of the mountain, but not until ascertaining that the depression was free of noxious gases or suffocating carbon dioxide. Finding no danger, they descended, clambering down piles of obsidian and hardened ash, stepping carefully to avoid the sharp edges, and wary of the resident snakes, which, they had been warned, were highly poisonous.
At the bottom, they unpacked their equipment, soon locating the position of the magnetic field by triangulation. Jon Ballard, the geologist, who did the calculations, estimated that the source was certainly not volcanic, but was more than a hundred feet below the surface and a hundred yards north, beneath the ravine into which they had descended.
Diana called out from where she and Cavanagh were seeking radiation above the background level. “There’s no way we can dig down far enough without appropriate excavation equipment, and that won’t arrive until next month.”
When they returned to base camp and deposited their gear, she found the professor dictating to his secretary, Myra. Happy to see Diana, Max got up. “Just some letters to headquarters back home. I thought we should keep them posted about our progress.”
She looked at him quizzically. “A capital idea, as I also have letters to my son and parents, but how shall we get the mail out? The nearest post office is in Dodoma, and you know what that means. A stamp could end up costing another big tariff.”
“You’re right,” he replied, “but I already thought of that. We’ll keep the letters until the drilling crew arrives. Along with the heavy equipment, they’re bringing a small plane.”
“Oh,” she asked, “a plane? And are we to have a pilot as well? I didn’t see either included in the bill of lading or the passenger list in San Pedro when I visited the ship.”
“No to both questions,” he said, rather sheepishly. “I arranged for the aircraft, one of those war surplus ‘Grasshoppers’--you know, the planes used for artillery spotting and liaison. It’s to be picked up in Dar-es-Salaam, disassembled, and trucked to us here.”
Diana saw it coming. As far as she knew, she was the only member of the party with a pilot’s license. She hadn’t flown in over a year and knew only a bit about that particular plane, except that it was light, easily handled, and could land and take off within a very short distance. Her experience in a similar British craft, with over fifty hours logged solo, probably qualified her to fly what sounded like a Stinson L-5.
“I hope it will come complete with maintenance manual. I wouldn’t want to have to land out there in the bush somewhere due to mechanical problems.”
“Oh, it’ll be brand-new,” Max assured her, “I’ve been told that since the plane has never been used, it will be in perfect condition.”
She looked at him reflectively, and then said, “Was the salesman that mean-looking blond chap you had lunch with the day we arrived?”
“Well, yeah, he did help arrange it,” he replied a little defensively, “What’s the problem? He’s very important to us; he's the British Minister in Tanganyika for mines and oil exploration.”
She didn’t want to upset her boss, but after all, even with such credentials, trusting a stranger in that type of sale was dangerous. Besides, something about him had struck her as not right. Maybe it was his body language, or his habit of rubbing a nostril whenever he answered a question. And those ice-blue eyes! Lighter even than her father’s. Finally, she confided to Max, “I just don’t trust him. Don’t ask me the reason, I just don’t.”
The professor looked at her in amusement, saying, “Oh, come now, Diana, as a scientist, you have to learn to be more objective. You’re supposed to base your conclusions on facts. Did you know he’s an Afrikaaner and a mining engineer, and comes with impeccable credentials? That he hails from Johannesburg, and was hired by the British to oversee mining and oil exploration
At the bottom, they unpacked their equipment, soon locating the position of the magnetic field by triangulation. Jon Ballard, the geologist, who did the calculations, estimated that the source was certainly not volcanic, but was more than a hundred feet below the surface and a hundred yards north, beneath the ravine into which they had descended.
Diana called out from where she and Cavanagh were seeking radiation above the background level. “There’s no way we can dig down far enough without appropriate excavation equipment, and that won’t arrive until next month.”
When they returned to base camp and deposited their gear, she found the professor dictating to his secretary, Myra. Happy to see Diana, Max got up. “Just some letters to headquarters back home. I thought we should keep them posted about our progress.”
She looked at him quizzically. “A capital idea, as I also have letters to my son and parents, but how shall we get the mail out? The nearest post office is in Dodoma, and you know what that means. A stamp could end up costing another big tariff.”
“You’re right,” he replied, “but I already thought of that. We’ll keep the letters until the drilling crew arrives. Along with the heavy equipment, they’re bringing a small plane.”
“Oh,” she asked, “a plane? And are we to have a pilot as well? I didn’t see either included in the bill of lading or the passenger list in San Pedro when I visited the ship.”
“No to both questions,” he said, rather sheepishly. “I arranged for the aircraft, one of those war surplus ‘Grasshoppers’--you know, the planes used for artillery spotting and liaison. It’s to be picked up in Dar-es-Salaam, disassembled, and trucked to us here.”
Diana saw it coming. As far as she knew, she was the only member of the party with a pilot’s license. She hadn’t flown in over a year and knew only a bit about that particular plane, except that it was light, easily handled, and could land and take off within a very short distance. Her experience in a similar British craft, with over fifty hours logged solo, probably qualified her to fly what sounded like a Stinson L-5.
“I hope it will come complete with maintenance manual. I wouldn’t want to have to land out there in the bush somewhere due to mechanical problems.”
“Oh, it’ll be brand-new,” Max assured her, “I’ve been told that since the plane has never been used, it will be in perfect condition.”
She looked at him reflectively, and then said, “Was the salesman that mean-looking blond chap you had lunch with the day we arrived?”
“Well, yeah, he did help arrange it,” he replied a little defensively, “What’s the problem? He’s very important to us; he's the British Minister in Tanganyika for mines and oil exploration.”
She didn’t want to upset her boss, but after all, even with such credentials, trusting a stranger in that type of sale was dangerous. Besides, something about him had struck her as not right. Maybe it was his body language, or his habit of rubbing a nostril whenever he answered a question. And those ice-blue eyes! Lighter even than her father’s. Finally, she confided to Max, “I just don’t trust him. Don’t ask me the reason, I just don’t.”
The professor looked at her in amusement, saying, “Oh, come now, Diana, as a scientist, you have to learn to be more objective. You’re supposed to base your conclusions on facts. Did you know he’s an Afrikaaner and a mining engineer, and comes with impeccable credentials? That he hails from Johannesburg, and was hired by the British to oversee mining and oil exploration
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