"Steven Gould - Jumper 02 - Reflex" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gould Stephen Jay)

bag over to the anchor bolt and ring. Davy had set it into a crack in the ledge with a sledgehammer,
then anchored it further with concrete.

She put on the seat harness and closed the front with the base carabiner, then used a double
bowline to secure one end of the rope to the ring. She tugged on it. Solid as the last time she used it,
in the first years of their marriage. They used to practice the descent twice a year, as a precaution, but
she hadn't done it in over five years. There were more cracks in the rock around the concrete and she
tugged several more times to be sure the bolt was still solidly anchored.

She put the pack on the end of the rope and lowered it, hand over hand, seeing the excess rope
coil reassuringly on the loose talus slope at the bottom of the cliff. She didn't have to worry about
running out of rope.

An odd tingle went through her, almost pleasurable, and she wondered if it was fear. Am I that
jaded? She examined it more closely and realized what she was feeling was satisfaction. After all, for
the first time in a long time, she was having to do something without Davy, something difficult, even
dangerous, and he wasn't there to buffer her from the discomfort and effort.

Well, one good thing comes from this.

She threaded the rope through the 'biners and snapped the brake bars closed, then took up the
trailing end and brought it behind her, running it across the back of her thighs before coming back to
her gloved hand. She backed toward the edge, letting the rope out slowly.

She contemplated the long hike in front of her, the fact that her ID was in Oklahoma and she
couldn't fly without it, or rent a car, and she'd have to take the bus. She thought about walking a
minimal distance away from the Aerie and setting off the PLB, but gritted her teeth. Not yet.

She reached the edge and sighed, letting some more rope out and dropping over the edge. She
started down with small jumps, then swore as the rope crumbled a bit of the edge, showering her with
gravel and a nasty piece of limestone that caromed off her shin. Sand drifted into her eyes, causing her
to blink in the morning sunlight.

Oh, great!

She couldn't help picturing the condo, cluttered, friendly, sand-free, with her clothing, her wallet,
and a fridge with milk in it.

Davy Rice, you're a real pain-in-the—Above her, there was the sound of grinding rock, and
then a sharp crack. The rope went slack and she dropped backwards, watching, in horror, as the bolt
and a partial plug of concrete, still tied to the end of the rope, came flying over the edge. She dropped
like a stone, still a hundred and seventy feet above the rocks below, her arms and feet flailing. The
cold air cut past her ears and the adrenaline stabbed into her chest like a sword.

Oh, God, ohgod, ohgodohgodohgod—

She crouched in the small living room of the condo in Stillwater, a pile of rope draped across her
knees and feet. The heavy bolt and ring, with a small collar of concrete, dropped to the carpet at her
side with a thud.