"Can you?" Iverson asked finally. Her time had run out.

Over the cringing claustrophobia, her mind had begun to chant the Little Engine That Could's mantra. She gave the cave specialist the edited version. "Sure."

Oscar Iverson had vanished into what in any other law enforcement organization might have been gloriously termed a council of war. Under the civilizing influence of the NPS it was called a "team briefing." In an attempt to feel unity and coherence during cuts and down-sizings, the Park Service had begun to overuse comforting words: team, group, symposium, cluster. Words to keep from feeling alone and, if necessary, to diffuse the blame.

Anna had been handed over to two cavers from Palo Alto, California. Timmy, a man who when aboveground was actually employed as a bona fide rocket scientist, though he preferred a less incendiary title, and his wife, Lisa, a New Zealander who had caved all over the world, enjoying photographic junkets in places with such alluring names as the Grim Crawl of Death.

Had Anna been able to focus on anything other than not getting the shakes, she might have enjoyed the transformation process. Like an ugly duckling in an old movie, she was made over from head to toe. She was fitted with a brimless helmet and a battery-powered lamp strapped on with elastic. The batteries, three C-cells, resided in a black plastic case at the back of the helmet. The pack Timmy and Lisa put together for her was unlike anything she had used before. An elongated sack with a drawstring top, it was worn on the hip, with the strap over the opposite shoulder, like a woman's purse. A second strap secured it loosely around the waist.

"It's a sidepack," Lisa explained as Anna fussed with the unfamiliar equipment, unable to get comfortable. "In tight squeezes you can slip it off easily and shove it ahead. Or tie it to your foot and drag it behind."