CHAPTER III
An Arctic Blizzard
On and on, over pale gray wastes, above fleecy clouds and heavy fogs;high up over tossing waters, and floating mountains of ice—not a stopfor fuel, with engines silenced until they flew like bats in thenight, the Greyhound leading the way, and Epworth sticking to it likea dark, hungry shadow with his ship lines camouflaged by sky bluepaint, and his eyes ever vigilant.
How Billy managed to keep the three red lights going notwithstandingthe fact that he was a captive was a mystery that Epworth did notattempt to solve. It was being done, and Epworth was contented tofollow.
At last Northeastern Siberia, and a mysterious range of mountains.Epworth, taking his position, knew them for the Cherski Mountains,recently discovered and completely unexplored—a barren, cold, lifelessregion bordering on the Arctic Ocean a thousand miles from the outmostlimits.
How long would this journey last? Where would the Greyhound lead? Hadthe sky bandits discovered that they were being followed, and werethey leading him into a death trap amid a vast wilderness of ice?
He examined his gas supply. Joan looked at him inquiringly.
“Just about enough to take us back to Point Hope.”
Her eyes sought the cowling of the little machine fearfully.
“Shall we go back?”
She pointed at the Greyhound.
“Billy is in that ship,” she replied softly. “We cannot leave him. Hisliberty, and very likely his life, depend upon our actions.”
He put his hand affectionately on her shoulder—just like a chum. Fewbrothers loved their sisters as Epworth loved Joan.
“You are the bravest, squarest girl in the world. I knew you would sayit. But——”
He shook his head.
“We will have to depend upon stealing enough gas from the tank of theGreyhound to get back,” she added smilingly.
Now the Greyhound turned abruptly westward, and followed the CherskiMountains, lowering its altitude to five hundred feet above thehighest peak. Epworth followed persistently, keeping a higheraltitude.
“Small wonder,” Joan remarked as she watched the shadow of theGreyhound flit swiftly over the face of the white-capped ridges, “thatthe governments could not locate them. With their swift airplanes theydart down on the commerce of the world like Omar on a desert caravan,and are back in their hidden North Pole lair before the robbery isknown by the authorities. Where are we?”
“Eight hundred miles north by west of Bogosloff Island, perhaps athousand miles.”
“So far,” Joan observed patiently, “we have had unusually evenweather. Now we are going to have an Arctic blizzard.”
She pointed north over the long reach of ocean that came up to lashthe mountains beneath them. Epworth shivered. Then he smiled.
“We have a mighty staunch little airship.”
She did not answer for several moments. Would these bandits go onforever? Was there no hole anywhere for them to hide in?
“The Greyhound has disappeared,” Joan suddenly broke out excitedly. “Isaw it just a moment ago behind that distant peak.”
Epworth glanced out of the window. A sudden sheet of frozen snow and arain of heavy chunks of ice struck the window. It came with terrificfury, unexpected. However, he had adjusted the stabilizer, andnotwithstanding the fact that the little ship was tossed up and downlike a feather and went lop-sided for a second it weathered thefurious burst, and staggered on like a wounded bird.
Epworth gave one more look for the Greyhound. Not a thing was nowvisible—not even the rugged snow mountains below. With a grave face hebanked and faced the storm, putting on every ounce of power the enginewould carry. The little plane stood still, poised like an eagle, withthe bronzed shadow of its wings dipped in the immensity of gray stormand whirling, shrieking wind.
On the windows of his ship the rubber vacuum wipers stopped, chokedimmovable by lumps of ice hurled against the glazed surface. To seeout was impossible—he was shooting through darkness, a howling,shrieking, terrifying murk created by storm. He glanced at Joan. Shesmiled at him to cheer him, but it was a courageous effort to conquera mighty fear.
He must see out. If they moved forward in the direction they wereheaded they would be forced out over the ocean, away from the skybandits’ retreat. That camp was somewhere in this range of mountains.He had a hunch that it was not far away. If he succeeded in hismission he must keep the mountains in view and make a search when thefrenzy of the storm had passed.
Nevertheless he moved with slow deliberation. He pasted a small stripof inch-thick Balsa wood beneath the wipers on the window, lighted twocandles and stuck them on the Balsa shelf thus made. It wasdangerous—deadly dangerous. If the storm shot a flash of that blazeinto the gas tank the end would be instantaneous. He smiled grimly,and nodded at his sister. The girl bowed her head in acquiescence. Shealso realized the danger of a flame of fire at this time.
The heat of the candles warmed the window and the wipers began tomove, clearing the space for visibility.
His observations were useless. All he could see was a world ofwhirling snow and ice.
He sought altitude. But the higher he ascended the fiercer grew thestorm. Then he nosed down slowly until he stood a thousand feet abovethe highest mountain. Then he slowed his engines and allowed the stormto push him backwards. He was seeking the neighborhood where he hadlast seen the Greyhound.
Again he turned his eyes on Joan. She was taking the battle like aTrojan.
“You are very brave,” he said gently.
“And the boy with me is not a coward,” she replied softly.
She gave him her hand, and there was not a tremble in it.
“I have lost our reckoning, but——”
The sentence was not completed. The tempest increased withirresistible fury, and shot them down obliquely, catching thestarboard wing, and with weird, demoniacal power whirled the planeover and over in a rush of air that the propellers were unable tostop.
Joan was hurled into Epworth’s arms, and both were tossed up and downin their seats, and against the light cowling. Each second theyexpected to be hurled out of the cabin. In order to lessen the dangerEpworth shut off the engine. At least there would be no fire.
“We must jump,” he explained briefly. “The plane is whirling over andover and will strike a peak soon.”
“Small chance for an umbrella in a storm like this,” Joan returnedquite calmly. “It will be whipped into strips.”
“Yet the parachute is our only hope.”
He hooked the package around her shoulders and adjusted it carefully.Then he put one around his own shoulders, and handed her a packagethat he took from a pocket in the fuselage.
“Some useful articles, and a little food and water,” he informed her.“May come in useful. We can’t tell what is ahead of us.”
“Good bye, sister.”
“Good bye, brother.”
They smiled at each other, and jumped.
The Moon Colony Page 3