Dumbly, Anna nodded. The image gave her the willies.

"You could probably take a regular pack where you're going. Tons of room," Timmy said, and Anna wondered what had given her away, the bloodless lips or the slight trembling in her knees. She doubted Timmy's words were meant kindly. There was a coldness in him that she suspected was born of contempt. In the narrow world of a specialty-diving, climbing, caving-cliques formed, egos became wrapped in layer after layer of shared hype, of the glamour of overcoming real and imagined dangers, of feeling the exquisite pleasure of keeping secrets denied the uninitiated. Devotees ran the risk of becoming intoxicated by their own differences. Finally they came to resemble the stereotypical Parisian; if one couldn't speak his language, and flawlessly, the conversation was over.

Screw him, Anna thought uncharitably.

"How about Razor Blade Run?" Lisa asked her husband. Lisa was in her forties and wore her hair in two long plaits that reached to the back of her knees. Her face was round and gave the impression of being lumpy, but her eyes were fine, and Anna'd seen a smile transform her into an exotic kind of beauty.

"Okay, you'll need a sidepack at Razor Blade," Timmy conceded. He was a spare man, shorter than his wife and leaner, with pale wisps of hair defining upper lip and chin. His eyes, colorless behind tinted glasses, took on a faraway look as his hands continued buckling the web gear girdling Anna. "And the Wormhole," he said finally.

"And coming out of Tinker's," his wife added.

"I get the picture," Anna snapped.

Chastened, the two cavers stopped talking. It was clear they were sensitive individuals, aware they'd offended. Equally clear was the fact that they hadn't a clue as to why. The few cavers with whom Anna had ever conversed insisted that they, better than anyone, understood claustrophobia because, when wedged in some tight Floyd Collinsian crack with the very real possibility of never getting out, they felt fear.