Biggles and Cruise of the Condor

by W E Johns

  Dickpa spurned him away with his foot. 'The cowardly villain,' he said. 'He thinks we shall do what he himself would do if the positions were reversed—cut his throat. Keep your gun on him, Smyth, and don't take your eyes off him for an instant, for he is as treacherous as he is cowardly. We can't kill him in cold blood, although goodness knows he deserves it, but if he tries any monkey-tricks—shoot.'

  Dickpa pointed his rifle into the sky and pulled the trigger three times quickly, at regular intervals; the distant roar of the Condor's engine told them at once that the pilot had heard the signal. Presently they saw him swing round the bend and race towards them. Biggles's face was beaming as he taxied up to the beach and switched off—'so that we shall hear the other machine coming if it's on its way back,' he explained.

  Dickpa took over charge of the prisoner while the others went to work with a will at the task of filling the tanks, Smyth standing on the hull while the others fed him with cans of petrol. The empties were thrown back on to the beach, so that they could not damage the hull in taking off, which they might have done had they been allowed to float on the river.

  'What is he talking about?' called Biggles once to Dickpa, observing that he and his prisoner were having an animated conversation.

  'He is asking me to take him with us. He says the others will kill him when they find the petrol gone.'

  'Best thing they could do; it would serve him thundering well right.'

  'That's what I've just told him,' replied Dickpa blandly.

  It took them more than half an hour of strenuous work to empty the cans, and by the end of that time the tanks were nearly full.

  'That's better,' said Biggles approvingly, as he once more took his place in the cockpit. 'I should tie that fellow's hands behind his back,' he advised, nodding towards the prisoner. 'We don't want him taking pot shots at us as we take off.'

  The Brazilian's hands were accordingly tied, much to his relief, for he was still nervous that the generous treatment he had received was too good to be true, and was only a preliminary to being put to death.

  'Hark!' cried Biggles suddenly, and in the hush that followed, they could faintly hear the hum of the returning flying-boat. 'All aboard,' he cried, and a minute later they were off, circling upwards towards the sun, in the blazing brilliancy of which there would be little chance of their being seen. Far away a tiny point of light flashing in the sky showed them where the other machine was moving. The flashes were caused by the sun's rays striking the wings and struts of the Curtiss as it banked steeply, a manœuvre Biggles was careful to avoid for that very reason.

  He flew upstream parallel with the river until the tributary which led to the mountains and the treasure-caves came into view, when he turned off and followed its tortuous course. Algy looked at him and raised his eyebrows, but Biggles's reassuring signal put his mind at rest. A few minutes later he made another signal, this time to take over control, and then he reached for the writing-pad which was kept in the loose canvas pocket inside the cockpit, and wrote rapidly:

  'Cannot land on river without being found by the Curtiss. Am going to risk landing on prairie near cave. Will go over first by parachute to clear a runway; will make smoke signal for you to land when ready.'

  He passed the note to Algy and held the joystick while he read it. Except for a slight grimace to indicate that he was not enamoured of the plan, but accepted it for want of a better one, he made no comment.

  They were now close to the mountains that marked the position of the cave, and Biggles disappeared into the cabin. A moment later he returned with the parachute harness buckled about him. They were flying at about three thousand feet, and he signalled Algy to drop lower, guiding him with his hand, over the course he wished him to fly.

  There seemed to be little or no wind, so-, provided the parachute opened properly, he was taking no risks in making the jump. They were down to 1,500 feet now, circling over an open space free from boulders, quite close to the cliff. Indeed, the prairie was more or less open as far as he could see, rolling away to the far horizon in long undulations. Here and there groups of buriti palms, in the spinney-like formation common to the region, studded the plain with their dark, feathery foliage and still darker shadows. Biggles raised his arm above his head. Algy throttled back almost to stalling point and saw him leap outwards and down. He breathed a sigh of relief as the silk chute billowed out like a great mushroom and sank slowly earthwards.

  Biggles landed safely, and, freeing himself from the parachute harness, set about making a runway for the machine to land. For a good quarter of an hour he worked feverishly, hauling away big stones and branches of trees from the track he was making, but at last he was satisfied that there were no obstacles likely to impede the Condor.

  Algy, still circling above, saw the smoke of a small fire rise into the still air, and the drone of the engine died away suddenly as he began to glide down towards it. He was not very happy at the responsibility thrust upon him. Normally, of course, he would land almost anywhere without giving the matter a passing thought, but now so much was at stake that he bit his lip in his anxiety. He had little fear of a crash, but while a faulty landing might not do more than shake his passengers, it might easily result in damage to the machine far beyond their power to repair. But his fears were groundless. With his eyes fixed on the track, he flattened out and glided in to a perfect three-point landing. The Condor bumped a little as she ran to a stop over the rough ground, but that was unavoidable, and Biggles's reassuring shout of approbation and relief brought a smile to Algy's anxious face. 'Good show,' called Biggles approvingly.

  'Which way?' yelled Algy from the cockpit, with the prop still ticking over, knowing that it would not be wise to leave the machine in the broiling sun without some risk of impairing the doped fabric.

  'Follow me,' called Biggles, and led the way to a nearby group of buriti palms.

  'OK., switch off!' he shouted as they reached them, and the fitful splutter of the engine faded into silence. The door opened and the others alighted.

  Dickpa was beaming. 'Now that's what I call good work!' he cried. 'I couldn't have done it better myself,' he added with a broad grin.

  'I'd hate to be with you when you tried,' rejoined Biggles, with a wink at Algy. 'I think we can sit pretty here. Bring an axe, Smyth, and we'll carve a lane into these trees; the shade will protect the machine and Silas & Co. will need better eyes than they've got to spot us. They'll wonder where the dickens we've gone,' he concluded.

  Willing hands soon cut a pathway into the heart of the thicket; palm fronds were placed over the planes and on the top of the fuselage until it was perfectly concealed from aerial observation.

  Biggles flung his axe down and mopped his perspiring face. 'She'll do,' he said laconically. 'Phew! let's have a rest. I think we've earned one.'

  'Yes, I think we have,' agreed Dickpa. 'Well, we can make a comfortable camp here, and stay a month if necessary.'

  'I wouldn't mind staying six months if it wasn't for these accursed flies,' muttered Biggles, removing a bee from his ear. 'Give me a pin, someone. I'm being eaten alive by carrapatosses?

  Stores were unloaded and they were soon sitting down to the first real meal they had had since their arrival in the Matto Grosso.

  'We shall have to be careful with fires,' observed Dickpa. 'You can see smoke for a surprising distance in this atmosphere; it's like crystal, and distance is deceiving. How far away do you suppose that hill is?' he asked pointing to a great mass of rock that stood like an isolated Gibraltar on the far side of the plain.

  'Five miles, although it doesn't look more than three,' guessed Algy.

  'Ten,' offered Biggles.

  'Fifty would be nearer,' observed Dickpa.

  'Fifty!'

  'Easily that. When you've spent as much time in this country as I have it no longer gives you a shock to find that you can see things distinctly that may take two or three days of really hard going to reach.'

  'Well,
I'll take your word for it,' murmured Biggles, stretching himself out luxuriously on the ground. He sprang to his feet with a wild yell. 'Drat the ants!' he raved. 'Let's get the hammocks out.'

  'I suggest we clear the mouth of the cave first,' said Dickpa. 'We shall then be all ready to march straight in in the morning and begin work on the wall inside.'

  'That sounds a good scheme to me,' agreed Biggles. 'Let me see, we left the tools there, didn't we, so we shan't need anything.'

  Dickpa entered the machine and returned with a flashlight, which he slipped into his pocket. 'I'm ready,' he announced.

  It was not more than a quarter of a mile to the brook where it passed the mouth of the cave, and they found everything just as they had left it. They went to work with a will, occasionally pausing to listen, to make sure they were not caught unawares by the enemy flying-boat. At the end of an hour the cleft in the rock was cleared of debris, and, not without some trepidation, they entered.

  'Another fall of rock while we're inside is not a pleasant thing to contemplate,' was Biggles's unspoken thought as he followed the others into the cave.

  It was an eerie scene. The beam of the flashlamp stabbed the darkness like a sword and disturbed great bats that wheeled and circled about them, occasionally striking their faces with their leathery wings, much to Algy's disgust. The knowledge, too, that they were treading a path last used by men hundreds of years before produced a queer sensation.

  'That's where I found the gold,' said Dickpa, pointing.

  'All I can say is, you must have had your nerve with you to come in a spooky place like this alone,' observed Biggles. 'I don't mind how high up above the ground I get, but I'm nothing for going down under it.'

  'Pah! It's safer here than in that flimsy contrivance of wood and canvas,' jibed Dickpa.

  Biggles made no reply, and for some time they stumbled on over the uneven path, often slipping over small round boulders on the floor. 'By the look of these stones I should say water came down here some time,' resumed Biggles at length.

  'It did,' agreed Dickpa. 'The place—the whole country, in fact—was once under the sea. That can be proved in a dozen ways. You'll find shells and fossils everywhere if you look for them, even in the mountains. This cave is a natural one, I am quite certain, and was caused by the rock splitting during some great upheaval in the past. Many of the rock formations in the Matto Grosso are split like this. Well, here we are,' he concluded.

  They stopped before what at first looked like the blank end of the cave, but close examination revealed that it was artificial and not natural. Biggles marvelled at the cunning hands that wrought such fine work without the use of either steel or mortar.

  'There it is, just as I described it to you at home,' said Dickpa quietly, and with an air that almost amounted to reverence. 'It's too late to start work on it today, I'm afraid. It must be well on in the afternoon, and we are all dead beat. I think we had better get back, make a comfortable camp, and have a real good night's rest. We shall then be able to start fit and fresh first thing in the morning. By this time tomorrow I hope we shall be the other side of the wall.'

  Chapter 11

  The Ants

  Biggles awoke early the following morning and lay for a few minutes contemplating the pink blush of the tropic dawn through a delicate tracery of palm fronds. Then, for some reason which he was unable to determine, a strange feeling began to creep over him that all was not well. His first thought was of the Condor, and, turning over in his hammock, he regarded it with relief. There it was, exactly as they had left it. Was it, though? Something seemed changed, but what it was he could not see in the half-light. He swung over the side of the hammock and, slipping on his shoes, hurried towards it, slowing down as he approached nearer, staring.

  The exposed portion of the wings and plane surfaces where they showed through the leaves that had been laid on them were black, as if they had had some sticky black substance poured over them, a heavy viscous fluid like tar that was still slowly moving and dripping off the edges. For a full minute he stared at it uncomprehendingly, and then let out a wild yell that brought the others from their hammocks with a rush.

  'What is it?' asked Dickpa calmly, his rifle across his arm.

  'Look,' replied Biggles in a strangled whisper, pointing at the machine, and then again, 'Look!'

  The others looked, or rather gazed spellbound at the incredible sight that confronted them.

  'Ants!' ejaculated Dickpa. 'Millions and millions of them! Saubas, too—no, by the great Lord Harry, they're not. They're bigger than saubas—a new sort to me. They must have been converging on the Condor all night. I wonder what could have attracted them.'

  'Dope*,' answered Biggles, 'the dope on the fabric. It's sweet to the taste, I believe; domestic animals have been known to lick the wings of a machine left in a field all night.'

  * Liquid similar to varnish, applied to the fabric surfaces to stiffen and weatherproof them.

  'What are we going to do?' asked Algy at last.

  'We've got to do something, and that quickly,' retorted Biggles. 'There won't be any aeroplane left by tonight at the rate they are working.'

  'But how,' cried Algy, in something like a panic. 'How on earth are we going to shift 'em?'

  Biggles pondered the question. 'We can't just shoo 'em away,' he observed. 'It's no use shouting at 'em and it's no use shooting at 'em; what the dickens are we going to do? Come on, Dickpa, it's up to you.'

  Dickpa had been busy while they were talking, hurrying round the machine and examining it from every angle. 'I don't know,' he confessed, 'not yet. I've heard of these ants, now I come to think of it. They call them the sauba grosso—the big saubas, in other words. They sting like the deuce. I believe one single bite can be very painful, and cause considerable discomfort for days.'

  'How about smoking them off?' suggested Biggles.

  'It might do it, but I doubt it,' replied Dickpa. 'But a smoke cloud big enough to do any good would probably be seen by the enemy, apart from the danger of setting the machine on fire—or the whole prairie, if it comes to that. Starting a fire in this dry stuff near some hundreds of gallons of petrol strikes me as being a highly dangerous performance.'

  'How about starting the engine and blowing them off with the slipstream of the prop?' volunteered Smyth, speaking for the first time.

  'It might shift some of them, but who's going to start the engine?' asked Biggles promptly.

  'I will,' offered Smyth, gallantly starting forward.

  'Stand where you are, man, and don't be a fool!' cried Dickpa. 'They'd tear you to pieces. It's impossible, I tell you. Wait a minute; let me think.'

  'It looks to me as if every ant in South America is congregating on that kite,' exclaimed Biggles bitterly to Algy, 'and they're still coming; you can see them in the grass if you look, all shapes and sizes. Holy mackerel, look out! Look out, Dickpa!' he yelled suddenly, and dashed to one side. 'Strewth, that's done it,' he groaned.

  The others, who had followed in his rush for shelter, now turned to ascertain the cause, and the sight that met their horrified gaze was so unexpected, so terrifying, and so utterly preposterous that for a minute no one moved or spoke. They could only stand and stare with straining eyes.

  Across the short scrubby turf, not more than twenty feet away, came what at first sight seemed to be a wide ribbon slowly moving forward, a dark creeping stain like a shadow cast by a cloud on an April day.

  'Ants!' gasped Algy in a choking whisper. 'Hundreds of thousands of millions of myriads—and we thought they were all here. I can hear them—hark at them pattering in the grass!' His voice rose to a shrill crescendo and ended in a long, high-pitched laugh.

  'Stop that!' cried Dickpa angrily. 'Get hold of yourself—it's nothing to go crazy about.'

  What Algy had said was true. A long column of ants was advancing towards the machine, an army that could not be measured in terms of figures. In front of it were small groups that ran to and fro quickly,
like skirmishers. They were quite small, not a quarter of the size of their big brothers on the machine, but they were as countless as the sands on a seashore.

  'Well, that looks like the end of it to me,' muttered Biggles resignedly. 'We can't destroy that lot except by fire, and then we destroy the machine as well. Would you believe it, eh?' he concluded gloomily, turning to the others.

  'No,' declared Dickpa emphatically, 'I wouldn't. I know Brazil pretty well, and I warned you ants existed in enormous numbers, but I've never seen anything like this before. That lot would wipe out a village. I shouldn't do that,' he went on quickly as Smyth took a pace or two towards them and crushed some under his heel.

  Instantly, as if directed by some signal, a narrow black column broke off from the main body and advanced upon the intruder. There was something appalling in the deliberate attack. Smyth backed away hurriedly and turned a trifle pale.

  'I say,' he muttered hoarsely, 'look at this—look at this! They're attacking the big fellows, fighting like fury!'

  The others dashed forward, a ray of hope shining in Dickpa's eyes. 'If they are fighting, it may be the answer to the problem!' he cried excitedly. 'Ants of different sorts fight to the bitter end—murderous wars of extermination.'

  'If the little ones win and take possession of the machine, we shall only be out of the frying-pan into the fire,' observed Biggles.

  'Not necessarily,' declared Dickpa, 'they might not be the stinging sort, or they might not stay on the machine. It's the other ants they're after—just look at them!'

  The truth of his words was soon apparent. There was no doubt that the newcomers were driving the larger ants before them, throwing themselves upon them with tigerish ferocity. In fact, the saubas on the ground were already beating a retreat, or, rather, running about aimlessly, sometimes with two or three of the smaller ones hanging on to them. The head of the new column reached the Condor, and, like a black stain, began to spread up the outside of the fuselage. Stark panic seized the saubas.