46 Biggles in the Gobi Read online

  "Ming hasn't come back?"

  "Then I think he must have found them," opined Algy. "Otherwise they would have been back by now."

  Hardly had he finished speaking when Ming appeared. He looked hot and dusty but he was smiling, which Algy took to be a good sign.

  And so it turned out, as a quick conversation with Ritzen confirmed. Said the Swedish missionary, look at Algy: "They're all here."

  "All?"

  "Yes, I mean all the prisoners except the Abbot, who has been let out of jail but is staying at Tunhwang."

  "That's marvellous!" cried Algy. "Where are they?"

  "Waiting in a valley near at hand."

  "Then tell Ming to go and bring them in. He can say they can go straight to the oasis. It's all clear."

  This message was conveyed to Ming, who departed at high speed.

  "We might as well get back to our original quarters if they haven't been damaged," said Algy. "On second thoughts, I think we'll go down to the oasis first. I need a wash and a drink. We can move these stores back the caves afterwards."

  They all trooped down to the clearing close to where the guest-house had been. The fire had burnt itself out for want of fuel, but the ground in and around the crater was still smoking. I

  Ritzen looked upset when he saw that the guest-house had disappeared.

  "The Abbot will be heart-broken about that," he said gravely. "It took him years to build it, stone by stone, with pennies donated by pilgrims.

  He'll think it a poor return for having sheltered us."

  "I'm sorry about it, too," replied Algy. "But I wasn't responsible for that. It would have gone anyway. It's better that it should go than that we should all lose our lives. After all, it is always possible to build another house. I'll make a note to see that as soon as it's possible the Abbot gets enough money to build an even better guest-house."

  Ginger, smiling wearily, now appeared at the head of his party.

  For a little while there was a lot of talking while congratulations were exchanged, introductions effected and explanations offered. Ginger naturally wanted to know what had caused the explosion. Algy told him.

  "That was great work," said Ginger enthusiastically. Algy wanted to know what had become of the Kirghiz. This time it was Ginger who supplied the information.

  "You must be pretty well all in," asserted Algy. He turned to Ritzen.

  "You might ask Feng to look after the horses. These people need rest and something to eat. So do we all, for that matter. There'll be plenty of time for talking later. I think our troubles are over now. I—" He broke off suddenly in a listening position. "What on earth's that?" he demanded, a hint of alarm in his voice.

  Everyone stopped talking.

  From the far end of the oasis came a sound so curious and out of place that Algy stared at Ritzen in questioning astonishment. It was the ringing of a bell.

  "Now what's coming?" muttered Ginger.

  The Swede smiled. "It's all right. It's only a holy man, probably a mendicant monk going his rounds, begging. I don't think we have anything to fear from him. They're good men, always seeking what they call Tao, which means The Light. They travel vast distances."

  The clanging bell drew nearer. A figure came into view. He wore a grey cloak. A bundle was strapped on his back. In one hand he carried a long staff and in the other a polished wooden bowl.

  "Yes, he's a travelling monk, with his begging bowl," said Ritzen. "There are a lot of them about."

  The traveller gave no sign that he had seen the little group of people watching him, but strode on, ringing his bell at intervals, until he was quite close. Then he stopped and said something in a high-pitched voice.

  "He says he has a message," translated Ritzen.

  "A message!" echoed Algy. "For whom?"

  Ritzen addressed the monk.

  The monk replied.

  The Swede looked at Algy. "For you, I think."

  "For me?"

  "He says it's for an Englishman at Nan-hu."

  Lines of incredulity creased Algy's forehead. "But that's impossible."

  Ritzen shrugged.

  By this time the monk was feeling in a little beaded bag that he had taken from his pack. From an assortment of strange odds and ends he picked a slip of folded paper. This, with a bow, he handed to Ritzen.

  Ritzen passed it on to Algy. With an extraordinary expression on his face Algy took it.

  In dead silence he unfolded it. He stared at it. He looked up again, the colour fading from his face. His lips moved, but no sound came. Slowly, as if with difficulty, he turned to Ginger.

  "Well!" demanded Ginger impatiently.

  Algy moistened his lips. "It's from Biggles," he said in a dazed voice.

  "From Biggles?"

  "Yes."

  "Don't be silly." Frank disbelief cracked Ginger's voice.

  "It's from Biggles," repeated Algy.

  "What does he say? What's it about? Read it!"

  Algy looked again at the paper. "It's dated five days ago."

  "The day we were dropped in."

  "Yes. He says 'Am on the ground about fifty miles south of you. Having some trouble, but think we can put it right. Thought we had better let you know. If we don't show up in ten days from date above, count us out and do the best you can. Sorry. Biggles.'"

  There was dead silence.

  Ginger took the slip. "It's from Biggles all right.This is a leaf from his notebook."

  "Yes. I saw that."

  Ginger went on: " He must have gone down soon after he left us. I mean, it happened on the way home."

  "Of course. He wouldn't have been coming back yet."

  "And he's been there all this time!"

  "Obviously."

  Ginger looked at the monk reproachfully. "This chap has been five days getting here," he said bitterly.

  Dr. McDougall interposed. "Ten miles a day is not bad going in this country. The man had no reason to hurry. Time means nothing to him. We're lucky he managed to get here at all, and find us."

  "I suppose you're right," acquiesced Algy in a tired voice. "This knocks me flat, and I don't mind admitting it."

  "Just a minute," said Ginger. "How could Biggles talk to this chap?"

  Ritzen put the question to the monk. When it was answered he turned to Algy and explained.

  "This man is a Gurkha from Nepal, on the Thibetan frontier. Nepal is closely associated with the life of Buddha, which is why he is here. He has also been to India. He says the Englishman spoke to him in Hindi."*

  Algy nodded. "Ah! That explains it."

  "What will you do about this?" asked Ritzen.

  "Frankly, I don't know," replied Algy. "I shall have to think about it. I haven't got over the shock yet. I gather from Biggles' message that he had trouble with the machine. Just how bad it was he obviously didn"t know at the time he sent the message, or he would have told us about it.

  There is this to comfort us. It could hardly be anything definitely vital or he would have said so. The implication is that he hoped to get the trouble put right. We shall simply have to wait and see. He'll get here if it's humanly possible, you may be sure. Meanwhile, we might as well make ourselves comfortable. Perhaps the ladies will be good enough to produce something to eat. We shall have to go steady on food, though, now that it looks as if we might be here for some time."

  Having no more to say, Algy walked over to a stone that had been used as a seat and sat down on it.

  Ginger went with him. "That's a tough break," he commiserated.

  "Just as I thought we'd got everything on the top line," muttered Algy.

  Ginger rested his chin in his hand. "Well, it's just one of those things," was all he could say.

  * Readers of Biggles Goes To School will know why Biggles was able to speak Hindi.

  CHAPTER X BAD LUCK FOR BIGGLES

  BIGGLES had met trouble from a cause which, while fortunately not common, has happened more often than is generally realised, and is a r
egular hazard over a particular type of country in certain parts of the world.

  In quite a few cases the result has been fatal for the aircraft and its crew. In a word, he was in collision with a bird.

  Collisions with smaller birds that congregate in numbers, such as seagulls, are such a constant menace on certain stations, notably marine airports, that all sorts of devices have been adopted to deal with the problem, from firing Verey lights to the flying of specially trained birds of prey. The ancient sport of falconry, revived on some R.A.F.

  aerodromes, has done something to reduce the danger by scattering the offending birds when an aircraft is asking for permission to come in.

  Naturally, the bigger the bird the more serious is the result of a collision, for which reason this particular type of accident has occurred most frequently with serious results over mountain regions overseas where eagles, condors; vultures and the like, are commonly to be found. The northern frontiers of India, Iraq and Palestine, have bad records, both civil and military machines having been victims. Aircraft have been brought down over the Andes and the Atlas Mountains of North Africa.

  There has been more than one fatal accident over the European Alps. It is not unlikely that some of the unsolved

  "mystery" accidents have been due to this same unpredictable factor, for which no pilot or his aircraft can be blamed. It is a flying risk that must be accepted in the same way that ships are exposed to dangers which neither seamanship nor scientific instruments have been able to eliminate entirely. No matter how wakeful an airman may be, all he can do to minimise the risk is by taking evasive action if he sees the bird in time. He does not always see it, nor can he be expected to see it if it is hovering in the sun well above him. Even if he does see it he may not be able to escape the bird if it attacks him, for the creature is in its element and he is not.

  The question of how far these accidents have been the result of a deliberate attack has often been argued. The most feasible explanation is that it happens both ways. But there certainly have been occasions when big predatory birds have made an unprovoked onslaught on what they may regard as an intruder in their own particular domain. Surviving pilots have stated this. A bird, apparently, has not the sagacity to realise that, no matter what may happen to the aircraft, it must itself be killed—as it always is.

  As far as the aircraft is concerned the result of such an encounter must, of course, depend on where it is struck; but it must be obvious that a weight of perhaps twenty pounds, travelling at high speed in the opposite direction, is bound to cause damage no matter where it may strike. Light planes have had a wing knocked clean off. Fabric coverings have been torn to pieces and wooden airscrews have been shattered. Even large machines have had a main spar fractured. Radiators have been holed. In every case the bird was smashed to pulp.

  The eagle that resented the intrusion of Biggles' Halifax came at him out of the blue. He saw it a split second before it struck. There was no time to do anything. A black mass blotted out his view. Almost simultaneously there was a tremendous crash and the windscreen was smothered with a sticky mess of blood and feathers. Biggles realised instantly what had happened. Shouting for Bertie, who was in the rear turret, he slipped quickly into the second pilot's seat, the forward view from his own being practically obliterated. It was not much better from the new position.

  Air pressure soon removed most of the feathers, but the blood appeared to be congealed, and the feathers that

  remained, some with pieces of flesh adhering, looked like sticking to it.

  He throttled back to little more than a glide until the extent of the damage could be ascertained.

  Bertie came scrambling into the darkened cockpit. He took one look and gasped: "I say, how disgusting!"

  "Go to the astral dome and see if you can make out what has happened to the rest of the bird," ordered Biggles.

  Bertie hurried off, He was soon back. "It's wrapped round the pressure pump," he reported.

  "Then the pump can't be working."

  "Don't see how it can, all tangled up in skin and bones."

  "I shall have to go down," decided Biggles. "I daren't risk going on.

  This stuff will freeze solid when we come to the mountains. If it can be managed, I'd rather get down here while we're under control. What's below us? Have a look. I can't see anything from here. Buck up!"

  The decision Biggles had made was prompted by the distance he had to go.

  Over a civilised country he would no doubt have tried to reach the nearest airport, which would not be far away; but he did not feel inclined to tackle twelve hundred miles over some of the worst country in the world with the possibility of structural or engine failure hanging over him. He was relieved to find the machine still airborne with the controls unaffected. It might have been worse, much worse. The bird might have struck one of the wooden airscrews, for instance, in which case the flying splinters might have smashed its neighbour, forcing him to go down immediately regardless of the type of country underneath. He had at least been given time to think.

  Bertie came back. "Keep her going!" he exclaimed. "Keep going just as you are. We're in luck. You've a green flat patch straight ahead."

  "Green?" queried Biggles, still losing height. "Well, fairly green."

  "Are you sure it isn't a bog?"

  "I couldn't see any water. We're over that broad basin between hills which we noticed on the way out."

  Biggles went on down, peering through one of the small clear places in the perspex. He could see a range of hills some distance ahead.

  "Keep her straight," commanded Bertie. "You're doing fine. You've miles of room. I can't see anything in the way."

  In a long flying career Biggles had made many anxious landings. He had made landings in even more risky places, but seldom had so much depended on touching down without mishap. Not being able to see clearly was the trouble; otherwise, as he remarked when they were on the ground, the thing would have been simple. As it was, he could see through the side windows but not in the direction in which he was travelling. Bertie did all that was possible in the way of a running commentary. "You're doing fine," he kept saying, encouragingly. "Starboard a little ... Little more. . . Okay. Hold her there. You're at a hundred feet for a guess. All clear ahead. Nearly there. Steady!"

  Biggles eased the control column back gently. The machine began to sink.

  "Now!" yelled Bertie.

  Biggles flattened out, a few feet too high, judging from the bump he took when the machine lost flying speed. He held his breath until the machine touched again. Another small bump or two and the Halifax rumbled quietly to a standstill.

  "Magnificent, old boy! Absolutely magnificent!" cried Bertie.

  "A bit on the high side," muttered Biggles, looking worried.

  "Better to flatten out too soon than too late, laddie."

  Biggles closed his eyes, shook his head, and passed a hand over his face.

  "You know, Bertie, the trouble with me is, I'm getting a bit too old for this sort of aviation," he said sadly. "All right," he went on quickly, pulling himself together. "Let's get down and see the extent of the mischief. Where did that infernal bird come from? Did you see it?"

  "Not until it was right on top of us. Came down like a ton of bricks.

  Beautiful dive, pretty to watch, and all that—but a bit too close."

  Luck, it is said, usually balances itself in the long run. What Biggles saw when he jumped down and surveyed the landscape appeared to be a good example. It had been brutal luck to be grounded by a bird, but if it had to happen the creature couldn't have chosen a better place for him. The collision had occurred over a range of hills that fringed the eastern side of a wide plain that was partly level and partly undulating. Areas of rushes in the lower places hinted at water not far down. This was to be expected, since the plain was really a vast basin that drained higher ground that surrounded it on all sides.

  But Biggles' good luck, counterbalancing the bad, wa
s even better than that. In the first place, he suspected that had he touched down on the area that supported the reeds the wheels of the heavy machine would have broken through the surface. Again, there were places where he might have run into foothills on the opposite side of the basin. It so happened that his run had taken him into a long straight arm of flat ground between these same hills. Of course, Bertie had seen these, for which reason he had been definite in his instructions to carry straight on. Finally, a little to one side there was grey stone cairn, apparently a shrine of some sort, since there were carvings on it, which Bertie admitted he had not seen.

  "It wouldn't have improved matters if we'd bumped, into that," remarked Biggles.