His blush grew a little deeper. “You find exactly the same kind in Brazil.”
Then Pellerin had slapped the shoulder of an inspector poring upon Atlantis and， as in duty bound， had asked a question.
“Keen on geology， eh?”
“Keen? I'm mad about it！”
All his life long only the stones had not been hard on him.
Hearing that he was wanted， Robineau felt sad but forthwith resumed his air of dig??nity.
“I must leave you. Monsieur Rivière needs my assistance for certain important prob??lems.”
When Robineau entered the office， Rivière had forgotten all about him. He was musing before a wall-map on which the company's air-lines were traced in red. The inspector awaited his chief's orders. Long minutes passed before Rivière addressed him， without turning his head.
“What is your idea of this map， Robineau?”
He had a way of springing conundrums of this sort when he came out of a brown study.
“The map， Monsieur Rivière? Well—”
As a matter of fact he had no ideas on the subject; nevertheless frowning at the map， he roved all Europe and America with an in??spectorial eye. Meanwhile Rivière， in silence， pursued his train of thought. “On the face of it， a pretty scheme enough—but it's ruth??less. When one thinks of all the lives， young fellows’ lives， it has cost usl It's a fine， solid thing and we must bow to its authority， of course; but what a host of problems it pre??sents！” With Rivière， however， nothing mat??tered save the end in view.
Robineau， standing beside him with his eyes fixed on the map， was gradually pulling himself together. Pity from Rivière was not to be expected; that he knew. Once he had chanced it， explaining how that grotesque infirmity of his had spoilt his life. All he had got from Rivière was a jeer. “Stops you sleeping， eh? So much the better for your work！”
Rivière spoke only half in jest. One of his sayings was： “If a composer suffers from loss of sleep and his sleeplessness induces him to turn out masterpieces， what a profitable loss it is！” One day， too， he had said of Leroux： “Just look at him！ I call it a fine thing， ugli??ness like that—so perfect that it would warn off any sweetheart！” And perhaps， indeed， Leroux owed what was finest in him to his misfortune， which obliged him to live only for his work.
“Pellerin's a great friend of yours， isn't he， Robineau?”
“Well —”
“I'm not reproaching you.”
Rivière made a half-turn and with bowed head， taking short steps， paced to and fro with Robineau. A bitter smile， incomprehensible to Robineau， came to his lips.
“Only 。 。 。 only you are his chief， you see.”
“Yes，” said Robineau.
Rivière was thinking how tonight， as every night， a battle was in progress in the southern sky. A moment's weakening of the will might spell defeat; there was， perhaps， much fight??ing to be done before the dawn.
“You should keep your place， Robineau.” Rivière weighed his words. “You may have to order this pilot to-morrow night to start on a dangerous flight. He will have to obey you.”
“Yes.”
“The lives of men worth more than you are in your hands.” He seemed to hesitate. “It's a serious matter.”
For a while Rivière paced the room in si??lence， taking his little steps.
“If they obey you because they like you， Robineau， you're fooling them. You have no right to ask any sacrifice of them.”
“No， of course not.”
“And if they think that your friendship will get them off disagreeable duties， you're fooling them again. They have to obey in any case. Sit down.”
With a touch of his hand Rivière gently propelled Inspector Robineau toward the desk.
“I am going to teach you a lesson， Robi??neau. If you feel run down it's not these men's business to give you energy. You are their chief. Your weakness is absurd. Now write！”
“I –”
“Write. ‘Inspector Robineau imposes the penalty stated hereunder on Pellerin， Pilot， on the following grounds. 。 。 。’ You will dis??cover something to fill in the blanks.”
“Sir！”
“Act as though you understood， Robineau. Love the men under your orders—but do not let them know it.”
So， once more， Robineau would supervise the cleaning of each propeller-boss， with zest.
An emergency landing-ground sent in a radio message. “Plane in sight. Plane signals： Engine Trouble; about to land.”
That meant half an hour lost. Rivière felt that mood of irritation the traveler knows when his express is held up by a signal and the minutes no longer yield their toll of pass??ing hedgerows. The large clock-hand was turning now an empty hemicycle， within whose compass so many things might have fitted. in. To while away the interval Rivière went out and now the night seemed hollow as a stage without an actor. Wasted—a night like this！ He nursed a grudge against that cloud??less sky with its wealth of stars， the moon's celestial beacon， the squandered gold of such a night. 。 。 。
But， once the plane had taken off， the night once more grew full of beauty and enthral??ment; for now the womb of night was carry??ing life， and over it Rivière kept his watch.
“What weather have you?”
He had the query transmitted to the crew. Ten seconds later the reply came in： “Very fine.”
There followed a string of names， towns over which the plane had passed and， for Rivière's ears， these were so many names of cities falling one by one before a conqueror.
Chapter seven
An Hour Later the Wireless Operator on the Patagonia Mail—
An hour later the wireless operator on the Patagonia mail felt himself gently lifted as though some one were tugging at his shoul??ders. He looked around; heavy clouds were putting out the stars. He leaned toward the earth， trying to see the village lights， shining like glowworms in the grass， but in those fields of darkness no light sparkled.
He felt depressed; a hard night lay before him， marches and countermarches， advances won and lost. He did not understand the pi??lot's tactics; a little further on and they would hit against that blackness， like a wall.
On the rim of the horizon in front he now could see a ghostly flicker， like the glow above a smithy. He tapped Fabien's shoulder， but the pilot did not stir.
Now the first eddies of the distant storm assailed them. The mass of metal heaved gently up， pressing itself against the opera??tor's limbs; and then it seemed to melt away， leaving him for some seconds floating in the darkness， levitated. He clung to the steel bul??warks with both hands. The red lamp in the cockpit was all that remained to him of the world of men and he shuddered to know him??self descending helpless into the dark heart of night， with only a little thing， a miner's safety-lamp， to see him through. He dared not disturb the pilot to ask his plans; he tight??ened his grip on the steel ribs and， bending forward， fixed his eyes upon the pilot's sha??dowed back.
In that obscurity the pilot's head and shoul??ders were all that showed themselves. His torso was a block of darkness， inclined a little to the left; his face was set toward the storm， bathed intermittently， no doubt， by flicker??ing gleams. He could not see that face; all the feelings thronging there to meet the onset of the storm were hidden from his eyes; lips set with anger and resolve， a white face holding elemental colloquy with the leaping flashes ahead.
Yet he divined the concentrated force that brooded in that mass of shadow， and he loved it. True， it was carrying him toward the tem??pest， yet it shielded him. True， those hands， gripping the controls， pressed heavy on the storm， as on some huge beast's neck， but the strong shoulders never budged， attesting vast reserves of force. And after all， he said to him??self， the pilot's responsible. So， carried like a pillion-rider on this breakneck gallop into the flames， he could relish to its full the solid permanence， the weight and substance im??plicit in that dark form before him.
On the left， faint as a far revolving light， a new storm-center kindled.
The wireless operator made as if to touch Fabien's shoulder and warn him， but then he saw him slowly turn his head， fix his eyes a while on this new enemy and then as slowly return to his previous position， his neck pressed back against the leather pad， shoul??ders unmoving as before.
chapter eight
Rivière Went Out for a Short Walk
Rivière went out for a short walk， hoping to shake off his malaise， which had returned. He who had only lived for action， dramatic ac??tion， now felt a curious shifting of the crisis of the drama， toward his own personality. It came to him that the little people of these little towns， strolling around their band??stands， might seem to lead a placid life and yet it had its tragedies; illness， love， bereave??ments， and that perhaps — His own trouble was teaching him many things， “opening windows，” as he put it to himself.
Toward eleven he was breathing more easily and turned back toward the offices， slowly shouldering his way through the stag??nant crowds around the cinemas. He glanced up at the stars which glinted on the narrow street， well-nigh submerged by glaring sky-signs， and said to himself： “Tonight， with my two air-mails on their way， I am responsible for all the sky. That star up there is a sign that is looking for me amongst this crowd — and finds me. That's why I'm feeling out of things， a man apart.”
A phrase of music came back to him， some notes from a sonata which he had heard the day before in the company of friends. They had not understood. “That stuff bores us and bores you too， only you won't admit it！”
“Perhaps，” he had replied.
Then， as to-night， he had felt lonely， but soon had learnt the bounty of such loneliness. The music had breathed to him its message， to him alone amongst these ordinary folk， whis??pering its gentle secret. And now the star. Across the shoulders of these people a voice was speaking to him in a tongue that he alone could understand.
On the pavement they were hustling him about. “No，” he said to himself， “I won't get annoyed. I am like the father of a sick child walking in the crowd， taking short steps， who carries in his breast the hushed silence of his house.”
He looked upon the people， seeking to dis??cover which of them， moving with little steps， bore in his heart discovery or love—and he remembered the lighthouse-keeper's isola??tion.
Back in the office， the silence pleased him. As he slowly walked from one room to an??other， his footsteps echoed emptiness. The typewriters slept beneath their covers. The cupboard doors were closed upon the serried files. Ten years of work and effort. He felt as if he were visiting the cellars of a bank where wealth lies heavy on the earth. But these regis??ters contained a finer stuff than gold — a stock of living energy， living but， like the hoarded gold of banks， asleep.
Somewhere he would find the solitary clerk on night duty. Somewhere here a man was working that life and energy should persevere and thus the work goes on from post to post that， from Toulouse to Buenos Aires， the chain of flights should stay unbroken.
“That fellow，” thought Rivière， “doesn't know his greatness.”
Somewhere， too， the planes were fighting forward; the night flights went on and on like a persistent malady， and on them watch must be kept. Help must be given to these men who with hands and knees and breast to breast were wrestling with the darkness， who knew and only knew an unseen world of shifting things， whence they must struggle out， as from an ocean. And the things they said about it afterward were — terrible！ “I turned the light on to my hands so as to see them.” Velvet of hands bathed in a dim red dark-room glow; last fragment， that must be saved， of a lost world.
Rivière opened the door of the Traffic Office. A solitary lamp shone in one corner， making a little pool of light. The clicking of a single typewriter gave meaning to the si??lence， but did not fill it. Sometimes the tele??phone buzzed faintly and the clerk on duty rose obedient to its sad， reiterated call. As he took down the receiver that invisible distress was soothed and a gentle， very gentle murmur of voices filled the coign of shadow.
Impassive the man returned to his desk， for drowsiness and solitude had sealed his fea??tures on a secret unconfessed. And yet — what menace it may hold， a call from the outer darkness when two postal planes are on their way！ Rivière thought of telegrams that invad??ed the peace of families sitting round their lamp at night and that grief which， for seconds that seem unending， keeps its secret on the father's face. Waves， so weak at first， so distant from the call they carry， and so calm; and yet each quiet purring of the bell held， for Rivière， a faint echo of that cry. Each time the man came back from the shadow toward his lamp， like a diver returning to the surface， the solitude made his movements heavy with their secret， slow as a swimmer's in the under??tow.
“Wait！ I'll answer.”
Rivière unhooked the receiver and a world of murmurs hummed in his ears.
“Rivière speaking.”
Confused sounds， then a voice： “I'll put you on the radio station.”
A rattle of plugs into the standard， then another voice： “Radio Station speaking. I'll pass you the messages.”
Rivière noted them， nodding. “Good. 。 。 。 Good 。 。 。”
Nothing important， the usual routine news. Rio de Janeiro asking for information， Mon??tevideo reporting on the weather， Mendoza on the plant. Familiar sounds.
“And the planes?” he asked.
“The weather's stormy. We don't hear them tonight.”
“Right！”
The night is fine here and starry， Rivière thought， yet those fellows can detect in it the breath of the distant storm.
“That's all for the present，” he said.
As Rivière rose the clerk accosted him： “Papers to sign， sir.”
Rivière discovered that he greatly liked this subordinate of his who was bearing， too， the brunt of night. “A comrade in arms，” he thought. “But he will never guess， I fancy， how tonight's vigil brings us near each other.”
chapter nine
As He Was Returning to His Private Office —
As he was returning to his private office， a sheaf of papers in his hand， Rivière felt the stab of pain in his right side which had been worrying him for some weeks past.
“That's bad. 。 。 。”
He leaned against the wall a moment. “It's absurd！”
Then he made his way to his chair.
Once again he felt like some old lion fallen in a trap and a great sadness came upon him. “To think I've come to this after all those years of work！ I'm fifty; all that time I've filled my life with work， trained myself， fought my way， altered the course of events and here's this damned thing getting a hold of me， ob??sessing me till it seems the only thing that matters in the world. It's absurd！”
He wiped away a drop or two of sweat， waited till the pain had ebbed and settled down to work， examining the memoranda on his table.
“In taking down Motor 301 at Buenos Aires we discovered that 。 。 。 The employee re??sponsible will be severely punished.”
He signed his name.
“The Florianopolis staff， having failed to comply with orders ..
He signed.
“As a disciplinary measure Airport Super??visor Richard is transferred on the following grounds. 。 。 。”
He signed.
Then， as the pain in his side， slumbering but persistent， new as a new meaning in life， drove his thoughts inward toward himself， an almost bitter mood came over him.
“Am I just or unjust? I've no idea. All I know is that when I hit hard there are fewer accidents. It isn't the individual that's respon??sible but a sort of hidden force and I can't get at it without—getting at every one！ If I were merely just， every night flight would mean a risk of death.”
A sort of disgust came over him， that he had given himself so hard a road to follow. Pity is a fine thing， he thought. Lost in his musings， he turned the pages over.
“Roblet， as from this day， is struck off the strength. 。 。 。”
He remembered the old fellow and their talk the evening before.
“There's no way out of it， an example must be made.”
“But， sir. 。 。 。 It was the only time， just once in a way， sir 。 。 。 and I've been hard at it all my life！”
“An example must be made.”
“But 。 。 。 but， sir. Please see here， sir.”
A tattered pocket-book， a newspaper pic??ture showing young Roblet standing beside an aeroplane. Rivière saw how the old hands were trembling upon this little scrap of fame.
“It was in nineteen ten， sir. That was the first plane in Argentina and I assembled it. I've been in aviation since nineteen ten， think of it， sir！ Twenty years！ So how can you say 。 。 。 ？ And the young 'uns， sir， won't they just laugh about it in the shop！ Won't they just chuckle！”
“I can't help that.”
“And my kids， sir. I've a family.”
“I told you you could have a job as a fitter.”
“But there's my good name， sir， my name 。 。 。 after twenty years’ experience. An old employee like me！”
“As a fitter.”
“No， sir， I can't see my way to that. I some??how can't， sir！”
The old hands trembled and Rivière averted his eyes from their plump， creased flesh which had a beauty of its own.
“No， sir， no. 。 。 。 And there's something more I'd like to say.”
“That will do.”
Not he， thought Rivière， it wasn't he whom I dismissed so brutally， but the mischief for which， perhaps， he was not responsible， though it came to pass through him. For， he mused， we can command events and they obey us; and thus we are creators. These humble men， too， are things and we create them. Or cast them aside when mischief comes about through them.
“There's something more I'd like to say.” What did the poor old fellow want to say? That I was robbing him of all that made life dear? That he loved the clang of tools upon the steel of airplanes， that all the ardent poetry of life would now be lost to him 。 。 。 and then， a man must live?
“I am very tired，” Rivière murmured and his fever rose， insidiously caressing him. “I liked that old chap's face.” He tapped the sheet of paper with his finger. It came back to him， the look of the old man's hands and he now seemed to see them shape a faltering gesture of thankfulness. “That's all right，” was all he had to say. “That's right. Stay！” And then — He pictured the torrent of joy that would flow through those old hands. Nothing in all the world， it seemed to him， could be more beautiful than that joy revealed not on a face， but in those toil-worn hands. Shall I tear up this paper? He imagined the old man's homecoming to his family， his modest pride.
“So they're keeping you on?”
“What do you think? It was I who assem??bled the first plane in Argentina！”
The old fellow would get back his prestige， the youngsters cease to laugh.
As he was asking himself if he would tear it up， the telephone rang.
There was a long pause， full of the reso??nance and depth that wind and distance give to voices.
“Landing-ground speaking. Who is there?” “Rivière.”
“No. 650 is on the tarmac， sir.”
“Good.”
“We've managed to fix it up， but the elec??tric circuit needed overhauling at the last minute; the connections had been bungled.”
“Yes. Who did the wiring?”
“We will inquire and， if you agree， we'll make an example. It's a serious matter when the lights give out on board.”
“You're right.”
If， Rivière was thinking， one doesn't up??root the mischief whenever and wherever it crops up， the lights may fail and it would be criminal to let it pass when， by some chance， it happens to unmask its instrument; Roblet shall go.
The clerk， who had noticed nothing， was busy with his typewriter.
“What's that?”
“The fortnightly accounts.”
“Why not ready?”
“I 。 。 。 I 。 。 。”
“We'll see about that.”
Curious， mused Rivière， how things take the upper hand， how a vast dark force， the force that thrusts up virgin forests， shows it??self whenever a great work is in the making！ And he thought of temples dragged asunder by frail liana tendrils.
A great work. 。 。 。
And， heartening himself， he let his thought flow on. These men of mine， I love them; it's not they whom I'm against， but what comes about through them. 。 。 。 His heart was throbbing rapidly and it hurt him. 。 。 。 No， I cannot say if I am doing right or what pre??cise value should be set on a human life， or suffering， or justice. How should I know the value of a man's joys? Or of a trembling hand? Of kindness， or pity?
Life is so full of contradictions; a man muddles through it as best he can. But to endure， to create， to barter this vile body. 。 。 。
As if to conclude his musings he pressed the bell-push.
“Ring up the pilot of the Europe mail and tell him to come and see me before he leaves.”
For he was thinking： I must make sure he doesn't turn back needlessly. If I don't stir my men up the night is sure to make them nervous.
chapter ten
Roused By The Call， The Pilot's Wife —
Roused by the call， the pilot's wife looked musingly at her husband. I'll let him sleep a bit longer， she thought.
She admired that spanned bare chest of his and the thought came to her of a well-built ship. In the quiet bed， as in a harbor， he was sleeping and， lest anything should spoil his rest， she smoothed out a fold of sheet， a little wave of shadow， with her hand， bringing calm upon the bed， as a divine hand calms the sea.
Rising， she opened the window and felt the wind on her face. Their room overlooked Buenos Aires. A dance was going on in a house near by and the music came to her upon the wind， for this was the hour of leisure and amusement. In a hundred thousand barracks this city billeted its men and all was peaceful and secure; but， the woman thought， soon there'll be a cry “To arms！” and only one man — mine — will answer it. True， he rested still， yet his was the ominous rest of reserves soon to be summoned to the front. This town at rest did not protect him; its light would seem as nothing when， like a young god， he rose above its golden dust. She looked at the strong arms which， in an hour， would decide the fortune of the Europe mail， bearing a high responsibility， like a city's fate. The thought troubled her. That this man alone， amongst those millions， was destined for the sacrifice made her sad. It estranged him from her love. She had cherished him， watched over him， not for herself but for this night which was to take him. For struggles， fears， and victories which she would never know. Wild things they were， those hands of his， and only tamed to tender??ness; their real task was dark to her. She knew this man's smile， his gentle ways of love， but not his godlike fury in the storm. She might snare him in a fragile net of music， love and flowers， but， at each departure， he would break forth without， it seemed to her， the least regret.
He opened his eyes. “What time is it?”
“Midnight.”
“How's the weather?”
“I don't know.”
He rose and， stretching himself， walked to the window. “Won't be too cold. What's the wind?”
“How should I know?”
He leaned out. “Southerly. That's tophole. It'll hold as far as Brazil anyhow.”
He looked at the moon and reckoned up his riches and then his gaze fell upon the town below. Not warm or kind or bright it seemed to him; already in his mind's eye its worthless， shining sands were running out.
“What are you thinking about?”
He was thinking of the fog he might en??counter toward Porto Allegre.