went to sleep. She woke - dozed again, occasionally glancing without interest, at the magazine she held. Awakening suddenly from a deeper sleep, she noticed that the plane was rapidly losing height and circling round. She glanced at her watch, but it was still some time earlier than the estimated time of arrival. Moreover, looking down through the window, she could not see any signs of an aerodrome beneath.
For a moment a faint qualm of apprehension struck her. The thin, dark Frenchman rose, yawned, stretched his arms and looked out and said something in French which she did not catch. But Ericsson leant across the aisle and said,
“We are coming down here, it seems - but why?”
Mrs. Calvin Baker, leaning out of her seat, turned her head and nodded brightly as Hilary said,
“We seem to be landing.”
The plane swooped round in ever lower circles. The country beneath them seemed to be practically desert. There were no signs of houses or villages. The wheels touched with a decided bump, bouncing along and taxiing until they finally stopped. It had been a somewhat rough landing, but it was a landing in the middle of nowhere.
Had something gone wrong with the engine, Hilary wondered, or had they run out of petrol? The pilot, a dark-skinned, handsome young man, came through the forward door and along the plane.
“If you please,” he said, “you will all get out.”
He opened the rear door, let down a short ladder and stood there waiting for them all to pass out. They stood in a little group on the ground, shivering a little. It was chilly here, with the wind blowing sharply from the mountains in the distance. The mountains, Hilary noticed, were covered with snow and singularly beautiful. The air was crisply cold and intoxicating. The pilot descended too, and addressed them, speaking French:
“You are all here? Yes? Excuse, please, you will have to wait a little minute, perhaps. Ah, no, I see it is arriving.”
He pointed to where a small dot on the horizon was gradually growing nearer. Hilary said in a slightly bewildered voice:
“But why have we come down here? What is the matter? How long shall we have to be here?”
The French traveller said,
“There is, I understand, a station wagon arriving. We shall go on in that.”
“Did the engine fail?” asked Hilary.
Andy Peters smiled cheerfully.
“Why no, I shouldn't say so.” he said, “the engine sounded all right to me. However, they'll fix up something of that kind, no doubt.”
She stared, puzzled. Mrs. Calvin Baker murmured,
“My, but it's chilly, standing about here. That's the worst of this climate. It seems so sunny but it's cold the moment you get near sunset.”
The pilot was murmuring under his breath, swearing, Hilary thought. He was saying something like:
“Toujours des retards insupportables.”
The station wagon came towards them at a break-neck pace. The Berber driver drew up with a grinding of brakes. He sprang down and was immediately engaged by the pilot in angry conversation. Rather to Hilary's surprise, Mrs. Baker intervened in the dispute - speaking in French.
“Don't waste time,” she said peremptorily. “What's the good of arguing? We want to get out of here.”
The driver shrugged his shoulders, and going to the station wagon, he unhitched the back part of it which let down. Inside was a large packing case. Together with the pilot and with help from Ericsson and Peters, they got it down on to the ground. From the effort it took, it seemed to be heavy. Mrs. Calvin Baker put her hand on Hilary's arm and said, as the man began to raise the lid of the case,
“I shouldn't watch, my dear. It's never a pretty sight.”
She led Hilary a little way away, on the other side of the wagon. The Frenchman and Peters came with them. The Frenchman said in his own language,
“What is it then, this manoeuvre there that they do?”
Mrs. Baker said,
“You are Dr. Barron?”
The Frenchman bowed.
“Pleased to meet you,” said
For a moment a faint qualm of apprehension struck her. The thin, dark Frenchman rose, yawned, stretched his arms and looked out and said something in French which she did not catch. But Ericsson leant across the aisle and said,
“We are coming down here, it seems - but why?”
Mrs. Calvin Baker, leaning out of her seat, turned her head and nodded brightly as Hilary said,
“We seem to be landing.”
The plane swooped round in ever lower circles. The country beneath them seemed to be practically desert. There were no signs of houses or villages. The wheels touched with a decided bump, bouncing along and taxiing until they finally stopped. It had been a somewhat rough landing, but it was a landing in the middle of nowhere.
Had something gone wrong with the engine, Hilary wondered, or had they run out of petrol? The pilot, a dark-skinned, handsome young man, came through the forward door and along the plane.
“If you please,” he said, “you will all get out.”
He opened the rear door, let down a short ladder and stood there waiting for them all to pass out. They stood in a little group on the ground, shivering a little. It was chilly here, with the wind blowing sharply from the mountains in the distance. The mountains, Hilary noticed, were covered with snow and singularly beautiful. The air was crisply cold and intoxicating. The pilot descended too, and addressed them, speaking French:
“You are all here? Yes? Excuse, please, you will have to wait a little minute, perhaps. Ah, no, I see it is arriving.”
He pointed to where a small dot on the horizon was gradually growing nearer. Hilary said in a slightly bewildered voice:
“But why have we come down here? What is the matter? How long shall we have to be here?”
The French traveller said,
“There is, I understand, a station wagon arriving. We shall go on in that.”
“Did the engine fail?” asked Hilary.
Andy Peters smiled cheerfully.
“Why no, I shouldn't say so.” he said, “the engine sounded all right to me. However, they'll fix up something of that kind, no doubt.”
She stared, puzzled. Mrs. Calvin Baker murmured,
“My, but it's chilly, standing about here. That's the worst of this climate. It seems so sunny but it's cold the moment you get near sunset.”
The pilot was murmuring under his breath, swearing, Hilary thought. He was saying something like:
“Toujours des retards insupportables.”
The station wagon came towards them at a break-neck pace. The Berber driver drew up with a grinding of brakes. He sprang down and was immediately engaged by the pilot in angry conversation. Rather to Hilary's surprise, Mrs. Baker intervened in the dispute - speaking in French.
“Don't waste time,” she said peremptorily. “What's the good of arguing? We want to get out of here.”
The driver shrugged his shoulders, and going to the station wagon, he unhitched the back part of it which let down. Inside was a large packing case. Together with the pilot and with help from Ericsson and Peters, they got it down on to the ground. From the effort it took, it seemed to be heavy. Mrs. Calvin Baker put her hand on Hilary's arm and said, as the man began to raise the lid of the case,
“I shouldn't watch, my dear. It's never a pretty sight.”
She led Hilary a little way away, on the other side of the wagon. The Frenchman and Peters came with them. The Frenchman said in his own language,
“What is it then, this manoeuvre there that they do?”
Mrs. Baker said,
“You are Dr. Barron?”
The Frenchman bowed.
“Pleased to meet you,” said
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