Through the easy air, then, they glide in silence. Sea birds wheel about the basket, then fly away, their orange and red bills in sharp contrast to their white wings. High calls echo round the cloudless sky as if wailing in lament at the size of their new competition. The doctor cries out to the major. No, the major has never seen anything like it and he does not recognise the place or the birds. Clearly they are floating over some sort of archipelago. At least six islands of varying size are visible below them. As they travel over an atoll a flock of white death hits the water and emerges seconds later, most of the birds carrying flopping silver fish from the unlucky shoal that had swum too close to the surface. Breaking surf is loud on coral for the minutes it takes them to pass. The balloon is losing height in the warmer air but ahead of them is the largest island. The major casts some sand over the side and Rosalind watches it fall away, dropping into the waves with a tiny foam splash that is soundless here where the creaks and groans of rope, and the living roar of flame is the only language of the balloon straining to rise into the sky.
They cross the coast. The beaches are silver yellow and empty to sea, sun and wind, but inland a dense jungle quickly takes over with a chaotic mess of greens. At the centre of the island, a dark cone of a mountain rises; most probably the heart of an extinct volcano.
The doctor is the first to see the thin trails of smoke escaping from between the trees. ‘Fire Island!’ Rosalind exclaims in her lilting incomprehensible tongue, and the land acquires another name. A small open pool, almost but not completely overhung by the bows of jungle giants, reflects their passage for half a minute. No one wants to speak but the major is uneasy. Now they have passed the mysterious fires on their right and it is clear that they will get no closer and see no better. The sun hammers on their unprotected heads. You might imagine that a fine steam is rising from the jungle to invade the basket, but it is too dry for that. It doesn’t matter. They can all smell the cheap and pungent perfume which the jungle wears, compounded of cinnamon, honey, musk, pepper and sweat, and spread liberally as though she is a desperate harlot trying a last trick to snare a final customer. Shade and secrets hide beneath the canopy. Their shadow crossing the leafy carpet seems to shake the trees from their daydreams as rustling leaves skitter in the wind. Little cries and squeaks ascend like supplications from within the forest. Here, bright yellow and red flowers add an extra subtle ingredient to the aroma from a particularly magnificent tree. They are heading straight for the pumice slopes at the centre. An unexpected and deep throated gargle from below causes the major to finger the hilt of his ceremonial but nevertheless functional sword, nervously.
After a hasty discussion the doctor and the major are agreed that they will not be able to clear the summit. All are decided that they must land here. But they are not prepared for the speed with which the ground has risen to meet them as they talk. Now the tops of the trees are lightly brushing and snaring the basket, as if they want to grab it and draw it into a deadly embrace. Twigs are snapping and branches breaking. Rosalind clings in fright to the side, the doctor can only hold tight to a rope, but the major tries to throw more sand bags clear. It is too late. In a desperate and very final lurch they dive towards sudden smooth rising stone where the trees peter out. With an enormous ripping, tearing, catapulting, popping, scraping and amazingly soundless crash the graceful balloon and its occupants are shattered and scattered over the crest.
