Читать книгу The Amir's Ruby - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 9
ОглавлениеScraping Through
For the seventh time in succession Standish steered the trapped biplane round what was roughly an oval course. Do what he could he was unable to gain altitude. The Condor, heavily laden with stores and oil fuel, and already in rarefied air, was opposed by a steady downward current. It would seem that the cold air in the vicinity of the irregular ring of snow-clad mountains was sinking; yet, so far, there was no compensating upward draught of warm air.
To make matters worse, not only did the fog hold persistently to the valley beneath but wreaths of watery vapour were collecting round the peaks and tending to unite with the lower stratum. In that case the Condor, pinned in between those stupendous precipices, would be doomed to utter destruction.
"If we got rid of our spare fuel——" thought Standish.
"Hello, what's that?" exclaimed Grey, pointing to what appeared to be a snake-like coil of rope at the southernmost part of the valley.
A ray of hope flashed across Colin's mind. Snatching up his binoculars he took a hasty look. It was one of those mountain roads, so common in the Alps, that have to wind, loop, and twist in order to maintain a practical gradient in a very limited space. Here and there it vanished from sight as it tunnelled through projecting crags or had to be roofed in to protect it from the ever-present danger of avalanches.
Where that road went—and it must lead somewhere—the biplane could assuredly follow.
Steadying the Condor, Standish made straight for the pass. The old bus was now going at her maximum speed and even then there was little reserve of lift. At the rate of a mile in every twenty-five seconds there was little time for either thought or action.
Rolling, rocking, and plunging in the complicated air-currents the biplane dashed into the defile. Ahead, the beetling cliffs appeared to meet in an unbroken rampart. Whether the exit lay to the right or left Standish had not the slightest idea. All he hoped was that the turn would not be too acute even for the nimble manoeuvring powers of the airplane.
More than once it seemed as if the wing tips would collide with the cliffs on either side. The noise was stupendous, the whirr of the propellers echoing and re-echoing in the narrow defile; while in the wake of the Condor tremendous masses of snow and rock, dislodged from their precarious resting places by the air vibration set up by the swiftly-moving biplane, crashed into the still invisible valley with a roar outvoicing that of a tropical thunderstorm.
The man who felt the strain of the tense situation most was Grey. He had to sit idly behind the pilot, trusting entirely to the former's sound judgment and yet finding himself thinking that he would act differently if he were at the controls. It was a feeling shared by most motorists when they happen to be riding in someone else's car. Jack Metcalfe, standing by the motor, fortunately had no such fears. Seeing nothing, although he realized that they were all in a tight fix, he was spared the sensations experienced by Don Grey.
As for Standish he was too busily occupied to think of danger. He knew that the danger was there and his job was to avert it, if humanly possible.
The wall of rock confronting him was within a hundred yards before Colin discovered that the rift in which he was flying made almost a right-angled junction with another gorge. He had to decide—and that quickly—whether he should swing the biplane right or left. He had nothing to guide him. At that point the road had vanished, tunnelling into the rock a quarter of a mile behind.
"Right to chance it!" whispered something in the pilot's brain.
Even then there was very little clearance. The Condor reeled under the back pressure set up by her approach to the vertical rocks, sideslipped, recovered herself, and tore down the right-hand valley.
So far Standish's choice was a sound one. A bridge, carrying the same mountain road, crossed the defile by a single arch. The biplane cleared the coping by less than three feet.
Beyond that point the gorge opened and presently the gallant Condor emerged into brilliant sunshine, with the wide fertile plain of Lombardy spread out eight thousand feet below.
Standish was now able to fix his position. He recognized the peculiar contour of Lake Como. There was no mistaking that.
With a gesture of utter relief he connected up the gyro stabilizers.
"Fine navigation, I don't think!" he remarked to his assistant. "Either the compass is out or the wind's chopped completely round, and we hadn't a chance to observe it. Now we'd better follow the Adriatic coast-line of Italy. Yes, take over, please! I admit I've had enough for the time being."
Don Grey slid into the vacated pilot's seat.
"We've been jolly lucky, anyway," he remarked.
They had been—more so than they knew!
