negotiate his way to the other side. If he could get half way he could halt at the truck, sit in the cabin and rest. Divide it into two separate jobs.
He approached the logs gingerly. The first wasn't so bad, small and fairly steady. He stepped onto it, caught hold with his hands, and jumped to the next. Under him, the mass shuddered ominously. Barton quickly scrambled to the next and clung tight. So far so good. The one ahead was a big baby, old and dry and cracked. It jutted up at a steep angle, piled on three beneath it. Like spilled matches.
He jumped. The log split, and he frantically leaped off again. Desperately, he clutched for purchase. His fingers slipped; he fell back. He dug in wildly, trying to draw his body up on a flat surface.
He made it.
Gasping, panting for breath, Barton lay stretched out on the log, waves of relief flooding over him. Finally, he pulled himself to a sitting position. If he could go a little farther he should be able to catch hold of the truck itself. Pull himself onto it. That would be half way. He could rest
He was as far away as before. No closer. For a moment he doubted his sanity; then understanding came. He had got turned around. The logs were a maze. He had got off in the wrong direction, ceased moving toward the truck. He had moved in a closed circle.
The hell with getting out. All he wanted now was to get back to his car. Get back where he had started from. Logs were on all sides of him. Piles and heaps and jutting snouts. Good God, he hadn't come that far in, had he? Was it possible he had got himself in so deep? He was yards from the edge; surely he hadn't managed to crawl that far.
He began crawling around, back the way he had come. The logs swayed and tilted dangerously under him. Fear made him nervous. He lost his grip and fell between two of them. For a blinding, terrifying instant he was underneath, the sunlight was cut off and he was in a closing cave of darkness. He pushed up with all his strength, and one of the logs gave. He scrambled wildly back up, emerged into the sunlight, and lay outstretched, gasping and shuddering.
He lay for an indefinite period. He had lost track of time. The next thing he knew, a voice was speaking to him.
“Mr Barton! Mr Barton! Can you hear me?”
He managed to raise his head. Standing on the road, beyond the logs, was Peter Trilling. He grinned calmly at Barton, hands on his hips, face gleaming and tanned in the bright sunlight. He didn't seem especially worried. In fact, he looked rather pleased.
“Help me,” Barton gasped.
“What are you doing out there?”
“I tried to get across.” Barton pulled himself up to a sitting position. “How the hell am I going to get back?”
And then he noticed something. It wasn't the middle of the day. It was early evening. The sun was setting over the far hills, the giant figure that loomed up at the opposite end of the valley. He examined his wristwatch. It was six-thirty. He had been on the logs seven hours.
“You shouldn't have tried to get across,” Peter said, as he cautiously approached. “If they don't want you to get out you shouldn't try.”
“I got in this damn valley!”
“They must have wanted you in. But they don't want you out. You better be careful. You might get stuck in there and die of starvation.” Peter obviously enjoyed the spectacle. But after a moment he leaped agilely up on the first log and picked his way over to Barton.
Barton got unsteadily to his feet. He was scared clean through. This was his first taste of the powers that operated in the valley. Gratefully, he took hold of Peter's small hand and allowed the boy to lead him back to the edge.
Oddly, it took only a few seconds.
“Thank God.” He wiped his forehead and picked up his coat, where he had tossed it. The air was turning chill; it was cold and late, “I won't try that again, for a while.”
“You better not try it again ever,” Peter said quietly.
Something in the boy's voice made
He approached the logs gingerly. The first wasn't so bad, small and fairly steady. He stepped onto it, caught hold with his hands, and jumped to the next. Under him, the mass shuddered ominously. Barton quickly scrambled to the next and clung tight. So far so good. The one ahead was a big baby, old and dry and cracked. It jutted up at a steep angle, piled on three beneath it. Like spilled matches.
He jumped. The log split, and he frantically leaped off again. Desperately, he clutched for purchase. His fingers slipped; he fell back. He dug in wildly, trying to draw his body up on a flat surface.
He made it.
Gasping, panting for breath, Barton lay stretched out on the log, waves of relief flooding over him. Finally, he pulled himself to a sitting position. If he could go a little farther he should be able to catch hold of the truck itself. Pull himself onto it. That would be half way. He could rest
He was as far away as before. No closer. For a moment he doubted his sanity; then understanding came. He had got turned around. The logs were a maze. He had got off in the wrong direction, ceased moving toward the truck. He had moved in a closed circle.
The hell with getting out. All he wanted now was to get back to his car. Get back where he had started from. Logs were on all sides of him. Piles and heaps and jutting snouts. Good God, he hadn't come that far in, had he? Was it possible he had got himself in so deep? He was yards from the edge; surely he hadn't managed to crawl that far.
He began crawling around, back the way he had come. The logs swayed and tilted dangerously under him. Fear made him nervous. He lost his grip and fell between two of them. For a blinding, terrifying instant he was underneath, the sunlight was cut off and he was in a closing cave of darkness. He pushed up with all his strength, and one of the logs gave. He scrambled wildly back up, emerged into the sunlight, and lay outstretched, gasping and shuddering.
He lay for an indefinite period. He had lost track of time. The next thing he knew, a voice was speaking to him.
“Mr Barton! Mr Barton! Can you hear me?”
He managed to raise his head. Standing on the road, beyond the logs, was Peter Trilling. He grinned calmly at Barton, hands on his hips, face gleaming and tanned in the bright sunlight. He didn't seem especially worried. In fact, he looked rather pleased.
“Help me,” Barton gasped.
“What are you doing out there?”
“I tried to get across.” Barton pulled himself up to a sitting position. “How the hell am I going to get back?”
And then he noticed something. It wasn't the middle of the day. It was early evening. The sun was setting over the far hills, the giant figure that loomed up at the opposite end of the valley. He examined his wristwatch. It was six-thirty. He had been on the logs seven hours.
“You shouldn't have tried to get across,” Peter said, as he cautiously approached. “If they don't want you to get out you shouldn't try.”
“I got in this damn valley!”
“They must have wanted you in. But they don't want you out. You better be careful. You might get stuck in there and die of starvation.” Peter obviously enjoyed the spectacle. But after a moment he leaped agilely up on the first log and picked his way over to Barton.
Barton got unsteadily to his feet. He was scared clean through. This was his first taste of the powers that operated in the valley. Gratefully, he took hold of Peter's small hand and allowed the boy to lead him back to the edge.
Oddly, it took only a few seconds.
“Thank God.” He wiped his forehead and picked up his coat, where he had tossed it. The air was turning chill; it was cold and late, “I won't try that again, for a while.”
“You better not try it again ever,” Peter said quietly.
Something in the boy's voice made
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