"James Rollins - Subterranean" - читать интересную книгу автора (Romeyn Henry)

"Why? Sounds like they already went over everything with a fine-tooth comb."

She shook her head. "No. Clues are too often missed. Even after years of study. I need more time."

"But why bother? We might find a lot more answers duringour exploration."

"I hope so." She crawled her way toward the entrance. Ben offered his hand to her as she exited. She
took it, his hand hot in her cold palm. He pulled her toward him. She was surprised by his strength, and
her left foot slipped in the damp hollow of the cave's firepit and she fell backward, landing her backside
squarely into the firepit and dragging Ben down on top of her.

Ben's nose lay an inch from her breast. He looked up at her. "You're not going to hit me again, are you?"

"Sorry. I slipped." She blushed furiously, his body pressing hard on hers.

He cleared his throat. "No apology necessary," he said, grinning down at her. "A few more slips like this
and we might have to get married."

She grimaced at him. "Just get off of me." She meant to be stern, but couldn't quite pull it off.

Suddenly, uncontrolled, she began laughing. She couldn't help it. And couldn't stop it. "I mean it . . ." she
said between laughs. "Get off!"

Looking at her oddly, he crawled off her. "It's good to hear you laugh."

She wiped a tear from her eye, still wracked with occasional bursts of laughter. She dropped her head
back on the floor, trying to catch her breath. She stared at the ceiling. And saw it. Up there on the ceiling,
behind the lip of the entrance. "Goddamn!"

She squinted again at the ceiling. It wasn't her imagination. "Goddamn it!"

She sat up.

"What is it?" Ben asked, a concerned look on his face.

"Those amateurs said they had searched every square inch of this site. No artwork. No cave drawings."
She pointed to the ceiling. "Then what the hell is that?"

Ben leaned over and twisted his head around. "What is what?"
"You have to lay down. I think that's why no one's found it." She moved to the side so he could lay
down beside her. She pointed with the light of her headlamp. "Right there! Look!"

The crude carving stood in the circle of her light. Only a hand span wide, an oval was chiseled into the
ceiling, bisected by a jagged line, like a lightning bolt.

Ben reached up and, with a long whistle, traced it with his finger. His next words were a whisper. "You
know, this sort of looks familiar."

"What do you mean?" She expected some wisecrack.