Plans for Escape
"Well?" inquired Uncle Brian laconically, when, the trial of the
rays duly carried out, he and Peter were free to discuss the
situation in all its bearings.
The two men were seated in the billiard room of El Toro. It was the
time for siesta, but on this occasion neither Uncle Brian nor Peter
sought repose. In the darkened room, for the double windows and the
jalousied shutters were closed, they felt more like conspirators
than loyal citizens of that great Empire upon which the sun never
sets.
Four large electric fans were purring gently, not only to circulate
the air, but to render conversation inaudible to anyone without.
This, in Brian Strong's opinion, was a necessary precaution.
Although work was entirely suspended during siesta, it was quite
possible that there were persons about keenly anxious to overhear
any conversation between the two Englishmen.
"It worked," replied Peter.
"So I gathered," rejoined his relative. "But----"
"But what?"
"You weren't dead on time, Uncle," said Peter. "Then, when you
released the rays the action was only momentary at first. The second
attempt was prolonged, but not to anything like a minute."
"I'll explain," said Brian Strong. "I kept the day telescopic sights
on you the whole time and released the electric charge sharp on
time. As far as I could observe, there were no results. I was
beginning to feel a bit disappointed, I'll admit, until after some
considerable time I noticed that you were gliding down. I had
previously given the vernier screw regulating the telescopic sights
a few turns. Then I realized what had happened. Either the line of
sight was not exactly parallel with the centre of the beam of
electricity, or else there was some discrepancy due possibly to
parallax. Once your flying-boat was correctly registered, so to
speak, you were under the influence of the rays. So I decided to
give a full minute for the experiment."
"But you didn't," objected Peter. "The old 'bus picked up again in
forty-five seconds. You can be pretty sure I had my eye on the clock
all right!"
"That's what I wanted to know," continued his uncle. "You see, I
gave a full minute's liberation. You say your magnetos were cut out
for three-quarters of a minute only. That was because I couldn't see
you during the last fifteen seconds. You were hidden from direct
observation by an intervening ridge."
"I see," observed Peter, nodding his head.
"So do I now," added Strong. "I had hoped that the rays would be
active beyond an obstruction of that sort. Had they been so, it
would be possible to keep a whole fleet of aeroplanes pinned to the
ground, unable to rise. It is a curious point as to what does
happen: whether the electric fluid is deflected by intervening
ground or whether it stands dead up against it--like a beam of
light, for instance, playing upon a dead black substance. Then,
again, we've proved that the metal fuselage affords no insulation to
protect the magnetos from the rays."
"Nor does a sheet of rubber," announced Peter. "I tried that little
stunt on my own."
"Did you?" remarked his uncle. "Evidently you hadn't much faith in
my invention."
"Not that," Peter hastened to assure him. "It was simply to see if
there were an easy means to render the ignition system immune from
the rays. I was jolly glad I wasn't able to baulk you, Uncle."
"Well, that's a good thing," said Brian Strong. "The next step is to
dismantle the projector, pack up the vital portions of the
apparatus, and make a hurried exodus from Rioguay. It's easier said
than done, Peter, and unless I'm very much out in my calculations,
we'll have our hands full when we do come to tackle the problem."
"What's to prevent our going down to Tepecicoa and taking passage to
Bahia? There's a steamer running once a week."
"Nothing to prevent us making a start," replied his uncle, "but the
chances of our getting clear of Rioguay by that means are very
remote. There would be a regrettable accident--according to the
Rioguayan official version for foreign consumption--and there you
are, or, rather, are not."
"But isn't there a British consul in Tepecicoa?" persisted Peter,
who found it hard to believe that a British subject is not always,
and in all circumstances, free to indulge his propensity for foreign
travel.
"There is no British consul," was the reply. "Rioguay in the opinion
of the Foreign Office isn't a state of sufficient importance to
justify that expensive luxury. There is a British Consular Agent,
who happens to be a Portuguese of doubtful antecedents. I don't
suppose he has a British subject in his office once in a
twelvemonth. You see, there's no direct trade with Great Britain.
Time was, before the Great War, when vessels flying the Red Ensign
came up the Rioguay to San Antonio, Calador, and even as far up as
Tepecicoa. Nowadays, owing to the slump in British shipping and the
relatively high prices charged for British goods, there is never a
vessel of our nationality to be seen in Rioguayan waters. If the
Rioguayans require hardware they go to the United States for it. In
fact, it seems to me that there's a boycott of British goods out
here, and all indications point to a growing hostility to Britain
and everything connected with her. Personally, I'm inclined to think
that we're going to have trouble with Rioguay one of these days, and
big trouble, too."
For some minutes, there was silence. Both men were thinking hard.
Presently, Uncle Brian walked across the room to a cabinet, which,
when opened, disclosed a tantalus, glasses, and several siphons of
soda.
"No, I'm not going to ask you to have a drink, Peter," he laughed.
"This stuff is for the use of my Rioguayan friends--if friends I may
call them. But it happens that this cabinet has a secret drawer,
which I find most useful."
He pressed a concealed spring. A long, narrow section of the side
swung back. From the recess, Uncle Brian drew a roll of stiff paper.
"Here's a map of Upper Rioguay," he announced. "Of course, it's far
from perfect, but in the main it is fairly reliable. I got it from a
fellow in Venezuela before I came here. In fact, having acquired it,
I was rather curious to make personal acquaintance with the country.
It was made when there was a dispute between Rioguay and Venezuela
over the fixing of the frontier. Evidently the Venezuelans
contemplated an invasion of Rioguay, but either the difference was
amicably settled or they thought that sending a force through that
difficult country was too stiff a proposition. Now, if you had to
decide upon a plan to get out of the country, what would you decide
upon?"
"I'd make for either San Benito or San Valodar," said Peter
promptly. "Both have a coast-line. Once across the frontier, there's
a thundering good chance of picking up a ship."
"Exactly," rejoined Uncle Brian drily. "When you are clear of
Rioguay. But what chance would you stand to get even as far as
Valodar without being arrested? My boy, you underrate the secret
service of the republic. You might---I say might with great
emphasis--you might gain possession of one of the flying-boats. But
to what purpose? They'd fix your position with their magneto
detectors. There would be half a dozen aircraft waiting for you
before you as much as caught a glimpse of the sea. Even supposing
you got as far as the supposedly neutral republics of San Benito or
San Valodar, you'd find both places swarming with Rioguayan agents
who wouldn't hesitate to stick a knife into your back, or pump half
a dozen shots out of an automatic into you. Assassination under the
guise of robbery. That's what would happen. No, Peter, it can't be
done. We'll have to think of another way."
"Have you thought of anything?" asked Peter, who for the first time
fully appreciated the intricacies of the problem by which Uncle
Brian was confronted.
"I have," replied Uncle Brian. "I've been thinking it out for
months--almost as soon as I discovered what I was engaged for.
There's one line of retreat."
He pointed to the chart, indicating a vast extent of mountainous
country, through which several rivers wended their way. The whole
district, judging from the map, was devoid of towns and villages.
Occasionally an outpost was indicated, where detachments of armed
police were stationed for no other apparent purpose than to keep
watch over an uninhabited district.
"Of course, we may not find these police posts," continued Uncle
Brian. "Since the settlement of the boundary dispute they may have
been withdrawn. Tajeco, whence our pipe line runs, is the only place
of any consequence. Apart from that, the whole country is
mountainous, with the valleys stiff with tropical forests. Now, this
is my plan: see these two rivers--the Rio Tinto and the Rio del
Morte? They both join the Rio Guaya at about thirty miles above
Tepecicoa. As you know, ordinary navigation is impossible ten miles
above the town, owing to shallows, but canoes and light draft craft
can ascend both the Rio Tinto and the Rio del Morte for a
considerable distance. In fact, the Rio del Morte has never been
explored to its source, so the map is merely guesswork as far as
that river is concerned. That's our way to freedom, Peter. It will
be a difficult, a hazardous way, but with luck we'll win through."
"We'll have a jolly good shot at it," declared Peter with grim
determination. "But how can we get away from here without arousing
suspicion? For anything we know, your friend Diaz may be keeping an
eye on us already."
"Bluff," replied his uncle. "I'll tackle Don Ramon Diaz, tell him
I'm badly in need of a holiday. Fact!" he continued; "haven't been
ten miles from El Toro for months. We'll get his permission for a
ten-days shooting trip up the Rio Guaya. He'll probably take good
care that we do go up, not down, because he'd never imagine that we
were fools enough to attempt to penetrate that wild and mountainous
country. We'll give out that we are exploring the Rio Tinto, but in
reality we'll make a dash up the Rio del Morte as far as we can by
water and foot it the rest of the way. It won't be a picnic, Peter,
I can assure you. We'll have to travel light, depend upon our rifles
for food, probably be half frozen before those mountains are
crossed--but it's worth it."
"Rather!" agreed Peter Corbold enthusiastically.