by W E Johns
‘Maybe. Maybe not. From what his father told me Adrian was more interested in genuine archaeology. Having money of his own, I imagine he’d get a bigger thrill from discovering something that might throw a light on the original inhabitants of what is now the Sahara, before it completely dried up. But that’s enough. I’ve talked myself dry. Ginger, you might slip over to the machine and fetch some soda water from the fridge. Tomorrow we’ll have another bash at the mountains.’
CHAPTER 5
STRANGE DEVELOPMENTS
Dawn saw the Merlin again in the air, heading for the hills, this time on a slightly different course, one calculated to strike the objective nearer to the middle; that is to say, beyond the point where the reconnaissance of the previous day had been concluded.
It was thought they might see the caravan that had produced the mirage, and they did. Within a quarter of an hour it could be seen in front of them, six camels in line winding through the great dunes. The caravan did not stop, although the raiders must have heard the plane long before it was over their heads.
‘They must have seen us,’ remarked Ginger, looking down from five thousand feet.
‘Of course,’ replied Biggles. ‘They have no reason to stop; and I could see no reason why we should try to avoid being seen. We’ve no proof that they are concerned with what we are doing. We shall reach the hills, and that must be where they’re making for, long before them. They can’t move any faster.’
The Merlin went on, quickly overtaking the earth-bound travellers. Bertie picked up the binoculars and focused on them.
‘What can you see?’ asked Biggles.
‘Five riders and what seems to be a pack animal, well loaded.’
‘Are they looking up?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘You can’t see a white face?’
‘No. Their heads seem to be muffled up.’
‘If they’re Tuareg they would be. I can’t imagine anyone else doing what they’re doing. The Tuareg wrap their heads in blue veils, which is why the Arabs sometimes call them the People of the Veil. I’m told they never uncover their faces, even to eat. They merely lift the veil.’
‘But aren’t the Tuareg Arabs?’
‘No. They’re a tribe on their own. Some experts have worked it out that they’re the last descendants of the nation that once occupied all this country. That was before it dried up, of course. They have the reputation of being tough fighters — and fast travellers. Here today and gone tomorrow. I don’t think it happens now, but years ago more than one French outpost of the Foreign Legion was wiped out by them.’
‘Then let’s hope we don’t get in each other’s way,’ said Bertie.
The aircraft bored on under the usual implacable sky of deepest blue. The hills came into view, fringing the horizon like the spine of a prehistoric monster.
Ginger put a question to Biggles. ‘Why do you suppose the caravan went to El Arig before making for the hills, if that’s where they’re going?’
‘Possibly because El Arig was the nearest convenient oasis.’
‘There are other oases to the north. According to the map a string of oases runs out into desert from Siwa. They were no use to us because we were told there were no landing grounds; but that wouldn’t prevent camels travelling that way.’
‘I wouldn’t know the answer to that unless it was because other people use those oases. Maybe the men with the caravan coming this way didn’t want it known where they were going. In the desert people are curious, and news travels fast. I don’t see that it matters, although I must admit it’s a bit queer that a caravan should be on its way to a district, where no one ever goes, at the same time as ourselves. From what I could gather at Siwa no one ever came here, one reason being there was no water, and, secondly, there was nothing to come for. Not even Arabs venture into the big sands for no reason whatsoever. But here we are. Keep a sharp lookout for anyone moving, or anything that looks like wheel tracks or a burnt out plane.’
‘If by some remote chance Mander should still be alive, surely he’d run into the open to show himself when he heard us,’ said Bertie.
‘One would think so. He’d realize we could only be a relief plane looking for him. No doubt he’d be mighty glad to see us, because if he should be here it would hardly be from choice. He promised his father he’d keep in touch, and there’s every reason to think he’d do that while it was possible. As nothing has been heard of him, we must assume something went wrong. Of course, he may not have got as far as this.’
‘And if he didn’t?’ queried Ginger.
‘Then his machine must be on the ground somewhere between here and Siwa, his jumping off place. In that case he couldn’t possibly be alive. He wouldn’t have a hope. Nor would his partner, Sekunder.’
The Merlin had now reached the hills. They looked much the same as those they had seen the previous day. Some may have been higher, running up perhaps to three or four hundred feet. None was really large enough to be called a mountain, although in comparison with the more or less flat ground from which they sprang, they gave an impression of considerable height. The aircraft, as was intended, made contact with them roughly at the spot where the previous day’s search had ended.
The picture presented was a grim one: nothing but masses of rock, large and small, covering an area from half a mile to a mile wide, with sand drifts between them. This chaos was bounded by what looked like cracked, sun-dried mud, quite flat, as if ironed out by running water. There was no sign of life, nothing to support life; no water, not a tree, a bush or a blade of grass.
The rocks, split and cracked by the sun and blasted by wind-driven sand into fantastic shapes, were hideous to behold. Some had been reduced to cones. A common shape was that of a great mushroom, the base having been eaten away to provide a stalk that supported a huge flat cap. Some stood erect, others leaned at angles as if ready to fall at a touch. Many had in fact fallen. White objects that were judged to be bones could be seen, so scattered that it was not possible to say if they were the remains of man or beast.
Biggles remarked that these suggested that conditions could not always have been as bad as they were now, or they would not have been there.
‘What a hope we’ve got, looking for one particular pinnacle of rock in that mess,’ muttered Ginger.
Biggles answered: ‘Find Mander’s aircraft. If it’s here he won’t be far away from it, alive or dead.’
He flew on, as low as conditions allowed, crossing and recrossing the rock-strewn area, even weaving between the higher hills; attention was also turned to the hard ground outside the rocks, since only on this would it be possible for an aircraft to land. Anywhere else and collision with rock would be inevitable.
‘I wonder what became of those gazelles we saw,’ said Ginger. ‘They must still be about somewhere.’
‘Probably tucked themselves between some rocks where we wouldn’t be able to see them,’ suggested Biggles. ‘I’m not going much farther. I’ve had about enough of this. I’ll do another two or three miles then make for home. One more day should finish the job. I mean, it should see us to the end of the hills, and that’s as much as I intend to do. I’m not starting on the open desert. We haven’t enough petrol for that, anyway.’
Nobody objected, for the ‘bumps’ caused by thermals flung up from the sun-tortured rocks made flying anything but comfortable.
‘What about that caravan?’ questioned Bertie. ‘Aren’t you going to check what it’s doing here?’
‘No. I’m not interested. I don’t see how it can be anything to do with us or what we’re doing. If it’s out on a treasure hunt I wish it joy. As far as I’m concerned it’s welcome to all the emeralds it can find.’
A few minutes later Biggles announced his intention of returning to base. ‘We’ve done about all we could reasonably be expected to do,’ he asserted. ‘How much farther do these confounded rocks go, I wonder? That’s the curse of not having a map; but one can’t get maps of
ground that has never been properly surveyed.’
‘Not much point in surveying this lot,’ remarked Bertie. ‘It’ll be some time before these developer chaps, who are knocking things to pieces at home, put up a block of flats here.’
‘Just a minute,’ cut in Ginger, sharply. ‘Carry on for a bit, Biggles. I can see something not far ahead.’
‘Such as what?’
‘It looks like a wisp of smoke.’
‘Oh here, I say, don’t tell me some silly blighter is feeling the cold,’ chuckled Bertie.
Nobody smiled.
‘Have you both lost your sense of humour?’ protested Bertie. ‘That was intended to be a joke.’
‘I’m not in a funny mood at the moment,’ answered Biggles shortly. He was flying along the outside limit of the rocks peering into the glare of the heat-distorted atmosphere ahead.
‘You’re right, Ginger,’ he said presently. ‘That’s smoke.’
‘Then there’s somebody there.’
‘Must be.’
‘What do you make of that?’
‘Unless someone is frying up his breakfast, which doesn’t seem very likely, it can only be a signal.’
‘That means somebody has seen us.’
‘Or heard us. If we’re between him and the eye of the sun, he wouldn’t see us. He’d blind himself if he tried.’
‘I suppose it couldn’t be the caravan people?’
‘No. Definitely. That won’t get here for another forty-eight hours at the earliest.’
‘There he is. I can see him,’ cried Ginger.
The solitary figure that had run out from the rocks into the open, and was now doing a sort of war dance, must have been seen by all of them. In all the landscape it was the only thing that moved.
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Ginger, as the aircraft closed on the gesticulating figure.
‘We shall have to go down.’
‘Make sure first that it’s a white man.’
‘How are we going to do that? No white man could stay white for very long in this climate. We’re the colour of chestnuts ourselves.’
‘But look here, old boy, I don’t see how that could be Mander,’ put in Bertie.
‘Why not?’
‘Where’s his plane? I can’t see one. He wouldn’t go far from it.’
‘There may be an answer to that,’ answered Biggles. ‘I’m going to fly past him at ground level. I shall have to be careful, but you can have a good look. See what you can make of him. I shan’t risk a landing unless I’m sure there’s a good reason.’
The figure, now obviously that of a man, although there was a small chance of it being a woman, apparently satisfied that he had been seen, was now standing still with his arms held high.
Biggles took the Merlin down to within a few feet of the ground and flew past. He did not even glance at the solitary figure. In the bumpy conditions he dare not take his eyes off the ground in front of his wheels.
‘Well?’ he asked as, his purpose accomplished, he eased the stick back.
‘I’d say he’s a white man, but I wouldn’t swear to it,’ was Ginger’s opinion.
‘He’s as dark as an Arab, but I don’t think he is one,’ said Bertie.
‘Never mind the colour of his skin; how was he dressed?’ questioned Biggles. ‘That should tell us what we want to know.’
‘He hadn’t much on,’ informed Ginger.
‘And what he had was mostly rags,’ said Bertie. ‘They looked to me like the remains of an old pair of shorts and a shirt.’
‘Nothing on his head?’
‘Nothing. But he seemed to have plenty of hair.’
‘If Mander has been here for a couple of months you wouldn’t expect his hair to be short,’ returned Biggles. ‘I’m going down. It must be either Mander or Sekunder.’
‘How do you make that out?’ demanded Ginger. ‘If they got here surely they’d keep together. Besides, where’s the plane?’
‘That’s what I’m going to find out,’ stated Biggles. ‘The ground looks a bit rough, but it’s flat, and I can’t see anything to do us a mischief. This may be a bit tricky, so don’t speak, anyone.’
Nothing more was said. Biggles brought the machine round and the engines died as he made his approach run. Everyone knew only too well what was at stake. A crack-up, or even the slightest damage to the Merlin, would mean they would be unable to get off again; and that would result in a situation about which it was better not to think.
In the event Biggles made a perfect landing, although the cracks in the ground produced an uncomfortable amount of vibration; and in the still air the machine ran on some way before coming to a stop. Handling the aircraft gently, Biggles brought it round to meet the unknown man who tottered and staggered as he hurried after them.
‘He’s sick, whoever he is,’ remarked Biggles.
‘Who wouldn’t be, in a devil’s cauldron like this?’ murmured Ginger.
The man had fallen before they reached him, but he remained on all fours waving feebly.
Biggles stopped. They all jumped down and hastened to him. His first words proclaimed his nationality. ‘Thank God you’ve come,’ he said huskily, in perfect English. ‘I was just about all in.’
‘Is your name Adrian Mander?’ asked Biggles.
‘Yes. That’s me.’
‘Good. Your father sent us out to look for you. Are you ill?’
‘No. There’s nothing wrong with me except that I’m half-starved to death.’
‘We’ll soon put that right,’ promised Biggles. ‘I’d have thought you’d have been more likely to die of thirst.’
‘No fear of that. There’s water here.’
Biggles looked astonished. “The devil there is! Where is it?’
‘I’ll show you.’
‘Never mind. I don’t need it. Where’s Sekunder?’
‘Gone.’
‘Gone where? How?’
‘He pushed off in my plane.’
‘Do you mean he went off, leaving you here?’
‘That’s right.’
‘But didn’t he leave you food, water, and—’
‘He left me nothing. He just left me to die, as he thought. We didn’t know about the water then. He expected to find me dead when he came back.’
‘Is he coming back?’
‘Oh yes. He’ll come back.’ Mander’s voice was bitterly sarcastic.
‘Ah well. Forget it,’ rejoined Biggles. ‘Come on. We’ll get you in the machine and you can pack some grub inside you on the way home.’
‘Thanks. But I’m not going home.’
Biggles looked startled. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said I wasn’t going home — not yet, anyway.’
‘You’ve been out in the sun without a hat,’ diagnosed Biggles.
‘Nothing of the sort. If you’ll leave me some grub I shall be all right. You go on home. Now you know where I am, you might come back for me later.’
‘What’s the idea?’
‘I’m not letting that little swine Sekunder get away with this. My guv’nor was right about him.’
‘I suppose you know what you’re saying. I’d have thought you’d had more than enough of this inferno.’
‘I can take a bit more. You get along, unless you care to stay long enough for me to tell you what happened here.’
Biggles shrugged. ‘All right, if that’s how you feel. We’ll do that. An hour one way or the other can’t make much difference as long as you’re getting some food down you. Give a hand, chaps, to get him in the cabin. We’ll get out of the sun, too, or we’re all likely to be round the bend.’
‘I can show you a spot of shade, under a hill,’ offered Mander. ‘It’s no distance and close to the water supply. It’s where I’ve spent most of my time.’
‘You must have got pretty bored,’ said Ginger.
‘On the contrary, I’ve been busy,’ stated Mander.
Ginger looked at Biggles and shook his
head sadly.
‘That’s enough talking,’ decided Biggles. ‘Let’s move before we’re fried to a frazzle.’
Mander, who was as weak as a baby, was helped into the aircraft, and under his direction it was taxied slowly into the hills.
CHAPTER 6
ASTONISHING REVELATIONS
The place to which Mander guided the aircraft was anything but attractive, but at least it was dramatic. In some parts of the world it would have been called a canyon. It was, in fact, a gap between two cliffs, both of which had been so worn at the base by erosion that they appeared to overhang. Between a hundred and two hundred feet above, between jagged skylines, the sky showed as a narrow blue slit, and it was evident that except for the brief period when the sun would pass directly over it, the floor of the canyon would be in shade.
This appeared to be loose gravel with a fair sprinkling of larger stones, or, more correctly, rounded pieces of rock, in the manner of a seaside beach.
‘If this isn’t a dried-up water course, I’ve never seen one,’ observed Biggles, looking at it.
‘Water!’ exclaimed Ginger. ‘I thought it never rained here.’
‘It rains almost everywhere, even in the Sahara, once in a while,’ answered Biggles. ‘It may only happen once in a century, or more. At least one big motorized expedition was bogged down by flood water. In the middle of the Sahara no allowances had been made for that sort of weather. Of course, the sand and the sun between them soak up the water so quickly that in a short time there’s little sign of what had happened. But still, it can happen, although no man in his right mind would rely on it. The closest shave Alexander the Great ever had, and, incidentally, the biggest stroke of luck, was when he got off his course and ran out of water between the coast and Siwa. Just as it looked as if he’d had his chips, it actually rained — rained where, according to the Arabs, not a drop had fallen for more than three hundred years. Obviously it must have rained here at some time or other or there wouldn’t be a water-hole.’
The ground was not so rough as to affect the movement of the aircraft, and it went on nearer to where, some distance farther on where the cliffs were lower and widened out, there stood a few decrepit palms. As there was no movement of air in the canyon it was suffocatingly hot, but — and this was the important thing — it was out of the direct rays of the sun. Biggles remarked with satisfaction that it was a better parking place than he would have expected to find.