“We've got to get out of here!” Wells shouted. “This is Eugenicist deviltry!”
Many more men were now climbing the incline toward them, all screaming.
Burton hauled Wells to his feet, handed him his crutches, then guided him from the observation point back into Kaltenberg. Behind them, gunfire was drawing closer.
“Counterattack!” Wells said. “Go on ahead, Richard. Get out of here. Don't let me slow you down.”
“Don't be a blessed fool!” Burton growled. “What manner of ridiculous war is this that our forces can be routed by bees?”
Even as he spoke, one of the insects landed on the back of his hand and stung him. Then another, on his neck. And another, on his jaw. The pain was a hundred times worse than a normal sting and he yelled, slapping the insects away. Almost immediately his senses began to swim and his heart fluttered as the venom entered his system. He staggered but found himself supported on either side by a couple of British Tommies who began to drag him along.
“Come on, chum!” said one. “Move yer bleedin' arse!”
“Bertie!” Burton shouted, but it came out slurred.
“Never mind your pal,” the other soldier snapped. “He's bein' taken care of. Keep movin'. Have you been stung?”
“Yes.” Burton's legs had stopped functioning and he had tunnel vision; all he could see was the ground speeding by. There was a buzzing in his ears.
The soldiers' voices came from a long way away: “He's snuffed it. Drop him.”
“No. He's just passed out.”
“He's slowing us down. Aah! I've been stung!”
“I'll not leave a man. Not while he still lives. Help me, damn it!”
A shot. The whine of a bullet.
“They're on us!”
“Run! Run!”
Burton's senses came swimming back. Two men were dragging him along.
“I can walk,” he mumbled, and, regaining his feet, he stood and opened his eyes.
Light blinded him. It glared down from the sky and it glared up from the sand.
He raised a hand for shade and felt a big bump over his right eyebrow. It was sticky with blood.
“Are you dizzy, Captain?” asked Wordsworth Pryce, the second officer of the Orpheus.
“You took quite a knock,” observed another. Burton recognised the voice as that of Cyril Goodenough, one of the engineers.
His vision blurred and swirled then popped back into focus. He looked around, and croaked, “I'm fine. Somewhat dazed. We crashed?”
“The bomb destroyed our starboard engines,” Pryce replied. “It's a good job we were flying low. Nevertheless, we turned right over and came down with one hell of a thump.”
Burton saw the Orpheus.
The huge rotorship was upside down, slumped on desert dunes, its back broken, its flight pylons snapped and scattered. Steam was pouring from it and rising straight up into a clear blue morning sky. The sun was not long risen, but the heat was already intense. Long shadows extended from the wreckage, from the figures climbing out of it, and from the bodies they were lining up on the ground some way from the ship.
William Trounce was suddenly at his side. The detective's jacket and shirt were badly torn and bloodied but his wounds—lacerations, grazes, and bruises—were superficial; no broken bones.
“I think we've got everyone out now except the Beetle,” he said. “The boy is still in there somewhere.”
“What state are we in?” Burton asked, dreading the answer.
“Thirteen dead. First Officer Henson; Helmsman Wenham and his assistant D'Aubigny; Navigator Playfair; riggers Champion, Priestley, and Doe; the two firemen, Gerrard and Etheridge; Stoker Reece-Jones; and, of course, that cur Arthur Bingham. I'm afraid Daniel Gooch bought it, too.”
Burton groaned.
“I'm told Constable Bhatti died a hero's death, heaven bless him,” Trounce said.
“He did. There'd probably be no survivors at all but for his sacrifice. What of the wounded?”
“Tom Honesty is still unconscious. Captain Lawless was pierced through the left side. Engineer Henderson and the quartermaster, Butler, are both in critical condition with multiple broken bones and internal injuries. Miss Mayson has just had a dislocated arm snapped back into place. She'll be all right. Everyone else is battered, cut, and bruised in various degrees. Swinburne is fine. Mr. Spencer has a badly dented and twisted leg. Sister Raghavendra is unharmed, as are Masters Wilde and Cornish. Krishnamurthy was banged around pretty badly but has no serious injuries. He's devastated at the loss of his cousin, of course.” Trounce paused, then said quietly, “What a confounded mess.”
“And one that's fast heating up,” added Pryce. “We're slap bang in the middle of a desert.”
“I suppose the captain is out of action,” Burton said to him, “which makes you the commanding officer. I suggest you order the wreck stripped of everything useful. As a matter of urgency, we should employ whatever suitable material we can find to build a shaded area beside it. Please tell me the ship's water tanks are intact.”
“Half of them are. There'll be plenty enough water.”
“Well, that's something, at least. Have some of it put into containers.”
“I'll organise it at once.”
Pryce strode off.
Trounce cleared his throat. “Um. Captain, this heat—it's not—that is to say, how should we treat our—um—what should we do with the dead?”
The muscles to either side of Burton's jaw flexed. His closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and looked at his friend. “We can't bury them, William. These sands are permanently shifting. We can't leave them in the open—there are scavengers. Our only option is a pyre.”
Trounce considered this for a moment, gave a brusque nod, said, “I'll get it done,” and walked away.
Burton turned to Engineer Goodenough: “What of the cargo hold and the expedition's equipment?”
“It's intact, sir. The vehicles are relatively undamaged. Overturned, of course, but they just need to be righted. Your supplies look like they got caught up in a tornado but I daresay we can sort them out. I'll see to it.”
“Thank you. I'll round up some help for you.”
Burton walked over to where Doctor Quaint and Sister Raghavendra were treating the wounded. Thomas Honesty was sitting up now but obviously hadn't fully regained his wits; his eyes were glazed, his mouth hanging slackly open. There was blood all over his face.
The doctor looked up from Charles Henderson, who was semiconscious and moaning softly, and said, “Almost everyone on the bridge was killed. As for the rest, the extent of their injuries depended on where they were when the ship hit the ground.” He stood, drew Burton aside, and continued in a low voice, “If we don't get the wounded to a hospital, they won't make it.”
Burton examined the landscape. To the north, behind the fallen Orpheus, to the east, and to the south, pale sand undulated all the way to the horizon in a sequence of large dunes. To the west, a thin strip of green and brown terrain clung to the hilly horizon.
“If I can recover my instruments from the hold—and if they're undamaged—I will be able to establish our position, Doctor. Then we can work out how to get to the nearest settlement.”
“But, as I say,” Quaint replied, “these men need a hospital.”
“I assure you, Doctor, the Arabians are masters at the medical arts. They invented surgery.”
“Very well. I'll trust your judgement, sir.”
Burton looked at the Sister. She gave a slight jerk of her head to indicate that she was all right. He moved away, feeling oddly detached. The front of his skull was throbbing, and the dry heat of the Arabian Peninsula was beginning to suck the moisture out of him. He knew that within a couple of hours it would become a furnace. Shelter was the priority now. The inside of the Orpheus wouldn't do—the sun would soon make a giant oven of it.
Swinburne approached with Oscar Wilde and Willy Cornish in tow. The two youngsters were wide-ey
ed and pale-faced. Wilde was cradling his right arm.
“Are you hurt, Quips?”
“Just a sprain, Captain Burton. I'm thinking it's my wits that are more shaken than my body. I'd only just left the bridge when the ship went down. Escaped by the skin of my teeth, so I did.”
“And you, Master Cornish?”
“I bumped my head, Mr. Burton. Really hard.”
“Me too. How is it now?”
“Not so bad, sir.”
“Good boy. Algy, you appear to have escaped without a scratch.”
“Don't ask me how,” Swinburne replied, glancing across at the Sister's patients. “My hat! I was bounced around like a rubber ball. What infamy, Richard, that our enemies are prepared to kill innocent men, women, and children in order to stop our expedition.”
“All the more reason why we must succeed,” Burton growled. He regarded the stricken Orpheus. “Algy, when the engineers have made it safe, I want you and the boys to search the ship. Locate the Beetle.”
“Is he alive, Mr. Burton?” Cornish asked anxiously.
“I don't know. But if he is, we need to get him out of there before he's cooked. Good Lord! What on earth is that?”
Burton gaped at an approaching figure. It looked something like an upright brown bear, but baggy and shiny and possessed of a strange, narrow head, upon which Pox squatted. The thing moved with an ungainly lurching motion, swaying unevenly from side to side as it drew closer. The parakeet held out first one wing, then the other, to stay balanced.
“Cripes! A monster!” Cornish exclaimed, diving behind Burton and clinging to his legs.
“Pestilent stench-monkey!” Pox whistled.
“Hallo, Boss,” the creature beneath the bird hooted.
“Is that you, Herbert?”
“Aye. I've busted me arthritic leg. Got a whackin' great dent in it. Can't hardly walk straight! Otherwise I came through with just a scratch or two. I'm itchin' all over, though. It's these blinkin' polymethylene togs.”
Swinburne snorted. “You can't possibly itch, Herbert. You're made of brass!”
“I know. But I tells you, I itch!”
Herbert was completely enveloped by the suit. Gloves encased his three-fingered hands, and his flat-iron-shaped feet were booted. The voluminous material billowed around his limbs and torso but was wrapped tightly against his head and held in place by two elasticated belts. There were three openings in the suit, through which the circular features of his “face” could be seen.
“I can't say your outfit is worthy of Savile Row,” Burton noted, “but it looks functional and you're protected from wind-borne sand. Come on, let's give the crew a helping hand.”
They moved to the back of the steaming hulk, from which supplies were being unloaded, and started to sort through them. Thirty minutes later, Swinburne, Cornish, and Wilde were given the all clear to enter the ship. They began their search for the Beetle.
Burton, meanwhile, found his surveying equipment, climbed to the top of a nearby dune, and took readings. He returned and approached Wordsworth Pryce, announcing: “We're about a hundred miles to the northeast of Mecca. Unfortunately, that city is forbidden to us. However, I'm familiar with this area. If the expedition travels south for a hundred and eighty miles, we'll come to the town of Al Basah, where we should be able to join a fast caravan that'll take us all the way to Aden.”
Pryce looked surprised. “Surely you don't mean to continue with your expedition? What about your supplies? How will you transport them?”
“We have no choice but to keep going. Our mission is of crucial importance. The supplies will have to be abandoned, apart from whatever we can realistically carry. We'll purchase what we can when we get to Aden, then more at Zanzibar. There's also a large shipment awaiting us in the Dut'humi Hills in Africa.”
Pryce shook his head. “But travelling nearly two hundred miles through this desert? The injured will never survive it.”
“They won't have to. I want you and your men to use the vehicles to transport them westward until you encounter the ocean, then south along the coast to Jeddah, which has excellent medical facilities and a British Consulate. It's not far. If we work fast, you'll be ready to leave at sunset and you'll arrive there before dawn.”
“But Captain Burton!” Pryce objected. “What about you and your people? You can't possibly walk to Al Basah!”
“If they don't receive proper attention soon, Lawless, Henderson, and Butler will die. Take the vehicles. I'm an experienced desert traveller and I happen to know that there's a chain of oases between here and the town. They're frequented by traders and there's a very high probability that we'll join a caravan within hours of setting forth.”
The aeronaut gripped Burton by the arm. “Come with us, sir! You can get a ship and sail from Jeddah to Aden.”
“We'll not all fit into the vehicles, Mr. Pryce. And strange as it might seem, caravans journey south far more frequently than ships do. Vessels sailing from Jeddah are normally bound for Cairo. We might wait for months for one that's going to Aden. But in Al Basah, camel trains leave on a daily basis and travel rapidly down through central Arabia. We might reach Aden in less than two months.”
“Two months! But by golly, sir—that's a huge delay!”
Burton shook his head. “It might appear so, but it's nothing compared to the hold-ups I experienced during my first expedition. Believe me, Pryce, Speke will be encountering many similar hindrances. I remain confident that we can catch him up, despite this setback. Now, let's get those vehicles out of the cargo hold.”
Frantic hours followed. Supplies were sorted and stacked beneath makeshift awnings, food and water were distributed, and two travois were constructed for Burton and his team to use to transport whatever they could manage.
The Beetle was finally located in a pipe in the heart of the wreck, which the desert heat had not yet reached. He was uninjured but hungry. Burton took him a bag of sausage rolls, some sliced meat, half a loaf of bread, and a canteen of water. He held the comestibles up to a panel in the pipe. It swung open, and a small pale-blue and mottled hand reached out and drew them into the darkness.
“Thank you, Captain,” came a whisper. “And I'm very sorry.”
“Sorry?”
“If I had warned you about the saboteur in London, you might have lost a week. Instead, my scheme has cost you the expedition.”
“No, lad. As I just informed Mr. Pryce, this crash has put us maybe two months behind Speke.”
“Then he has won!”
“Not a bit of it. Time in Africa is not the same as time in England. Where we can measure a journey in hours and days, in Africa, they must be measured in weeks and months and even years. And Speke is in incompetent traveller. He is certain to make mistakes, and they will cost him as much time as we have lost today.”
“I hope so. And what of me, Captain? I appear to be somewhat disadvantaged.”
“We've arranged transportation for you, lad.”
“How so?”
“If you follow this pipe toward the stern and turn right at the second junction, you'll find that it ends at a grille. When you are there, signal by tapping. The engineers will then saw through the pipe behind you, leaving you in a six-foot-long section, the cut end of which they'll immediately seal.”
“I do not want them to see me.”
“They shan't. I'll be there to ensure your continued privacy.”
“That is good of you. What will then happen?”
“The pipe will be loaded aboard one of our vehicles in the custody of William Cornish and Oscar Wilde. You'll travel to Jeddah by night—which will be cold, but that's better than being baked alive. It may take some time for Second Officer Pryce to arrange, but from the port you'll sail with the boys and the crew of the Orpheus to Cairo, and from there home to London. All those who'll accompany you have pledged to guard you en route. It will mean a long time in a cramped pipe, but you'll get home.”
“That is most satisfacto
ry, Captain. Thank you.”
A little later, after Bloodmann and Bolling had cut and sealed the pipe, they and Burton carried it into the long tent-like structure that had been erected beside the ship. The six members of the explorer's expedition were resting there: Swinburne, Trounce, Honesty, Spencer, Krishnamurthy, and Sister Raghavendra; and so were the other nine surviving crew members: Pryce, Goodenough, Quaint, Beadle, Miss Mayson, the boys—Cornish and Wilde—and the injured men, Lawless, Henderson, and Butler.
Those who were conscious had a haunted look about their eyes—they'd all seen the tall column of smoke rising up from the other side of a nearby dune. They knew what it meant. They sat, silently bidding their friends goodbye.
Then they slept.
For the next few hours, the hottest of the day, the clockwork man kept lone vigil over the camp.
There wasn't a single sound from outside, but inside, the exhausted survivors shifted restlessly and gave forth occasional moans, for even in their trauma-filled dreams, they could feel the arid air scorching their lungs.
Five hours later, when they awoke, they felt as desiccated as Egyptian mummies.
“By Jove!” Trounce croaked. “How can anyone live in this?”
“Are Arabs flameproof?” Krishnamurthy asked.
“It will cool rapidly over the next hour,” Burton declared, pushing canvas aside and squinting out at the setting sun. “Then you'll be complaining about the cold.”
“Can't imagine cold. Not now!” Honesty confessed.
“This is a land of extremes, old chap, and we have to take advantage of those few hours, twice a day, when the climate shows an iota of mercy.”
One such period was soon upon them, and after a hasty meal, they stocked the two conveyances with fuel and food and water, and the aeronauts prepared to take their leave.
The vehicles were extraordinary. They were crabs—of the variety Liocarcinus vernalis—grown to gigantic size, their shells cleaned out and fitted with steam machinery, controls, chairs, and storage cabinets. They walked forward rather than sideways, as they had done when alive, and their claws had been fitted with razor-sharp blades, designed to slice and rip through jungle.