Now it stands to reason that where the ivory is found, other remains—bones, and so on—
are also found. In the ordinary way this place is so far off the map that nobody bothers to go exploring, although Russian scientists have collected enough matter, skin and bones, to assemble one or two pretty good stuffed mammoths. Now it appears that on the morning of the day Donald burst in on us, a Danish vessel had come into the Port of London, and with the cargo was a pair of well-preserved mammoth tusks. Donald went to have a look at them, and chatting with the skipper, he learned that the ivory had been picked up only a few days before at Holstenborg, in Greenland. The tusks had been brought in by an Eskimo hunter named Arkit. The skipper bought them as a speculation.
Donald bought them off him.
Having done this he sent a cablegram to the mayor of Holstenborg, asking if Arkit was still there. The answer came back confirming that he was. It struck Donald that this was an admirable opportunity of examining the site where a mammoth had been found. It would be comparatively easy to get to Greenland by air, and there wouldn't be the tiresome difficulties of getting permits, as there would be getting to Siberia. Well, the long and short of it was, Donald had got permission from the Danish authorities to go and have a look round. The idea was, as soon as we got to Greenland, to get hold of Arkit and induce him, by bribes if necessary, to show us the body—or what remained—
of the mammoth from which he had hacked the tusks.
I could see that Biggles wasn't very keen, but Donald was such a dear old boy that he couldn't nicely refuse. So we went. A few days later we were in Holstenborg, and there, sure enough, we found Arkit the Eskimo. He turned out to be a big, rather surly brute. I should tell you that this was in the summer, but there was still plenty of ice about, and it was pretty chilly. We parked the aircraft, the old Wanderer, on the water, and got down to business with Arkit—or tried to.
His nature turned out to be as surly as his looks, and it took us a long time to get anything out of him. Why he should be so secretive was not apparent—at least, not at the time. He seemed to take the view that in the location of the mammoth he possessed a valuable secret, and wasn't going to part with it. This, as it turned out, was true, but we weren't to know it at the time. In the end Donald raised the price so high that he couldn't refuse, and he gave us the information we wanted. The place was right in the middle of the country, about four hundred miles from anywhere. Greenland is a big country, in case you don't realize it.
Now another point arose. It soon became clear from what he told us that our proposed trip into the interior was not one to be lightly undertaken. I don't think any of us quite realized it, but the whole central area of Greenland is one vast ice-cap, ten thousand feet thick. Snow falls, and it never melts. It compresses the snow underneath, and this has been going on for goodness knows how long. We should have to land on this cap, but as it stretches for hundreds of miles, and Arkit said there were plenty of level places, we thought we ought to be able to get down. At any rate, we decided to have a look at the place from the air. If landing didn't look reasonably safe we could always come back.
Well, we set off. Arkit refused to come. He didn't trust aeroplanes.
We started early in the morning. Actually, it made little difference what time we started because we were
going inside the Arctic Circle, and there, as you probably know, for a considerable period of the year the sun never entirely disappears ; consepently, it is light all night—
not as light as it is here in full day, of course, but rather an eerie light. Even so, it is plenty light enough to read a newspaper, so we had no fear of being benighted on the ice-cap.
I needn't waste time by describing the outward flight. Where we started there were occasional patches of rough grass and heather, and stunted birch trees. The country was mountainous, and glaciers could be seen everywhere grinding their way down to the sea; but as we headed north they gave way to an unbroken sheet of what appeared to be snow, but what was, in fact, a sort of white ice. In places it was level, but in others it was furrowed by gigantic corrugations, due, I suppose, to the ice following the configuration of the mountains far below it. We had to climb all the way because, as I have mentioned, the centre of the country rises to a height of nearly ten thousand feet.
Biggles had plotted a compass course, and eventually he announced that we had arrived over the objective. There was nothing to show that we had. We were cruising only a few hundred feet above the ice, and all I could see was an unbroken white plain, bounded on the north by what appeared to be a mass of broken ice piled up in the manner of small jagged mountains. If you can imagine a whole lot of icebergs flung down in a heap you'll get a pretty good idea of what this rough area was like. Biggles scouted around for some time, watching the ground and looking for the best place to land. I need hardly say that it was no place to make a mistake. We were muffled up in heavy woollen sweaters, but even so a walk home would have been an unpleasant, not to say hazardous, experience.
In the end Biggles put the Wanderer down on a perfectly level strip of ice right up close against the broken stuff. He said he thought the ice-cliff would protect the machine from the north should a gale get up. I may say that I was not a little relieved when the Wanderer trundled to a smooth landing.
I was nearly at the top, having climbed, I suppose, about five hundred feet above the plain, and was passing through a kind of deep gulch when something made me look up.
Obviously, with everything all white, any dark object was conspicuous. And there, on a ledge, was a row of dark objects, objects that gave me the shock of my life. They reminded me vaguely of something, but at first I couldn't think what it was. Then I bered. The things were birds—but by no means ordinary birds. They were black, about the size of pelicans, with enormous beaks. One had his beak open, and I could see rows of long, ugly teeth. I'd never seen a bird with teeth. Nor had these birds any feathers that I could see. They were, in fact, pterodactyls. I remembered the name because I had once seen a picture of these creatures in a book. All this went through my head in a flash. The pteros didn't move, so I darted into a side corridor, still climbing, to get a closer view of them. I could see that just ahead of me the ice broke down to a more or less level area, quite a natural thing to find at the top of an escarpment. I still kept my eyes on the pteros, and for that reason I didn't see what was waiting for me at the top of the gully.
I was still staring at the birds, and they seemed to be still staring at me, when a sort of grunt brought me round with a rush. And there, believe me, I saw something that shook me to the marrow. I knew what it was, of course. Even if you've never seen a mammoth you can't mistake him. There he stood, an enormous brute, like an elephant, with long, curving tusks. He was covered all over with rough, reddish hair, like an old doormat, and the hair was steaming, as if he had been running. And did he stink? I'll say he did. He was a good twenty yards away, but I could smell him from where I stood. A little way behind him I could just make out a small herd of the big brutes.
What could I do? It's all right for you fellows to sit here and work out what you would have done had you been in. my place, but I could only think of one thing, and that was flight. Remember, I'd no weapon of any sort. There didn't seem to be any point in cluttering myself up with a rifle in a country that seemed absolutely lifeless. 'Even if I'd had one I should have thought twice about taking on that big baby.
I turned to run. But I was in too much of a hurry. I slipped, and came down with a bang, knocking off a big lump of ice. It came down with a crash, shaking the whole place. It jolly nearly fell on me. If it had it would have crushed me flat. But I wasn't thinking then about the ice. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the mammoth start to move, and I didn't wait for any more. Believe me, I went down that gully like a lamplighter. Unfortunately, you can't run downhill on ice without spikes in your shoes, and I hadn't any. Over I went, and in a brace of shakes I was sliding down the hill without a toboggan. Piec
es of ice came with me. Behind the ice I caught glimpses of the mammoth. He, too, had slipped, and was skidding, all ways up. He looked like a mountain of doormats. No it wasn't funny.
Of course, I yelled for all I was worth, hoping Biggles or somebody would come to my rescue, although I couldn't imagine what they'd do. Even as I skidded down the hill on my back I was wondering what would happen when the mammoth saw the aircraft. One charge, and all that would be left of it would be a few splinters and torn fabric. But I was past thinking by the time I got to the bottom of the incline. Just before I reached it I collided with a piece of protruding ice. I ricochetted like a bullet against the ice on the other side, and the shock nearly knocked me out. After that everything was a blur. I finished the slide in a cloud of icicles. The last thing I remembered as I was slowing down was the mammoth bearing down on me like three tons of death. That, by the way, is what he weighed—according to Donald's calculations. Being heavier than me he had more impetus, and this carried him past. Had he landed on top of me, obviously I shouldn't be here now. As he went past, the point of one of his tusks caught me in the leg, tearing it open and causing the wound that started this yarn. I bled like a pig, and the snow around me was like a slaughter house.
After that I must have passed out, because the next thing I remember was Biggles pouring brandy down my throat while Algy was tying up my kg. Of course, the first thing I thought of was the mammoth. "Where is he?" I asked.
"Where's who ? " inquired Algy.
"Big Bill," says I.
"If you mean Old Hairy, he's right beside you," said Biggles.
" Then he's dead? I gasped.
"He certainly is," answered Biggles.
Did you shoot him, or did he break his neck in the crash? "1 asked.
Biggles looked at me for a moment as though I were mad. Then he roared with laughter.
It isn't 'often Biggles laughs like that, so I knew there must be something funny to laugh at. There was. It was the mammoth. But he wasn't in one piece any longer. He was all broken up—hide, tusks arid innards. And the stink–gosh!
Well, you can guess what had happened. That old mammoth had probably been dead for several thousand years. He had been frozen in the ice, with some of his pals. The ice had at last melted, releasing him from his parky prison. The noise I heard must have been gas escaping from the putrefying body. He must have been poised very precariously on his pins, and when he fell, and the ice crashed down, he must have toppled over on the incline, when, naturally, he started to slide. The pterodactyls had been frozen in the ice in the same way.
The mystery was, why had the ice melted so suddenly? Well, we don't know for certain, but Donald formed a theory that it was due to volcanic disturbance, and heat, underneath the ice-cap. That, of course, Would account for the rumbling noise we had heard. It is a fact that the temperature, by the thermometer, was sixty degrees. No wonder I had thought it was stuffy when I was climbing the hill. Donald wanted to stay and confirm this heat theory, but Biggles refused. The whole surface of the ice was fast turning to slush, and he took the view that the thing might freeze up again at any moment, in which case the wheels of our machine would be frozen in. So he would only stay long enough to give Donald a chance to take some photographs, and hack out the tusks of the old bull mammoth for a souvenir. Then we piled into the machine and headed for home.
Ginger yawned. "Well, that's all there was to it. It probably sounds all very silly now, but at the time, for a few seconds when I was sliding down the gully, it was quite exciting.
Now I'm retiring for a spot of shut-eye—goodnight, chaps."
IX
THE ADVENTURE OF THE LUMINOUS LILY
FLYING-OFFICER GINGER HEBBLETHWAITE, of Biggles's
Squadron, looked up from his breakfast herring as" Doc" Lorton, the station Medical Officer, came in, and pulled out a chair opposite to him.
"Dirty day, boys," observed the M.O. cheerfully, glancing first at the rain-spattered mess window, and then along the line of officers, most of whom had finished breakfast and were killing time over their coffee. "You look like having an easy morning. I've just been listening to the eight o'clock news."
'Anything important?" inquired Ginger.
"The Japs have landed troops in Indo-China."
I wish 'em luck," grunted Ginger viciously. "I landed there once—but I was mighty glad to take-off again."
Flight-Lieutenant Bertie Lissie screwed his eyeglass in Is eye and regarded Ginger quizzically. "Dr. Duck was with you I presume?"
"I can't think of anyone else who could have induced Biggles to risk a perfect), good aircraft in such a fever- °ridden country, acknowledged ged Ginger, carefully removing the backbone of his fish.
" Ah-ha! A story," cried Henry Harcourt.
Go
ahead, Ginger."
Ginger shook his head. "Not this one," he declared emphatically.
Why not? "
Ginger thought for a moment. "Because it strains the credulity beyond reasonable limits,"
he decided.
"So much the better," persisted Henry.
"No. It wouldn't be fair." Ginger took a drink of coffee. "After all, although I've told you some pretty tall yarns in connection with our association with Dr. Duck, they have all, or nearly all, been supported by reliable testimony. I mean to say, the unbelievable has been made possible by the subsequent discovery of a perfectly natural solution. And so it was, to a certain extent, in this case; but much is still left to the imagination."
"Suppose you leave us to judge?" suggested Tug Carrington, amid a chorus of encouragement.
"Very well," agreed Ginger, putting down his fish knife. You've asked for it. Don't blame me if you don't like it. I'll give you the facts. After all, Biggles and Algy will confirm the tale if you find it hard to swallow—as you probably will." And this is the story he told : We went to Indo-China, as we went everywhere with Donald, with a definite object in view. But in this case, the information which Donald possessed concerning the objective was meagre in the extreme. In the heart of the jungle there was a lake, the approximate position of which was known to him. In this lake there was an island. On this island there grew—according to native rumour—a flower so remarkable that at first its existence seemed highly improbable—and Biggles didn't hesitate to say so. This flower was a lily.
But it was no ordinary lily. It glowed in the darkness. That is to say, it had the quality of being luminous at night. Most flowers that bloom at night are white, in order that the insects necessary for pollination can see them.
But this lily, apparently, had gone one better. It switched on a torch to make sure that it wasn't overlooked.
As I say, the idea of a self-illuminating flower strains the imagination somewhat; yet, as the Doctor pointed out to us, it was, in fact, well within the bounds of possibility.
Phosphorescence is a common phenomenon in nature. We can see it abroad in the firefly, and, in this country, in the glow-worm. It occurs in the gaseous discharges from bogs, and in the putrefying remains of vegetation. It is often found in the tinder-like substance of rotten trees. These are facts so well known that we needn't waste time discussing them. Donald's point was, if phosphorus could occur in nature, in things both dead and alive, animal and vegetable, there seemed to be no reason why it shouldn't occur in a tropical flower. Looked at in this light the thing became a reasonable possibility, and we went off to collect more substantial evidence.
We had a bit of a job to find the lake. There are a good many lakes in the country I'm talking about, and many of them embrace islands. Our difficulty was to find the right one. The natives, soaked in superstition—as natives usually are—wouldn't help us. Yet, in the end, it was this very reticence that took us to our goal. The farther away we were, the more ready were the natives to talk of the luminous lily. The nearer we got to it, the more silent and sullen they became. By using their attitude as a sort of "hot and cold"
clue, we eventually reached a lake wher
e there were no natives at all, although there were indications that there had once been an extensive settlement. Biggles took this to be a good sign. When we spotted an island in the centre of this lake, and on the island the remains of a temple, it seemed pretty certain that we were on the right track. So we landed on the lake, taxied into a little bay which the island conveniently provided, and established our base camp.
I needn't describe the lake or the island. The lake was very pretty, and the island a typical tropical spice
island. It was low-lying, and entirely covered—I might almost say choked—with exotic vegetation . . . mipas palms enormous tree-ferns, orchids and lianas draping everything.
To some people these things might have spelt romance; to us, having had experience, they meant snakes, leeches and mosquitoes. They were there, too, and while they were in sufficient numbers to be a nuisance, they did not seriously affect our programme, so we can forget about them.
Having made fast, we landed and had a look round the island. It wasn't a big place, as islands go ; it was roughly egg-shaped, about a mile long and half a mile wide at the broadest part. The temple was just about in the middle, and it took us the best part of a day to hack a path to it. When we got to it there was nothing much to see, except some nice stonework, some of it very cleverly carved. It was a ruin, of course. There were no signs of it having been used for a long time, so we weren't particularly interested. We couldn't see any lilies. There was a nasty smell about the place, and I wasn't sorry when Biggles said it was too late to do anything that day, and we'd better get back if we wanted to reach the aircraft before nightfall. Once the path had been cut the going was easy, and in less than half an hour we were back at the machine, just as the sun was setting over the palms to the west, after having put in a pretty hard day's work. We had a clean up, a bite of food, and then sat down to discuss the next move.
27 Biggles - Charter Pilot Page 8
