Reviving his hopes, Hank began scouting around by air. The nomads certainly could not have traveled far in one day. Half an hour later, as the plane winged over the hills, Flambo
SURPRISE BLAST-OFF 169
pointed to a rugged upland pasture on the right.
“Look! I can see them!” he exclaimed. “Down there is the new camp.”
Hank swooped toward the spot. Tents dotted the steep hillside, with horses and camels tethered nearby. A few goats mingled with the flock of fat-tailed Karakul sheep that spread out over the slope.
As the jet descended, the nomads swarmed from their tents, shouting and firing their rifles. Even Flambo was surprised by their evident unfriendliness.
Hank was more alarmed by the lack of level ground.
Beads of perspiration flicked out on his forehead as he made several attempts to set the big cargo jet down on the rugged slope. At last he gave up and zoomed skyward again.
“No use,” Hank said.
Reluctantly he decided it would be wiser to fly back to camp and return in an atomicar. Hank was feverish with impatience at this new setback. Hours would be lost, since the atomicar’s top speed was nowhere near that of the cargo jet.
It was midafternoon when they finally arrived back at the nomad camp. Again the natives tried to discourage a landing by shooting their rifles in the air. But Hank and Flambo landed safely. The nomads quieted somewhat and gathered around the car as Flambo spoke to them in Kurdish. Hank noticed the men wore fringed turbans-170 TRIPHIBIAN ATOMICAR
the fringe serving to whisk away flies that buzzed about in the blistering sunlight.
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