The Sky Devil

 

The old Greek two-seater was hanging on desperately. Wings riddled, a flying wire gone, a knock in the engine where a bullet had scraped an ignition wire . . .

 

Vic Kennedy’s dark-circled gray eyes stared down at the sand ocean of the Algerian Sahara. His ragged khaki shirt flapped in the whipping slipstream, his artillery-booted feet were curiously heavy on the rudders. His left hand was leaden on the stick.

 

Well, he thought, it had been a good war after all. Even if he had chosen the wrong side, even if he had volunteered to bring the rebel premier to Alexandria. And now it was all over and over forever. The French didn’t want him. The British wouldn’t let him stay. And a quick execution was awaiting him back there in Greece.

 

One notch and then when the gas needle dropped through that, he would have to land and take the punishment the desert meted out. No water, no habitations, nothing but sand.

 

At least it was growing cooler as the sun settled in its own flame. The bucking heat waves were less persistent. Dusk was already creeping in from the east. Perhaps he had better land and get it over with.

 

At night you didn’t have to watch the mirages dance invitingly along the world’s rim—like that one to the south. Mirages were too hard on a man. That one to the south consisted of shimmering mountains, a cool blue expanse of water and a cluster of shining buildings.

 

But they didn’t build mosques in the Sahara and they didn’t have lakes and that was that. In a moment the illusion would be gone. Not, of course, that Vic Kennedy gave a damn. It was all over for him.

 

The sun went down a little more and started to spin and burn. The biplane roared onward almost lost between an expanse of sky and sand.

 

Vic Kennedy turned his tired eyes toward the mirage again. He might as well look at it anyway.

 

With something like interest he aroused himself from the lethargy and scrutinized that inviting scene. Certainly it should have faded long before this. Perhaps it was real, after all. And if it was—well, did it matter so much where he died?

 

He banked and placed the city between the top cylinders of the engine. He wouldn’t turn on that five-gallon reserve. Not yet. The needle still showed some in the main tank—perhaps four gallons.

 

Suspiciously, he cut his gun and nosed down through the blue gloom which was settling across the world. By slipping the plane he could look straight ahead at the buildings. Odd that they stayed right there and didn’t move at all. It was some trick of light, naturally, but it was interesting.

 

The city was apparently built on a steep hillside, and from the air the streets looked like steps going up. A minaret raised its lofty star and crescent into the dusk. A palace sprawled in languid magnificence in the exact center of the town. Flat-roofed houses took on a sturdy appearance—too solid for a mirage.

 

Vic Kennedy’s heart began to pound against his ribs. He caught himself up, told himself that he wouldn’t be let in for this old desert trick. The shock of reality would be too great.

 

But the city persisted in getting larger and even more material. The palace domes glittered in the fading day. And there in the street—Vic made himself look very carefully—a troop of horsemen were moving. Even from a thousand feet, Vic could see that they wore veils.

 

Tuaregs!

 

He was almost on the point of shooting the gas to the engine when his eye fell on the gauge. Only four gallons and five in reserve—not enough to go anywhere. But Tuaregs, those desert raiders . . .

 

When he had been a pilot on the Trans African Air Lines he had found out a great deal about Tuaregs. They were a strange people, living by the sword. He had not known that Tuaregs ever settled in one place, but they evidently did.

 

A wide parade ground offered itself for a landing field, but Vic Kennedy shied away from it. They hadn’t spotted his silent wings as yet and if he could land on the outskirts, unnoticed, he might be able to escape with his life.

 

Drifting through the twilight, wires sibilant, engine muttering as it idled, he scanned the mountainside for another landing field.

 

A string of battlements rose above the town, gray and sullen. Towers were square silhouettes against the red haze left by the departed sun. The walls followed the flat ridge of the mountain range.

 

Kennedy banked and looked down upon the structure. A flat walk had been built some five hundred feet in length, bordered by low shrubs, bisecting a sprawling garden. In this quiet air it would be quite possible to land there, and the consequences might be better than a try at loose sand.

 

At least he would not be immediately spotted here. In his preoccupation of studying the walk, he failed to notice the twenty-foot walls which ringed the garden.

 

The plane sideslipped in, leveled out, and the ground rushed up to meet the reaching wheels. The controls loosened and the ship settled with a crunch to run heavily over the gravel. Shrubs brushed the underside of the bottom wing.

 

He crawled out of the pit, stiff and weary. His khaki shirt made a crackling sound as he moved his right arm. Blood had caked there, leaving a black, brittle patch along his side.

 

Taking off his helmet and goggles he laid them upon the seat. His tangled brown hair rippled in the evening breeze. From the garden about him came a dozen pleasing scents. From the town below came the cry of the muezzin calling out the sunset prayer.

 

The walls which ringed him in were higher than he had anticipated. But then, perhaps, someone would be living here, and if he remembered his Arabic and his Moslem customs, he might be able to impose upon the inhabitant for bed and food. Allah alone knew what a Tuareg would decide.

 

He went toward the nearest tower, his artillery boots scuffing the stone and crunching over the gravel. He knew he was far from imposing in his torn and dirty khaki, and that, at best, he could expect a beggar’s reception.

 

What he did not know was that his breadth of shoulders, slenderness of waist and the sturdy handsomeness of his face branded him as a gentleman. And he had forgotten those worthless bands of gold braid on his epaulets and that his boots had been tailored on Savile Row—a fact which not even dust could hide.

 

The door which opened into the tower swung back on well-oiled hinges. A flight of curving steps went down into the dim interior.

 

He proceeded slowly, not wanting to surprise a guard into disastrous action. His eyes became accustomed to the dimness and he could see the silk hangings, the soft rugs, and the piles of colored cushions which were strewn about the room. He felt uncomfortably like a burglar.

 

He saw the girl the instant she saw him. Their eyes met and clashed in mutual surprise. She looked very small and helpless, holding her head out of the silken pillows. Her eyes were wide and round and gray and her full lips were trembling. Two pearl-like tears overflowed and coursed their slow way down her cheeks.