“Captain Brady,” said the fat little man, “these three are assigned to Sub-Sahara. Rookies. Anthony, Phillips, Jameson. Break ’em in.” He immediately became engrossed in the papers piled high on his desk.
Tony looked at the officer with interest. He saw a spare figure, and a worn, tired face, deeply lined, with sunken eyes and a clipped moustache. An adventurer gone to seed, he thought—grown tired.
Brady said, “Come along,” and led the way out of the room. They emerged in blazing white sunlight. A helicopter stood a few rods away, and the captain gestured toward it.
“’ntre. We’ll fly, and talk as we go. Discipline needn’t begin till we reach Sub-Sahara, so if you’ve any questions—I’m at your service.”
He pointed toward the plane, and followed the brothers into it. With quick, familiar motions he lifted the craft into the air and sent it winging southward.
“I’ll stop at Azouad. That’s an oasis on the way. You can get smokes and equipment there—personal stuff you may want. That is—if you have any money.”
Tony’s eyes narrowed, but he merely said, “We’ve a little.” He shifted on the worn leather seat, glancing aside at Captain Brady. The man’s haggard face was immobile, the eyes mere slits as he squinted into the flaming sunlight.
From the rear of the plane came Jimmy’s voice. “Just what is Sub-Sahara?”
Brady’s voice went dull with routine. “Well—twenty years or more ago a labyrinth of caverns was discovered under the Sahara. It was inhabited by survivors of prehistoric Egyptians—Copts. They were trapped underground in some ancient catastrophe, and got along there, gradually growing accustomed to their environment. Matter of fact—there was a sort of colony in the old pre-dynastic days down there. The Copts worked mines, and there was a—well, a city of miners under the Sahara. When the entrance was blocked, the miners couldn’t get out—so they stayed there.”