Reprisal by Mitchell Smith Page A

rappelling gear, to control descent by friction. A bobbin, with twin small pulley-wheels to slow the rope as it fed through. And, for longer drops, a rack--a fourteen-inch miniature steel ladder, with movable little aluminum rungs to cramp the rope sliding over and under them as the caver sailed slowly down.
    The smallest pack held a Suunto compass, canteen and folding cups, pocket notebook and pencil, toilet paper, small plastic shitsacks, and a first-aid kit.
    ... Ranked along higher pegs on their nylon-webbing slings, the carabiners jingled softly when Joanna lifted them down. Petzl Spirit 'biners, most of them, elegantly spring-gated links, D's and C's of fine forged aluminum to run rope through, to tie it to, or connect descenders and ascenders to her harness. The carabiners--and, ringing more brightly, three stainless-steel maillon connectors, strong screw-links in two half-rounds and a triangle.
    There was nothing there--no carabiner or length of rope, no nylon-webbing tape in her packs, no cammed ascender, Gibbs or Petzl, no friction descender, bobbin or rack--that had not held Joanna's life safe many times suspended in lamplit darkness within chambers too deep, too huge, ever to be seen entirely.
    Great rooms beneath the earth and sunlight of America, of Mexico, of Jamaica, of Borneo.
    In years of caving, she had learned to rock climb--lead or belay--to deal with stone-fall, packed mud, narrow squeezes, to deal with cave river duck-unders.
    To deal with fear. ... She'd learned to rig, to prusik up the rope, rappel down it--and change, in mid-rope over emptiness, to either. She could, if necessary, do these things --and other rigging, for rescues, much more complicated --while beneath a cave's icy and battering waterfall, or in perfect darkness. She had learned to trust her gear, but back it up--and to dress and set every knot she made. ...
    Joanna opened the Volvo's trunk, laid the heavy rope-coils carefully far back, away from possible damage by spills or anything sharp or snagging, then lifted in the PVC equipment packs, two big rope sacks-to hold the lengths of line suspended beneath her, rappelling--her sit and chest harnesses, her helmet and its attached lamp--electric, not carbide--a spare helmet lamp and two spare sealed lithium battery packs.
    Her boots--greased Redwing Red Setters-and her old jeans, work shirt, sweater, and blaze-orange ballistic-nylon coveralls were in the cottage hall closet with the sleeping bags. The evening ferry, the last ferry, left at dark.

Chapter Three
    Charis, masturbating, pretended she was lying beneath Greg Ribideau. Beneath a boy, even pretending, was a good place to think. She supposed women often used beneath as a place to consider things.
    Alone in the room, she lay under her sheet with her jeans and panties off. She lay with her knees up and spread as wide as she could, her socks on. "We do that, first thing," Mr. Langenberg had said to her many years ago. Said it only a few days after Margaret Langenberg had died.
    Charis had had no real sex with Greg Ribideau. The only sex they'd had, and only once, she'd done. He'd just sat on the bed in her room, and she'd unzipped his pants and jerked him off into her other hand. Greg had been in heaven, coming in her hand.
    He'd stayed for a while after that, and Charis had gotten her pint of Ben and Jerry's Chocolate Fudge Brownie from the common-room refrigerator. They'd had a mysterious ice cream thief in the dorm for a while, even though most of the summer students were graduates, and older, and should have been able to buy their own.--She and Greg had finished the pint of Fudge Brownie, then he'd kissed her and left, supposing they were serious lovers with a future.
    But now he knew better ... and it seemed to Charis he was relieved. She'd only known him the few weeks since she'd registered at White River for the graduate program, and started summer classes. He'd come over to her table at the cafeteria, said "Okay?" and sat