“Come on,” he shouted. “We’re getting out of here. Fast!”
They fled up the tunnel . . .
The rest was sheer nightmare. Somehow they found their way, following always the passages that led up, hiding from terrified, frantic Copts, fleeing through corridors whose walls shook with the grip of earthquake. Up and up they went, finding at last a frightened Copt who agreed to guide them to the surface. His own world was falling in pieces about him, and he wished only to escape. A cave-in crushed him not long after, but the passage stretched unbroken before the brothers. They toiled on . . .
Daylight filtered in yellow brilliance through a crack in the rock. Exhausted, haggard, filthy scarecrows, the two squeezed through into blazing sunlight. About them lay rolling dunes. They were in a rocky little valley.
They dropped to the sand and lay there motionless for hours, scarcely conscious of the burning sun.
The soft mutter of a gyro motor woke them. Tony sat up, blinking. He was in time to see a plane land softly not far away, and a figure in flying uniform step out.
Jimmy was still sleeping. Tony lurched forward to greet the new arrival. His eyes were misty with sleep, and he did not at first recognize the pilot—not till the latter took out an automatic and held it ready.
Then he saw it was Zadah, the Rajah’s secretary.
Tony stopped, swaying a little, his arms hanging limp at his sides. Zadah’s round face was triumphant. The beady eyes shone with triumph.