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At arm’s length, Remi touched the lighter’s flame to the brick; with a barely perceptible whoosh, it ignited.
Grinning broadly, Remi leapt up and hugged Sam. Together, they sat crouched around the brick and watched it burn. The heat was surprisingly intense. When the flames finally sputtered out, Sam checked his watch: “Six minutes. Not bad. Now we need as many as we can make but bigger—say, about the size of a filet mignon.”
“Did you have to use that
analogy?”
“Sorry. The moment we get back to Kathmandu we’ll head for the nearest steakhouse.”
Buoyed by the success of their ignition test, they made rapid progress. By bedtime, they had nineteen bricks.
As the sun began to set, Sam finished the brazier by notching into its base three short legs, which he then attached to a double-thick aluminum bowl by crude flanges. As a final step, he cut a hole into the side of the cone.
“What’s that for?” asked Remi.
“Ventilation and fuel port. Once we get the first brick going, airflow and the shape of the cone will create a vortex of sorts. The heat will gush through the top of the cone and into the balloon.”
“That’s ingenious.”
“That’s a stove.”
“Pardon?”
“It’s an old-fashioned backpacking stove on steroids. They’ve been around for a century. At last my love of obscure knowledge pays off.”
“In spades. Let’s retreat to our bunker and try to rest up for the maiden—and final—flight of the High Flier.”
They slept fitfully for a total of two hours, kept awake by exhaustion, lack of food, and excitement. As soon as there was enough light to work by, they climbed out of the gondola and ate the last of their food.
Sam dismembered the remainder of the gondola save the last corner, which they pried free with the piton and knotted rope. Once the sawing was done, they had a pile of fuel that was as tall as Sam.
Having already chosen a spot on the plateau that was virtually free of ice, they carefully dragged the balloon to the launchpad. Onto the platform they stacked ballast rocks. In the center they placed the brazier, then secured it to the platform with sinew thongs.
“Let’s get cooking,” Remi said.
They used wads of paper and lichen as tinder, on top of which they placed a tripod of wicker chunks. Once they had a solid bed of coals, they continued to feed wicker into the brazier, and slowly flames began licking upward.
Remi placed her hand over the brazier’s flue. She jerked it back. “Hot!”
“Perfect. Now we wait. This is going to take a while.”
One hour turned into two. The balloon filled slowly, expanding around them like a miniature circus tent, as their fuel supply dwindled. Beneath the canopy the sunlight seemed ethereal, hazy. Sam realized they were fighting time and thermal physics, as the air cooled and seeped through the balloon’s skin.
Just before the third hour, the balloon, though still lying perpendicular to the ground, lifted and floated free. Whether reality or perception, they weren’t sure, but this seemed to be a watershed moment. Within forty minutes the balloon was standing upright, its exterior growing more taut by the minute.
“It’s working,” Remi murmured. “It’s really working.”
Sam nodded, said nothing, his eyes fixed on the craft.
Finally he said, “All aboard.”
Remi trotted to their supply pile, snatched up the engraved length of bamboo, slid it down the back of her jacket, then jogged back. She removed rocks one by one until she had room to kneel, then sit. The opposite side of the platform was now hovering a few inches off the ground.
Having already stuffed the emergency parachute pack with some essentials, and the duffel bag with their bricks and the last armload of wicker, Sam grabbed both, then knelt beside the platform.
“You ready?” he asked.
Remi didn’t blink an eye. “Let’s fly.”