Harker glanced over his shoulder. The river fell sheer down a high face
of rock--too high and with too much force in the water even for the
giant water-plannies to think of attempting. Daylight poured through
overhead, warm and welcoming, and it might as well have been on Mars.
Dead end.
Then Harker saw the little eroded channel twisting up at the side.
Little more than a drain-pipe, and long dry, leading to a passage
beside the top of the falls--a crack barely large enough for a small
man to crawl through. It was a hell of a ragged hope, but....
Harker pointed, between jabs at the swarming flowers. Sim yelled, "You
first." Because Harker was the best climber, he obeyed, helping the
gasping McLaren up behind him. Sim wielded his spear like a lightning
brand, guarding the rear, creeping up inch by inch.
He reached a fairly secure perch, and stopped. His huge chest pumped
like a bellows, his arm rose and fell like a polished bar of ebony.
Harker shouted to him to come on. He and McLaren were almost at the top.