The Steam Mole (25 page)

“It's almost like the sea,” said Clara. “I was thinking, the only way we're ever going to find my dad without getting caught is to get ourselves what all those old books call ‘a trusty native guide.'”

“So long as you don't have any ideas that I am one. I've had being taken for the locals, just because of the way I look to the back teeth. I'm thinking of getting ‘my dad came from Jamaica' tattooed on my forehead,” said Tim, as they trundled out onto the plain, crunching over scattered tufts of dry grass, heading toward the distant horizon.

“Maybe you could get them to talk to us, though.”

“I wouldn't know where to—What's that?”

They stared at a white object, high above them and coming closer.

“It's an airship!” said Clara. They'd both seen airships before. It
was just so unexpected out here that it had taken a little time to work it out. It was also bearing straight down on them, rather than giving them the normal profile view.

Tim grabbed the igniter. “Going to start the drill. Pull the steam divert.” He pointed to a red lever, grateful that it was the same on the scout mole as on the big, rail-mounted mole. He swung himself out of the cabin, along the rails past the pistons, and onto the drill gantry as sudden spurts of dust leapt in a line across the desert and something screamed off the roof of the mole. “They're shooting at us!” he yelled. She couldn't hear him, of course.

He watched for the rotation gap, trying not to think of the bullets, and pushed the igniter in. The drill head motor fired, and the drill began spinning faster and faster, showering everything with dust and flying grit. Tim felt rather than saw his way along, climbing back.

“I can't see a thing,” yelled Clara as he slammed the door. “And they're shooting.”

“Push the dig levers down!” Tim yelled back. A bullet hit the mole somewhere behind them with a loud
spang
!

“At least they can't see us! Are we digging?”

“I think so. Slow forward, I reckon. Listen. You can hear the drill cutting.”

Tim knew that rock-drilling was quite slow, but some of the plains were clay-pan, and apparently the drill could cut those fast. He hoped this was one of those, and they were, at least, definitely going down. The scout moles could do sample drills and even dig themselves shelters, he'd heard the others say. But the scout mole wasn't like a big steam mole, it couldn't be trailing an air hose…or could it? He found a big spool marked “snorkel” and lifted the ratchet. It clickety-clacked out. Maybe that fed the furnace…maybe it was air for them. It was very dark in there. Tim felt about and found the Davy lamp and lit it, blessing the careful and systematic organization in the scout mole. If they went on digging…

Even that thought was put aside as the ground suddenly shuddered. They could feel rather than hear the explosion.

“They're bombing us,” said Clara fearfully. “It's like being drop mined. We're going to be buried alive.”

Tim took her hand. “Well, they can't sink us. And I don't think we're that deep.”

“What do we do?” she asked, giving his hand a squeeze and turning back to her dials. She'd learned to make some sense out of them. Tim didn't yet know quite what they meant.

“Not sure. Do you think we can play dead? Pull the damper levers nearly down and wait a bit. That probably collapsed our tunnel. It's not reinforced or propped.”

She nodded, pulled levers, adjusted a wheel, and shifted the power levers into neutral. It got quieter, and the vibrations basically ceased. “The drill is turning at dead slow…I hope we can go again, or we're buried down here. And I have no idea how deep that is.”

She got up, took down a small axe from the rack, and gave Tim her more usual smile. “But the first one to come digging his way into our lair is going to regret it.”

Tim couldn't help smiling back. “I think I love you because you're crazy.”

“It's a fine one you are to talk, Tim Barnabas. Climbing out there to start the drill while they're shooting at us.”

“Someone had to.”

“Someone had to.”

That was Tim, thought Clara, looking at him in the dim lamplight. He'd never think that that someone didn't have to be him, and he'd do it, not because he wasn't scared, but because “someone had to,” and he was there. There were worse people to buried alive with, but not likely many better. “How long do you think we need to wait?”

“Dunno. I don't think they'll stick around too long. They'll either come and have a look or go on. I wish we had an earth periscope!”

It was scary, simply lying doggo, waiting. They'd done it on the submarine of course, but the captain had had the decision to make about when they moved, not them. Then something more alarming happened. The low grumble of the turning drill head stuttered…and stopped.

“What's happening?” Clara asked.

“I dunno. It sounded a bit like the drill stopping when the steam moles go back to the power station. They do it gradually to stop it flying apart when it's pulled out of the drill face.”

“So why did it do it?”

Tim shrugged. “Could be it was just turning too slow. Could be lack of oxygen for the furnace. I think…I think I had better try and see if it'll start again.”

“But you'd have to dig there.”

“No, we're dug into a bit of a tunnel, even if that bomb has shaken everything loose and down on us. Open the dampers some, give her some fuel, and see if we can move backward at all, and then I'll try. Looking at the ‘snorkel,' it looks like we get some of the air and the rest goes to the furnace.”

“The air will be unbreathable out there.”

“I can hold my breath for that long. If the way to the drill head isn't blocked.”

“I'll do it,” said Clara. “I can hold my breath for longer.”

“Yeah, but I know what I have to do, and it's a bit hard to explain.”

Clara watched the pressure dial, then pulled the control levers back. The mole quivered, moved back eight inches or so, and stopped moving. “We're stuck.”

“Tunnel caved in, I suppose. And the mole's not designed to dig backward,” said Tim. “We may be able to dig out, if we can get the drill going, or if the mole's stuck, we can try to dig ourselves out.”

And then, thought Clara, they'd be in the middle of the desert with nothing. But she didn't say that. She just opened the drill head throttle slightly as Tim stood, taking deep breaths. Then, taking the lantern, he opened the door and squeezed himself out. Clara was left alone in the dark. Only it wasn't quite dark…a little light came back from the lantern. She counted resolutely to herself, “One-and-two-and…” She'd give him ninety seconds, then she was going after him.

They were long seconds. The door opened again after about thirty of them had passed. Tim slipped in, closed it, and panted.

“What's up out there?”

“I had to clear a bit of fallen stuff. Got to the drill head, but I have to wait for the rotation gap to stick the igniter in, and I thought I might run out of breath. I also thought wrapping something around my head might be a good idea, because the noise will be pretty bad.”

“So will the flying bits of stone and dirt. There are earmuffs and goggles back there in the drawer.”

Tim put them on and went out again. This time they were rewarded by a stutter and then the drill head starting its previous rumbling roar. Tim came back, grinning and bleeding from a cut above the eye.

“Good thing I had those goggles! There was stuff flying everywhere,” he said, pushing them up on his forehead.

“I'm tilting the head up and pushing forward,” said Clara, easing the levers and increasing the drill speed, and then pushing the forward levers slowly…and slowly they began to dig.

“Hope we don't choke on our diggings…there's no place for the tailings all to go to. We used to take loads out with the big moles, the stuff that wasn't used for the wall stanchions,” said Tim.

Clara said nothing. She watched her pressure gauges, and they weren't doing well. She guessed the furnace was being starved for air. But the mole lurched forward, and the roar of the drill head changed pitch.

“I'd say we're breaking out!” yelled Tim.

“That has to be outside light, even if it is red,” Clara shouted.

“Dust!” yelled Tim.

She pulled back the throttle on the drill head They kept trundling forward. The dust was yellow-red now, and she cut the throttle right back. Dust swirled like their own personal sandstorm out there, but at least they weren't stuck underground anymore.

“Where are you going?” she asked, seeing Tim grab the brass door handle and pull the goggles on.

“To see if I can see the airship,” Tim explained. “We use a lot more fuel drilling.”

“Stay in! They'll shoot at you.”

He shook his head. “We need to know.”

He came back moments later, letting in a cloud of dust. “Can't see much more than from in here. I think we can cut off the feed to the drill head. If they were close I'd see them, and if they're far they'll see our dust.”

Clara cut the drill, and it rumbled to a stop. The mole trundled on.

“I guess that's it over there, going south,” said Tim, pointing into the distance as the dust settled. “Look, I think we need to cross this plain tonight and brush out our tracks. If we trundle back, slowly, not raising dust, then if it doesn't turn around, we can make a dash for it. It must be a border patrol or something.”

“Then we're closer than we thought.”

“I dunno. They say it's cooled down a bit here in the middle of Australia, but it was just so hot no one even tried to cross it since. I'd heard the flying wings do patrols. I'd forgotten about that. I suppose it's logical the British do the same. But no one wants to fight a war out here,” said Tim, keeping a weather eye on the distant airship. It continued flying south.

“If this is cooler, I don't want to be here when it turns hotter,” said Clara.

“We've still got a couple of months before the real hot. Then
they get the wet, too, sometimes.” He peered at the airship. “I wonder why they're flying south?”

“Because it's too far to walk?” said Clara, cheerfully. “I wonder if we can find some shade.”

“Not much, unless we go right into the hills. And even there…the mole is too big to tuck under an overhang."

“We could dig our own. That would hide us.”

“I guess we could make a little cave…”

Lampy watched helplessly as the airship shot at the Westralian machine…and the sudden willy-willy of dust the machine kicked up.

“That has to make shooting tricky,” he said.

“Yes,” replied Jack. “But I don't think it can save them. I think shooting back with tracer bullets might. I wish we could help, but our rifles are next to useless. Ordinary bullets just go straight through the envelope. At least it's doing something good. While they're looking at that mole, they're not looking for us. Let us go over there, where there's a bit of a sand wall cut by the flood. They would have to get right above us to shoot at us, or even see us, from that height.”

Lampy nodded. “Or come from the north or west. We could dig a hole, I suppose.”

They retreated and tethered the horses, looking for a few washed-out rocks to hide under, both for shade and for shelter from the airship's bullets.

Then the air shook with an explosion, followed by a plume of smoke.

“They've bombed them!” said Jack, hobbling off to look. The riding was telling on him. “Well, that's the end of them.” He watched for a while longer. “The dust has settled. I can't even see anything left. Must have copped a direct hit.” He sucked his teeth and shook his head. “I suppose it was quick. Ah. The airship is moving. The luck of the Irish is still with us, it is going south. We'll
give it a few minutes and see if we can get among those hills before we take a break.”

So they did. Lampy gave some more Pituri to the soldier, who was flushed and glassy-eyed. He really didn't seem too aware of his captors at all, but rather somewhere in the whitefeller's dreaming. He muttered to himself. But he still managed to stay on a horse.

It was maybe a mile farther on when Lampy, as he did by habit, looked back to check for dust…and saw lots of it. “Look, Jack!” he screamed, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. From the bomb crater a willy-willy rose, and in the middle of it…something. Something dark with bright flashes.

“Holy…I don't believe it!” said Jack. “It's coming out of the ground!”

So it was. Lampy began wondering about those rainbow serpent stories uncle told. But it was that machine, a trickle of smoke oozing from it, and it was turning, heading for the hills. Just like they were. Or was it hunting them?

“Airship is heading back this way,” said Jack. “A bit west though.”

No one woke Duke Malcolm Woldemar Adolf Windsor-Schaumburg-Lippe, Duke of Leinster, Margrave of Waldeck, Earl of Northhamton, and baron of a dozen lesser estates, English, German, Canadian, African, and Australian. He did have a telephone instrument, right there in his bedroom, but it had been some years since it had rung during the night. Its insistent jangling woke him from a deep sleep. He turned on his bedside lamp and found the telephone. He heard the operator say “You're through”…and someone said, “Your Grace, Major Simmer speaking. I'm sorry to wake you, but there are developments in Australia that I think are urgent.”

“What is it, Simmer?” asked Duke Malcolm, reaching for his cigarette case.

“Your Grace, my night crew alerted me that we'd had messages from Australia they deemed important. I think likewise, Your Grace. The airship you ordered into the search made contact with one of the search parties. They signaled to it, and a message was passed from them. The escaped prisoner, Calland…one of the search parties found their trail and caught up with them.”

“Did you wake me up to tell me this Calland has been captured?” Duke Malcolm said testily, lighting a match.

“No, Your Grace. It's a lot more serious. There were two prisoners, and they managed to outwit the soldiers and kill them. Only the tracker got away on foot. He ran until he found another party. They're collecting another search party, but Calland and the other prisoner are armed and have horses and water now. And, Your Grace, they were heading due west rather than southwest—straight toward the Westralian tunnels.”

The duke hastily shook the match out before it burned his fingers. He worked out the implications for himself. “Well done for alerting me, Simmer. Consider yourself promoted. I'll be at the office in twenty minutes. We need to get the strike force in action now.”

“There is more, Your Grace. The airship had seen a Westralian steam vehicle in roughly the same area the escapees were heading into. It did destroy the vehicle, but is now returning to check for survivors.”

“I'll be there in twenty minutes. In the meanwhile, tell the Marconi operators I want a voice line to General Von Stross in Queensland.”

Duke Malcolm knew that immediate action was all that could save years of work from being wasted, worst of all work on a project that Ernest had bragged to the privy council about being nearly in the bag. No matter how unready they were, those trucks at the railhead, under the camouflage netting…well, they must head out, right now. An elite force of three thousand men would have to spear their way through any resistance, preferably before the Westralians
could be warned, and certainly before they could reinforce their holdings.

Getting the flying wing airborne again here, in the middle of the desert, and not on the airstrip and ramp at Boomerang Fields, was a lot more complicated. The steam moles transported the extra material from the tunnel to the power stations, and they did have ramps and landing strips—the flying wings needed fairly short strips, fortunately—but the wing had to be moved to the ramp and then positioned and chocked so it didn't start moving too soon.

A sand anchor had to be planted and the catapult on the wing cranked up. The engines weren't quite powerful enough to get the wing flying. Once it was moving fast enough, the air provided lift. A good steady breeze helped, and fortunately there was one.

The props were swung, and once they were moving at full blurring, throbbing revolutions, someone yelled, “Chocks away!”

The flying wing began to accelerate, and then, as Linda peered through the navigation window, it lifted slowly from the ground. The pilot was a tense mass of concentration until they were several hundred feet into the air. No one would have dreamed of disturbing him, least of all Linda. She was still in trouble for spoiling his balance yesterday. He'd had a worrying flight, correcting a tiny bit…he was that in tune with his aircraft. He'd assumed they'd got the weights wrong when distributing men out into the wing.

Linda's flying gear was somewhat less rudimentary than the blankets she'd rolled herself in yesterday, but not much. Spare earmuffs and scarves were something the flying wing carried, but not woolly boots or padded trousers and hooded sheepskin jackets. So they'd had to do their best to cut out and sew an outfit out of blankets and make a sort of foot sleeping bag from sheepskin. At least, today, there were no plans to go very high, so the temperature wouldn't be an issue. She
could see out of the aircraft, the earmuffs reduced the noise a great deal, and right now, she was unpleasantly warm. Soon Dajarra station was a tiny smoke spot on the desert below.

The searchers flew a grid pattern, which involved some precise navigation, as they had few landmarks to work off. Following the compass or tracking the termite runs were all the pilot really had. And they had lots of eyes staring down, looking for any sign. They got nothing to the west or the south. They spotted a family group of aboriginals to the north and nothing to the east. So they began a wider circuit.

And then again. Fortunately, the flying wing was very fuel efficient, or so the pilot said, and could refuel at Sheba before the flight back.

It was nearly ten thirty in the morning, just when habit said to Linda that one should have tea and start looking forward to a little sleep in the heat after lunch, except it wasn't very hot, when the slow process of searching suddenly became a lot more lively. A note was passed along from the wingtip. It read: “Tracks spotted off to the west-southwest.”

The
Cuttlefish'
s topmast men had eyes like hawks.

The
Wedgetail
began a slow circuit, getting lower, and there, sure enough, was a line of double caterpillar tracks, heading due west. How someone had spotted them from that height was almost unbelievable to Linda. But from three hundred feet up, they were quite easy to follow…until they got onto the gibber plain, where the stony country made it difficult. They were doing their second pass, and one of the crew was pointing down, when Linda looked up at the horizon and grabbed the pilot's shoulder. One didn't do that, by his look of extreme annoyance. But she pointed at her reason…and he began to climb as fast as possible from the few hundred feet above the desert floor.

What Linda had seen was an airship. It wasn't that far off, either. They'd all been focusing their attention on the ground while it sneaked up on them.

The copilot took one look, whipped his gloves off, and worked the Marconi-transmitter while the pilot steered them upward in a slow spiral, working his controls with a deft and delicate touch.

“The airship,” said Tim. “I think it's heading back.”

Clara turned her head to look, and as she did a distant flash in the sky caught her eye. “There's another—low and bit north of us!”

Tim peered, too. “I think…that's not an airship. It's one of those flying wings. The Westralians have them.”

“Maybe they can keep each other busy.”

“I'd guess that's what they're planning to do. The airship looks like it's heading for them, not us. It must be able to see our smoke, but I guess the other aircraft is more important."

“Let's get to those hills, and we can get ready to dig in and try to hide our tracks while they do that. You watch them, we seem to be having a temperature problem. The pressure is dropping.”

“It's probably one of those bits of wood jammed. I'll go out and have a look. I'll be able to see better from there, anyway,” said Tim, going to the door and out, leaving Clara driving. He came back a minute or two later. “Need the pry bar. It's good and jammed up, up there. I'll manually feed some wood first. The airship is definitely heading for the flying wing.”