09 Lion Adventure (13 page)

That was bad enough - but the worst thing about it was that it chilled the gas which, contracting and growing heavier, caused the balloon to lose altitude.

They must stay up to stay alive. If the Jules Verne were swept along the ground in the arms of the cyclone at seventy or eighty miles an hour, double the speed of a racehorse, anything it happened to strike would destroy it and its passengers. It was like a ship that must be kept well away from rocky coasts during a storm.

A ship can do that, because it has an engine. The engineless balloon was at the mercy of the raging wind.

They got a good idea of the force of the wind when they passed over an African hut just as the palm-leaf roof was lifted off and carried away as if it had been as light as a feather. They caught a fleeting glimpse of the astonished family looking up at their flying roof and trying to protect themselves against the drenching downpour which immediately put out their fire and would soon chill them to the bone.

A great baobab tree struck by lightning blazed fiercely in spite of the rain. This did not make the flyers feel any more comfortable, knowing that they were tied to a bag of thirty thousand cubic feet of explosive gas.

They were so low now that they were being whipped by the top branches of trees. New holes were torn in the sides and bottom of the basket. But suddenly the world dropped away from under them.

They were over the great Ngorongoro Crater, nearly three thousand feet deep. The floor of this dead volcano covers a hundred and fifty square miles. Within the circle of its mighty wall, a hundred times as high as the Great Wall of China, the fairly level crater-bottom is the home of thousands of wild animals of every description.

There were lakes and pools where hippos and crocodiles enjoyed themselves, and lions, leopards, elephants, rhinos, giraffes, and buffaloes came to drink.

The animals were revealed only when brilliant flashes of lightning illuminated the scene. In between these explosions of light, the black clouds and thundering rain cut off the view. They would have liked to go lower to see this wonderful pageant, but dared not since they must ride high enough to top the wall at the far side of the crater.

The balloon slid over this rampart with only fifty feet to spare and raced on into the great Serengeti Desert. Here there were not only no towns or villages but not even a hut. Sand dunes like those of the Sahara crawled along, driven by the cyclone.

One good thing - the rain was left behind. The sun blazed forth, blinding hot. A terrific sandstorm was in progress. It reached up to scratch the faces of the balloonmen. It blew sand into their eyes and ears, and mouths too if they dared open them.

A gleam of white appeared below. ‘What’s that?’ said Roger.

‘A monument to Michael. He died here.’

‘Who was Michael?’

‘Michael Grzimek was a chap about my age who flew a plane over this desert, trying to make a count of the animals in the annual migration. This very balloon was also used on that same job. Michael and his father made thousands of flights in their small plane back and forth across this desert. Then one day when Michael was flying alone something made the plane crash. I’ll bet you can’t guess what’

‘A storm like this one?’

‘No, it was a perfectly clear, quiet day.’

‘Engine trouble?’

‘No.’

‘His plane collided with another?’

‘You’re closer to it. There was a collision, but not with another plane. It’s hard to believe that a bird could bring down a plane, but that’s what happened. A griffin-vulture collided with the right wing and bent it. That blocked the rudder cables and the plane dived and crashed. Michael’s body was dragged from under the wreckage. They buried him here and put up that monument. I remember what it says on the monument:

MICHAEL GRZIMEK

He gave all he possessed for the wild animals of Africa, including his life.

Roger wondered if anybody would say something as nice on the monument to him and his brother. They also

had done much for African wildlife. But he decided he’d rather stay alive than have something pretty said about him after he was dead.

They finished repairing the basket ropes. The basket itself they could not repair. They simply avoided the holes that were big enough to fall through, and put as much of their weight as possible on the rim of the basket rather than on the weakened strands under their feet.

‘Know something?’ Roger said. ‘I’m hungry!’

Hal looked up at the desert sun which poured down a merciless torrent of heat. ‘And I’m thirsty,’ he said.

‘Why didn’t we think to have a supply of food and water on this thing?’

‘Because we never expected to make a trip in it. So long as it was moored in the camp we could easily get to the tent whenever we wanted to eat or drink.’

‘If we’d only had time to get our guns out of the car. Then, if we could land, we could shoot a gazelle or something and if we couldn’t cook it we could eat it raw and drink its blood.’

‘A lot of ifs,’ Hal remarked. ‘I think your brain is going iffy.’

But he had to admit to himself that his own mind was getting jumpy under the strain of the last dozen hours.

He saw things that weren’t there. On the horizon was a village and the villagers had seen the balloon and were coming to help. He knew it wasn’t true. There was no village, and no help. But there to the west was certainly a great sheet of water. It must be Lake Victoria. If they should drop into it they would have all the fresh water they could drink.

The peculiar thing about it was that it floated high above the desert. It was a mirage, and he knew it. Lake Victoria did lie in that direction, but more than a hundred miles away.

‘I see a tower,’ Roger exclaimed. ‘Straight ahead. We’re going to strike it.’

So the poor kid was seeing things too - things that weren’t there. ‘It’s real,’ Roger insisted.

Hal rubbed the sand out of his eyes and looked. He saw it too. It was like a pillar in a cathedral, rising straight from the floor so high that the upper end of it was lost in space. Then he recognized it for what it was.

‘A twister,’ he said. ‘Remember?- we’ve seen them on the ocean. Only there they call it a waterspout. A climbing whirlwind that takes up water with it. Here in the desert it takes up sand. And it will take us up too if we get into it.’

‘A tornado?’ asked Roger.

‘I suppose that’s die name for it, except that a tornado usually covers more ground and is a bit less violent. You might call this a tight tornado. It goes up straight and fast like a bullet from a rifle instead of spreading like shot from a shotgun.’

The scream of the whirlwind grew louder as they approached it. The white pillar was moving along the desert floor and there was a chance they might miss it.

Oh for an engine or a rudder or some way of changing the course of this crazy balloon!

The moving minaret gave them hope for a moment as it swung out of their path, but then a violent blast from the cyclone drove it back and in the next instant the Jules Verne was climbing towards the stars. It whirled sickeningly as it climbed. The needle of the altimeter slid around to its limit but still the balloon went up. The desert below could not be seen now through the sand that filled the air.

‘The higher we go the worse it will be coming down,’ Hal said.

The ascent seemed slower now. And not so vertical. The pillar was leaning like the Tower of Pisa. The heat of the desert that had started the air on its spiral climb had died out in the cold upper reaches and presently the balloon fell out of the weakened column and began to fall.

‘Hang on,’ Hal shouted. ‘We’re in for a hard bump.’

He knew this was stating it very mildly. The bump would not only be hard but perhaps fatal. He had no sand to throw out to delay the downward rush. The gas, chilled by the upper air, had lost much of its lifting power. The up-current of the twister was replaced by a strong down-current, on the principal that whatever goes up must come down.

Since the basket would strike first they must get out of the basket. ‘Up into the rigging!’ Hal commanded. They clambered up the ropes to the ring.

Now they could see the desert floor rushing up to meet them. Wasn’t there anything that could be done?

Hal tried to remember something the warden had told him about just such a situation as this. It was a desperate measure. Hal resolved to try it.

‘I’m going to pull the rip line - let out all the gas.’

‘Are you off your head?’ screamed Roger.

‘Probably. But here goes.’

He pulled down with all his strength on the rip line. There was a tearing sound above as a large triangle of fabric was ripped from the top of the bag. Immediately there was a rush of escaping gas and the bag collapsed.

Now, if the plan worked, the twelve lines that ran up from the ring to the balloon would pull the empty bag into something like the form of a parachute and that should ease the fall.

It worked - partly. The drop was slowed, but not enough. They were still sure to strike with terrible force. Directly below was not soft sand but hamada, stony desert.

Hal swung himself over beneath his brother. Roger at least would have something soft to land on.

Then came the crash. The basket already full of holes offered no protection against the sharp stones which jabbed their way through it and into Hal’s flesh. He struck all the harder because of the weight of Roger’s body upon his own. He blacked out.

The billowing folds of the bag settled down upon them as if to give them decent burial.

Roger also was stunned. His brother’s body had cushioned his fall and perhaps saved his life, but, after all, Hal’s bones had not proved a perfect landing pad.

Slowly he returned to consciousness. At first he hazily thought he was in bed, buried under heavy blankets. Strangely enough, the blankets were whipping up and down, beating the breath out of him. Or perhaps the tent had collapsed and was thrashing about in that screaming wind.

The bed was comfortable beneath him except for a hard bump in the middle. It took him some time, to realize that this was his brother’s bony hip. And they were not safe in camp, but stranded in the vast wilderness of the Serengeti.

The body beneath him did not move.

‘Hal,’ he said. No answer. He rolled aside and put his fingers on his brother’s wrist. If there was any pulse, it was too faint to feel. He put his ear to Hal’s chest. There was no sound, or if there was he couldn’t hear it over the shriek of the wind. He put his cheek to his brother’s open mouth, hoping to feel the warmth of the breath. But the cyclonic gusts under the billowing bag made that impossible.

Trembling with anxiety, he began to drag the heavy body out from under the balloon. He found himself weak from lack of food and the shock of the fall. At last he got his burden out into the world of sun and sandstorm.

The Jules Verne decided it had been earthbound long enough. It rose on a whoop of wind and blew away to the west, it’s great empty folds making it look like an enormous flapping bird.

The brisk wind slowly brought Hal back into the land of the living. He opened his eyes. Roger’s heart leaped. ‘Attaboy!’ he said. ‘I was afraid you had pooped out’

Hal looked around dully as if trying to remember where he was and why. Then he looked back at Roger.

‘You all right, kid?’

‘Just fine. Where’s the balloon?’

‘Gone with the wind. How about you? I must have landed on you pretty hard.’

‘Oh, I’m all right. Think I’ll just lie here for a bit. It’s so restful on these rocks.’

‘You got some nasty gouges. Wish I had some water to wash them out.’

‘Don’t worry. No germs on those stones. The sun takes care of that.’

Roger looked around at the vacant horizon. ‘Wonder how far we’ll have to walk.’

‘Plenty far,’ Hal said, ‘and I suppose we’d better get started.’

He struggled to his feet, then went down again with a groan. He put his hand to his right leg.

‘Broken?’ asked Roger.

‘I don’t know. Can’t tell without a picture. You don’t happen to have an X-ray handy?’

‘Sorry.’

‘I’ll try again in a minute.’

When he made another attempt to stand up, he fell on Ms face. ‘It’s no good,’ he said. ‘It won’t hold me up. Limp as a piece of spaghetti.’

‘Okay,’ Roger said. ‘Can you take care of yourself while I go for help?’

‘Go where? Do you realize what hunters call this part of the Serengeti? Middle of Nowhere.’

Roger stood up and looked around, screwing up his eyes against sand and sun.

‘But there must be an African village.’

‘Not out here. Too far from water.’

‘But see all those animals. Where there are animals there must be water.’

‘That sounds logical, but it isn’t. Most of the animals you see don’t live here. They just pass through, thousands of them, migrating to rivers hundreds of miles north at one time of the year and south at another. And animals that need water frequently don’t come here at all.’

‘Look here,’ said Roger impatiently. ‘I can’t stand here gabbing. I don’t know where I’m going but I’m going.’

‘Wait a minute,’ Hal said. ‘How do you think you will find your way back?’

It was a new and sobering thought. They had no compass, no sextant, no way of fixing their position.

‘I have my watch,’ Roger said. ‘Point the hour hand at the sun - halfway between the hour hand and twelve is south. So I can keep my direction and come back in the opposite direction and I’ll find you.’

‘Good try,’ Hal said, ‘but it’s not exact enough. You could miss me by thirty miles.’

‘I have another idea,’ Roger said. ‘I’ll drag a stick -then follow the line back.’

‘What kind of a mark do you think your stick would make on this rocky ground? And when you come to stand, the mark you make would be covered by drifting sand in half an hour. I think you’d better just go ahead and forget about me. No use of both of us staying to feed the vultures.’

‘Don’t talk nonsense,’ Roger said sharply. His eyes swept over the plain. A quarter of a mile away a herd of zebras was going north. They kept in close formation. Following them were several hundred wildebeest. They too kept close together, not scattered all over the desert.