The Adventures Of Indiana Jones Read Online Free PDF

plane. Run. Run even when you don’t have a goddamn scrap of energy left. Find something in reserve.
    Just run.
    And then he heard the darts.
    He heard them shaft the air, whizzing, zinging, creating a melody of death. He ran in a zigzag, moving in a serpentine fashion through the foliage. From behind he could hear the breaking of branches, the crushing of plants, as the Hovitos pursued him. He felt strangely detached all at once from his own body; he’d moved beyond a sense of his physical self, beyond the absurd demands of muscle and sinew, pushing himself through the terrain in a way that was automatic, a matter of basic reflex. He heard the occasional dart strike bark, the scared flapping of jungle birds rising out of branches, the squeal of animals that scampered from the path of the Hovitos. Run, he kept thinking. Run until you can’t run anymore, then you run a little further. Don’t think. Don’t stop.
    Belloq, he thought. My time will come.
    If I get out of this one.
    Running—he didn’t know for how long. Day was beginning to fade.
    He paused, looked upward at the thin light through the dense trees, then dashed in the direction of the river. What he wanted to hear more than anything now was the vital sound of rushing water, what he wanted to see was the waiting plane.
    He twisted again and moved through a clearing, where he was suddenly exposed by the absence of trees. For a moment, the clearing was menacing, the sudden silence of dusk unsettling.
    Then he heard the cries of the Hovitos, and the clearing seemed to him like the center of a bizarre target. He turned around, saw the movement of a couple of figures, felt the air rush as two spears spun past him—and after that he was running again, racing for the river. He thought as he ran, They don’t teach you survival techniques in Archaeology 101, they don’t supply survival manuals along with the methodology of excavation.
    And they certainly don’t warn you about the cunning of a Frenchman named Belloq.
    He paused again and listened to the Indians behind him. Then there was another sound, one that delighted him, that exalted him: the motion of fast-flowing water, the swaying of rushes. The river! How far could it be now? He listened again to be certain and then moved in the direction of the sound, his energies recharged, batteries revitalized. Quicker now, harder and faster. Crashing through the foliage that slashes against you, ignore the cuts and abrasions. Quicker and harder and faster. The sound was becoming clearer. The water rushing.
    He emerged from the trees.
    There.
    Down the slope, beyond the greenery, the hostile vegetation, the river.
    The river and the amphibian plane floating up and down on the swell. He couldn’t have imagined anything more welcoming. He moved along the slope and then realized there wasn’t an easy way down through the foliage to the plane. There wasn’t time to find one, either. You had to go up the slope to the point where, as it formed a cliff over the river, you would have to jump. Jump, he thought. What the hell. What’s one more jump?
    He climbed, conscious of the shape of a man who sat on one wing of the plane far below. Indy reached a point almost directly over the plane, stared down for a moment, and then he shut his eyes and stepped out over the edge of the cliff.
    He hit the tepid water close to the wing of the plane, went under as the current pulled him away, surfaced blindly and struck out toward the craft. The man on the wing stood upright as Indy grabbed a strut and hauled himself out of the water.
    “Get the thing going, Jock!” Indy shouted. “Get it going!”
    Jock rushed along the wing and clambered inside the cockpit as Indy scurried, breathless, into the passenger compartment and slumped across the seat. He closed his eyes and listened to the shudder of engines when the craft skimmed the surface of the water.
    “I didn’t expect you to drop in quite so suddenly,” Jock said.
    “Spare me the