doctor.

With a startled expression on his face, Smith caught it single-handedly. Questions floated on the air between them, but West merely turned his back and began to walk away. The doctor hastily re-holstered his gun before jogging to catch up.

Walking several paces behind West, he felt both old and new aches plaguing him. The sweat he'd worked up during the altercation was rapidly cooling on his skin. An hour later he was shivering so badly he couldn't keep going. "Wait," he panted. "Too cold."

At first he fully expected West to just disappear and keep going. To his surprise, the major stopped and wordlessly set up a camp in the narrow hollow between the walls. The stove threw off a pleasant heat and the coffee brewing smelled like the sweetest nectar.

As they savoured the warmth flowing down their throats, West caught Smith's attention with a wave of his hand. "Fuel's almost gone. We'll have enough for one more stop, maybe two at the most. No guarantees. Once we get going, we should push to get outside."

"Agreed," Smith replied succinctly. He watched the liquid in his cup ripple as his hands shook. Though warmer, he was still not terribly comfortable. For the first time, he seriously began to wonder if they'd survive this mission. Already he was growing sleepy, not a good sign. Surreptitiously he studied the man across from him.

Staring deep into the bottom of his cup, Major West looked half-asleep himself...and like death warmed over to boot. Draining the last drop of brown liquid, he turned off the cook stove and prepared to stow it again. Within a minute, the device was cool enough to be packed. "One more push toward freedom," he stated hopefully.

"Freedom," Smith echoed half-heartedly.

Another hour later they began to slow their pace. Inevitably, Smith began griping about ravenous hunger, assorted aches and frostbitten feet. In fact, they were so cold, he could barely feel the pain from his strained ankle. Previously, it had throbbed without letup, but remained serviceable. Now it felt like someone had replaced the joint with a big ball of pliable rubber. The sensation gave him a queasy feeling when he thought about it.

Then an eerie sound drifted their way, almost like the whuffling of a herbivore, but higher pitched. The further they walked, the louder the sound grew.

Smith shivered again, this time in fear. His danger radar was telling him there was cause for alarm. Warning the major flashed through his jumbled thoughts, but instinct told him West would brush off those fears as exaggerated and unfounded. The endless "worrier," Smith held out no hope that the major would take anything he said seriously, at least not until whatever monstrosity lurking ahead actually pounced on them.

As he licked dry lips, he concentrated on the noise that rolled down the corridor. The sound changed in pitch, dropping low enough to resemble a herd of elephants rumbling across grassy plains.

The two men rounded a bend in the wall and drew up short. The cave opened up before them, a large domed room thick with huge, rounded, snowflake-like stalagmites. When the flashlight beam hit them, they glowed a bright, blazing magenta. The glow persisted even as West's beam hit other white patches. They, too, shone with that awesome color. Hesitantly, West approached one enormous coral-like mound and stretched out a gloved hand without touching the growth.

"Careful," pleaded Smith fearfully.

"There's no heat," West explained.

"You expected some?" Smith asked, perplexed.

West shrugged, a wry grin etched on his lips. His face reflected the eerie light flaring around them. "I'd hoped this luminescence might provide us with some heat, like that species on Orpheus II. Remember?"

Now it was Smith's turn to shrug. "Vaguely. I believe that was your discovery. I remained at the ship that day."

"Yeah, right. I remember. You spent the entire time enjoying your favourite pursuit--idleness."

"Major, your continued insults are really beginning to irk me." Though Smith said it with a tight-lipped frown, his despondent tone didn't lend credence to his words.

Forcing a hearty sigh, West decided to press on. Before they had gotten halfway across the huge cavern, the rumblings began again, followed by a low moan that made both men stand back to back, weapons drawn. Their vaporous breath surrounded them like a miniature cloud. Hastily, West jammed the flashlight in his pocket to free up that hand.

Slowly, from the centres of each mound, regular shaped cracks appeared and silver vines stretched out. The ropy vines vibrated and swayed in a nonexistent breeze. A slight whine filled the air like voltage through power lines.

Smith's breathing grew ragged as the fronds began to vibrate nearby. As if sensing his presence, they drifted toward the vapor trail. "What do we do?" his shrill voice implored.

"Run!"

Smith didn't wait to see if West was following his own orders. Knowing that there was nothing worthwhile behind them, the doctor bolted toward a dark depression on the opposite side of the room.

All around them silver ropes were snaking in their direction. One snagged Smith's uninjured ankle. He sprawled face first onto the hard surface. At the last minute he managed to break his fall with his hands.

A fist grabbed his jacket, trying to jerk him out of harm's way. The vines tightened, cutting off circulation. Tiny thorns pierced Smith's skin. The thing, whatever it was, began to pull him toward the pod. Smith screamed, as much from horror as from renewed pain.

Searing heat flashed past his cheek and Smith felt the ropes loosen. Another burst of laser fire ruptured a pod. The ropy fronds began to sway wildly, then all of them converged on the humans.

"Run!" Don repeated needlessly.

Already up and running, Smith dodged several snake-like streamers. Thanks to a massive surge of adrenaline, he found himself dodging around pods like a halfback avoiding tackles in the Super bowl.

A silver curtain formed before him. Once more Smith gave voice to his terror as he fumbled with the laser pistol. He fired into the heart of the curtain, which sizzled, blackened and dropped away. Behind him, he could hear Major West discharging a weapon, but he didn't bother to look.

Then he heard it, a cry of horror. Sliding to a halt, he pivoted, gun raised. The major was suspended over a pod, tight in the clutches of those silver vines. As the major's body began descending, Smith sent a white-hot burst of energy into the heart of the pod. Wounded, the thing dropped its prey.

West hit the hard white shell, narrowly avoiding falling into its wet, glowing, magenta core. He was off and running before the things knew he was escaping.

Once he was sure the major was loose, Smith resumed his headlong rush toward safety.

Both men scrambled up the rough, sloped surface and plunged into the crevice. As they'd suspected, it was open and deep.

Fronds of silver snaked up the wall, unwilling to give up their prey. Rather than rest, West and Smith immediately bolted down the dark corridor.

Unexpectedly, something large hurtled toward them out of the darkness. They could hear the whoosh of its wings. As Don searched for his flashlight, he heard Smith cry out in surprise. West felt wings flap against his head and chest. Suddenly there was a blinding flash as Smith's laser pistol discharged. The energy bolt flew toward the intended victim. But the creature was quicker than either of them had anticipated. It swooped upward, out of range of the laser, leaving Don standing in its place.

The next second flashed by so quickly, Smith wasn't entirely sure what happened. In the orange flare of the laser beam, he saw the hideous monstrosity pull upward. He saw the laser bolt race toward the major and, indelibly imprinted in his memory, was the stunned look of surprise and agony as the laser caught West high in the chest.

"Oh my God!" howled Smith. At first he was too shocked to do anything but shake and fight to see through the afterimages floating before his eyes. A second later he flew to West's side, kneeling down beside him. Quickly he searched for the flashlight in Don's pocket. It took several more seconds to force his fingers to activate it. As soon as the light blazed forth, Smith turned it on the Major. "No!" he cried aloud. "What have I done?"

There had been plenty of times he would have liked to have been completely rid of the Major, but not like this, and certainly not by his own hand. If the truth had been known, he never would have shot West during the fight. He'd only drawn the weapon in order to put a hasty end to their battle.

"Major," he yelled, "speak to me!" At first he almost surrendered to panic, but then the doctor in him took over.

Yanking off his gloves, he felt for a pulse. If he hadn't had years of experience, he might not have found it. West's pulse was weak, not a good sign. Pulling back the man's eyelids, Smith quickly flashed light into the pupils, then away. He repeated it several times in each eye. Pupils equal, he observed. He knew they would be. West wasn't suffering from a head wound. But the pupils were only marginally reactive. True, they constricted, but they were sluggish. Another bad sign.

Quickly he fished around inside his pack and began to hunt for the first aid kit. A slithering noise caught his attention. Whirling, he caught sight of a single broad glittering silver rope snaking toward them.

Smith felt his heart jolt up into his throat. Surely the thing could only stretch so far! But there had been a coral growth near the entrance to the corridor. Obviously it was close enough, and hungry enough, to keep trying. The rope slithered on in their direction.

Drawing his pistol in trembling hands, Smith blasted it. It jerked left at the last minute, making his shot useless. This time he clenched the gun with both hands to steady them and tried to anticipate its movements.

The magenta light inside the cavern reflected off the silver fronds as it swayed first one way, then the other. Finally Smith squeezed the trigger and severed the wine closer to its base. The remnant, like a crushed Daddy Long Legs, continued to quiver, but without purpose or direction.

Nerves taut to the breaking point, Smith pivoted once more, facing the opposite end of the corridor. Still crouching down, he hurled a beam of light down it, praying that nothing dangerous lay ahead.

Only bare walls shone back at him. Heaving a ragged sigh, he once more concentrated on his prostrate companion.

West was breathing--barely. His skin had a gray pallor, made more ghostly in the beam of artificial light. He groaned once as Smith attempted to open his parka, then grew silent again.

Laying the flashlight against Don's arm, Smith pulled the coat open, then gently peeled the blackened tunic away from West's skin. "What have I done?" he repeated, guilt roaring through his guts. Nausea churned deep in the pit of his stomach. He fought it down momentarily by taking a few deep breaths, but it surged again when he looked at how much damage his hasty actions had caused.

Black, charred skin blistered back to reveal equally damaged tissues. The blast had effectively cauterised most of the blood vessels, but deeper down Smith saw a pool of blood well up. The traumatized region was already beginning to swell.

Not good, not good at all, Smith muttered to himself.

Suddenly he was consumed by unrelenting waves of terror. He was trapped in this Stygian pit, surrounded by fearsome and dangerous creatures. The man he had trusted to guide him to safety was lying at his feet, possibly near the point of death, an accident he had caused by his lack of caution when discharging the weapon.

He began to shiver uncontrollably, not just from the cold, but from the realization that his situation was truly desperate. He had no idea which way to turn or how to formulate a coherent plan. That had always been West's or Robinson's job.

"Don't die on me," he whispered, knowing all the while that mere words weren't going to change the circumstances any.

Behind him, he could hear the now familiar rumblings and a scratching sound that told him another vine was headed his way.

Though he doubted West could hear him, he said, "I've got to get us out of here." Quickly, he closed up the major's jacket to keep some of the heat in, then started to drag the still form up the corridor.

It was slow going. Too slow. Smith moaned with indecision. Knowing he'd pay for it later, he mentally reviewed the procedure for doing a fireman's carry, then clipped the flashlight to the holster belt. He angled it as far as it would go so that the ceiling was lit a short way ahead of him. The rocks overhead barely reflected the light downward but it was sufficient for his purposes.

Gently he positioned his companion's body, then got into position himself. With one massive heave he got West upright and onto his shoulders. He grunted as his back muscles cursed at him. For a second, he stood unsteadily, then realized this was do-able.

Cautiously, he edged his way down the corridor, placing each step firmly. The frigid air made his chest hurt and he quickly grew out of breath but forced himself onward. Several hundred feet farther, he located a small notch in the wall. Behind it was a small area that had been carved long ago into the rock. It wasn't very large, but it was a good area for him to get a better look at the major and yet compact enough to protect easily against the winged creatures.

With extreme care, he settled West down onto the rocky surface. In the back of his mind, Smith noticed the change from sand to smooth rock, but didn't dwell on it. Instead, he murmured, "I'm going for the equipment. I'll be right back."

Smith unsteady legs refused to bring him to a hard run, so he jogged back toward the central cavern. As he puffed along he prayed that the things hadn't taken an interest in the packs. He didn't know what he'd do if they were gone. Panic, run blindly and, most likely, accidentally kill myself, he mused wryly.

To his immense relief, the equipment was where they'd left it, untouched by anything other than human hands. Smith heaved a weary sigh, then paused to catch his breath. All the while he stared at the entrance to the cavern, watching for signs of life. When none was forthcoming, he quickly shouldered his gear. Then he struggled with West's pack. Ultimately, he decided the major's gear would best be carried on his back; his own lighter pack could be carried in one hand.

Staggering under the weight of it all, he called back down the hallway, "Major, if we survive, believe me, you'll pay for this! Oh, the indignity of it all," he grumbled as he trudged onward, bowed down by pain, exhaustion and the weight of the equipment. Still he forced his aching legs to make haste.

As soon as he returned to their small nook, Smith yanked out the first aid kit and the two survival blankets. Carefully he rolled West onto one of them. Next he removed his own gloves and blew on his fingers to warm them a bit more before he began his exam.

Once again he checked the wound, which was still weeping fluids. He grunted in consternation when he reviewed the contents of the kit. There wasn't much there useful for such an injury, not even pressure bandages. Retrieving scissors, he cut away the burned portions of tunic in preparation for the task ahead. Smith noted the exposed, unburned skin dimple from sudden exposure to the cold.

Taking several large gauze squares, he carefully rolled them, trying to keep his dirty fingers off the centre portion of the pad. Next he broke open a small capsule of antibiotic powder and sprinkled it inside the wound and placed the rolled bandage directly over the wound. He pushed down lightly.

West let out a soft moan. His eyes flickered open briefly before he slipped back into unconsciousness.

After positioning the gauze, Smith took another large square and laid it flat over the entire wound. Tearing off several long strips of adhesive tape, he tightly affixed the bandages to the major's skin.

Had he been back at the Jupiter Two, he would have done many things, including debriding the dead tissue. He would also have administered a stronger antibiotic and sutured the wound. Then he would have secured the dressing by rolling gauze entirely around West's torso. That would have held the bandages more securely than strips of tape would. But, Smith thought ruefully, there's no use wishing things were different. Certainly if he had such power, he would have wished this whole adventure out of existence.

In the deep recesses of his mind, he wished up a comfortable lounge chair beneath a cerulean blue sky, warm sunlight reflecting off the clear water of his in-ground swimming pool; the same pool that stood beside an older colonial style home. Images of that home flitted through his mind, with its supple leather sofa and chairs, beautiful oil paintings--some done by his own hand, adding life and color to the earth tone walls. He could picture the solarium with its riotous growth of flowering greenery, as warmth flooded inside to heat up the highly polished oak floors. An enormous and costly Persian rug sat before a huge stone fireplace, also absorbing some of the sun's golden rays. Lord, how he missed that home with its rare treasures prominently displayed--treasures collected during his many trips abroad. He grew enormously homesick.

All of it was gone now, he knew. After disappearing, his family--what remained of them, probably declared him dead. He'd left everything to his sister, whom he adored like no one else. As he sat beside the major, wrapped in the icy arms of doom, he wondered if she derived as much pleasure from his home as he had.

Instantly, his reveries were broken. Though only a few seconds had passed during his musings, he chided himself for diverting his thoughts from the direness of their situation. Clenching and unclenching his fingers, he tried to massage new life into them. They were slow to respond.

Dismayed, Smith felt sleep beckoning again. "Don't sleep now," he said aloud through gritted teeth. Then, with more resolve, "I will not sleep!"

Tightly closing up West's parka, Smith flung open the second survival blanket and tossed it over his unconscious patient. He tucked in the edges to assure maximum heat retention.

Blanketed above and below, the major rested in dreamless sleep. Occasionally Don twitched or half-opened his eyes, but thirty minutes later, he still hadn't regained full consciousness.

The time was not spent in idleness. Smith repacked the first aid kit and their other supplies as well, after giving them a cursory examination. The sealed case for the communications equipment seemed undamaged. He thought about looking inside, but realized he wouldn't know how to properly check it. Horror once more assailed him as he comprehended that, even if they got out of the cavern, he wouldn't be able to operate the radio without assistance. If West died here--

No! He refused to ponder it further. Things were tough enough without surrendering to unhealthy speculations about the future!

Observing the weakened flashlight battery, he replaced it with a fresh power pack. Only two more left, he noted.

To keep from slipping into despair, he continued inspecting their belongings. The sight of their rations reminded him of how hungry he was, and how thirsty. He withdrew the miniature stove from Don's pack and checked the gauges. West had been right. There wasn't much fuel left.

Better to save it until the major is able to eat and drink on his own, Smith decided. Struggling to his feet, he went into the main corridor and collected a few rocks. Withdrawing his gun, he aimed it at the pile he'd set up. Firing the weapon, he watched the sustained blast virtually atomize the rocks. Grimacing, he checked over the gun, hoping to find anything with which to adjust the intensity of the laser. There was nothing.

Sighing, he tried a short blast. The remaining rocks glowed briefly, leaving behind a charred mark.

Smith tentatively stretched out his hand. Some residual heat wafted up against his fingertips, but as he waited the rock grew cold.

Seeing that it retained virtually no heat, Smith slipped his gloves back on and walked dejectedly toward the "infirmary." He hunkered down against a wall, drank deeply from a canteen, and pondered his next course of action.

Time to move on again.

That was the only option he really had. He was staring at the major when his body was rocked by a violent spasm of shivering. "Definitely must keep moving," he verbalized to no one but himself.

One pack supplied him with rope. West's pocket provided him with a knife. He tightly bound the blankets around the major, then tied ropes so that he had a handle up near Don's head. Finally he bound the light pack to West's lower legs and shouldered the heavier pack.

Grunting from a renewal of pain, he began a long arduous path down the corridor, towing the major's body behind him.

The smooth surface of the blanket made the task a bit easier, but in no time at all Smith was panting, the chilled air knifing deep inside his chest. His legs grew heavier. Lying down and dying would be infinitely easier, he told himself as he took yet another labored step.

The doctor hauled his cargo a few feet more. Then he noticed a faint glow on the walls. Not from his flashlight, he observed. It was greenish, and grew brighter with each staggering step he took.

Crying out with relief, he gently set all his burdens down and half-ran, half-stumbled toward the light. Just around the next bend he found the opening, about ten feet high and twelve feet wide. Over the nearby hills, the sun was starting its trip into nighttime. Good fortune instantly turned to bad. They had little time before the absence of light made it too difficult to travel.

Scanning the horizon, he looked for a dark spot in the sky. Nothing. If Professor Robinson was using the jetpack to search for them, he wasn't looking in the right area as yet. Or worse, perhaps he'd already checked that region and given up the search there.

Smith swallowed hard, flinching at the raw, parched feeling that followed. He rubbed bloodshot eyes with the back of his gloved hand, then wedged both hands inside his pockets. That momentarily warmed them up. The weak sun, though distant, provided a small amount of comforting heat. Barely discernible, true, but better that than the frigid sepulchre behind them.

Smith didn't bother to enjoy the moment. His thoughts were back with the major beneath the ravine canopy. He turned to look back and realized why West had assumed the ravine ran straight through. From this vantage point, it looked like a crevasse between canyon walls rather than the cave it actually was, just as the entrance point had.

He scanned for snow. The ground was clear. So much for the predictions of that worthless weatherman, he thought. Nonetheless, he was grateful. One less thing to fret over.

Skirting boulders the size of cars, Smith walked the short distance to the open plain. Here, scrubby trees, dead and withered, dotted the landscape. To Smith the sight was beautiful. It meant they'd have heat tonight.

The brush broke easily and Smith was able to tote a good size load of it back inside the cave. Dumping his bundle, he dragged the still unconscious major closer to the opening, but still beneath the overhang. There he started a fire, using flint and tinder. As the flames fanned out to consume the lighter branches, Smith decided to perform another check on West's condition. First, taking some of the smaller twigs, he fashioned a softer place on which to lay West's head. Then he moved on to the exam.

Pupils now reacting normally, pulse and respirations good. Color improving. Pain reflex present. Once the area became warm enough, he gently removed the old dressing, checked the wound and applied clean bandages. No signs of infection or fever, another good sign, Smith thought to himself.

As soon as he was assured that his companion was out of immediate danger, Smith went out to retrieve more firewood. Several trips later, he felt it safe to assume the fire could be maintained all night if need be. Then he set about building a much smaller fire, setting up stout branches to support the pot for boiling water. It wasn't until the steaming instant coffee was cupped between his hands that he finally decided to rest.

That rest was short lived.

West groaned and tried to roll over. Pain flared in Don's chest and he unceremoniously flopped back onto his "bed." He moaned again and brought his hands up as if in self-defence. Sensing danger nearby, he flailed wildly, only to meet resistance as hands grabbed his forearms. He jerked an arm free and felt his fist connect with something solid. It didn't deter his attacker. Once more he was restrained.

"Relax. You're safe," he heard a gentle voice assure him.

West willingly complied with the suggestion. He had no strength to fight back anymore. Agonizing pain rolled in from all points of his body. His mind wanted to withdraw from it by sending him back into deep darkness, but Don fought back. Instinct told him he needed to regain control. He did so, slowly but surely.

Forcing his eyes open, he saw a blurred image hovering above him. Confused, he tried to recall what had happened. As he shifted, agony pierced deep into his shoulder and then he remembered. The cavern, the pod creatures attacking him, the scaled wings, and Smith shooting him. Smith! That accursed troublemaker had done it to him again.

The blurred figure shifted out of sight. He closed his eyes to reorient himself. It took him a moment to realize that something was covering his body--a survival blanket. He let his hand drop by his side and felt another blanket below. Prying eyelids open once more, he found his vision improving.

The face came back into focus. He grimaced. It was Smith all right, looking battered, filthy, and bloody, but alive. Anger surged through Don's veins, giving him strength he never would have had under similar conditions. He wanted to put his fingers around Smith's neck so badly he could taste it. His good arm started to rise, hand outstretched. He almost had it around Smith's scrawny neck.

Wide-eyed with shock, Smith back-pedalled. "See here, Major, have you lost your mind? What little there was of it to begin with!"

Don arose further, murderous darts flying out of his eyes. And then it hit him.

He could see Smith clearly in natural light. The scent of fresh warm coffee enticed him to inhale deeply. As the feverish fog dissipated, he noted the small camp Smith had set up, and the burning bonfire that bathed him in glorious heat.

Amazed, West let his jaw drop. "You actually did it!" he exclaimed in amazement. "You got us out of there! How?"

Rather than answer that particular question, the doctor offered West his own half-empty cup of coffee. Don took it in his shaking hand and found that it, like the injured arm, refused to cooperate.

Rather than belittle him, Smith simply clasped his hand around West's and brought the now steady cup up to the major's lips. West downed the still-warm liquid in several gulps. Satisfied, he waved Smith off. The coffee was followed by a lukewarm plate of mushed rations but, to the starving man, it tasted like a gourmet chef's best creation.

"How long?" he queried in the midst of gulping down a mouthful of mud brown, pureed who-knew-what.

While Don finished his meal, Smith had opted to sit by the fire, knees drawn up to his chest. When he heard West's question, he arched one eyebrow wryly. "How long what?" he asked in a tired, raspy voice. "How long have we been lost in there? How long were you unconscious? How long did I have to haul your sorry carcass behind me?" Before West could answer, Smith plunged on, "And to think you were concerned about being the one to carry me out. I don't mind informing you that you weigh a ton! Robinson had better conjure up an expeditious rescue because I've no intention of dragging you one step further!"

A frown marred West's handsome features. He stared at Smith for a considerable length of time, his thoughts jumbled. He wanted to rail at the doctor for having shot him. Perhaps he still would, but there were questions as yet unanswered.

"How long?" he repeated more firmly.

Smith heaved a condescending sigh, but didn't look at his injured companion. "I have no idea. After a while, time lost all meaning. Since the days are a bit longer on this odious planet, I expect we were entombed for the equivalent of at least ten planetary hours--give or take an hour."

"So you recently found the exit?"

Smith nodded. "Yes, not too long ago." What he was really thinking was that if West hadn't gotten in the way of the shot, they would have made it out much quicker.

What West was really thinking was, "I can't believe this pompous idiot shot me and won't even apologize."

Neither of them said what was really on their minds and they sat in total silence for a while.

Smith continued to tend the fire, accepting the labor only because he wanted to stay warm. West used the opportunity to rest. He began making plans for assembling the radio, but found concentration difficult. Before he realized it, he'd dropped back off to sleep.

Exhaustion had already overcome the doctor. After stoking the fire, he'd leaned back against the fire-warmed rock wall and instantly succumbed to the desire to sleep. In fact, he was so physically drained not even the encroaching cold woke him. Instead, he'd curled himself up tightly into a ball and shivered through haunting dreams of silver vines, scaled wings, laser blasts, and walls of ice.

"Smith!" a voice called, cutting painfully through the doctor's numbed mind. Lights flickered behind his closed lids as adrenaline raced through his aching body. He groaned as he tried to sit upright. Taking mental inventory, he realized there wasn't a place on his body that didn't hurt. His ankle throbbed unmercifully. Just shifting it brought excruciating pain.

"Smith, wake up!" the voice called again. "The fire."

"Coming," he muttered through chattering teeth.

Smith practically needed to pry his eyelids open, but finally they complied on their own. Stifling a despondent moan, he noted that the fire was down to burning embers.

He dragged his weary body to the small pile of kindling, threw some pieces into the embers and stirred the coals with a stick. At first the kindling seemed to do nothing at all, but suddenly it caught and Smith immediately stacked several larger branches on it until he'd worked up a decent fire once more.

Nearby Don was attempting to roll over onto his side. He'd just about succeeded when a wave of dizziness sent him crashing back down.

Limping over, Smith crouched down. "Don't move. Whatever you've got planned, it isn't worth ruining all my fine efforts at first aid."

Gingerly Don touched the bandages, noticing the pain was subsiding somewhat. "The communications equipment has to be assembled so we can try sending that message," he explained between panting breaths.

"How noble," Smith chided. "You're weaker than a newborn babe. How do you propose to get yourself up there?"

A perfect white smile flashed across the major's lips. "You really want to know?" He waited for Smith's hesitant nod, then he noted the doctor's wide-eyed expression.

Suddenly Smith's head dropped down and he gave it a bewildered shake. "I presume you intend to send me, don't you?"

A self-satisfied light filled the major's eyes. "Yup. You seem to have everything under control. Besides, you said it yourself, I'm in no condition to do it."

"You do realize I haven't got the foggiest notion of what to do with that contraption."

"Don't worry, I'll explain it carefully. You just do what I tell you and everything will work fine."

"Major, let's face facts," Smith pleaded. "I am in no condition to perform the arduous task of mountain climbing. Perhaps we should reconsider. Ignite a signal fire and pray that the smoke draws attention. Surely Robinson hasn't ceased searching for us."

For a moment, they gazed at one another. Don took in Smith's dishevelled, battered and fatigued appearance. A momentary feeling of pity for the older man welled up in him. Don was most certainly better adapted for the chore ahead of them. They both knew it. But Don was forced to acknowledge the truth.

"Look, doctor, I'd go in your place if I could, really. But my left arm is still virtually useless." He interjected as much sincerity into his voice as he could. "I know this isn't much consolation, but you've done fine so far. You and I both know you could have left me back there, but you didn't. You toughed it out. And you can do what still needs to be done. I believe that."

"I wish I possessed that same confidence in myself," Smith whispered as he stared up at the rocky walls surrounding them, then let his chin drop to his chest for a moment of quiet contemplation.

West spent the remainder of the predawn hours coaching his reluctant companion on the intricacies of communications equipment. Smith nearly fell asleep on him several times. He'd jerk into wakefulness, look attentive, and then proceed to drop off again. Eventually Don felt somewhat confident that Smith could do the job.

The real question was, what were the odds that Smith would actually succeed? Slim to none, he realized. As brilliant as the doctor could be, he'd never shown much of a proclivity for electronics--aside from demonstrating basic skills. If anything, he was like a gremlin around them.

Oh, sure, he handled the Robot well. Scuttlebutt at Alpha Control said that he'd designed it--from a theoretical standpoint, of course. Certainly he could program the Robot himself. But since that initial period of sheer genius, he'd consistently chewed up electrical devices.

Don shook his head and rolled his eyes. He had to face facts. There really was no option but to demonstrate some faith and send him out on his own. He settled back on his makeshift bed and watched the doctor prepare for his journey.

After downing another cup of coffee, Smith's limping form slogged down the ravine. The part of his mind that typically wanted to devise work avoidance schemes cringed at the difficult job ahead. The rational part only wanted to finish up as quickly as possible.

It was with relief that he located the sloping path leading up to the proposed site. The equipment thumped into his back, reminding him of how heavy it was. Then the path steepened and grew rockier. Still, it was a path, natural though it might have been. Glancing up, he found the spot described by the major. It wasn't all that far--as the crow flew. Though no one was around to hear, he griped about the deplorable conditions as he pushed himself on. Grumbling took breath, but it made him feel better.

Soon he was panting too hard to waste energy on complaints. Perspiration beaded up, rolled down his back, then it cooled rapidly. He began to shiver again, his teeth chattering when he relaxed his jaw.

Higher and higher he climbed. Near the top of the hill, his aching ankle turned beneath unstable rocks, sending him to his knees. A clipped cry burst forth, but he stifled it.

Slack-jawed, he staggered to a nearby boulder, his shoulders heaving as he tried to catch his breath. "Almost there," he coaxed his tired body.

His back screamed its indignation at him when he straightened up, but by that point, it was just one more annoyance. Slowly he set one foot in front of the other.

Left, left, left-right-left, he heard the military cadence in his thoughts. His feet obeyed. Left foot, right foot, his mind wandered further. Left foot, left foot, left foot, right--feet in the morning, feet at night.

A tight smile curled up the corners of his thin lips. He must've read that children's book to his young nephew fifty times. He could hear its rhyming cadence, see the words in his head. Unconsciously switching to autopilot mode, he scrambled up higher, repeating the book's words twice over.

How Smith wished he were back in that place again. His thoughts drifted backward in time to picture an auburn-haired three-year-old snuggling up to him, pointing out the pictures and shining adoring eyes on him. They'd finish reading, share a cup of hot cocoa and he'd tuck the little fellow into bed amid a stream of hugs and wet kisses on the cheek. He could almost smell the bubble bath his sister poured copiously into the tub and the scent of Sesame Street bubblegum-flavored toothpaste.

"Good night. I love you, Uncle Zach."

And then, almost before he knew it, he topped the rise.

Open-mouthed, slouched over, he fought for breath. Sitting down appealed to him but he refused to give in to the idea. If he sat down, he knew he'd refuse to get back up. The wind howled around his hood, nearly blowing it off. It shrieked past the fur edge, worming its icy fingers into his ears. Jerking the strings tighter, Smith turned his back to the cold blasts and set his pack down. His shoulders and back cried out in glorious relief.

First he tried the small hand-held portable. "Jupiter Two, this is Doctor Smith. Do you copy? Over." He waited a minute, then tried again. Nothing, aside from a static hiss. The next ten minutes were equally devoid of success. Surely Mrs. Robinson and the children would be near the ship and answer if they could.

He tossed an absent-minded shrug into the wind. Numbed fingers began to hesitantly pull out the equipment. Following the major's instructions he carefully assembled it. He fumbled a few of the pieces, but eventually arrived at the point where his task was completed--he hoped.

Activating it as instructed, he repeatedly called for assistance and reported their position. To his shocked dismay, there was no response, not even the expected static. He rechecked his work, discovering that he'd inaccurately connected some wires. As the sun rose higher overhead, he made another attempt.

This time he got the requisite hiss in between his SOS. But no human voices bounced back at him.

Smith fought his nature, which was urging him to give up. He kept at it for what seemed like another hour. Smith never expected the professor to reply. He'd hoped that Robinson was already out searching for them. But surely at least one of the family would have displayed the sense to stay behind and man the radio, just in case.

Still nothing. The whipping cold was knifing through bone and muscle. Smith made one final attempt at delivering a message. Static spit back at him. He finally did sit down. Scratching the dark stubble on his chin, he glared at the unit and wondered what to do next.

Whirling toward the downward slope, Smith threw his arms wide and howled hoarsely into the freezing wind. "Thank you so much, Major, for supplying me with a contingency plan!" Whether West actually heard it wasn't the point.

Once more he hunkered over the unit. Leave it and come back? Dismantle it and lug it back down? After all, he wasn't kin to a mountain goat. The extra weight could easily make him fall.

"That's all I need!" Smith grumbled aloud. "I'll likely end up prostrate in some crevasse, totally paralysed and frozen until I meet my untimely demise!"

The thought occurred to him that, just maybe, winding up pod food might at least have been a quicker death. Memories of it made him shiver. "Perhaps not," he whispered.

After making one final half-hearted attempt at contact, he began the tedious chore of disassembling the unit and repacking it. Lugging it downhill wasn't going to be fun, but he didn't want to return to camp empty-handed and find out there was a need to trek back for it.

By the time he dragged himself back to the campsite, the sun had reached its zenith.

Somehow West had managed to keep the fire going. A steady, thin column of grayish smoke trickled skyward. As soon as Don saw his companion stagger into camp, he knew the effort had not been a success.

Painfully he struggled into a sitting position, cradling his arm against his injured chest to minimize movement of damaged muscles. "No luck," he said, more statement than query.

"Not sure," was the succinct reply. Smith safely stowed the pack, settled down within arm's reach of the flames, poured himself a cup of over-done coffee and downed it before adding, "There's always a possibility that I got through."

"You get the radio together properly?"

The pointed question made Smith bristle, but he cooled off quickly. "Valid point," he acknowledged grudgingly. "I feel certain I successfully assembled the unit. As to why I received no response..." He shrugged one shoulder. "I can make an educated conjecture, but in the long run, what does it matter? The effort was apparently a dismal failure."

West shut his eyes as if to sleep. Then, after a minute's silence, he said, "Should we stay or go on?"

"You're asking me?" Smith didn't bother to hide his surprised tone.

"In case you haven't noticed, I can't exactly do this entirely on my own. I need to know what you think you can handle, and what you think you can't."

The old Smith surged up. "I can't handle any of it, Major. I'm weary to the bone, my extremities are half frozen and I can't locate a single place that doesn't hurt. And I'm sorry to say, those rations aren't exactly an Epicurean delight!" Abruptly he threw up his hands in despair. "My energy reserves are nearly depleted, and that's no exaggeration."

West patiently waited it out. He hid a smile. Part of him was glad to see a resurgence of the old familiar Smith and yet, the journey hadn't ended. He didn't want Smith wallowing in self-pity. "Listen, why don't you take this blanket and catch a nap? I'll wake you in an hour."

"And after that?" Smith queried, turning wide blue eyes on him.

"We can't stay here. We both know it."

Within minutes Smith had unceremoniously flopped down on a blanket and plunged into a state of nearly comatose slumber.

Don spent his free time willing himself to get stronger. Mind over matter. But when he tried to get lunch ready, he found himself still very unsteady on his feet, dizzy and weak. Must as he hated to admit it, he still needed to rely on his reluctant companion.

West had a terrible time rousing the doctor, who lay there like a dead man. Eventually he did get Smith awake, cooking dinner and packing the supplies. Despite the persistent weakness, he managed to help in small ways, including condensing their remaining supplies into one pack. He pulled out his compass and calculated what he hoped was their quickest course home.

"Keep us out of the most barren areas," Smith reminded him needlessly. Don knew how dependent they were on finding firewood along the way.

Just before setting out, the doctor broke open another antibiotic capsule and changed West's fluid soaked bandages. Then he tied a triangular bandage into a sling, using a second one to secure the sling to the major's upper body.

Smith muttered as he worked, but stoically finished his task. With his assistance, Don stood up on wobbly knees.

Once upright, Don threw his arm around Smith's shoulder for added support. He felt an arm reach around his waist. "Thanks," he grunted, taking a few tentative steps. So far so good. He walked a little further.

Together, the two men trudged onto the plain. The chilled air ripped through their parkas, sapping their strength.

It didn't take long for both of them to grow weary. Together they quenched their thirst from a canteen. The already slow pace dropped to a crawl. Overhead the sun began its descent. It became colder. Clouds drifted in, thickening rapidly as the wind began to whip fiercely around them. White flakes started to fall.

West whipped out a hoarse oath and began to sag. He considered looking for shelter and building a fire, but realized nothing would suffice. The rocks were large, but insufficient for protection from the elements.

The expected scrub trees seemed to have withered away. They had one choice--push on.

Snow began to accumulate at an alarming rate and Smith's strength ebbed with each faltering step. He stumbled a few times, almost dragging West down with him. How he managed to keep going, he didn't know. He was so cold, so very cold. And so tired. He wanted to sleep right there. Curl up in a snowy mattress and drift off into warm dreams. But something unnamed and unrecognised kept Smith on his frozen feet. He kept going. One mile, then two.

Mechanically, West kept his legs moving. He was not going to give up. He promised himself that, over and over again as the snow rose up over ankles then up to their calves. Suddenly Smith stumbled, went down on one knee and, with a cry that was half-pain and half-terror, collapsed face down in the snow.

"Smith!" Don shouted, single-handedly yanking off the pack and rolling the man over. He shoved the doctor hard enough to rattle teeth, but Smith didn't stir. It was then that he realized the awful truth. Neither of them was going to make it.

Falling down, West pulled the blankets out of the pack, crudely doubled them up and covered both himself and Smith with the thin quilt. Why he bothered, he couldn't say.

He curled up against Smith's motionless body, sharing some of his warmth, though he doubted it would help. The wind whistled and whined above them. Twenty minutes later it changed pitch and began to diminish. West hazarded a peek outside and found the flakes falling more sparsely and straight down.

Better than he expected, he had to say that much, but still not good. Once more he covered himself up and waited. He grew drowsy. Just as he was about to drift off, perhaps forever, he heard a resurgence of the wind.

"Dear God," he sighed. The wind maliciously howled above him, shrieking like a jet engine.

A jet engine! Adrenaline surged. He ripped the covers back and nearly whooped with delight at the sight of Professor Robinson standing nearby with the jetpack on his back. As the professor gently lowered the unit to the ground, West noted all the equipment strapped to the back. He recognized all of it. The lightweight tents, a heating unit-- He almost sobbed with joy, and then passed out.

*  *  *  *

"Take it easy," a strong voice soothed. Somewhere deep in the recesses of Don's mind, he knew the person speaking, but he couldn't seem to focus on staying awake. The darkness, warm and pain-free one minute, filled with visions of horror the next, alternately beckoned and repelled him. Still he struggled to sit up, to toss off the night, to fight against creatures spawned by a feverish imagination.

The voice called again. As his eyes opened, he found a familiar face restraining his raised fist.

"Uh," he grunted by way of greeting as he fell back on a hard surface. He willed his body to relax. As his senses began to return to normal, he felt the warmth of his surroundings and saw the thin canopy of a survival tent overhead.

"I made it!" he whispered, overcome with relief. His next thought had nothing to do with his own safety, but for the safety of another. "Smith?" he called, trying again to sit up. This time he succeeded.

"Never fear, Smith is here," came a weak, hoarse response from the other side of the small tent.

In spite of everything, Don let a chuckle escape parched lips. Some things never change! And thank goodness for that.

Robinson offered warmed rations to both men before asking the obvious questions. "Will someone please tell me what went on? I searched for you all along the prescribed route. I expected to at least find the Chariot somewhere near the site. When there was no sign of it, I started expanding my search pattern. The only reason I found you was because I spotted the top of a yellow sack poking out of the snow. What happened to you out here? And what in heaven's name happened to the Chariot?"

Looking sheepish, Don explained the sequence of events leading up to the cave-in. He gave sketchy details about their journey through the cave, into the pod room and down the corridor.

"How'd this happen?" Robinson inquired, pointing to the bandages beneath the parka.

"Accident," West and Smith said in unison, both giving Robinson a wide-eyed innocent look. The professor tried to stare down each in turn but to no avail. He got no further explanation.

Giving up, he pointed to the bruises covering their faces, the purpled marks on chins and cheeks and jaws. "And these?"

"Thanks to an airborne monstrosity," Smith supplied without hesitation.

"And pod creatures," added West with a tiny half-smile.

Robinson rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Uh huh, I see. I don't suppose either one of you are going to tell me what really happened in there, are you?"

"Nope!" both companions ingenuously responded.

"Well, I guess that I've done all I can do for either one of you. Since the storm has let up and you both seem well enough to travel, let me get the jet pack ready and I'll piggyback you one at a time." He crawled toward the entrance of the tent then turned back to face these two men who'd become like family to him. "Who goes first?" he asked.

"Let him go first," West pointed at Smith.

"No, I assure you, I would rather that the major return with you. He requires more immediate medical attention. Standard triage protocols say he should return first." Smith's tone implied that he'd brook no argument.

"He's got a point, Don," Robinson said with a tight smile.

"Got a sneaky right cross and an itchy trigger finger, too," West muttered just loud enough so that no one but Smith could hear.

"Ah," sighed Smith with contentment, wiggling his toes inside the warmth of his boots. "Be a good chap and raise the heat a trifle before you depart." He closed his eyes as if to drop off to sleep.

Robinson exited with a shrug and shake of his head. He'd never figure out the relationship between these two. Perhaps, given time and a return to sanity, one or the other would actually explain what happened during their detour. On the other hand, he wouldn't have bet on it, not in a billion years.