Mistress-of-the-Game - By Tilly Bagshawe Sidney Sheldon Page 0,43
to his death, Max would be stuck in the balloon by himself. How would he get down?
I'd better figure out how hot-air balloons work.
Katele spoke to Keith: "That's a bright boy you have there, sir. Incredibly curious."
"Thank you. Africa seems to have brought him out of himself."
The guide shrugged. "Naturally. It's in his blood. You know he spent the whole afternoon with our balloon team, learning the ropes."
"Good." Keith forced a smile. "He can help me when I'm up there panicking and forgetting everything they taught me."
"If you prefer to take our pilot..."
Keith shook his head. "No, no. I have flown before, many times. Just not recently. I'm sure it'll come flooding back to me."
Keith had decided the balloon ride would be a perfect father-son bonding opportunity. He wanted Max to see him doing something he was good at. Other than surgery, Keith Webster had few talents, and he could hardly have his son sit in on a rhinoplasty. He'd learned how to balloon in college, in a rare moment of daredeviltry, and enjoyed it for a year or so, before the novelty wore off.
Perhaps this would help Max to see him in a new, more heroic light? It wasn't easy to look heroic standing next to Katele.
"You'll be in radio contact all the time." Katele smiled reassuringly. "If you run into trouble, just let us know."
"Don't worry," said Keith. "We'll be fine."
They took off at sunset. It was a perfect evening to fly.
"Little bit of low cloud cover to the east, but the winds are in your favor." Kurt, the technician, checked the propane tanks and the pyrometer, which measured the heat at the top of the balloon, one final time. A gnarled Afrikaner in his early sixties with the sort of grisly gray beard usually associated with fairy-tale villains, Kurt Bleeker was in fact a kind, gentle man. "Winds have been averaging five miles an hour, so you shouldn't go farther than a few miles. As it's your first solo flight in a while, try to stick to forty minutes, but don't panic if you go over. You've got fuel for twice that. Any problems" - Kurt tapped his walkie-talkie - "get on the blower, yah?"
Keith Webster smiled. "Will do."
Now that it was actually happening, his nervousness had completely evaporated.
It'll be a blast. Drifting over the Karoo with my son, like sultans of our own private kingdom. If only Eve was here to see how well we're getting along.
Soon they were airborne, sailing serenely over the koppies, small rocky outcrops that rose up from the arid open plain like boils on an old man's skin. Looking out of the left side of the gondola, the balloon's basket, everything seemed barren and dead. But a glance to the right revealed a magical water world, shimmering like a mirage in the early-evening heat. The Orange and Caledon rivers had carved a winding path through the dusty earth, creating myriad little bays, islands and peninsulas. Far below, Keith Webster could see people sailing and windsurfing close to the jagged shoreline. Close by, a herd of wildebeest had gathered to drink, making the most of the cooler, wetter winter weather. But the views below paled next to the beauty of the sky around them. It was as if an LSD-crazed God had grabbed a paintbrush and daubed a psychedelic canvas of orange and pink across the twilight.
"What do you think, Max? Incredible, isn't it?"
"Hmm."
Max was clasping the aluminum frame of the gondola. He barely seemed to notice the stunning scenery below them. His eyes were glued to the instrument panel. Every time the altimeter or variometer needle flickered, he visibly tensed.
Nervous, thought Keith. That's normal for your first balloon flight. He'll relax once he gets used to it.
Max was nervous. This was going to be more complicated than he'd thought. He had to wait until they'd floated far enough that they could no longer be seen from the base camp. But if he waited too long, Keith would be busy with the descent and not interested in taking photographs.
"Look down there, Dad."
Max pointed to a small herd of zebra galloping across the plain. Dust plumed behind them like the exhaust fumes from a racecar.
"I want to take a picture."
Keith turned around and screamed. His son had somehow climbed onto the ropes above them. He was perched precariously on the edge of the wicker basket, gripping the ropes one-handed while he leaned out of the gondola with a camera in his other hand.