If they were sleeping pills.

Her mind moved around and around the subject, moving with a kind of fuzzy firmness. With no coherent thought proeess, she arrived at a conviction-a habit with the basically insecure; an insecurity whose seeds are invariably planted earlier, in underor over-protectiveness, in a distrust of parental authority which becomes all authority. It can later, with maturity-a flexible concept-be laughed away, dispelled by determined clear thinking. Or it can be encouraged by self-abusive resentment and brooding self-pity. It can grow ever greater until the original authority becomes intolerable, and a change becomes imperative. Not to a radical one in thinking; that would be too troublesome, too painful. The change is simply to authority in another guise which, in time, and under any great stress, must be distrusted and resented even more than the first.

Thrashing it-and herself-Carol wondered why she feared Doc as she did-how she could fear him and be unable to trust him. And yet love him as she could never love another.

Even now, despite her fear and distrust, she would have given anything to have him with her.

He was always, or virtually always, so calm and self-assured. He always knew just what to do, and how to do it. He could be breaking apart inside and you'd never know it from the way he acted. He'd be just as pleasant and polite as if he didn't have a care in the world. You had to be careful with someone like that. You could never know what he was thinking. But…

She sighed uxoriously, squirming a little. Doc McCoy-one hell of a guy, Ma had called him. And that had seemed to say it all.

There just wasn't anyone else in the world like Doc, and there never would be.

She toyed with the bottle of pills. Then, turning on her side, she tapped on the wall with it. He couldn't be too far away from her, just a few feet through this coldly sweating roek. If she could make him hear her, and if he would reply to it-well, it would be nice. Each would be comforted, she persuaded herself, to know that the other was all right.

She tapped and listened. Tapped and listened. She frowned, with a kind of angry nervousness. Then, brightening, she turned and tapped on the opposite wall. Perhaps he was there, on that side. After all, he just about had to be, didn't he? He had to be on one side or the other.

She tapped and listened. Tapped and listened.

The silence between tappings pressed in around her. It became an aching thing, a void crying to be filled. It was unbearable, and since the unbearable cannot be borne, her imagination, that friendly enemy, stepped in.

Quite clearly, she heard Doc's answering taps. Well, not clearly perhaps-the imagination does have its limitations-but she did hear them.

She tapped and he-it-tapped. The signals went back and forth. A great relief spread through her; and then, on its heels, overlaying it, an increasing restlessness and irritation.

What was the point in just tapping, in just making a meaningless noise? Now, if she could send him a message. Ask him, tell him to-to…

But maybe he'd already thought of that. And thought it was impossible. And maybe it was.

She pushed herself back against the wall, then measured the space to the opposite wall. There seemed to be enough room, for two people, that is. It could get to be a tight squeeze, of course; you couldn't continue it indefinitely. But just for a little while, an hour or so, it would be fine.

The overhead space? Well. She placed her palms against the roof of the hole, gave a start at its nearness to her. In the dimness it had seemed much farther away. She pushed on it, not realizing that she was pushing. And suddenly she pounded on it with her fists.

She stopped that very quickly, and lay very still for a few minutes until the wild pounding of her heart had stopped. Then, pushing herself with heels and elbows, she began to scoot toward the entrance.

Water touched her feet. She jerked them away from it. She let them slide into it again, and remain there for a moment. And then with resentful resignation she withdrew them. For obviously she couldn't leave this place, go back out into the pit. Someone might see her. For all she knew, the place might be swarming with cops by this time. At any rate, the water was very deep-bottomless, Ma had said-and she could swim very little. If she should be unable to find the hole Doc was in, or if she was unable to get into it or get back into this one…

Perhaps they had planned it that way. They hoped and expected that she would try to leave, knowing that she would drown if she did.

But, anyway, leaving was out of the question. She had to stay here until she was got out, as-her pendulum mind swinging back again-she assured herself she would be. Doc would get her out. After all, she was his wife and they'd been through a lot together, and she'd done a lot for him. And-and-if he'd really wanted to get rid of her, he'd had plenty of chances before this.

He'd get her out all right, as soon as it was safe.

Ma would make him.

It was just a little roomier, down here near the entrance to the hole. The roof was just a little higher. She measured the distance with her upstretched palms, thinking that there was almost room enough to sit up. And no sooner had the thought entered her mind than she knew she must sit up.

She had to. She could not remain prone, or lie halfpropped up on her elbows another minute.

Tucking her chin against her chest, she raised herself experimentally. Six inches, afoot, a foot and a half, a-the stone pressed against her head. She shoved against it stubbornly, then with a suppressed "Ouch!" she dropped back to the floor.

She rested for a moment, then tried again. A kind of sideways try this time, with her knees pulled upward. That got her up a little farther, though not nearly far enough. But it did-or seemed to-show her how the trick could be done.

She was very lithe and limber, more so now than ever after the arduous thinning-down of their crosscountry journey. So she sucked her stomach in, drew her knees flat against it, and pressed her chin down against them. And thus, in a kind of flat ball, she flung herself upward and forward.

Her head struck the roof with a stunning bump, then skidded along it gratingly, leaving a thin trail of hair and scalp. She would have stopped with the first painful impact, but the momentum of her body arced her onward. And then at last she was sitting up. Or rather, sitting. Bent forward as she was, it would have been far from accurate to say that she was sitting up.

The roof pressed upon her neck and shoulders. Her head was forced downward. Her widespread legs were flattened against the floor and, to support herself, she had her hands placed between them. She raised one of them to brush at her face, but the strain was so intolerable that she hastily put it back in use as a brace.

She rested, breathing heavily, finding it difficult to breathe at all in that constricting position; thinking, Well, at least I know I can do it now. I can sit up if I want to. Then, as the awkward pose became agonizing, she tried to lie down again. And was held almost motionless exactly as she was.

She couldn't accept the fact. It was too terrible. Now, surely, she thought, if I got into this, I can get out of it. If I can sit up, then I can s-I can lie down again.

"Of course I can," she spoke, grunted, aloud. "Why not, anyway?"

There was, of course, every reason why not. It was impossible to draw her legs up, as she had in the first instance. Almost impossible to move them at all. As for balling herself up-well, she already was; even more than she had been originally. But now there was no give in the ball. Her body was like an overburdened spring, so heavily laden that it can only go down farther and never up.