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“Would you mind giving us the Reader’s Digest condensed version? Remi’s pain meds have left her a bit . . . happy.”
As it had turned out, Sam’s search for rescuers in the high Himalayas had, in fact, been a simple affair. In retrospect, given what they’d gone through to get this far, Sam considered it poetic justice. Without realizing it, they had crashed less than a mile from a village called Samagaun, the northernmost settlement in that region of Nepal.
In the dimming twilight, Sam had shuffled his way down the valley until he was spotted by an Australian couple on a trekking vacation. They took him to Samagaun, and in short order a rescue party was organized. Two villagers, the Australian couple, and Sam rode as far up the valley as possible in an ancient Datsun truck, then got out and walked the rest of the way. They found Remi where Sam had left her, in the warm glow of the fire.
For safety’s sake they placed her on a piece of plywood they’d brought along for that very purpose, then made their way back to Samagaun, where they found the village had mobilized on their behalf. A room with twin beds and a potbellied stove was arranged, and they were fed aloo tareko (fried potatoes) and kukhura ko ledo (chicken with gravy) until they could take no more. The village doctor came in, examined them both, and found nothing life-threatening.
The next morning they awoke to find a village elder had already sent word of their rescue down the valley via ham radio. Soon after Sam gave the village elder Jack Karna’s contact information, a more robust SUV arrived to take them south. In Gorkha they found Jack and Ajay waiting to take them the rest of the way to Kathmandu.
Jack had in fact reported them missing and was wading through the Nepalese government bureaucracy trying to organize a search party when word came of their rescue.
Under the watchful eye of Ajay, Sam and Remi spent a night in the hospital. Remi’s X-rays revealed two bruised ribs and a sprained ankle. For their bumps and bruises Sam and Remi got prescription painkillers. The scratches on their faces, though ugly, were superficial and would eventually fade.
Five days after crash-landing in their balloon, they were on a plane headed home.
Now Selma gave them the edited version, “Well, first of all, Jack has confirmed your hunch, Mrs. Fargo. The symbols carved into the bamboo were identical to those on the lid of the Theurang chest. He’s as dumbfounded by it as you are. Whenever you’re ready to talk, call him.
“As for the rest of the markings, you were right again: it’s Italian. According to the author, a man named”—Selma scanned the print-out—“Francesco Lana de Terzi—”
“I know that name,” Sam said. Since returning home, he had immersed himself in the history of dirigibles.
Remi said, “Tell us.”
“De Terzi is widely considered the Father of Aeronautics. He was a Jesuit, and professor of physics and mathematics, in Brescia—northern Italy. In 1670 he published a book called Prodomo. For its time, it was groundbreaking, the first solid analysis of the math behind air travel. He laid the groundwork for everyone that followed him, starting with the Montgolfier brothers in 1783.”
“Oh, them,” Remi replied.
“The first successful balloon flight,” Sam explained. “De Terzi was an absolute genius. He paved the way for things like the sewing machine, a reading device for the blind, the first primitive form of Braille . . .”
“But no airship,” Selma said.
“His primary concept was something he called a Vacuum Ship—essentially, the same as the multiple balloon dirigible we found, but in place of fabric spheres you would have copper ones that had been evacuated of air. In the mid sixteen hundreds, the inventor Robert Boyle created a pump—a ‘pneumatic engine,’ as he called it—that could completely evacuate the air from a vessel. With it, he proved that air has weight. De Terzi theorized that once the ship’s copper spheres were evacuated, the ship would be lighter than the air around it, causing it to rise. I won’t bore you with the physics, but the concept has too many hurdles to be workable.”
“So the Vacuum Ship was never built,” said Selma.
“Not that we know of. In the late nineteenth century a man named Arthur De Bausset tried to get funding for what he called a vacuum-tube airship, but nothing came of it. As for De Terzi, according to history he kept working on his theory until he died in 1686.”
“Where?”
Sam smiled. “In Brescia.”
“After gallivanting around the Himalayas,” Remi added. “Go on, Selma.”
“According to the bamboo, De Terzi and his Chinese crew—he doesn’t say how many—crash-landed during a test flight of an airship he was designing for the Kangxi Emperor. The Emperor had named the airship the Great Dragon. Only De Terzi and two others survived the crash. He was the only one uninjured.”
“The two mummies we found,” Remi said.
“I checked the dates for the Kangxi Emperor,” said Selma. “He ruled from 1661 to 1722.”
“The time line fits,” said Sam.
“Now, here’s the good part: De Terzi states that while foraging for food he found a”—Selma read the printout—“‘mysterious vessel of a design he had never seen, engraved with symbols both similar and dissimilar to those used by my benefactor.’”
Sam and Remi exchanged smiles.
Selma continued: “In the final part of the engraving, De Terzi wrote that he had decided to leave his crewmates and head north, back toward the airship’s launch base, something he referred to as Shekar Gompa.”
Sam said, “Did you check—”