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Sickened, Nemo took out the spyglass. “Not rain, Caroline -- that’s a sandstorm.”

The pillar of gusting winds picked up fine dust from the desert, leaving heavier sand grains at ground level. They had little enough time to fasten down loose objects. Thinking fast, Caroline gathered cloth for makeshift hoods to pull over their heads, mouths, and noses, leaving only a slit for their eyes.

The three huddled in the basket as the murky wind slammed the balloon off on a careening course. Choking grit coated them all with a layer of chalky, tan residue. The wind howled and shrieked, buffeting them back and forth. Caroline and Nemo clung to each other.

Fergusson said something unintelligible, then spat grit from his mouth and rubbed his dirty sleeve across his teeth, looking annoyed. The wind carried so many particles that it made a hissing sound. Static electricity created blue fingers of St. Elmo’s Fire that skittered up and down the netting.

The storm drove them along for many miles. When the whipping gale cleared and dust settled out of the air, the newly washed landscape of gentle sandy slopes appeared unchanged. Nemo scanned the dunes with the spyglass, while Fergusson and Caroline used rags to clear clinging dirt from the basket.

“Battered, but still intact, eh?” Fergusson said, optimistic. “If that storm cooperated, it could have taken us halfway to the coast by now.”

They each took a ration of food and water, and drifted for another day on a brisk westward breeze. Like a miracle, the terrain changed again. The vagaries of weather had nudged them beyond the southern fringe of the Sahara, and even the scrub brush looked like a comparative paradise.

But Nemo realized to his dismay that their altitude was decreasing. He didn’t voice his suspicions until he had stared at the balloon, watching the patterns of dust that clung to the silk. “The sandstorm weakened our seams. We’re losing hydrogen faster than I had expected.”

“We still have two hundred pounds of ballast to toss out, don’t we?” Fergusson said. “Even though we have you aboard, my friend, we decreased our weight by six hundred pounds by removing the outer balloon.”

Fergusson bent to pick up one of the heavy sacks at the bottom of the basket, but Nemo stopped him. “No. If we’re going to descend anyway, let’s take advantage of it. We can anchor for a while and replenish our supplies.” By now, the near-empty water container held only a few cups of tepid liquid.

When they drifted close enough to the ground, they would tether the Victoria long enough to take on supplies; then they would get rid of ballast and hope to stay aloft all the way to the Senegal coast. From there, outposts of Portuguese, Dutch, British, or French would be within reach, even if the three explorers had to trudge overland and ask the locals for help. Coastal Africans were familiar enough with white traders and explorers that Fergusson expected to receive assistance without much risk.

After studying her charts, Caroline pointed out a river in the distance -- the Niger perhaps -- near which stood a city larger than the thatched villages they had seen before. Nemo looked through the spyglass, studying towers and walls. “It must be an important trading center.” It reminded him of Zanzibar City.

“It cannot be . . . but it must be!” Fergusson’s voice was filled with delight. “That, my friends, is the fabled city of Timbuctoo. You must have heard the legends? A magnificent metropolis filled with treasure, the caravan crossroads from desert and coastal dwellers.”

Caroline looked at the settlement. “I’ve heard stories, but I don’t believe them. Roofs made of pure gold, vast libraries to rival even those of Alexandria. Its citizens are said to be doctors, judges, priests, or scholars.”

Though it was a large town by African standards, Timbuctoo proved disappointing in light of the legends surrounding it. The beige towers and mosques were fashioned from hardened clay mixed with sand, supported with timbers of dried wood. Window