Biggles Flies South

by W E Johns

  ‘I have suffered no inconvenience, and, if I had, I cannot see that you need lose any sleep on that account,’ said Biggles in a manner that would have settled an argument with an Englishman there and then.

  But the Turko-Greek only smiled and took out a heavy gold cigarette-case, at the same time, with studied carelessness, allowing the light to fall on an enormous diamond ring which he wore on a rather podgy finger. ‘Will you smoke?’ he murmured.

  If by this ostentatious display of wealth he expected to impress Biggles he was sadly in error, for the result was the reverse. And his next words, after Biggles had refused the preferred case, did nothing to calm Biggles’s rising spleen.

  ‘It is very sad about that unfortunate young man who came to see you tonight,’ he observed, placing his fingers together in an attitude of prayer.

  ‘Why sad?’ asked Biggles crisply, yet not without curiosity.

  The other extended the palms of his hands. ‘To be insane is an unhappy state.’

  ‘Ah!’ murmured Biggles. ‘I see. So he is insane?’

  ‘At least, he suffers from strange delusions.’

  ‘About things like lost oases?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Are you his guardian or something?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘No, but we do not like to see visitors—I might say guests—in our country molested by such people.’

  ‘Just as a matter of interest, how do you know he came here to molest me?’ inquired Biggles.

  The other hesitated for a moment. Then he shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, you see—’

  ‘Yes, I think I see very clearly,’ said Biggles softly. Not for one moment did he believe that there was anything wrong with the young Egyptian.

  ‘Good! I am glad,’ declared Zarwan. ‘You will take no further notice of his foolish ramblings. I hope?’

  ‘None whatever,’ answered Biggles with a curious smile.

  The other’s manner chanqed suddenly. ‘Of course, if you seek adventure, and would like to take part in an expedition, no doubt it could be arranged.’

  ‘You are sending one somewhere, then?’

  The other nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘and an aeroplane would perhaps be useful.’

  Biggles hesitated. He had, of course, no intention of accepting the man’s offer, or even considering it, but he was trying to work out the wisest policy to pursue. There was no point in deliberately making an enemy of the man, if, by pretending to play into his hands, there was a chance that he might learn something. Yet a moment’s reflection was enough to convince him that such a course was unthinkable. He could not associate with a man whose very presence was distasteful. In the end he compromised. ‘We are on our way to Capetown,’ he said casually. ‘We shall be leaving in a day or two.’

  The other bowed. ‘Perhaps you are wise,’ he murmured.

  Biggles frowned. Even if he made an enemy of him he was not prepared to accept threats from such a man. ‘Just what do you mean by that?’ he asked coldly.

  The half-caste, with a natural but significant movement, put his hand into his breast pocket and allowed it to remain there. ‘Visitors in Egypt are well advised not to become inquisitive in matters that do not concern them,’ he said softly.

  Again Biggles hesitated, controlling an urge to kick the man off the terrace. ‘I gather that it would annoy you if we took part in another expedition.’

  ‘It would be imprudent of you to take part in an expedition that might interfere with my own.’

  Biggles kept control of himself by an effort. ‘I see,’ he said smiling, but there was no humour in his eyes. ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’

  Zarwan bowed. ‘It is a great relief to hear you say that,’ he said glibly. ‘With your permission I will now withdraw, regretting the necessity for troubling you.’ He held out his hand, but Biggles was busy lighting a cigarette.

  When he looked up the man had gone, so he flicked aside the spent match and turned to Algy. ‘You will go a long way before you meet a nastier piece of work than that,’ he said quietly. ‘Did you notice the whites of his eyes? They were yellow, like those of a wolf, and never by any chance did he look any one of us straight in the face.’

  ‘Why didn’t you kick the oily-faced hog into the road?’ demanded Algy hotly. ‘I would have done.’

  ‘And spent the rest of our stay in Egypt preventing people from sticking knives into us,’ replied Biggles calmly. ‘Oh, no. I should say that that gentleman is a knife-thrower in a big way. There was no sense in precipitating an exhibition of it; that will come soon enough, if I know my man.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean,’ answered Biggles, ‘if it is all the same to you, I am going with our young Egyptian friend to help him to find Cambyses and his merry men—or what is left of them.’

  ‘When are you going to start—tomorrow?’ asked Ginger eagerly.

  Biggles smiled. ‘I shouldn’t think so. As they have been lost for about twenty-five hundred years, a day or two more or less shouldn’t make much difference. But what about a spot of bed? It must be getting late.’

  Chapter 6

  A Disconcerting Discovery

  From a height of nearly ten thousand feet Biggles looked down on a land that was old when Cambyses came to it.1 The Nile and its clustering rice fields with their irrigation ditches had long been left behind; the groups of palms and scattered settlements had become more and more widely parted, and now the open desert lay ahead.

  Nearly three weeks had elapsed since Kadar had escaped death in the garden of the hotel in Cairo, and for the little party of explorers they had been busy ones. On the morning following the affair in the hotel garden Biggles had announced his willingness to undertake the flight with Kadar provided his father was prepared to pay the expenses involved, and to this the learned Egyptian professor had readily agreed. The expenses, it transpired, were not so heavy on account of the air journey—since they already had an aircraft—as for the ground organization. Fuel and stores would be required at the proposed base at Semphis, and, quite apart from their original cost, there was the question of transport. As it happened, Kadar’s plans in his respect were already made, so, three days after Biggles’s decision, a caravan had departed for the rendezvous, taking such things as would be required for a two or three weeks’ stay. Relieved of this responsibility, the airmen were free to make their plans, and with these they had been able to proceed carefully, for it was proposed not to start until the caravan had reached, or nearly reached, its destination. There would, of course, be no point in their doing so, for in any case they would have to await the arrival of the extra fuel before undertaking any long-distance flights.

  Nothing more had been seen or heard of Zarwan, much to Biggles’s surprise and relief, for, knowing the type of man he was dealing with, he was fully prepared for him to cause mischief; but in the circumstances it could only be assumed that his veiled threat had merely been bluff to try to prevent Biggles and his companions becoming interested in Kadar’s undertaking. Nevertheless, they were on their guard, for Kadar was convinced that the attempt on his life had been instigated by his crafty rival. There was, however, he explained, just a slight chance that the attack had been planned by someone else. There was in Egypt, he told them, a religious sect opposed to anything in the nature of exploration; but their activities had hitherto been directed against the mercenaries who did not hesitate to despoil tombs, or even violate the bodies of the dead, for monetary gain; and in view of his sincere pursuit of knowledge he thought it most unlikely that they would offer him violence or attempt to thwart his plans.

  Only one point worried Biggles, and that was the matter of landing in the desert, or coming down at other than a recognized aerodrome. While they were on the great Imperial Airways southern route down Africa, which they had followed as far as Assiut, this did not arise, but thereafter any landing was bound to be subject to a certain amount of risk. Without landing there was no means of ascertaining what the surface
of the ground was like, and there was, in fact, no way of overcoming this difficulty. Biggles did not forget that while firm sand provided an excellent surface, soft sand can be fatal to an aeroplane. The machine can land, provided the sand is not too soft, but it cannot take off again, the reason being that the wheels sink into the ground and get clogged, which prevents the aeroplane getting sufficient flying speed to rise—as more than one unlucky pilot has discovered to his cost. Soft snow acts in very much the same way.

  This, then, was Biggles’s chief concern as he left the main air route at Assiut and, turning westward, headed out over the open desert towards the rendezvous at Semphis. They saw nothing of the caravan, nor did they expect to, for it was coming from another direction, via Siwah Oasis, over what is generally supposed to have been Alexander the Great’s line of march.

  So far the journey had been uneventful and comparatively simple. The travellers had done most of their flying in the early hours of the morning, which is the best time for flying in Egypt, as the air is apt to become very bumpy during the heat of the day.

  On this, their final long run to Semphis, they had started before dawn in the hope of reaching their objective before the real heat of the midday sun made flying uncomfortable. And in this they were successful, for, shortly after the machine began to climb what seemed to be a series of invisible waves, the oasis crept up over the horizon—much to Biggles’s relief, for on such a flight a slight error of judgment, or in the compass, might have tragic results.

  On all sides lay the desert, a wilderness of sand, grim, stark, silent, and relentless: a place of death. No wonder the Tuareg, the fierce, veiled warriors of the desert, called it the Region of Devils, thought Ginger, as he regarded it through the cabin window with inward misgivings. As far as the eye could see stretched the sand; it seemed incredible that there could be so much. For the most part it was flat, or slightly undulating, but farther to the south it lay in great piled-up dunes, some with curling crests, like a yellow, storm-tossed sea suddenly arrested in motion. From time to time the dunes appeared to quiver as if the merciless sun, from a sky of steely blue, tormented them with its fiery rays.

  Ginger shivered suddenly in spite of the heat, and turning his eyes, looked out ahead. In the clear, dry atmosphere the oasis could be seen from a great distance, how far he was able to judge from the fact that it took the Tourer nearly half an hour to reach it.

  Biggles was watching the belt of palm-trees closely. As he had been given to expect, there was no sign of life, so after circling once or twice in order to try and pick out the most suitable place for a landing, he throttled back and began to glide down. If he felt any qualms he showed none, but secretly he was more than a little relieved when the wheels bumped slightly on hard ground and the machine ran to a standstill on the western edge of the fairly extensive group of palms.

  Nothing, except possibly a South Sea island, lives up to its reputation more than an oasis in a desert. It is all that has been written and said of it, and the Oasis of Semphis was no exception; so it was, therefore, with considerable satisfaction that Biggles taxied the machine into the deepest shade of the palms and switched off the engines.

  ‘Well, here we are.’ he announced. ‘Let’s get out and stretch our legs. Phew! It’s warm, isn’t it? I think a little refreshment would not come amiss.’

  They got out, but before doing anything else they all assisted in covering the engines, the fuselage, and the wings with the dark-green covers which had been brought for the purpose, both as a protection against the sun, and to prevent the sand from silting in. This applied particularly to the engines. This done, they quenched their thirst, and then proceeded to make camp, or rather, prepare a site, with such limited stores as they had at their disposal. This was soon done, and, the task completed, they settled down to await the arrival of the caravan.

  Biggles fetched his maps, and, in close conference with Kadar, checked up the marks he had made on it, one of which, covering a fairly large area, was the most likely site of the Lost Oasis of Zenzura. Ginger, however, was soon tired of watching this; his restless spirit chafed at the delay, so he decided to pass the time by exploring the oasis. Algy, having nothing better to do, went with him.

  It was not a very exciting pastime. The oasis was, as nearly as they could judge it, between two and three miles long and about half a mile wide, but there was a tiresome monotony about it. On the outskirts it began with straggling date-palms, their sun-scorched boles rising straight out of the sand. The trees became closer together, however, and taller in habit, with frequent pendant clusters of fruit, as they neared the depression in the centre where the much-trampled water-hole was situated. Round it for some distance grew a kind of coarse grass, and in one place a fearsome growth of prickly pear raised its thick, lozenge-shaped foliage, studded with small scarlet fruits. That was all. The heat, even in the shade, was intense, and the two wanderers were soon glad to rejoin the others. Ginger, still restless, walked over to the machine, ostensibly to make sure that the dust-covers were secure, but in reality simply for something to do.

  Satisfied that the covers would not move if there came a wind, he was about to turn away when his nostrils caught the faint but unmistakable smell of petrol. Standing quite still, wondering whether he should call Biggles, he distinctly heard a slight phut. He was on his hands and knees instantly, crawling under the centre of the fuselage, from where the sound had seemed to come. Nor was he mistaken. A few seconds later a drop of petrol splashed on the back of his outstretched hand. Quickly, he scrambled out. ‘Hi! Biggles!’ he called urgently. ‘Come here!’

  Biggles dropped his map and came at a run, followed more slowly by the others. ‘What is it?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘Petrol is leaking from somewhere.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘It seems to be coming out of the main tank.’

  Biggles said nothing. In a moment he was under the machine, feeling the fabric on the bottom of the fuselage. Almost as quickly he scrambled out, and swinging himself up to the, cockpit, looked at the petrol gauge on the instrument-board. One glance was enough. Another second and he was down. ‘Bear a hand, everybody,’ he snapped. ‘Get that fabric off—cut it if necessary.’

  A few minutes of frantic effort and the truth was revealed. The rear main tank was leaking through a small round hole in the bottom. Biggles examined it closely before plugging it with a piece of chewing-gum from the small store they carried as a thirst preventive, and then covered it with a piece of adhesive plaster from the medicine chest.2

  ‘That will have to do for the time being,’ he said quietly. ‘We can do nothing more. If we try siphoning what little petrol we have left into another tank we shall lose most of it by evaporation.’

  Algy looked at him with startled eyes. ‘How much is there left?’ he asked in an odd tone of voice.

  Biggles hesitated for a moment. ‘About half as much as we should need to get back to the nearest point of civilization,’ he answered, speaking very slowly and distinctly. ‘You remember that before we started I insisted that we should carry enough fuel to get us back should anything go wrong with the caravan.’

  ‘Yes—we did that.’

  ‘Quite. Well, as a result of this leak, I reckon we’ve enough petrol left, including what is in the gravity tank, for a little more than one hour’s flying. We were flying over desert for more than three hours getting here. Work that out for yourself.’

  ‘We shall be all right when the caravan arrives,’ declared Ginger optimistically.

  Biggles threw him a sidelong glance. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘we shall—provided it does arrive.’

  ‘If it doesn’t?’ asked Kadar.

  Biggles smiled faintly. ‘You should know better than any one else the answer to that question. I think it would be better not to dwell on that—anyway, not until tonight, by which time the caravan should be here.’

  ‘What an unfortunate accident,’ muttered Kadar.

  Biggles laughed
harshly. ‘Accident! That hole in our tank could only have been made with one thing, a pointed instrument; and, believe me, that couldn’t happen by accident.’

  * * *

  1 Egypt had been a kingdom for over 1,600 years when it was conquered by Cambyses in 525 B.C..

  2 More than one famous long-distance airman has mended a leaking tank or petrol-lead in this fashion.

  Chapter 7

  The End of the Trail

  The caravan did not arrive that evening. It did not arrive that night. Nor did it arrive the next day, although just as the sun was sinking below the horizon, and the purple dusk was closing in around them, the airmen had their first glimpse of the primeval dwellers of the endless sands when a party of those mysterious, blue-veiled warriors of the desert, the dreaded Tuareg, the ‘Forgotten God’, came riding out of the sunset.

  The airmen were sitting talking round their meagre stores on the edge of the oasis when Kadar suddenly stiffened and glanced up. ‘Tuareg,’ he said softly. ‘Take no notice. They may mean no harm—or they may. One can never be sure.’ The others turned to look. From out of the west, looming gigantic in the half light, came a line of veiled warriors mounted on tall Mehari camels. They rode in silence, the feet of their mounts making no noise on the sand. Looking neither to right nor left, without showing by sign or movement that they had seen the hated Roumi, the white man—which they must have done—they passed on, as sinister, as evil, as impassive as death, their shrouded figures the embodiment of hostility and cold malevolence. Gazing straight ahead in the gathering darkness, like spectral shapes they disappeared behind a dune, leaving behind them a chill of sullen enmity.

  Biggles drew a deep breath. ‘It looks as if we shall have to take turns to keep guard,’ he said.

  But the night passed without the return of the warriors. When the dawn came they were out of sight.