by W E Johns
‘Let me go? You can’t stop me. I can do as I like.’
Biggles’ jaw set. For a moment he looked as if he would say what obviously he was thinking. Instead, he merely shrugged. ‘You promise you won’t start anything on your own?’
‘I shan’t go out of my way to look for trouble.’
‘You’ll simply find out what we want to know and then come straight back here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Fair enough. If you don’t find us here we shall have gone back to the aircraft. There’s nothing much we can do here, and I see no point in staying out in the sun longer than is necessary.’
Adrian nodded. ‘All right. That’s clear enough. I’ll get along right away. The sun won’t worry me. I’m acclimatized. See you presently.’ With his water-bottle slung over a shoulder he strode off along the line of hills.
‘Be careful what you get up to,’ pleaded Biggles. ‘Having found you, I don’t want to go home without you.’
Adrian merely raised a hand to show that he had heard.
The others watched him out of sight.
Biggles bit his lip. ‘I don’t like this,’ he muttered. ‘I know that young man better than he knows himself. If he only does what he says he will do, okay; but a little voice in the back of my head is telling me it’s a mistake to let him out of my sight. No doubt at this moment he means what he said; but if he sees Sekunder he may have second thoughts. He doesn’t mean to be difficult. He’s just young and impetuous. Self-confidence is all right, but one can have too much of it.’
‘Well, he’s gone, so there’s no sense in fretting about it,’ said Ginger. ‘We were going to have a closer look at the tomb, so let’s do that and get back to the canyon out of this blistering sun.’
‘I’m with you, absolutely,’ murmured Bertie. ‘Handsome men, they say, are slightly sunburnt; but I don’t want to lose my hide.’
Nothing more was said. They turned to the tomb.
At first glance there appeared to be nothing of particular interest. The rocks of which the dome-shaped structure had been built, although only of a soft sort of sandstone, had taken the shock of the weight falling across it apparently without moving. A few small chips had been knocked off, but it remained intact. The leaning spire lay as it had fallen, broken in two pieces, the top part clear on the sand beyond the tomb, the other part lying partly across it. Biggles examined the base carefully, but could find no trace of the trap he half suspected, although the sand and small rocks that had poured down in the landslide made a thorough examination difficult. He climbed on the rock and made his way along it to the middle of the dome.
‘Not even a crack,’ he reported, when he jumped down.
‘The johnnies who built this knew their stuff,’ declared Bertie.
‘There’s something here. Come round,’ called Ginger from the far side of the monument.
What he had discovered could not by any stretch of the imagination be called sensational, or even exciting.
It was simply a small semi-circular hole, about a foot across, the bottom level with the sand.
‘Ha! Where the bees go in and out,’ quipped Bertie. ‘The bally thing looks more and more like one of those old-fashioned beehives.’
Biggles was looking at the hole. ‘Was that here before the rock fell?’ he asked.
Ginger answered. ‘I don’t think so. If it was I didn’t notice it, and I came round this side.’
‘I don’t remember it,’ contributed Bertie.
‘Hm,’ mused Biggles. ‘Then I wonder what caused it. It looks to me as if the whole thing was pushed forward on its base, bodily, a little way, when the big rock hit it from behind. That could have exposed the hole. It must always have been there.’
‘Someone forgot to put in the last brick,’ suggested Bertie.
‘I wish you’d stop talking nonsense and use your head.’
Bertie lay flat and peered into the hole. ‘It goes right in, but I can’t see anything. I can tell you this. The thing is as hollow as a drum.’
‘Considering what it is, you wouldn’t expect it to be solid,’ returned Biggles with gentle sarcasm. His voice rose sharply. ‘Wait! What are you going to do?’
Bertie was reaching forward. ‘Put my arm in to see if I can feel anything.’
‘I wouldn’t do that. You might get hold of something nasty.’
‘Such as what, old boy?’
‘What do you usually find in a grave? Here, use this. You’ll be able to reach farther.’ Biggles handed down the crowbar.
Bertie took it and inserted it. The others watched as he moved it about. ‘I’m touching things, but I wouldn’t try to guess what they are,’ he informed them, withdrawing the bar and rising on one knee. Then, as the end of the bar appeared, he let out a yell, and dropping it leapt back as if propelled by a spring.
Clinging to the end of it, its venomous tail cocked high, was a black creature the size of a small lobster. Releasing its hold on the bar, it scuttled back through the hole and disappeared.
Bertie looked at the others. His face was pale. ‘I say, did you see that?’ he gasped.
‘Good thing you didn’t put your hand in,’ said Biggles grimly. ‘That must be the granddaddy of all scorpions. Had you shaken hands with that beauty you’d have known all about it.’
‘Phew! Talk about a shock. If that doesn’t stop me growing for the next twelve months nothing will. I’m not putting my hand into any more holes, no fear, not me. Ugh!’
‘Very wise in this part of the world,’ answered Biggles seriously.
‘How did the brute get in there? Could it have been put in there by the people who built the tomb — sort of watch-dog, if you see what I mean.’
Biggles smiled faintly. ‘I don’t know how long a scorpion lives, but I doubt if it could live as long as that. I imagine it was swept down the hills in the landslide we made, and seeing the hole popped into it. It may have walked in while we stood here nattering. Scorpions like holes.1 No matter. At least we know the devil is in there.’ As he finished speaking Biggles picked up the bar and tried to prise aside the stones adjacent to the hole. He failed to move them. ‘No use,’ he said. ‘Still, now there is a hole it might be possible to enlarge it; but not now. It would be a long job, and I can’t take any more of this sun. It’s asking for sunstroke. Let’s get back to camp. But before we go we’d better tidy up, so that Sekunder when he comes here won’t see that someone has been meddling with the thing. Unless he learns we’re here he’ll suppose the leaning rock fell of its own accord.’
The sand was smoothed and other traces of their activities removed as far as this was possible.
‘You’re not going to wait for Adrian?’ queried Ginger.
‘No. There’s no reason why we should. When he finds we’re gone, he’ll know where we are. Let’s get out of this heat.’
‘I don’t see any signs of the change in the weather you spoke about,’ remarked Bertie, as they set off on the return journey to camp.
‘Maybe it’s taken another course.’
They reached the Merlin without incident and almost without speaking, for the sun was now high and flaying the desert with its relentless rays. They had a long drink of water from the well and, having nothing else to do, settled down in the shade to await the return of Adrian.
Time passed. He did not come. Biggles said he was not worried. Adrian was quite likely to hang about all day watching the caravan. ‘I think we can now be certain that Sekunder is with it, otherwise he’d have come straight back,’ he affirmed. ‘We’ve no interest in anyone else.’
But as the day wore on and the usual lurid sunset began to splash the sky with colour, and still Adrian had not turned up, Biggles had to admit that he was uneasy. ‘There was no reason why he should stay away as long as this,’ he said irritably. ‘He knew we were anxious for his report. I should never have let the young fool go off alone.’
‘You think he’s in trouble?’ asked Ginger.
‘What
else are we to think?’
‘Shouldn’t we be doing something about it?’
‘Not yet. We’ll give him the benefit of the doubt and hang on for a bit. He may still turn up.’
‘And if he doesn’t?’
‘I suppose we shall have to go to find out what’s happened,’ answered Biggles wearily. ‘Whatever that young man may say to the contrary, I’m afraid he’s the type that can’t keep out of trouble.’
Adrian did not come. The sun sank into the desert. Night drew its sombre curtain over the drought-stricken land. The stars, indifferent to the affairs of men, appeared, hanging like bright lamps from the roof of heaven.
‘It’s no use fooling ourselves any longer,’ said Biggles bitterly. ‘He isn’t coming or he’d be here by now. I’m not surprised. My common sense warned me, yet—’ He broke off, raising his head sharply in a listening attitude as from somewhere far away came a long, low rumble.
‘What the deuce was that?’ said Bertie in a startled voice.
Biggles did not answer. He rose and walked briskly to the end of the ravine and looked out across the desert. The others followed him. For a minute no one spoke. They could only stare.
A monstrous stain was creeping over the horizon, putting out the stars. Its colour was an evil purple-black. Its shape was that of a crouching dragon which, slowly unfolding, looked as if it was about to spring. Constantly changing shape as it coiled and uncoiled within itself, it rose higher and higher until it spread right across the sky. Then, as they still stood marvelling at this menacing apparition, a strange thing happened. A shaft of vivid blue light flashed through it, tearing it across the middle. This, after a delay of some seconds, was followed by a long, deep-throated growl that set the sultry air quivering.
‘Thunder,’ breathed Ginger.
‘I’m not such a bad weather prophet after all,’ said Biggles dryly. ‘We just needed this,’ he added, gloomily.
‘But look here, old boy, with this coming on what are we going to do about Adrian?’ inquired Bertie, concern in his voice.
‘Never mind Adrian, what are we going to do about ourselves?’ returned Biggles trenchantly. ‘Not being a desert Arab I don’t know what’s in that storm, but you can bet your sweet life that when it hits us we shall know all about it. What are we doing here, anyway? Risking our lives trying to rescue a silly young ass who doesn’t want to be rescued because he’s crazy to see the mortal remains of some king who died a hundred thousand years ago. It’s time I had my head examined. If it wasn’t for Adrian’s father I’d feel inclined to pull out and leave him to it. We might just have time to get clear. You can take it from me there’ll be no flying once that muck arrives — and perhaps not after it’s gone.’
No one answered.
Bertie polished his eyeglass mechanically.
There was another blinding flash of lightning.
‘The storm’s still some way off. How long do you reckon we’ve got before it arrives here?’ asked Ginger.
‘I wouldn’t know. An hour, maybe, more or less. Why? Standing here goofing at it won’t stop it. We’d better get back to the machine and plug the air intakes and do anything else we can to keep the sand out of the engines.’
‘I was thinking: while you two are doing that, suppose I make a dash to see if I can find Adrian?’ offered Ginger.
Biggles shrugged. ‘A waste of time. If Adrian could get back he’d be here. He must see what’s coming as well as we can.’
‘He might have had an accident; fallen off a rock and hurt himself; or he could have been bitten by a snake.’
‘That’s a possibility,’ admitted Biggles. ‘If that’s the answer and we just left him to die, we’d never forgive ourselves. All right, Ginger. You slip along. Don’t go far. Start back before the storm breaks, or we may find ourselves looking for you. We’ll attend to the machine.’
Ginger hurried off along the hard ground that fringed the outer hills.
* * *
1 Scorpions are pugnacious and mostly nocturnal. Those of the Middle East and North Africa can reach a length of nine or ten inches. The sting, in the tail, will rarely kill an adult in good health, but it can be serious and it is agonizingly painful.
CHAPTER 11
WHY ADRIAN DID NOT RETURN
Biggles, being human, was not always right. Knowing that Adrian had an obstinate streak in him when it came to having his own way, and aware of how he felt about Sekunder, it was perhaps natural that he should assume Adrian’s failure to return resulted from impetuosity, possibly folly. In this he was wrong. In fairness to Adrian it must be said that when he set off on his reconnaissance he had every intention of doing what he said he would do; just that and no more. He would confirm that his late partner was there, of what the caravan consisted and what it was doing. That things fell out otherwise than the way he had planned was not his fault.
The first trouble, as he was eventually to discover, was this. The camels had reached the range of hills much farther away than he had supposed. Not only that; on arriving at the hills, the caravan had turned south, which took it even farther away from the tomb, or the leaning rock which it may have been seeking. This Adrian discovered when he struck its tracks in the sand. It seemed that the plan of removing the conspicuous landmark to confuse Sekunder had succeeded, although he still found it hard to see what had been gained by this. He began to wonder if Sekunder had in fact returned; if, after all, the caravan comprised nothing more than a wandering band of Tuareg. They knew the desert better than anyone and were always on the move for reasons of their own.
The heat did not worry him unduly. He had become accustomed to it. But once having seen the tracks, having no idea of how far the caravan had gone, or intended to go, he had to travel more cautiously, which meant more slowly, for fear of coming upon it suddenly and exposing himself. It did not occur to him to turn back. He had set out to do something and he intended to do it. So he kept on, following the tracks wherever they could be seen, noting that they did not go into the hills but kept to a line roughly parallel with them. It struck him that the party might be making for a water-hole unknown to him; he was now beyond the point of his own explorations.
The small herd of oryx scampering past in a panic, alarmed obviously by the caravan, suggested that it was not far in front of him.
He had, he estimated, covered five or six miles before he heard a sound which told him he had not much farther to go. It was the curious habit many camels have, when resting, of grinding their teeth. This is a common noise at night in countries where camels are used as beasts of burden.
He now proceeded with the greatest possible care, taking advantage of the ample cover provided by the rocky nature of the ground, stopping frequently to listen for voices which, naturally, he expected to hear. But all he could hear was the teeth grinding and the melancholy sighing of camels, which always seem desperately sorry for themselves. In these conditions his progress, dictated by prudence, was slow, and he began to feel a little worried by the length of time he had been on his mission. More than two hours, he thought. He guessed what Biggles would be thinking about his prolonged absence. And as we know, he guessed right. However, he told himself, this could be explained on his return. He dare not risk moving any faster. If he was discovered, even if Sekunder was not there and he had only Tuareg to deal with, knowing about their hostility to white men, he was by no means confident of being able to cope with them.
He got his first sight of the camels from the top of an escarpment that ran across his line of approach. He thought he might see something from the ridge and he was not disappointed. In front, about a hundred yards distant, there was an open area of sand backed by a low cliff that offered a narrow strip of shade. Rising from the sand was a small group of stunted, sun-parched palms. Between them, couched, their loads lying near at hand, were six camels. Not far away stood two tall figures swathed from head to foot in loose material of indigo blue much the worse for wear. A veil, starting as a turban
on top of the head, was wrapped round the face so that only the eyes were left exposed. Each man carried a long-barrelled, old-fashioned-looking rifle slung over his shoulder. They stood there, unmoving, without speaking.
Adrian did not need to be told they were Tuareg, once famed as the fearless masters of the desert. He had seen one or two at Siwa. Where were the other members of the caravan? He looked for them in vain. What could they be doing? This provided food for thought. Had they gone off to look for the tomb... or perhaps to look for water? There was no sign of a water-hole in the clearing. The camels were restless. Their humps were flabby, showing they were in need of food and water.
Adrian’s eyes ran over the loads they had carried. There were the usual water-skins and packs, also — and this puzzled him — an extra large bundle with a waterproof dust-sheet corded over it. He did not spend much time wondering what it might contain, being at a loss to know what to do for the best. He was anxious not to be too long away, yet he did not want to return with his mission unfulfilled. He still did not know if Sekunder was with the caravan. From the fact that no attempt had been made to establish a camp, he formed the impression that the site now occupied by the camels was only temporary. The Tuareg were waiting for the remainder of the party to return from whatever they had gone to do. He decided that all he could do was wait, too. When the party was complete he would see who was in it, watch the direction it took if it moved its position, and then make his fastest time back to the canyon. This, he felt — and he was sure Biggles would agree — was the obvious thing to do. It appeared to present no difficulty.
What he did not reckon on was the time all this was going to take. He hoped it would only be a matter of minutes. An hour at the very outside. He was loath to leave his position which commanded such a good view of his objective, but he soon realized he would have to vacate it or be fried like an egg in a pan. The sun, in passing over its zenith, had made the rock on which he was lying almost too hot to touch. It had already forced him to shift his position several times, although this brought no relief.