As they sailed along the great plateau, more and more planes whose pilots seemed filled with curiosity came into view.
They were being hemmed in closer and closer. Dotted here and there on the surface were machines of every conceivable design. The crew of the “Dauntless” were at a loss to explain it all.
Stretched out on his perch on the top of the tank Kiwi was immensely interested in the sight.
One pilot in an old bombing plane, a clumsy flyer at best, edged in so close to get a better view that the Skipper had to turn sharply to avoid a collision. Everywhere they looked were antiquated planes continually closing in on them.
The Skipper began to fear that he would never be able to pilot the “Dauntless” through this swarm. As they twisted and turned, Jack leaned from his window and tried to signal the other planes that they must stay farther away. They were like a cloud of birds pecking at an owl who had looted their nests. The Skipper grew nervous at the thought of being driven down to a landing.
There seemed to be a concerted action to keep the “Dauntless” from continuing its flight. Try as he would, the Skipper could find no way in which to shake off these persistent pursuers. Their motor which a short time before, with its missing and spluttering, had brought their hopes of ever seeing India to an end, now functioned with absolute perfection.
Constantly they were being driven closer to the surface, and even though they had outdistanced some of the heavier and slower machines, others had taken up the chase and were frolicking about them.
Kiwi was delighted with their tumbling antics.
In a few minutes more they were so close to the ground that there was nothing left for them to do but land. The Skipper, his face red with anger, yanked back the throttle; the motor quieted down till the propeller was just ticking over. They glided rapidly in. The wheels found support on the surface. They had landed.