“Might as well be. Trapped in here,” she muttered glumly.

“Don’t ever say that! Ever! Life is everything, death is nothing,” he snapped, his voice like a whiplash. He had to jolt her out of it. And it was time to see what she was made of, he thought.

“I’m sorry … I … well, you’re stubborn. I’ll give you that,” she admitted.

“Stubbornness is a survival characteristic. One of the two key characteristics,” he said, remembering the gospel as Koenig used to expound it in that Quonset hut hidden in the green Virginian countryside.

“What’s the other?”

“Intelligence.”

“When do we get to the intelligent part?” she asked, forcing him to smile again.

“We’re already there. Help is probably already on the way. I’ll be sure once I check my transmitter.”

“Well, what are you waiting for?” she asked.

“You—to untie my hands,” he said.

“I’ll do better than that. I’ll cut you loose,” she said brightly.

“You have a knife!” he exclaimed.

“Sort of. It’s an old stone thing I found in the sands down here. It’s sharp enough,” she said, showing him a flint chisel, its edges chipped and serrated, perhaps left behind by some ancient workman, aeons ago.

“It’s perfect,” he said.

“Before they threw you in here, I was thinking of using it on myself,” she added softly, then caught herself. “I don’t know why I told you that,” she said.

“I think it’s the darkness. It’s like a confessional. In here, appearances can’t get in the way of our true selves. There’s no image to pierce or hide behind,” he said.

“I’m not that brave. I’ve always used my looks. Maybe there’s no substance to me at all. Maybe my appearance is me.”

“No one’s that brave. And if all you were was a pretty female, they’d have turned you into a house pet by now,” he replied.

“And you, Mister—whatever your name is …”

“Nick. Call me Nick. You’re one of the only people in the world to know it,” he said, his voice thickening as if he were catching cold.

“And you, Nick. What’s your secret?”

“Untie me first,” he said.

“I’m afraid of you,” she said, her voice small and little-girlish.

“Look where we both are, Kelly. What do you have to lose?”

“Well, that’s the damn truth,” she admitted and began groping in the dark, feeling for his hands, still bound behind him. He felt a tugging as she sawed at the knots and then his hands were free. He unwrapped the cords from his wrists and rubbed them hard. His hands tingled painfully and he was sore in a dozen places from the shot and the fall. He tried to stretch and winced at the pain. His back felt as if it had been used for karate practice.

“What is it?” she asked.