27 Biggles - Charter Pilot

by Captain W E Johns

  A tropical jungle is one place in daylight, and another place after dark. At night, all sorts of creatures that have been in hiding all day come out to eat, drink, and make merry. I'm not pretending that to a well-armed expedition like we were there was anything frightening about it; I was conscious more of a feeling of depression. It may have been the presence of the ruins not far away, but I was aware of a feeling of sad- ness of desolation, that is rather hard to explain. I think the others felt it, too. The conversation lacked animation. However, presently a young moon soared up over the palm fronds and the place looked more cheerful.

  I was just thinking of turning in when Donald reminded us that the obvious time to look for anything of a luminous nature would be after dark. Whatever the colour, it would be more easily seen than in daylight. And this, of course, was true. All the same, I wasn't very keen on wandering about the jungle in the dark, when one might step on a snake, or come across a tiger from the mainland. There were plenty of crocodiles about, too, and while few wild animals will molest a man in daylight, after dark it's a different matter.

  Talking it over, Biggles suggested a compromise. We would sleep for a few hours, and then, just before dawn, go back to the temple. We could have a good scout round until the sun came up, when we should be able to walk home in daylight. It seemed a sound scheme and we adopted it.

  I slept all right, but at an unearthly hour Biggles woke us up and said it was time to start.

  We each carried a weapon of some sort—not that we expected to have to use them.

  Biggles led the way with an electric torch. Nothing happened, except the usual slitherings and rustlings in the dark bushes on either side, and in due course we could see the top of the ruin outlined against the sky.

  Suddenly Biggles pulled up dead, staring at the temple, remarking that there was something about it that he didn't understand. Once he had pointed it out we could all see it. The ruin seemed to be flood-lit with a kind of ghostly glow. Keyed up with curiosity we went on, and there in front of us was the very thing we had come to see. But instead of one luminous lily there was a group—a score or more of them. They were all close together, and presented the weirdest spectacle you could imagine. How can I describe them?

  Imagine an ordinary white Madonna lily about five feet high, but instead of a cluster of flowers at the head of the stalk, one big massive bloom. Now imagine that this flower is artificial, made, say, of white, opaque

  porcelain, and illuminated from the inside by a pale green electric bulb. Every petal gave off the same ghostly radiance, and as we couldn't see the stalks, the flowers appeared to float in space. The whole effect was beautiful, yet at the same time so unnatural as to give one the creeps. In a drawing room, or in a public garden, the flowers would have been fascinatingly lovely, but in such a wild setting they were disturbing, to say the least of it.

  That was how they affected me, but Donald, being concerned only with the scientific aspect, was not upset. He gave a cry of excitement and dashed forward, and by the time I had got to the spot he was holding one of the flowers, smelling it. Instantly he staggered back with a 'cry of disgust, and was promptly sick. I could smell the things from where I stood. The stench was nauseating—like rotten eggs, only worse. Mind you, that's not an uncommon characteristic of jungle flowers, particularly those that eat insects, like the pitcher plants, of which there are always plenty in a tropic swamp.

  However, Donald soon got over his fit of nausea and went back to the plants. We just stood and looked at them. There was nothing else to do. They were certainly a curiosity, but as far as I was concerned there the matter ended. There is a limit to the length of time one can stand and gaze at a flower, even a peculiar flower, without getting bored.

  Not so with Donald, though. He was still agog with excitement, and talked enthusiastically about a discovery of paramount importance both to science and horticulture. He went boldly up to one of the flowers, and seizing it by the stem, snapped it off short. Instantly the light went out, as though an electric circuit had been disconnected.

  Looking at the flower in the light of a torch, all we could see was a rather drab, wilting affair, a sort of pale grey in colour. The petals were like pieces of dirty rag. Saying something about the plant being a nasty, sticky brute, Donald threw the flower away, and then stood looking at his hands, as if the stalks had discharged a lot of sap, after the manner of daffodils when they are first cut. He made a joking remark about finding some water to wash his hands, whereupon Biggles, in a funny sort of voice said, "I should jolly well think so." For my part, I thought that Donald had somehow cut his hand, for his fingers were all gluey with a thick red fluid, like blood. It made me feel sick. Donald said nothing, but made haste to wipe his hands on some grass and leaves. There was no water handy.

  At this stage Biggles suggested that as we had seen all there was to see, we might as well go back to the aircraft and call it a day. But Donald wouldn't have it He said that at all costs he must have some of the bulbs to take home—assuming that these lilies had bulbous roots, like the rest of the lily tribe. It was a reasonable request; there seemed to be no reason why he shouldn't have some of the bulbs, particularly as he was paying for the expedition. The trouble was, we hadn't got a spade with us. He tried scraping away the rotting vegetation with a knife, and although he got down a foot or more he still hadn'

  t reached the bulb. Getting fed up with scraping, he said he would go back to the machine and fetch the spade which we carried with our equipment. Biggles raised no objection. As a matter of fact, by this time the stars were paling with the approach of dawn, so there was no danger to be apprehended. It was then that we noticed that as the daylight grew, so the light of the lilies waned. That, I suppose, was only to be expected.

  Donald stayed long enough to see the lilies go out. And as they went out the flowers died, and the stalks wilted. No doubt this was why we hadn't noticed them the previous day.

  Well, Donald went off to fetch the spade, and Algy went with him. Biggles and I sat and talked, and, after it was broad daylight, we had another prowl round the ruins until Donald and Algy came back. Donald got straight on with the job while we sat on a fallen obelisk and watched. I imagined he would be about five minutes getting all the bulbs he wanted, but it turned out to be not as easy as that. Twenty minutes later, sweating like a slave, he was standing in a pit about a yard deep and still he hadn't come to the root, or bulb, or whatever it was.

  Algy took a turn, and went at it with fresh vigour, while Donald stood on the brink of the hole, looking down. Biggles and I sat on the obelisk and watched the business without any particular interest. I think we were both getting a bit bored. Anyway, these were our respective positions when, a couple of minutes later, it happened.

  Algy, who I fancy was also getting a bit fed up, drove the spade in with a good healthy thrust. Giving a terrific wrench, he flung out a spadeful of dirt—or what he supposed to be dirt. He threw it right at our feet, and as it touched the ground it seemed to spring to life. It wasn't earth at all. It was worms, long slender worms about the length of a lead pencil. They were bright red—scarlet. They didn't behave like ordinary worms, either.

  They seemed to be filled with a frightful dynamic energy, bending their heads to their tails and then leaping into the air like springs, in the same way that the jungle leeches do. In an instant they were all leaping

  high into the air. One hit Biggles on the chin, and hung on with tiny, needle-like teeth.

  He let out a yell and tore it off.

  I took one look at the hole and nearly went over backwards. You never saw such a sight in your life. Algy dropped the spade and shot out of the hole as though he'd been impelled by a catapult—which wasn't surprising, considering what came after him.

  Worms ! Thousands of worms ! Millions of worms ! Vivid vermilion worms. Talk about move ! I should say we did move. You've never seen men move so fast. We all ran about a dozen yards and then turned to look at the worm-mine whi
ch we'd evidently struck.

  Even then it didn't occur to us that we were in danger. After all, one doesn't expect trouble from worms, even lively worms like these. But when they suddenly came pouring after us like an avalanche I got the wind up. The hole was still throwing them up, as lava rolls out of a volcano. "Remarkable ", was all Donald had to say.

  Biggles grabbed him by the arm. "Run!" he shouted. " Do you want to be eaten alive ? "

  That did it. We set off down the path at full pelt, and believe it or not, those worms came after us, also at full pelt. Rifles were no use in a case like this—nor any other weapon that I can think of. We ran like hares, and behind us, like a scarlet tide, came the wormy army.

  Although as I ran I was scared stiff I was aware of a feeling of absurdity. I mean to say—

  fancy running away from a lot of worms ! But I ran, and mighty thankful I was when I saw the water, and the good old Wanderer, through the trees ahead of us. It didn't take us long to get aboard. And we weren't taking any chances to find out if the worms could swim. We cut the painter, and taxied out a hundred yards or so before swinging round to see what the worm battalions would do when they reached the water. They stopped at the edge, lining the water-mark like a lot of red seaweed.

  "Well, Doctor," says Biggles, "I'm afraid you're not going to get your lily roots after all."

  Donald admitted that, keen as he was to get the bulbs, he didn't feel like tackling the worms. So there was nothing else for it but to go home.

  On the way, when we got to the coast, we told our story to a Government official, and as luck would have it he was able to tell us something which might provide the explanation of our curious experience. Some years before he had been a Resident Magistrate in that very district. At that time there had been a big thriving settlement on the side of the lake.

  Suddenly, for no reason that could be discovered, the village was beset by a veritable plague of crocodiles that made their headquarters on the island. The priests who dwelt in the temple, in an effort to cope with the scaly invaders, made a trap, which consisted of an enormous pit baited with a dead bullock. And sure enough the crocs poured into the hole until it was a seething mass of the brutes. And there, unable to get out, they died, but the smell

  was so unbearable that neither the priests nor the people could stand it, and they moved to a healthier spot.

  Donald told us that corruption can produce phosphorus, and this, he thought, must have erupted out of the ground in the form of fungi, taking the shape of lilies. There was no doubt that the lilies grew on the very spot where the crocodiles had been buried. And in the same way, the putrefying mass must have generated the worms. At any rate, there was undoubtedly some connection between the dead crocs, the worms and the lilies. If you can think of a better explanation, Donald would, I'm sure, be pleased to hear it.

  "Well, that's the story." Ginger glanced at the window. "But the weather seems to be taking up—we'd better get outside in case we're wanted."

  X

  THE ADVENTURE OF THE SUSPICIOUS

  VOLCANO

  LUNCH was over. Biggles's Squadron was at "alert ", and the officers were enjoying a lull in operations by sunning themselves on the forms outside the mess door. They were in flying kit, ready to take the air within a minute of the alarm being sounded.

  "By jingo ! I can't stand this sunshine—it's too hot," remarked Flight-Lieutenant Angus Mackail.

  Ginger considered him with sympathetic toleration. "You ought to try Mexico," he murmured.

  "You been there?" inquired Tug Carrington.

  Ginger nodded. "Too true. I've been to some warm spots, but I think I was hotter in Mexico than I've ever been anywhere. Mind you, I struck the hot weather. It isn't always so frizzling."

  "Was 'Dr. Duck with you?" asked Ferocity Ferris, shrewdly.

  Ginger grinned. "Yes, he was there. The affair was one of his biological outings."

  "What were you looking for this time?"

  "A volcano."

  "And what did you find?"

  Ginger sipped his coffee and set the cup down before he replied. " That's a long story."

  "Did you, or did you not, find the volcano ? " demanded Henry Harcourt.

  "If a big pile of rocks, explosions, sulphur fumes, smoke and fireworks make a volcano, then we found one," declared Ginger.

  "Tell us about it,". suggested Taffy Hughes. "I'm getting quite fond of Dr. Duck."

  "There won't be time," protested Ginger. "The alarm may go at any moment.'

  "Never mind. Make a start, anyway. If you have to break off, we can hear the rest when we get back."

  "Okay," agreed Ginger, and proceeded with the narrative: We had just finished a job in South America when Donald, referring to his book of words, discovered that he had a note, a recent note, of a volcano which had given the usual indications that it was about to throw a fit. That is to say, it was spitting sparks and blowing sulphur fumes, as these things do when they get tired of doing nothing. It might, the papers said, go up with a bang at any time. Donald wanted to have a look in the crater while it was on the boil. So we went.

  The volcano, by name Xactapetl, was on the western side of the country—that is, the Pacific side. For the most part this is pretty grim territory, rock and sand, sand and rock, with fertile valleys here and there. In the valleys there are a few scattered villages, inhabited, as far as I could make out, by a lot of lazy loafers, with big black moustaches and highly coloured bandanas. When they're not asleep they sit around and eat tortillas—

  otherwise pancakes. I only ate one. They are supposed to be made of maize, but this one was made of

  dynamite and pepper, mixed. Anyway, it took the skin off my tongue. But that's nothing to do with the story.

  We landed on the open desert near a village called—I forget what it was called, but it doesn't matter. Ask Biggles if you want to know. The volcano stuck up out of the sand close and handy. There was no hotel in the village, so we slept by the machine, buying our food and stuff in the local market. There seemed to be quite a lot of people in the village and it didn't take us long to discover the reason. On the flanks of the volcano there were large pockets of very fertile ground, and this, I may say, is nothing unusual.

  This land had been brought under cultivation, and in the ordinary way the farmers did very well out of it ; but owing to the rumblings of the mountain, these farmers, wisely, you may think, had retired to the village until the volcano cooled off.

  I don't profess to know much about volcanoes, but this one appeared to be quite an ordinary specimen. It was quite a little fellow, as volcanoes go, about nine thousand feet high. A cloud of smoke hung like a streamer to the summit, and occasionally, when the wind blew in the right direction, we got a whiff of sulphur. Donald told us it was the normal thing for the breath of a volcano to smell of sulphur, so everything appeared to be in order. I ought to make it clear that this state of affairs had only lately come about. The volcano had been extinct for as long as the oldest inhabitant could remember, and it was a matter of surprise that it had come to life again.

  Well, a day or two after we arrived we made our first survey flight. I shan't forget it in a hurry. There wasn't a cloud in the sky and the heat was terrific. The sun blazed down turning the desert into a sea of shimmering gold, painful to the eyes. Near the mountain the heat was flung back from the rocks, filling the air with unseen waves that tossed us all over the sky, although we went up pretty high. The air shook. The desert quivered, and the mountain was all distorted by mirage. This was due to the heat of the sun, and nothing to do with the volcano.

  Our reconnaissance was a wash-out. All we saw was rock, more rock, and still more rock, with here and there wisps of smoke. The top of the mountain was hollow, like an old rotten tooth, but this was only to be expected. I saw no sign of lava. There were a few cacti, but otherwise no sign of life. So we came back after an uncomfortable flight feeling rather disappointed—at least, that was how I felt. Donald, alway
s optimistic, took the view that the volcano wasn't quite ripe for a full scale blow-up, and suggested that we called the whole thing off—we could come back when the fun started.

  To my surprise Biggles demurred. I thought he would jump at the chance of packing up, but he didn't. He said the mountain interested him. He was going to have another look, a closer look, at it in the morning. So the next day we went over again. It was hotter than i

  ever—and was t bumpy? For the first time in my life I was nearly air-sick. Biggles took the machine low, at times skimming the edge of the crater, but there was nothing to see.

  Once, when we were very low, something seemed to hit the machine. I paid no particular attention to it, but after we got back I saw Biggles prise something out of the engine cowling with a chisel. As he stood looking at the thing he had taken out, Donald remarked that it was usual for volcanoes to throw things up.

  Biggles said, "So I believe, but I've never heard of them spitting things like this." We looked at what he held in his hand, and there was no need to look twice to see what it was. It was a flattened lead bullet. Biggles laughed and put it in his pocket. "I'm getting more and more interested in this volcano," he said, in a funny sort of voice.

  "It looks as if someone doesn't like us being here," I said.

  Biggles looked at me, and answered, "I shouldn't be surprised if you're right. People don't shoot bullets at their friends."

  That evening we were sitting by the machine, talking about the bullet, and debating if we should make one more trip or go home when a piece of paper wrapped round a stone nearly hit Biggles on the head. It seemed to come from behind a clump of prickly pear. I made for the paper, but Biggles was on his feet in a jiffy running like a stag towards the bush. A wild-looking desperado jumped out, waving a knife. There were two smacks in quick succession. The first was when Biggles's fist hooked the fellow under the chin, and the second was when the fellow hit the ground. Biggles came back with the knife in one hand and the bandit in the other. "I've found a souvenir," he said. "If we can make him speak we may learn something. What was written on that paper, Ginger ? "