chapter two
Thus the Three Planes of the Air-Mail Service —
Thus the three planes of the air-mail service， from Patagonia， Chile， and Paraguay， were converging from south， west， and north on Buenos Aires. Their arrival with the mails would give the signal for the departure， about midnight， of the Europe postal plane.
Three pilots， each behind a cowling heavy as a river-barge， intent upon his flight， were hastening through the distant darkness， soon to come slowly down， from a sky of storm or calm， like wild， outlandish peasants descend??ing from their highlands.
Rivière， who was responsible for the entire service， was pacing to and fro on the Buenos Aires landing-ground. He was in silent mood， for， till the three planes had come in， he could not shake off a feeling of apprehension which had been haunting him all day. Minute by minute， as the telegrams were passed to him， Rivière felt that he had scored another point against fate， reduced the quantum of the unknown， and was drawing his charges in， out of the clutches of the night， toward their haven.
One of the hands came up to Rivière with a radio message.
“Chile mail reports： Buenos Aires in sight.” “Good.”
Presently， then， Rivière would hear its drone; already the night was yielding up one of them， as a sea， heavy with its secrets and the cadence of the tides， surrenders to the shore a treasure long the plaything of the waves. And soon the night would give him back the other two.
Then to-day's work would be over. Worn out， the crews would go to sleep， fresh crews replace them. Rivière alone would have no respite; then， in its turn， the Europe mail would weigh upon his mind. And so it would always be. Always. For the first time in his life this veteran fighter caught himself feeling tired. Never could an arrival of the planes mean for him the victory that ends a war and preludes a spell of smiling peace. For him it meant just one more step， with a thousand more to follow， along a straight， unending road. Rivière felt as though for an eternity he had been carrying a crushing load on his up??lifted arms; an endless， hopeless effort.
“I'm aging.” If he no longer found a solace in work and work alone， surely he was grow??ing old. He caught himself puzzling over problems which hitherto he had ignored. There surged within his mind， like a lost ocean， murmuring regrets， all the gentler joys of life that he had thrust aside. “Can it be coming on me — so soon?” He realized that he had always been postponing for his de??clining years， “when I have time for it，” every??thing that makes life kind to men. As if it were ever possible to “have time for it” one day and realize at life's end that dream of peace and happiness！ No， peace there could be none; nor any victory， perhaps. Never could all the air-mails land in one swoop once for all.
Rivière paused before Leroux; the old foreman was hard at work. Leroux， too， had forty years of work behind him. All his energies were for his work. When at ten o'clock or midnight Leroux went home it certainly was not to find a change of scene， escape into another world. When Rivière smiled toward him， he raised his heavy head and pointed at a burnt-out axle. “Jammed it was， but I've fixed it up.” Rivière bent down to look; duty had regained its hold upon him. “You should tell the shop to set them a bit looser.” He passed his finger over the trace of seizing， then glanced again at Leroux. As his eyes lingered on the stern old wrinkled face， an odd question hovered on his lips and made him smile.
“Ever had much to do with love， Leroux， in your time?”
“Love， sir? Well， you see —”
“Hadn't the time for it， I suppose — like me.
“Not a great deal， sir.”
Rivière strained his ears to hear if there were any bitterness in the reply; no， not a trace of it. This man， looking back on life， felt the quiet satisfaction of a carpenter who has made a good job of planing down a board： “There you are！ That's done.”
“There you are，” thought Rivière. “My life's done.”
Then， brushing aside the swarm of somber thoughts his weariness had brought， he walked toward the hangar; for the Chile plane was droning down toward it.
chapter three
The Sound of the Distant Engine Swelled and Thickened —
The sound of the distant engine swelled and thickened; a sound of ripening. Lights flashed out. The red lamps on the light-tower sil??houetted a hangar， radio standards， a square landing-ground. The setting of a gala night.
“There she comes！”
A sheaf of beams had caught the grounding plane， making it shine as if brand-new. No sooner had it come to rest before the hangar than mechanics and airdrome hands hurried up to unload the mail. Only Pellerin， the pilot， did not move.
“Well， aren't you going to get down?”
The pilot， intent on some mysterious task， did not deign to reply. Listening， perhaps， to sounds that he alone could hear， long echoes of the flight. Nodding reflectively， he bent down and tinkered with some unseen object. At last he turned toward the officials and his comrades， gravely taking stock of them as though of his possessions. He seemed to pass them in review， to weigh them， take their measure， saying to himself that he had earned his right to them， as to this hangar with its gala lights and solid concrete and， in the offing， the city， full of movement， warmth， and women. In the hollow of his large hands he seemed to hold this folk; they were his subjects， to touch or hear or curse， as the fancy took him. His impulse now was to curse them for a lazy crowd， so sure of life they seemed， gaping at the moon; but he decided to be genial instead.
“。 。 。 Drinks are on you！”
Then he climbed down.
He wanted to tell them about the trip. “If only you knew 。 。 。 ！”
Evidently， to his thinking， that summed it up， for now he walked off to change his flying gear.
As the car was taking him to Buenos Aires in the company of a morose inspector and Rivière in silent mood， Pellerin suddenly felt sad; of course， he thought， it's a fine thing for a fellow to have gone through it and， when he's got his footing again， let off a healthy volley of curses. Nothing finer in the world！ But afterwards 。 。 。 when you look back on it all; you wonder， you aren't half so sure！
A struggle with a cyclone， that at least is a straight fight， it's real. But not that curious look things wear， the face they have when they think they are alone. His thoughts took form. “Like a revolution it is; men's faces turning only the least shade paler， yet utterly unlike themselves.”
He bent his mind toward the memory.
He had been crossing peacefully the Cor??dillera of the Andes. A snow-bound stillness brooded on the ranges; the winter snow had brought its peace to all this vastness， as in dead castles the passing centuries spread peace. Two hundred miles without a man， a breath of life， a movement; only sheer peaks that， flying at twenty thousand feet， you almost graze， straight-falling cloaks of stone， an ominous tranquillity.
It had happened somewhere near the Tupungato Peak. 。 。 。
He reflected. 。 。 。 Yes， it was there he saw a miracle take place.
For at first he had noticed nothing much， felt no more than a vague uneasiness—as when a man believes himself alone， but is not; some one is watching him. Too late， and how he could not comprehend， he realized that he was hemmed in by anger. Where was it coming from， this anger? What told him it was oozing from the stones， sweating from the snow? For nothing seemed on its way to him， no storm was lowering. And still—another world， like it and yet unlike， was issuing from the world around him. Now all those quiet-looking peaks， snow-caps， and ridges， growing faintly grayer， seemed to spring to life， a people of the snows. And an inex??plicable anguish gripped his heart.
Instinctively he tightened his grasp on the controls. Something he did not understand was on its way and he tautened his muscles， like a beast about to spring. Yet， as far as eye could see， all was at peace. Peaceful， yes， but tense with some dark potency.
Suddenly all grew sharp; peaks and ridges seemed keen-edged prows cutting athwart a heavy head wind. Veering around him， they deployed like dreadnoughts taking their posi??tions in a battle-line. Dusk began to mingle with the air， rising and hovering， a veil above the snow. Looking back to see if retreat might still be feasible， he shuddered; all the Cordillera behind him was in seething ferment.
“I'm lost！”
On a peak ahead of him the snow swirled up into the air — a snow volcano. Upon his right flared up another peak and， one by one， all the summits grew lambent with gray fire， as if some unseen messenger had touched them into flame. Then the first squall broke and all the mountains round the pilot quiv??ered.
Violent action leaves little trace behind it and he had no recollection of the gusts that buffeted him then from side to side. Only one clear memory remained; the battle in a welter of gray flames.
He pondered.
“A cyclone， that's nothing. A man just saves his skin！ It's what comes before it — the thing one meets upon the way！”
But already even as he thought he had re??called it， that one face in a thousand， he had forgotten what it was like.
chapter four
Rivière Glanced at the Pilot.
Rivière glanced at the pilot. In twenty min??utes Pellerin would step from the car， mingle the crowd， and know the burden of his lassitude. Perhaps he would murmur： “Tired out as usual. It's a dog's life！” To his wife he would， perhaps， let fall a word or two： “A fellow's better off here than flying above the Andes！” And yet that world to which men hold so strongly had almost slipped from him; he had come to know its wretchedness. He had returned from a few hours‘ life on the other side of the picture， ignoring if it would be possible for him ever to retrieve this city with its lights， ever to know again his little human frailties， irksome yet cherished child??hood friends.
“In every crowd，” Rivière mused， “are cer??tain persons who seem just like the rest， yet they bear amazing messages. Unwittingly， no doubt， unless—” Rivière was chary of a certain type of admirers， blind to the higher side of this adventure， whose vain applause per??verted its meaning， debased its human dig??nity. But Pellerin's inalienable greatness lay in this — his simple yet sure awareness of what the world， seen from a special angle， signified， his massive scorn of vulgar flattery. So Rivière congratulated him： “Well， how did you bring it off?” And loved him for his knack of only “talking shop，” referring to his flight as a blacksmith to his anvil.
Pellerin began by telling how his retreat had been cut off. It was almost as if he were apologizing about it. “There was nothing else for it！” Then he had lost sight of everything， blinded by the snow. He owed his escape to the violent air-currents which had driven him up to twenty-five thousand feet. “I guess they held me all the way just above the level of the peaks.” He mentioned his trouble with the gyroscope and how he had had to shift the air-inlet， as the snow was clogging it; “form??ing a frost-glaze， you see.” After that another set of air-currents had driven Pellerin down and， when he was only at ten thousand feet or so， he was puzzled why he had not run in??to anything. As a matter of fact he was al??ready above the plains. “I spotted it all of a sudden when I came out into a clear patch.” And he explained how it had felt at that moment; just as if he had escaped from a cave.
“Storm at Mendoza， too?”
“No. The sky was clear when I made my landing， not a breath of wind. But the storm was at my heels all right！”
It was such a damned queer business， he said; that was why he mentioned it. The sum??mits were lost in snow at a great height while the lower slopes seemed to be streaming out across the plain， like a flood of black lava which swallowed up the villages one by one. “Never saw anything like it before. 。 。 。” Then he relapsed into silence， gripped by some secret memory.
Rivière turned to the inspector.
“That's a Pacific cyclone; it's too late to take any action now. Anyhow these cyclones never cross the Andes.”
No one could have foreseen that this par??ticular cyclone would continue its advance toward the east.
The inspector， who had no ideas on the subject， assented.
The inspector seemed about to speak. Then he hesitated， turned toward Pellerin， and his Adam's apple stirred. But he held his peace and， after a moment's thought， resumed his air of melancholy dignity， looking straight before him.
That melancholy of his， he carried it about with him everywhere， like a handbag. No sooner had he landed in Argentina than Rivière had appointed him to certain vague func??tions， and now his large hands and inspec??torial dignity got always in his way. He had no right to admire imagination or ready wit; it was his business to commend punctuality and punctuality alone. He had no right to take a glass of wine in company， to call a comrade by his Christian name or risk a joke; unless， of course， by some rare chance， he came across another inspector on the same run.
“It's hard luck，” he thought， “always hav??ing to be a judge.”
As a matter of fact he never judged; he merely wagged his head. To mask his utter ignorance he would slowly， thoughtfully， wag his head at everything that came his way， a movement that struck fear into uneasy con??sciences and ensured the proper upkeep of the plant.
He was not beloved — but then inspectors are not made for love and such delights， only for drawing up reports. He had desisted from proposing changes of system or technical im??provements since Rivière had written： “In??spector Robineau is requested to supply re??ports， not poems. He will be putting his talents to better use by speeding up the per??sonnel.” From that day forth Inspector Ro??bineau had battened on human frailties， as on his daily bread; on the mechanic who had a glass too much， the airport overseer who stayed up of nights， the pilot who bumped a landing.
Rivière said of him： “He is far from in??telligent， but very useful to us， such as he is.” One of the rules which Rivière rigor??ously imposed — upon himself — was a knowl??edge of his men. For Robineau the only knowledge that counted was knowledge of the orders.
“Robineau，” Rivière had said one day， “you must cut the punctuality bonus when??ever a plane starts late.”
“Even when it's nobody's fault? In case of fog， for instance?”
“Even in case of fog.”
Robineau felt a thrill of pride in knowing that his chief was strong enough not to shrink from being unjust. Surely Robineau himself would win reflected majesty from such over??weening power！
“You postponed the start till six fifteen，” he would say to the airport superintendents. “We cannot allow your bonus.”
“But， Monsieur Robineau， at five thirty one couldn't see ten yards ahead！”
“Those are the orders.”
“But， Monsieur Robineau， we couldn't sweep the fog away with a broom！”
He alone amongst all these nonentities knew the secret; if you only punish men enough， the weather will improve！
“He never thinks at all，” said Rivière of him， “and that prevents him from thinking wrong.”
The pilot who damaged a plane lost his no-accident bonus.
“But supposing his engine gives out when he is over a wood?” Robineau inquired of his chief.
“Even when it occurs above a wood.”
Robineau took to heart the ipse dixit.
“I regret，” he would inform the pilots with cheerful zest， “I regret it very much indeed， but you should have had your breakdown somewhere else.”
“But， Monsieur Robineau， one doesn't choose the place to have it.”
“Those are the orders.”
The orders， thought Rivière， are like the rites of a religion; they may look absurd but they shape men in their mold. It was no con??cern to Rivière whether he seemed just or un??just. Perhaps the words were meaningless to him. The little townsfolk of the little towns promenade each evening round a bandstand and Rivière thought： It's nonsense to talk of being just or unjust toward them; they don't exist.
For him， a man was a mere lump of wax to be kneaded into shape. It was his task to. fur??nish this dead matter with a soul， to inject will-power into it. Not that he wished to make slaves of his men; his aim was to raise them above themselves. In punishing them for each delay he acted， no doubt， unjustly， but he bent the will of every crew to punctual departure; or， rather， he bred in them the will to keep to time. Denying his men the right to welcome foggy weather as the pretext for a leisure hour， he kept them so breathlessly eager for the fog to lift that even the hum??blest mechanic felt a twinge of shame for the delay. Thus they were quick to profit by the least rift in the armor of the skies.
“An opening on the north; let's be off！”
Thanks to Rivière the service of the mails was paramount over twenty thousand miles of land and sea.
“The men are happy，” he would say， “be??cause they like their work， and they like it because I am hard.”
And hard he may have been — still he gave his men keen pleasure for all that. “They need，” he would say to himself， “to be urged on toward a hardy life， with its sufferings and its joys; only that matters.”
As the car approached the city， Rivière in??structed the driver to take him to the Head Office. Presently Robineau found himself alone with Pellerin and a question shaped itself upon his lips.
chapter five
Robineau Was Feeling Tired Tonight.
Robineau was feeling tired tonight. Look??ing at Pellerin — Pellerin the Conqueror — he had just discovered that his own life was a gray one. Worst of all， he was coming to real??ize that， for all his rank of inspector and au??thority， he， Robineau， cut a poor figure beside this travel-stained and weary pilot， crouching in a corner of the car， his eyes closed and hands all grimed with oil. For the first time， Robineau was learning to admire. A need to speak of this came over him and， above all， to make a friend.
He was tired of his journey and the day's rebuffs and felt perhaps a little ridiculous. That very evening， when verifying the gaso??line reserve， he had botched his figures and the agent， whom he had wanted to catch out， had taken compassion and totted them up for him. What was worse， he had commented on the fitting of a Model B.6 oil-pump， mistaking it for the B.4 type， and the mechanics with ironic smiles had let him maunder on for twenty minutes about this “inexcusable stupidity” — his own stupidity.
He dreaded his room at the hotel. From Toulouse to Buenos Aires， straight to his room he always went once the day's work was over. Safely ensconced and darkly conscious of the secrets he carried in his breast， he would draw from his bag a sheet of paper and slowly inscribe “Report” on it， write a line or two at random， then tear it up. He would have liked to save the company from some tremendous peril; but it was not in any dan??ger. All he had saved so far was a slightly rusted propeller-boss. He had slowly passed his finger over the rust with a mournful air， eyed by an airport overseer， whose only com??ment was： “Better call up the last halt; this plane's only just in.” Robineau was losing confidence in himself.
At a venture he essayed a friendly move. “Would you care to dine with me?” he asked Pellerin. “I'd enjoy a quiet chat; my job's pretty exhausting at times.”
Then， reluctant to quit his pedestal too soon， he added： “The responsibility， you know.”
His subordinates did not much relish the idea of intimacy with Robineau; it had its dangers. “If he's not dug up something for his report， with an appetite like his， I guess he'll just eat me up！”
But Robineau's mind this evening was full of his personal afflictions. He suffered from an annoying eczema， his only real secret; he would have liked to talk about his trouble， to be pitied and， now that pride had played him false， find solace in humility. Then again there was his mistress over there in France， who had to hear the nightly tale of his in??spections whenever he returned. He hoped to impress her thus and earn her love but — his usual lucid — he only seemed to aggravate her. He wanted to talk about her， too.
“So you'll come to dinner?” Good-naturedly Pellerin assented.
chapter six
The Clerks Were Drowsing in the Buenos Aires Office —
The clerks were drowsing in the Buenos Aires office when Rivière entered. He had kept his overcoat and hat on， like the inces??sant traveler he always seemed to be. His spare person took up so little room， his clothes and graying hair so aptly fitted into any scene， that when he went by hardly any one noticed it. Yet， at his entry， a wave of energy tra??versed the office. The staff bustled， the head clerk hurriedly compiled the papers remain??ing on his desk， typewriters began to click.
The telephonist was busily slipping his plugs into the standard and noting the tele??grams in a bulky register， Rivière sat down and read them.
All that he read， the Chile episode ex??cepted， told of one of those favored days when things go right of themselves and each suc??cessive message from the airports is another bulletin of victory. The Patagonia mail， too， was making headway; all the planes were ahead of time， for fair winds were bearing them northward on a favoring tide.
“Give me the weather reports.”
Each airport vaunted its fine weather， clear sky， and clement breeze. The mantle of a golden evening had fallen on South America. And Rivière welcomed this friendliness of things. True， one of the planes was battling somewhere with the perils of the night， but the odds were in its favor.
Rivière pushed the book aside.
“That will do.”
Then， a night-warden whose charge was half the world， he went out to inspect the men on night duty， and came back.
Later， standing at an open window， he took the measure of the darkness. It contained Buenos Aires yonder， but also like the hull of some huge ship， America. He did not won??der at this feeling of immensity; the sky of Santiago de Chile might be a foreign sky， but once the air-mail was in flight toward Santi??ago you lived， from end to journey's end， under the same dark vault of heaven. Even now the Patagonian fishermen were gazing at the navigation lights of the plane whose messages were being awaited here. The vague unrest of an aeroplane in flight brooded not only on Rivière's heart but， with the droning of the engine， upon the capitals and little towns.
Glad of this night that promised so well， he recalled those other nights of chaos， when a plane had seemed hemmed in with dangers， its rescue well-nigh a forlorn hope， and how to the Buenos Aires Radio Post its desperate calls came faltering through， fused with the atmospherics of the storm. Under the leaden weight of sky the golden music of the waves was tarnished. Lament in the minor of a plane sped arrow wise against the blinding barriers of darkness， no sadder sound than this！
Rivière remembered that the place of an inspector， when the staff is on night duty， is in the office.
“Send for Monsieur Robineau.”
Robineau had all but made a friend of his guest， the pilot. Under his eyes he had un??packed his suitcase and revealed those trivial objects which link inspectors with the rest of men; some shirts in execrable taste， a dress??ing-set， the photograph of a lean woman， which the inspector pinned to the wall. Hum??bly thus he imparted to Pellerin his needs， affections， and regrets. Laying before the pi??lot's eyes his sorry treasures， he laid bare all his wretchedness. A moral eczema. His prison.
But a speck of light remained for Robi??neau， as for every man， and it was in a mood of quiet ecstasy that he drew， from the bottom of his valise， a little bag carefully wrapped up in paper. He fumbled with it some mo??ments without speaking. Then he unclasped his hands.
“I brought this from the Sahara.”
The inspector blushed to think that he had thus betrayed himself. For all his chagrins， domestic misadventures， for all the gray re??ality of life he had a solace， these little black??ish pebbles—talismans to open doors of mys??tery.