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The flames were licking higher, close to his feet, and the
smoke was beginning to billow up from below. It was an odd
position, to say the least, that Peter Bruckner found himself in
now, clutching a hank of rope looped over the ceiling beam, the
bag of gold coins almost exactly his own weight tied to the other
end of the rope and bumping against him. By rights of salvage the
coins were his and all he had to do was get them out of the
inferno. But the problem now seemed to be getting himself out.
"Bruck, you can get out of this," came the voice of his friend
Jim from the scaffolding that hung from a roof joint. Jim was
only seven or eight feet to his right. "Just get yourself
swinging in my direction and let go of the rope. I'll grab you
when your feet hit this scaffolding -- like trapeze artists. Come
on, you can make it."
"I can't," Bruckner yelled back to his friend. "I can't let go
of the gold."
"Forget the gold," Jim yelled. "It's you or the gold. You've
got to make a choice pal."
It would have seemed to an onlooker that the choice was
obvious, but Peter Bruckner wasn't thinking as clearly as he
usually did. He didn't seem to understand that his life was on
the line. The flames licked at his boot soles.
"You don't need that gold, Bruck," his friend yelled. "You've
got a wife, a family, a good job -- a good life. What'll you gain
if you lose it all? Come on. Swing yourself this direction and
let go of the rope. Let the gold go, Bruck."
"I know, Jim. You're right, I do have a lot going for me. But
if I just had a knife, then I could cut the gold from the

rope, tie it to my belt, and swing over to you. Can you get me a
knife, Jim?"
"Bruck, you're thinking crazy. I don't have a knife. I can't
get a knife. That fire's about to barbecue you. Let go of the
gold!" The flames leaped and licked at Peter Bruckner's boot
soles. He yanked his feet back quickly.
"Find a knife, Jim," Bruckner yelled to his friend on the
scaffolding. "Find a knife."
"You can't get a free hand to cut it anyway, Bruck," his
friend yelled back. "By the time I got back, it'd be too late.
Please let it go. Your life depends on this. Let it go."
"I can't, Jim, I can't," Peter Bruckner said. He was in tears
now, but neither his best friend's arguments nor his own tears
could sway him.
"You've got to decide, Bruck. I can't stay any longer myself.
The smoke is getting too thick." Jim practically choked on his
words -- from the smoke and from the sad thought that he might
have to leave his friend.
"I wish I could, Jim," Peter Bruckner said. "I wish I could."
The air around him grew brilliant with flames. There was nothing
else to be said.