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Caroline used a few drops of their remaining water and a piece of cloth to wipe the sweat and grime from Nemo’s forehead. The dampness felt cool; her touch was gentle, and lingered. Her bright blue eyes looked down at him with a depth of emotion that made him feel weak. Something had changed in her heart during his absence. Though unspoken, another pledge passed between Nemo and Caroline: soon, their time would come.

Listening to Nemo’s tale, Fergusson leaned back against the wicker basket, scratching his extravagant mustache. With his logbook open on his lap, he used one of Caroline’s lead sketching pencils to record the young man’s story. “When we publish the record of our journey, this will make a fine addition, eh? Great excitement accompanied by numerous scientific observations. Perhaps even a biting commentary on the vile practice of slavery. Such a combination will greatly increase our book’s readership, my friends.”

Until this point, Nemo hadn’t thought of publishing an account of their travels, except perhaps in the Proceedings of the Royal Geographical Society. Caroline had already suffered a scandal in France because of her independent ways and unorthodox ideas. The very thought of a woman participating in such an expedition across Africa -- most especially in the company of a young man to whom she was not married (never mind Dr. Fergusson’s constant presence) -- would set the high-society tongues wagging again.

But perhaps the scientific merit of their work, especially Caroline’s sketches, would stand in their defense.

#

For days they drifted northwestward, and the landscape became more desolate. The jungle vegetation gave way to scrub brush and leafless bushes. “We’re approaching the edge of the Sahara,” Caroline said, pointing to their charts with anything but enthusiasm. “Look.”

Their water supplies were low, and they no longer had the recondenser apparatus to raise and lower themselves, leaving the Victoria at the mercy of the winds. They had to make the best possible speed, hoping their diminishing gas would keep them aloft for the thousand miles remaining to the coast.

Soon, the terrain changed from golden scrub to dark rocks and the taupe of unrelenting sand. Ahead, the dunes of the Sahara sprawled like an ocean whose sinuous hills and crests reflected the harsh sun.

Faint caravan paths led from Tangier or Fez across the Atlas Mountains, or from Tripoli across Sudan and the breadth of the desert. As they drifted over the dune sea, they saw no signs of life, no water, none of the wild herds they had observed on the Serengeti. Only the balloon itself gave them any shade in the cloudless sky. The shimmering sands created thermal updrafts that made the Victoria bounce and buck.

In the distance they could see a few rare, dark smudges that indicated oases. Nemo kept his eye on these patches for hours before he came to the grim conclusion that the balloon was no longer moving. Fergusson tested the stagnant wind with his scientific apparatus. His black mustache drooped as he scowled. “Indeed, it appears the wind has failed us. We seem to be at a standstill in the middle of the desert. Rotten luck.”

Caroline saw the implications. “We must conserve our water and our food.”

“The outlook does not appear good, my friends,” Fergusson said at the end of a long afternoon. Caroline frowned at him for stating the obvious.

“The heat will expand our balloon,” Nemo pointed out. “The extra buoyancy should keep us aloft longer.”

But in the dead calm of the Sahara, they still made no progress whatsoever.

Then, after interminable hours of sunburn and sweat and parched throats, Caroline sniffed the air and held up her hand. “There is a breeze. We’re moving again.”

Fergusson grasped one of the support ropes and looked around. Nemo stared at the dunes below and saw that they had indeed begun to crawl along. “Now we are moving due northward.”

Behind them, a hazy shimmer appeared in the air, moving across the desert.