Biggles Hits The Trail

by W E Johns

  CHAPTER 5

  THE SILVER STREAM

  AT the first streak of dawn the following morning Biggles climbed into the cockpit of the Explorer and started the engines. He waited for a few minutes to allow them to warm up, and then, with the wheels chocked and with Ginger and Algy holding the tail down, he opened the throttle slowly. Twice he did this with his eyes on the revolution indicator.

  Then, leaving them ticking over, he jumped down to the ground.

  ‘It’s no use,’ he told the others. ‘Neither engine is giving more than three-quarters normal full revs. I can get her off, of course, but the lighter the load the easier it will be. I suggest you all remain where you are while I make a test flight; I’ll try to have a good look at the mountain at the same time.’

  It was obviously the wisest plan, and although they were disappointed, the others agreed without demur. Biggles climbed back into his seat, the anchor ropes were released, the chocks pulled away, and the Explorer, after a long run over the uneven ground, roared into the air while the ground party watched it anxiously. They saw the amphibian fly some distance away, climbing slowly, turn back towards the mountain, and then resume its original course. Three times this occurred, after which the machine remained at a distance but climbed more swiftly.

  ‘I think they must be running all right now or she wouldn’t climb like that,’ observed Ginger critically.

  ‘You’re right,’ agreed Algy. Hello, he’s coming back.’

  The roar of the engines died away suddenly and the machine began a long glide back to its starting-point. Biggles made a clean, three-point landing, and taxied quickly to the spot where the others were waiting.

  ‘I’m certain I’m right about these engines,’ he declared. ‘They were as right as rain a few miles away, but the nearer I came to the mountains, the worse they got. Whether the thing is purely natural, that is, caused by mineral deposits affecting the ignition in some way, or whether we are being prevented from approaching by artificial means, such as a ray of some sort, is more than I can say. But it’s one or the other. The compass is useless; it swings like a catherine-wheel. I’ve seen one behave like that before, in a bad thunderstorm, when the atmosphere was charged with static electricity, but I’ve never known it affect an engine. I think to be on the safe side we’d better drop the idea of flying for the time being and try to reach the mountain on foot. It’s only about four miles away.’

  ‘You could see it then. What did it look like?’ asked Dickpa eagerly.

  ‘Perfectly normal, just like any other mountain.’

  ‘Did you see anything else?’

  ‘Yes, there seemed to be a sort of dullish yellow area near the base, but I couldn’t make out what it was. I fancy it is a block of buildings; I know that sounds absurd, but I caught sight of flashes several times, as if the sun was shining on windows. I don’t know of any rock formation that could reflect light in quite the same way.’

  ‘Well, that doesn’t help us very much,’ murmured Dickpa. ‘No matter, let us try to get a closer view on the ground; we can’t have very far to go and the exercise will do us no harm.’

  In a quarter of an hour they were ready to start. No guard was left with the machine because, as Biggles pointed out, if an attack was made on it, one man would not be able to do very much in the way of defence; consequently it was better for the party to stick together.

  Biggles led the way, with the Express in the crook of his arm, while Algy, carrying the twelve-bore, brought up the rear. The others carried light loads of food and water in haversacks and water-bottles. They followed the bed of the stream along to the foot of the escarpment until they reached the point where the water fell down in a sheer waterfall from a point some two hundred feet above, but the place was unscalable, so they held on towards what appeared to be a fault in the rock; but when they reached it they found it was a narrow, evil-looking gorge that seemed to lead into the heart of the mountains. Automatically they turned their steps towards the entrance. Inside, the defile was strewn with boulders, some large and some small, while across the mouth they were piled one on top of the other in grotesque confusion.

  ‘This looks like a terminal moraine,’ observed Dickpa, half to himself, as he picked his way over the debris.

  ‘A what ?’ inquired Biggles, looking carefully into the forbidding passage they were about to enter.

  ‘Moraine. This was a glacier not many years ago, I’ll warrant. Most of this country is of glacial formation; countless generations of slowly moving ice carved this cleft through the rocks. What a pity we can’t take some of those back with us; a horticulturist would cause a rare sensation in London with them.’ He pointed to a great drift of glorious blue gentians that sprawled over the rocks in several places, like patches of blue sky that had fallen down to earth.

  ‘You watch your step and never mind the posies,’ Biggles warned him, as a large rock on which he stood swayed dangerously. ‘We don’t want to have to carry you home.’

  It was a curious place in which they found themselves, a dank depressing canyon that cut deeper and deeper into the heart of the rock until the sky was only a narrow blue slit far above.

  ‘One thing seems pretty certain,’ went on Biggles, ‘and that is that we shall have to come back the same way as we are going; I’d hate to have to try to scale these walls.’ He nodded towards the precipitous sides of the gorge. But presently it began to widen out, and although the ascent grew steeper, and remained very rocky, it was less gloomy.

  In single file they tramped on, picking their way between great masses of grey, age-worn rock, and glancing furtively into the many caves that ran far back out of sight on either side. The vegetation had entirely disappeared except for sheets of grey-green moss, or lichen, that covered the rocks, sometimes hanging far over the sides in long streamers that swung to and fro fitfully in the cold breeze. From time to time they had to walk over pale, viscous-looking patches of slime that spread over the gravelly floor.

  ‘I wonder what makes this filthy stuff. Not exactly the sort of place to bring the kids for a picnic,’ observed Biggles, in a rather feeble attempt at humour.

  Dickpa looked at it closely, but said nothing.

  ‘Looks like the sort of stuff snails and slugs leave behind,’ ventured Ginger.

  No one answered, and thereafter the conversation languished to mere monosyllables, and finally died away altogether. For no apparent reason their progress became slower; they seemed to have difficulty in lifting their feet; only Ginger went on with the same ease as before.

  Biggles, who was still leading, suddenly pulled up dead. ‘Hello, that’s pretty,’ he observed, pointing to something that lay in their path. ‘It looks as if someone’s been up here before us.’

  In the middle of the gorge lay a skeleton, a grim pile of whitened bones that did nothing to enliven the mournful scene. A few shreds of clothing still adhered to it, but it was too far gone in decay to give any clue to the identity of the lone traveller.

  Presently they came to three more, lying in a huddled heap. Something bright not far away caught Biggles’s eye, and stooping down, he dug an object out of the shingle in which it was nearly buried. It was a silver cigarette case. Automatically he pressed the tiny fastener and opened it. Incised across the corner were some words. ‘To Grant, with love from Vera. Christmas 1901,’ he read aloud. ‘This was a white man,’ he said harshly. ‘A fellow named Grant evidently, although that was probably his Christian name.’

  ‘Grant,’ gasped Dickpa in a stifled whisper. ‘Why, that was Verdon’s Christian name –Sir Grant Verdon, the celebrated Asiatic explorer. He disappeared in western China, with two companions, in – let me see – it would be about nineteen-two or three. Nothing was ever heard of him. This, then, is the answer. Poor fellows; this is where they met their deaths. I—’

  ‘Let’s go on,’ put in Biggles tersely. ‘Too much of this sort of thing isn’t good for one.’

  They passed several more skeletons, b
ut did not stop.

  Suddenly the passage widened out into a circular arena-like basin with precipitous sides, but they could see the black slit that marked the continuation of the gorge on the far side of it.

  ‘Just a minute,’ called the Professor. ‘I’m afraid I shall have to rest for a bit. I’m fagged out; it must be the altitude.’

  ‘I’m not feeling so good myself,’ replied Biggles in a curious voice. ‘My legs seem to have become sort of – heavy.’ He stopped, and deliberately dragged the toe of his boot through the gravel. The trail was marked by a line of tiny blue sparks that crackled faintly, like a piece of tissue-paper when it is crumpled up. ‘I say,’ he went on in a startled voice, ‘look at this. I don’t like the look of it.’ With quite a natural movement, he placed the rifle against a large boulder that stood in the middle of the gorge. As the metal barrel touched the rock there was a blinding blue flash, and the cartridge in the breech exploded with a report that sounded like a thunder-clap in the enclosed space. At the same time he was flung violently across the gorge and sprawled headlong on the ground. His face was pale as he slowly picked himself up.

  ‘Are you hurt ?’ cried Dickpa in alarm.

  ‘No, thanks,’ replied Biggles in a strained voice, but he was obviously badly shaken. ‘I had a shock, that was all,’ he added. He put out his hand and leaned heavily against the wall to recover, but as he did so he started, and twisted as if in pain; he seemed to be making an effort to tear himself away.

  Ginger dashed across, pulled him clear, and supported him while Biggles looked at his hand curiously; tiny sparks were running out of his finger-tips. He looked at the others in real alarm. ‘Don’t touch anything, anybody,’ he cried in a startled voice. ‘The place is bewitched. It’s electrified. Don’t move. Let us think. We must get out of this.’

  The others were standing in a rough half-circle, watching him. ‘I’m dreadfully sorry,’ he continued in a strangely calm voice, ‘but I can hardly move. I’ve gone all – stiff. Algy – Malty, give me a hand.’ Algy tried to move forward to help him, but a cry broke from his lips and he looked at his legs helplessly. ‘They’re stuck,’ he said wonderingly.

  ‘I’m done,’ cried Malty suddenly.

  Algy was staring across the open space with a look of horror on his ashen face. ‘I can see things,’ he stammered. ‘Shadows! Look, there’s one. What is it?’

  Biggles turned his head slowly; his lips were parted slightly, showing his teeth. ‘If we’re going out, let’s go out with a bang,’ he snarled. ‘If you can see anyone, shoot.’

  Algy succeeded in getting the butt of the weapon to his shoulder, but he had not the power to raise the barrels, which sagged in his weakening grip.

  Ginger, who alone seemed unaffected, sprang forward and caught the gun as it fell from Algy’s nerveless hands. Without hesitation he threw it up and blazed both barrels at something he could evidently see in the open.

  ‘You’ve got him,’ gasped Algy. ‘He’s down.’

  ‘Who? Who? What is it?’ croaked Biggles helplessly.

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Ginger grimly. ‘It seemed to be a sort of spirit – like a black ghost.’

  ‘I could see it too,’ whispered Algy. ‘You got him, I tell you. He’s down. I saw him fall. Look!’ His voice rose to a shrill crescendo. ‘It’s taking shape – there – on the ground.’

  ‘It’s a man!’ cried Ginger hysterically, starting forward. ‘I’ve killed a man!’

  ‘Come back, you little fool!’ Biggles tried to shout, but the words were no more than a whisper. ‘Dickpa, what can we do?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, what can we do ?’ echoed Malty desperately. ‘I’m not afraid of dying, but —’

  ‘Who’s talking of dying ?’ snapped Biggles, making a tremendous effort and turning towards the arena. ‘Ginger, come here.’

  Ginger, who had run out into the open, but returned at Biggles’s command, hurried up to him. ‘Say! it’s a Chink,’ he whispered. ‘He’s yellow – and naked. I think I’ve killed him.’

  ‘He’s done his best to kill us,’ muttered Biggles. ‘Come here; what have you got on your feet?’

  Ginger looked down and lifted up the sole of his shoe for Biggles’s inspection.

  ‘I thought so!’ There was a note of triumph in Biggles’s voice. ‘Dickpa! Ginger is the only one of us wearing rubber shoes. He’s insulated. Have we anything else made of rubber?’

  ‘Nothing,’ replied Dickpa helplessly.

  ‘The water-proof sheets,’ cried Malty.

  ‘But they’re in the tent,’ put in Algy.

  ‘Then he’ll have to fetch them,’ declared Biggles. ‘It’s our only chance. Ginger, run like a stag and fetch those sheets. If you fail, we’re sunk.’

  Ginger set his teeth and glanced down the gloomy gorge. He flung the gun aside. ‘O.K., Chief,’ he said tersely, and dashed off like a sprinter in a race.

  There was silence for some moments after he had gone. Then Biggles, walking stiffly, one step at a time, like a child learning to walk, managed to reach the gun. A little trail of blue sparks followed his dragging footsteps, while perspiration poured from his face at the mental and physical effort the movement required. ‘Algy,’ he said, ‘throw me some cartridges – if you can.’

  Algy, with the ghastly deliberation of a slow-motion film, put his hand in his pocket and took out two rounds of ammunition. Making another stupendous effort, Biggles took them and loaded the gun.

  ‘How long will it – take him – to get – back?’ whispered Malty, obviously referring to Ginger.

  Biggles pondered the question for a moment. ‘Between twenty and twenty-five minutes, I should say,’ he replied.

  ‘Queer business, this, isn’t it?’ went on Malty, his medical training asserting itself. ‘Symptoms of creeping paralysis; brain fairly active but the voluntary muscles lagging miles behind.’

  ‘Can’t we start working our way back – slowly?’ suggested Biggles. ‘Every yard may make a difference.’

  With the exception of Dickpa they could still move by making an effort, but the Professor was too far gone. His eyes were open and he could still speak, but he had sunk down on to the ground with his chin, held between his hands, resting on his knees. ‘This is how I felt – after the Blue Ray – at home,’ he breathed. ‘Go! Never mind me. Go!’

  To carry him was an impossibility, so no one took any notice of his orders; another silence fell, and after a time his head sank forward.

  ‘He feels it worse, I suppose, because he has already had one attack,’ said Biggles, bitterly, turning his head to look at the body of the Chinaman now clearly visible about forty yards away in the arena.

  ‘What are you going to do when Ginger gets back with the sheets?’ asked Algy, forcing himself to be optimistic.

  ‘Get them under our feet,’ replied Biggles. ‘If we find they will insulate us we might go on.’

  ‘Great Scott! You’ve got a nerve,’ muttered Malty. ‘My one idea was to get back.’

  ‘I want to get back,’ Biggles told him soberly, ‘but my confounded curiosity won’t always let me do what I want to do.’

  The minutes dragged by.

  ‘How long has he been gone ?’ asked Malty weakly. Biggles looked at his watch, but it had stopped. ‘Must be nearly twenty minutes. He should be back any time now,’ he answered. ‘That kid can run when he wants to.’

  Slowly he turned his head again, and swaying unsteadily, tried to look down the gorge. But as his eyes passed over the dead Chinaman a movement beyond attracted his attention, and he half closed them in an effort to see more clearly. For some seconds he could not make out what it was.

  On the far side of the arena yawned the black mouth of a cave, rather larger than any of those they had seen in the gorge. From it something appeared to be flowing, a dull white stream above which hung a pale blue mist. The movement was not regular, but undulating, like a shallow stream of milk flowing over a bed of large stones. It was coming in
their direction, accompanied by a curious, faint crackling sound.

  For some moments Biggles watched it wonderingly, and then as the awful truth burst upon him, his blood seemed to turn to ice. The expression on his face was sufficient to bring the others to their feet, sick though they were, although they would have sworn a moment before that such a thing was impossible.

  ‘What is it?’ breathed Algy.

  ‘Can’t you see,’ muttered Biggles desperately.

  ‘It’s – centipedes,’ cried Algy, in a strangled voice, suddenly understanding. With a colossal and instinctive effort to escape, he forced himself round to face the backward path, but two dragging steps was sufficient to show that flight was out of the question. ‘What can we do?’ he cried, in a voice tense with horror.

  ‘It’s the first time in my life that I’ve had to admit it, but I don’t know,’ replied Biggles. ‘I couldn’t make ten yards, not even with those behind me. If Ginger is another three minutes I’m afraid he’ll be too late,’ he added in a voice that was strangely calm.

  In that, however, he was mistaken. Two minutes later the leading ranks of the silver stream of death reached the dead Chinaman, and became a living whirlpool. Another two minutes and the serried ranks reformed and came on again. But of the Chinaman there was nothing left except a gaunt skeleton over which the noisome reptiles continued to pour.

  Biggles raised the gun and pulled both triggers, aware of the futility of what he was doing. Bang! Bang! Two splashes of bright crimson showed for an instant against the white background, but they did not stem the tide, which poured on ever nearer.

  They could see the reptiles now distinctly, as they surged over the ground in a sinuous rippling movement that began at the head and ran down to the tail. Their mouths were wide open, like hunting wolves; many were splashed with red stains that needed no explanation.

  Biggles’s face was pale and grim. Algy’s eyes were wide open in a kind of fascinated horror, but Malty’s were closed, and he swayed on his feet.