Forbes nodded, sweeping the country below with his glasses. The sun came up, gilding them with cold radiance, but not, as yet, touching the country below, which still slumbered in the gray light of early dawn.
Phil sighed, swung the plane back. With half of their gasoline supply exhausted, prudence demanded that they swing back. To be caught in this country without gas would be fatal. He swung the cock to the port gasoline tank and settled back for a long period of steady flying. To his surprise, the motor coughed, missed, sputtered.
His frantic eyes swept the gauge on the port side, and then his fingers leaped to the cock, switching back to the depleted tank on the starboard side.
Neither man spoke. They had no need. Their eyes met in a single swift glance, then abruptly looked away. The port tank, carefully filled before their departure, showed an ominous black circle in the gauge. One of the bullets from the machine gun had punctured it.
Now, at an altitude of nearly nineteen thousand feet, the plane had enough gasoline left for only a few minutes of flight. Behind them the ground was known. It offered no opportunity for a forced landing. Ahead lay their only chance. The motor would work more efficiently at a lower elevation, but their height gave them a greater gliding radius.
The plane roared ahead. The sun swept a long finger of golden light across the ground below. Both men scanned the country ahead eagerly. Within a few minutes they would be either safe upon that ground or else mangled in death.
In the meantime the plane roared with as steady a throb of reassuring power as though its flight was not bounded by minutes.
A ridge lay ahead. Beyond it there seemed to be a little bare ground bordering a stream. Beyond that another stretch of plateau was lost in the morning mists.
The motor coughed, sputtered, throbbed into life again, and then abruptly died. The sudden silence, broken only by the whine of air through the struts, made the high spaces seem an aching void.
Phil nosed the plane into as flat a glide as was safe. He wanted to inspect the ground along that stream from as high an elevation as was possible. Then, if it should prove impossible to land, he would have a chance to keep going. Otherwise he could spiral down.
As they glided Arthur Forbes studied the ground below through his glasses. Untroubled by the vibration of the motor, he was now able to make things out clearly.
The ridge drifted closer. The ground beyond it opened out, showed where the forest came to a stop, the level land bordering the creek caught the glint of sunlight.
Forbes puckered his brow, snapped out a handkerchief, and wiped the lenses of the powerful glasses, then resumed a survey of the ground. At length he slowly shook his head. Steady gray eyes met eyes of steel. Neither faltered.
“Rocks and brush. A side stream runs through, and there’s a bog or marsh below that. We can’t make it.”
“Better than the trees? We might pancake in.”
“Just about a toss-up. Better keep going and see what’s below those mists. We can see through ’em when we get directly overhead.”
The two men could hear each other plainly now, get the little tone variations which bespoke emotion. Both were under a strain, flipping dice with death, and death had the odds. But both voices were steady, cool.
The ridge with the open ground by the stream slipped astern. The ground below showed in a dim circle through the mists, walled on all sides by a blanket of chalky white where the mists thickened. Only from directly above could the ground be distinguished.
And it was trees, nothing but forest, a vast unbroken procession of nodding tree tops that appeared as a smooth meadow until the glasses were trained upon them.
On and on went the plane, gliding at its greatest gliding angle. Down below, the trees marched in endless succession through the little circle of clear vision. Lower and lower dropped the plane, gliding like a sailing hawk.
The tree tops became plainly visible to the naked eye. They stretched their waving branches closer and closer, reaching for the plane with a grasp that must inevitably clutch the landing wheels. Then the vast machine would pitch forward, nose-dive into a crash against heavy branches. Too late now to turn and try the open ground about the creek. They had gone past, and their only hope lay in keeping on. The trees reached up. One tall fellow almost touched the wheels, sending high branches reaching up out of the mist. To the men in the plane it seemed the tree had almost jumped at them.
It was the end.
Forbes sighed — a long-drawn sigh. And then Nickers uttered a swift exclamation. He slammed the stick forward. The plane shot down, gathered speed. Then Phil pulled back on the joy stick, sent the tail skidding down. Level, cleared ground was directly below.
The landing wheels reached cautiously down. The plane touched ground, bounced once or twice, then rolled heavily. A rock caught under the left wheel. The plane, without power to drag it evenly, started to swing, wobbled slightly, and skidded to a stop.
Phil flung open the cabin door, heaved a great sigh of relief, and stepped to the ground. His steel eyes caught the gray eyes of Arthur Forbes, and the two men smiled silently. The mists were thicker here, but to the rear could be seen the towering forest, coming to such an abrupt termination that it seemed the work of man must be responsible for the clearing.
To the left appeared regular blotches of bulk, indistinct in the mist. Ahead the ground swept on until it vanished in the thin steam from the forest. Overhead the sky shone a pale blue, globules of moisture drifting slowly across the field of vision.
“We’re here,” said Nickers.
“And getting here may not be so good. Those are buildings over there — and we’re ’way on the wrong side of the treaty line. The whites are trying to educate ’em to regard that line as obsolete. But the natives regard their rights as sacred.”
He broke off, glanced at the forest.
“Perhaps we’d better slip into the trees. Not that it’s much good, but it’s prolonging things a bit.”
Phil’s hand touched his shoulder.
“Too late,” he said.
Forbes followed the direction of the pointing finger.
Chapter 4
“Time to Be Tried!”
Gray shapes were striding solemnly out of the mists. In the lead appeared a wizened old man, garbed in gray, his hands folded upon his chest. Behind him strode natives, marching solemnly, their hands folded upon their chests.
And then Phil’s eyes seemed to jerk themselves to the extreme limit of their sockets. He could hardly believe that which he saw. For, behind the natives, marching every bit as solemnly, although awkward in their strides, appeared the black outlines of monkeys, formed in file, marching gravely, tails curled and encircling the necks of the following monkeys. And each of the monkeys had his hands folded upon his chest in solemn mimicry of the men who strode ahead.
Phil heard Arthur Forbes’s low voice in his ear.
“And, unless I’m mistaken, this is the place we were due to make an inspection of. I think you’ll find this is where Murasingh keeps his plane!”
The procession marched with grim silence.
The leader came abreast of the plane, swung slightly to the left, circled it. The trail of monkeys marching with folded arms, encircling tails, stretched so far into the mist that by the time the wizened old man had completed a circle of the plane the end of the monkeys’ line had not yet entirely appeared.
The man made a sharp noise, seemingly by pursing his puckered lips. It was a shrill, penetrating sound, a single keen squeak.
As though by magic, the entire line halted.
In silence the watchers and the watched appraised each other.