He grasped the cable at a point which he knew was about eight feet from whatever (presumably the rocks) the loop was caught on. He did not plunge at the water fall. He merely stuck his head and shoulders into it, and felt the rush take him from his feet. He held his breath and gripped the steel strands. The sluice of the water swept him across the sloping rock, but he knew that holding the cable he must swing in a circle. Beneath his left foot was nothing; he felt the void of the canyon sucking him down. He knew that he had been too reckless, but he gripped the cable.

Then, still gripping the cable, he was lying on the sloping rock with water rushing against his face and shoulders. The loop of the cable was holding. Under his feet was empty space. He raised his face above the foaming rush, and heard the thunder of water plunging into the canyon. He panted a moment before daring to move. Then he bent both elbows, and hunched himself half a foot forward. He pulled up his right knee, and felt the roughness of rock beneath his foot. Only then did he dare to loose one hand and move it up on the cable for a fresh grip. (Even at that moment he felt, more than heard, the hum of the dynamos, and knew that the failure of the lights inside the dam had been purely local; the water going over the dam must have caused it.) The rest was easy.

“Did the L. D. call?” he yelled at his wife from the doorway.

“No!” she yelled back from where she was washing the breakfast dishes. “What made you so long?”

“Oh—nothing much!”

He was glad she did not come to look at him. His face and hands were scraped and bleeding; his pants-knees were both torn out. He grabbed the shovel from where he had left it on the porch, and hurried off to see about the road.

•

At the airport they waited. Waited. The radio-operators were listening. Now and then they tried to make contact. Minute passed by minute. Seven-fifty-four; seven-fifty-five. In the air, minutes count like hours on land or sea. The CSO sat there. He said nothing. There was nothing to say. Or to do! “Act of God!” Seven-fifty-six. No contact.

Eight o’clock. Big Al due in at eight-thirty-five. Outside, the sun was shining. To the south the airways fine as silk. A Los Angeles plane taking off. Keep things moving—as if nothing has happened. Maybe nothing has happened. Maybe.

Somebody came in. “Lottie’s out there!” he half whispered. Al’s wife—married six months. Used to be a stewardess. They all knew Lottie. Nice little thing. The guys joking Al about a baby.