Freddy sighed and shrugged resignedly.
"Right you are," he murmured. "But I certainly wish I could learn to say no now and then to your wild propositions. I'd certainly save a lot of wear and tear on myself. Right-o, my little hero. Lead the way. I'm right at your heels. Phew, if these poor blistered feet of mine were only walking the flight deck of the Victory right now. How wonderful, how delicious that would be!"
"Shut up!" Dave growled at him, and started plodding across the seemingly endless expanse of sand. "You'll have me blubbering like a kid in a minute."
A little under an hour later, the two boys had very definitely learned something else about the Libyan desert, or any other desert, for that matter. It was that, when you think some spot is a certain number of miles away from you, you can just multiply your guess by at least six, and the answer will still be less than the actual distance. The glare of the sun, the shimmering heat waves rising up from the sand, plus the flatness of the desert, fool you completely when it comes to judging distances between two points.
"This is sure a long mile!" Freddy broke a five minute silence. "Or have we been walking in circles? My compass says not, but maybe the heat's got it, too."
"You and me both!" Dave groaned, and nodded his head. "It's been looking only a mile away for the last twenty minutes. I'm sorry, Freddy. I guess the desert is a tricky spot. How're you doing? We've got to keep going now, you know. If we stop, we're done for."
Freddy wiped hot hands across his equally hot face. There was not even the comfort of sweating, now. No sooner did a bead of sweat ooze out on their bodies than the heat dried it up. From head to foot every square inch of their skin felt like a piece of bacon in a frying pan that a good housewife forgot all about before she left for the movies. Even though they wore desert sun glasses, their eyes felt as though they were exposed to the direct rays of the brassy ball of fire in the sky. Each step was an effort, for their leg joints seemed sapped of all body lubricants. And every now and then, to add to their torture, a little flurry of wind would spring up as though by magic and hurl a swirling cloud of hot stinging sand directly into their faces. However, each new little discomfort that rose up to torture them only served to feed fuel to the flame of resoluteness and grim determination that burned within them.
"Am I right or wrong, pal?" Dave asked when Freddy did not speak.
"Your turn to shut up!" the English youth grunted. "I'm not quitting until you do, my American friend. Matter of fact, though, I think the blasted spot does seem a bit closer."
"Me, too," Dave cried, and increased the pace. "Come on, Freddy. The old whirlwind finish. Yes, it is closer. I'd say only about—"