Sullivan whispered in the Professor’s ear, “Shall I get out the gold?”
The Professor very slightly shook his head. “Please listen to me, Sita Ram,” he said. “I know that you are a good and a religious man: I do not think that you will throw our lives away. Help me to see the abbot.”
“Oh, no, that would be quite impossible,” said Sita Ram, silently closing the door and coming a little closer. “Mr. Coomaraswarmy would never allow it. He says that you are here without permission, that you are committing—what is it?—a wicked trespass, and that you are all spies and men of war and blood. I must not betray the Great Silent Ones. I must not. But I wish you could go away. The pass is not very far, and then it is easy: but the lower men are coming up. I cannot advise you, and I should be submissive and not wish that you could go away.” He fell silent. After a pause the Professor said encouragingly, “We would never ask you to betray good and righteous principles, but I see that Mr. Coomaraswarmy is inflamed against the English because they occupy India. Perhaps he may be right. I do not like the idea of ruling over other people against their will myself: but whether he is right or not, it has distorted his views; there is the red mist of anger in front of his eyes. But you see more clearly, and you know that he would be sorry afterwards if he were to commit a violence. You know, even better than I do, that there is a higher obedience.”
“But I must be obedient,” said Sita Ram. “I must not stay here. I must not wish that the flying-machine would work to take you away. I must not tell you that it is only a little way down the valley. I must not say that this door will not be locked at one hour before the dawn.” He said these last words in a whisper barely audible in the room, and then, unhappy, nervous and almost distracted he bolted out of the door. A few minutes later they heard an angry voice calling his name and the stamp of heavy feet coming down the corridor. They paused outside the door. Sullivan crept to the door, crouched by it and gathered himself: but the Professor waved at him and shook his head. A moment later there was a little sliding noise at the door, and the feet walked quietly away. Sullivan pulled gently at the door: it was locked.
“No,” said the Professor, when they had listened for a while. “I do not think that violence is in place here. It could only end with disaster now that we are disarmed. I remember my dear old father telling me, when first I went to school, ‘Do not bark unless you can bite,’ and our teeth have been drawn. We must rely on this flying-machine.”
Sullivan nodded. “He said it was down the valley,” he whispered, listening at the door again. He beckoned to Chingiz, and said in Mongol, “Listen at this hole, and if you hear anyone coming, wave your hand.” Then, to the Professor, “But first we have got to find it. And then what sort of chance is there that it is not in a thousand pieces? It must have crashed: no plane could possibly have landed there and still be in a state to take off.”
A sudden illumination flashed into Derrick’s mind. “Uncle,” he said, “I believe I saw it. I thought it was nonsense because I was tired. It must have been the thing I thought was a windmill fallen over.”
“A helicopter!” exclaimed Sullivan. “Now that is something like a possibility.”
“When Sita Ram first mentioned it,” said the Professor, “he said that the man floated down and walked out quite safe. He did not say that the machine was damaged in any way—indeed, I had the impression that he considered it quite workable. But whether he had his information from the unfortunate flier or not, I cannot say.”
“And yet,” mused Sullivan, “how on earth could a helicopter get here?”
“From what I gathered,” said the Professor, “the unhappy man was escaping from Russia. Presumably he stole the machine, or acquired it in some other way, and flew until he thought he was in safety.”
“That’s possible,” said Sullivan, with renewed hope. “Let’s hope that the poor devil did not fly until he had used all his juice.”
Chingiz held up his hand, and they fell silent. It was getting dark. Presently Sullivan walked over to the fire and stirred it into a blaze. “Well,” he said, “we may as well have a make and mend and then turn in. Heaven knows what they are going to do with us, but I for one shall sleep until noon.” He spoke in a natural voice, quite loud, and yawned. The Mongol’s hand was still raised. Sullivan sat down in front of the fire, and by the leaping flare he began to repair his rig as well as he could with his bandaged hand.
The others, except for Chingiz, joined him. Their clothes and their boots were in a shocking state, but they could not bring any sort of heart to their work.
Chingiz dropped his hand, and from the door whispered, “He is gone.”
“Good, Chingiz,” said Sullivan, “then come to the fire. There is no more for us to say tonight. We must try to sleep.”
The night wore on, and they lay about the floor, warm, with their bodies at ease and relaxed; but even Sullivan, old hand though he was at going off, could not sleep. One by one the stars crept by the small high, strongly barred window: Sullivan reckoned them off, judging the progress of the night, and by the time he heard a gentle rustle at the door he was up and ready. He opened it silently, and Sita Ram glided in. He was trembling with agitation, and he could hardly speak. “Here is a little food,” he said, sliding a parcel from under his robe. “I should not do it: it is very wrong. There is a little money in case you need it. If you can get over the pass it is down and down all the way until the country of the common people. Take care, take care. I will try to find your friend.” He glided out again like a shadow, and the door closed quietly behind him.
“Muzzle Chang and follow me,” whispered Sullivan. Derrick already had Chang muzzled: he too had watched the stars, and he had feared that Chang might bark. They crept silently out of the door, down the long passage and out on to the crisp snow, shining under the first hint of light from a cloudless sky.
Down the path they went, bent double with caution. In ten minutes they were out of sight of the lamasery, and they ran with huge flying steps down the path that they had so painfully climbed before.
“Whereabouts is it?” asked Sullivan.
Derrick stared about him in the growing light. “I think it was round the next bend,” he said, with a hideous doubt in his mind, “rather lower than those rocks down there.”
They went on, and all at once Derrick gave a cry of delight. There, exactly as he had pictured it a thousand times during the night, was the thing he had taken for a windmill. It was standing on its platform, its huge vanes intact, and looking now he could see the shape of its body under the snow.
They hurried down the slope, sliding recklessly on the snow, and began to dig the snow away.
“Why in Heaven’s name did they not move it?” asked Sullivan, as the body came into view.
“It happened the day Coomaraswarmy was going,” said the Professor, “and he left orders that it was not to be touched until he came back. How very fortunate that there were no strong winds up here between that time and this. Surely, this appears to be a door, and is not this the handle?” He pulled, and they stared into the cabin.
“It is the largest helicopter I have ever seen,” said Sullivan, “not that I’ve seen many.”
“It is certainly a Russian machine,” said the Professor, getting in and looking at the instrument panel.
They dug feverishly, and presently the whole of the egg-shaped fuselage and the long tail was showing. With every fresh scoop of snow they expected to find some damaged part, and when it was nearly all uncovered without any sign of a crash appearing they hardly dared continue. But eventually it stood there, free of snow, and apparently, to their inexpert eyes, as good as new.
Then suddenly a thought struck them. “Who is going to fly it?” asked Derrick and the Professor both at once.
“I am,” said Sullivan, after a moment. “I’ve navigated some queer craft in my time, but none so queer as this. The first thing to do is to see whether there’s any gas aboard.” He climbed in and pee
red at the dials. “Professor,” he called, “can you translate for me?”
“This is petrol, or gasoline, as you would say,” said the Professor, pointing at one. “It reads zero.”
“Perhaps there’s a little in,” said Sullivan. “We only need enough to reach the top of the pass, and then the thing will go down slowly, like a parachute.”
“Without any petrol, Sullivan? Are you sure?”
“I think so,” said Sullivan, uncertainly. “Anyhow, let’s try to start her up.”
“How?”
“Doesn’t it say on these instructions?”
“Let me see . . .”
Derrick had followed them in, and he was looking about the back. “What’s this?” he said, holding up a can. Sullivan unscrewed the cap. “It’s gas,” he cried, and then, looking further, “Why, the whole thing is filled with it. Let’s fill her up.”
They found the tank and filled it to the brim, throwing the containers out into the snow. By this time the Professor had read the long printed list.
“It is most unfortunate,” he said, “that I do not understand the technical terms. I am afraid I do not understand them in any language. I cannot translate them. But it seems that there is a bent piece of metal that must be turned rapidly in a clockwise direction.”
“Derrick,” said Sullivan, “it’s getting late. You and Chingiz go to the next bend and watch the path. When you hear the engine fire, run back. If they come for us, they’ll regret it.”
He turned to the engine and studied it. “I’ll try and start it like a car,” he said. “Do you understand anything about cars, Professor?”
“Nothing whatever,” said the Professor, “but I have found the place where the tools are kept. Perhaps this is the starting handle.”
“It looks like one,” said Sullivan, “and this looks like the place where it goes in. I’ll try.” He engaged the crank and turned. The vanes above them jerked and moved slightly round. The Professor stood back expectantly. Sullivan heaved, heaved and heaved again. “I wish to God I had both my hands,” he said, pausing, and wiping the sweat away.
“May I have a try?” suggested the Professor. He grasped the handle and turned. He turned, gasping with the effort, took a new grip and turned again. The vanes moved, but nothing more. Half an hour later they were still standing there: Sullivan had ripped the skin off the palm of his one good hand, and the Professor was exhausted.
Derrick came running down. “Coomaraswarmy is coming down the path,” he reported.
“Right,” said Sullivan, “I’ll come and cope with him. You stay here and try to swing that crank.”
Derrick seized the handle and swung madly. He had swung a car several times, but this handle was awkwardly high, and the compression was enormous. He swung with all his force, with more force than he had ever exerted in his life, for there they stood, with their safety in front of them, unable to use it. If only he could make the engine fire, everything would turn from night to day, from death to life. He swung until the blood clouded his eyes: but the engine would not fire. He darted into the cabin and wildly altered all the knobs he could find. The Professor stood helplessly by him.
Again he swung, and again, and again. The vanes quivered and turned, but that was all: the engine would not fire.
Chingiz joined them. “He is waiting for him,” he said, with a grin. “Are we going soon?”
“Chingiz, turn this,” cried Derrick, panting and wiping his bloody hands in the snow.
Chingiz tried. He tried with all the strength of his body, for he had suddenly understood from Derrick’s pale face that everything depended on it. He swung, he swung until he could swing no longer, and then he too sank down to breathe.
They heard a noise like the beginning of an avalanche and started up. It was near, only a little way up the valley: but it did not swell into the full and horrifying roar, and after a moment Sullivan appeared again, running.
“He is dealt with,” he said, gripping the handle again. Round and round he forced it, with all the weight that he could muster, round and round and round.
He fell back, and the blood was pouring from his nose. “If only poor dear Ross were here,” he muttered, “he’d have the thing going like a shot. He always hated engines: but he could make them do anything he liked.”
The sun was in the valley now. One by one they went up to the bend to watch the path, and one by one they came back to wrestle desperately with the crank.
Sullivan tried everything he knew. He cleaned the plugs, warmed them in his clothes, scraped the contacts, flooded the carburettors: he thumped the engine, climbed on the coping and turned the vanes by hand, and unscrewed and refastened everything that might be dirty. None of it was any good. He stared at the thing, gaunt and haggard. He felt that it would break his heart.
Derrick was coming down the path for his turn again, and Sullivan looked up impatiently as he heard Derrick give a hail, “Shut up, you flaming fool,” he cried. “Do you want to bring the whole pack down on us?”
But Derrick hailed again, a long and extraordinarily loud ahoy that came flapping back from the farther side. He raced past Sullivan and the Professor, tearing down the slope. They stared after him in amazement.
He had seen what they had not, and his heart was almost bursting as it thumped with joy. When first he had seen the three yaks and the two walking men he had been coming down to report that the path was still clear: the sight had pulled him up: he had waited a minute to see the yaks and the men clear into sight round the corner before he ran down to make his report of their number and strength, and in that minute he had recognised a tall, lumbering form and one short, slight one with a black Chinese cap.
He sped on, tripped and took a frightful plunge down fifty yards of snow: he picked himself up unhurt and came to a steeper slope again. He squatted, edged on to the slope and slid the whole length of it, shrieking “Olaf, ahoy! Li Han. Ahoy, there, ahoy.” He was half-way down the slope and moving at a terrifying pace when he saw that there was a form on one of the yaks, a form that waved an arm. “Ahoy, Mr. Ross,” he bawled. “Ahoy!” He went smack into a soft drift and plunged straight through it to the other side.
In another moment he was shaking hands, having the breath knocked out of his body by Olaf’s huge slaps on the back, asking questions, answering them and at the same time hopping with delight.
There was nobody at the helicopter now. They were all racing down, and Sullivan was the first up after Derrick. After a single, powerful handshake with Ross and a quick word with him, he said, “Olaf, here’s all the ammunition left. You see that machine up there? There are five men coming down towards it. If they approach; one shot over their heads. If they come nearer, shoot to kill.”
“Aye-aye, Cap’n,” cried Olaf, setting off at a run.
“We must hurry the yaks up there at full speed,” said Sullivan, unlashing Ross. “Now get on my back, Ross. I’m going to carry you up. There’s an engine that you must start.”
All this time Li Han had been darting towards the approaching Professor, stopping every moment to bow and darting on. “Rest assured,” he cried as they drew near, “rest assured for treasure, respected sir. Is all safe. Is all on person intact.”
“Confound the jade,” said the Professor, shaking him by both hands. “Come quickly and shed a little blood, Li Han. They are attacking the helicopter.”
Derrick and Chingiz, urging the yaks with all their force, heard a single shot. They listened, motionless, but nothing followed. Sullivan was far up the slope beyond them already. He had taken the path, and he was running in the beaten track, running as though there were nothing on his back: it was an astonishing spectacle. For a hundred yards it would have been an extraordinary feat, but he never slackened, never faltered, never stumbled until he was on the edge of the path above the machine. “Now,” he said, in a hoarse, unrecognisable voice. “We’ve got to slide you down. Olaf! Bear a hand.”
Ross winced once or twice on the j
ourney down, and he stifled a groan as he crawled into the cabin. He looked at the instruments, nodded his head, and looked under the deep panel. “Man, man,” he murmured, “it’s the ignition, nothing more.” He leant down and turned a key, altered the controls and said, “Try now.”
At the same moment Olaf shouted, “They’re coming on.”
“Give me your gun,” said Sullivan to Olaf, “and swing that handle there. Swing it hard. Swing it with everything you’ve got.”
Olaf spat on his hands, gripped, swung, and was flung flat on his face as the engine roared, filling the air with snow and the valley with noise. The helicopter rocked: Ross throttled back, and the engine slowed to a steady thrum. Gently Ross increased the power: the helicopter rose a foot and settled back as he experimented with the controls. He looked out of the cabin, wiping the frosted screen. “I’m ready when you are,” he said calmly, and eased himself back in the pilot’s seat.
Chingiz and the yaks had stopped dead at the prodigious roar. “Come on,” said Derrick. “They’ve got her started. We’ll run up with the pack. We won’t need the yaks any more.” Chingiz stood hesitating: he had not expected this. “Come on,” cried Derrick again, unslinging the yak’s light burden. Chingiz clutched his charm, took half the load, and they hurried up the slope. He blenched again as they stood by the helicopter, battered by its wind.
“The yaks are all right,” shouted Derrick, as he handed in the pack. “I cast off their head-stalls.” But nobody heard him above the roar. He flung the unwilling Chang into the cabin, hauled the hesitating Chingiz up by the arm, wormed his way in and slammed the door.
“Will she lift with this load?” asked Sullivan in Ross’s ear.
“She may,” said Ross, “and she may not.” He eased the throttle forward. The roar increased in a mounting crescendo and died away again. In the crowded cabin, with hardly room to move, there was a frightful sense of disappointment and anticlimax. Ross swiveled round. “You’ll have to take your dog’s tail out of the controls, young man,” he said, “if I am to use my helm at all.”