“Madame 。 。 。 ！”
She did not hear him. Her hands were bruised with beating on the wall and she lay fallen， or so it seemed to him， almost at his feet.
One day an engineer had remarked to Rivière， as they were bending above a wounded man， beside a bridge that was being erected： “Is the bridge worth a man's crushed face?” Not one of the peasants using the road would ever have wished to mutilate this face so hideously just to save the extra walk to the next bridge. “The welfare of the commun??ity，” the engineer had continued， “is just the sum of individual welfares and has no right to look beyond them.” “And yet，” Rivière observed on a subsequent occasion， “even though human life may be the most precious thing on earth， we always behave as if there were something of higher value than human life. 。 。 。 But what thing?”
Thinking of the lost airmen， Rivière felt his heart sink. All man's activity， even the building of a bridge， involves a toll of suf??fering and he could no longer evade the is??sue — “Under what authority?”
These men， he mused， who perhaps are lost， might have led happy lives. He seemed to see as in a golden sanctuary the evening lamp??light shine on faces bending side by side. “Under what authority have I taken them from all this?” he wondered. What was his right to rob them of their personal happiness? Did not the highest of all laws ordain that these human joys should be safeguarded? But he destroyed them. And yet one day， in??evitably， those golden sanctuaries vanish like mirage. Old age and death， more pitiless than even he， destroy them. There is， perhaps， some other thing， something more lasting， to be saved; and， perhaps， it was to save this part of man that Rivière was working. Other??wise there could be no defense for action.
To love， only to love， leads nowhere. Rivière knew a dark sense of duty， greater than that of love. And deep within it there might lie another emotion and a tender one， but worlds away from ordinary feelings. He recalled a phrase that he once had read： “The one thing is to make them everlasting. 。 。 。 That which you seek within yourself will die.” He remembered a temple of the sun-god， built by the ancient Incas of Peru. Tall menhirs on a mountain. But for these what would be left of all that mighty civilization which with its massive stones weighs heavy， like a dark regret， on modern man? Under the mandate of what strange love， what ruth??lessness， did that primeval leader of men compel his hordes to drag this temple up the mountainside， bidding them raise up their eternity? And now another picture rose in Rivière's mind; the people of the little towns， strolling by nights around their bandstands. That form of happiness， those shackles 。 。 。 he thought. The leader of those ancient races may have had scant compassion for man's sufferings， but he had a boundless pity for his death. Not for his personal death， but pity for his race， doomed to be blotted out beneath a sea of sand. And so he bade his folk set up these stones at least， something the desert never would engulf.
chapter fifteen
That Scrap of Folded Paper Might Perhaps Save Him Yet
That scrap of folded paper might perhaps save him yet; gritting his teeth， Fabien un??folded it.
“Impossible communicate Buenos Aires. Can't even touch the key， the shocks are numbing my hands.”
In his vexation Fabien wanted to reply， but the moment his hands left the controls to write， a vast groundswell seemed to surge up across his body; the eddies lifted him in his five tons of metal and rocked him to and fro. He abandoned the attempt.
Again he clenched his hands upon the tem??pest and brought it down. Fabien was breath??ing heavily. If that fellow pulled up the aerial for fear of the storm， Fabien would smash his face in when they landed. At all costs they must get in touch with Buenos Aires — as though across the thousand miles and more a safety-line might be flung to rescue them from this abyss！ If he could not have one vagrant ray of light， not even the flicker of an inn-lamp — of little help indeed， yet shining like a beacon， earnest of the earth — at least let him be given a voice， a single word from that lost world of his. The pilot raised his fist and shook it in the red glow， hoping to make the man behind him under??stand the tragic truth， but the other was bend??ing down to watch a world in ruins， with its buried cities and dead lights， and did not see him.
Let them shout any order whatever to him and Fabien would obey. If they tell me to go round and round， he thought， I'll turn in circles and if they say I must head due south.
... For somewhere， even now， there still were lands of calm， at peace beneath the wide moon-shadows. His comrades down there， om??niscient folk like clever scientists， knew all about them， poring upon the maps beneath their hanging lamps， pretty as flower-bells. But he， what could he know save squalls and night， this night that buffeted him with its swirling spate of darkness? Surely they could not leave two men to their fate in these whirl??winds and flaming clouds！ No， that was un??thinkable！ They might order Fabien to set his course at two hundred and forty degrees， and he would do it. 。 。 。 But he was alone.
It was as if dead matter were infected by his exasperation; at every plunge the engine set up such furious vibrations that all the fuselage seemed convulsed with rage. Fabien strained all his efforts to control it; crouch??ing in the cockpit， he kept his eyes fixed on the artificial horizon only， for the masses of sky and land outside were not to be distin??guished， lost both alike in a welter as of worlds in the making. But the hands of the flying instruments oscillated more and more abruptly， grew almost impossible to follow. Already the pilot， misled by their vagaries， was losing altitude， fighting against odds， while deadly quicksands sucked him down into the darkness. He read his height， sixteen hundred — just the level of the hills. He guessed their towering billows hard upon him， for now it seemed that all these earthen monsters， the least of which could crush him into nothingness， were breaking loose from their foundations and careering about in a drunken frenzy. A dark tellurian carnival was thronging close and closer round him.
He made up his mind. He would land no matter where， even if it meant cracking up！ To avoid the hills anyhow， he launched his only landing flare. It sputtered and spun， il??lumining a vast plain， then died away; be??neath him lay the sea！
His thoughts came quickly. Lost — forty degrees‘ drift — yes， I've drifted， sure enough — it's a cyclone — where's land? He turned due west. Without another flare， he thought， I'm a goner. Well， it was bound to happen one day. And that fellow behind there！ Sure thing he's pulled up the aerial. 。 。 。 But now the pilot's anger had ebbed away. He had only to unclasp his hands and their lives would slither through his fingers like a trivial mote of dust. He held the beating heart of each — his own， his comrade's — in his hands. And suddenly his hands appalled him.
In these squalls that battered on the plane， to counteract the jerks of the wheel， which else would have snapped the control cables， he clung to it with might and main， never relaxing his hold for an instant. But now he could no longer feel his hands， numbed by the strain. He tried to shift his fingers and get some signal they were there， but he could not tell if they obeyed his will. His arms seemed to end in two queer foreign bodies， insentient like flabby rubber pads. “Better try hard to think I'm gripping，” he said to himself. But whether his thought carried as far as his hands he could not guess. The tugs upon the wheel were only felt by him as sudden twinges in his shoulders. “I'll let go for sure. My fingers will open.” His rashness scared him — that he dared to even think such words！ — for now he fancied that his hands， yielding to the dark suggestion of his thought， were opening slowly， slowly opening in the shadow， to betray him.
He might keep up the struggle， chance his luck; no destiny attacks us from outside. But， within him， man bears his fate and there comes a moment when he knows himself vulnerable; and then， as in a vertigo， blunder upon blunder lures him.
And， at this very moment， there gleamed above his head， across a storm-rift， like a fatal lure within a deep abyss， a star or two.
Only too well he knew them for a trap. A man sees a few stars at the issue of a pit and climbs toward them， and then—never can he get down again but stays up there eternally， chewing the stars. 。 。 。
But such was his lust for light that he be??gan to climb.
chapter sixteen
He Climbed and It Grew Easier To Correct The Plunges —
He climbed and it grew easier to correct the plunges for the stars gave him his bearings. Their pale magnet drew him up; after that long and bitter quest for light， for nothing in the world would he forgo the frailest gleam. If the glimmer of a little inn were all his riches， he would turn around this token of his heart's desire until his death！ So now he soared toward the fields of light.
Little by little he spiraled up， out of the dark pit which closed again beneath him. As he rose the clouds began to shed their slime of shadow， flowing past him in cleaner， whiter billows. Fabien rose clear.
And now a wonder seized him; dazzled by that brightness， he had to keep his eyes closed for some seconds. He had never dreamt the night-clouds could dazzle thus. But the full moon and all the constellations were chang??ing them to waves of light.
In a flash， the very instant he had risen clear， the pilot found a peace that passed his understanding. Not a ripple tilted the plane but， like a ship that has crossed the bar， it moved across a tranquil anchorage. In an un??known and secret corner of the sky it floated， as in a harbor of the Happy Isles. Below him still the storm was fashioning another world， thridded with squalls and cloudbursts and lightnings， but turning to the stars a face of crystal snow.
Now all grew luminous， his hands， his clothes， the wings， and Fabien thought that he was in a limbo of strange magic; for the light did not come down from the stars but welled up from below， from all that snowy whiteness.
The clouds beneath threw up the flakes the moon was pouring on them; on every hand they loomed like towers of snow. A milky stream of light flowed everywhere， lav??ing the plane and crew. When Fabien turned he saw the wireless operator smile.
“That's better！” he cried.
But his words were drowned by the rumor of the flight; they conversed in smiles. I'm daft， thought Fabien， to be smiling， we're lost.
And yet — at last a myriad dark arms had let him go; those bonds of his were loosed， as of a prisoner whom they let walk a while in liberty amongst the flowers.
“Too beautiful，” he thought. Amid the far-flung treasure of the stars he roved， in a world where no life was， no faintest breath of life， save his and his companion's. Like plunderers of fabled cities they seemed， immured in treasure-vaults whence there is no escape. Amongst these frozen jewels they were wandering， rich beyond all dreams， but doomed.
chapter seventeen
One of the Wireless Operators at the Commodoro Rivadavia Station —
One of the wireless operators at the Corn??modoro Rivadavia station in Patagonia made a startled gesture and all the others keeping helpless vigil there crowded round to read the message.
A harsh light fell upon the blank sheet of paper over which they bent. The operator's hand seemed loath to do its task and his pencil shook. The words to write were prisoned in his hand， but already his fingers twitched.
“Storms?”
He nodded assent; he could hardly hear for interferences. Then he scrawled some illegi??ble signs， then words; then， at last， the text came out.
“Cut off at 12，000 feet， above the storm. Proceeding due west toward interior; found we had been carried above sea. No visibility below. Impossible know if still flying over sea. Report if storm extends interior.”
By reason of the storms the telegram had to be relayed from post to post to Buenos Aires， bearing its message through the night like bale-fires lit from tower to tower.
Buenos Aires transmitted a reply. “Storm covers all interior area. How much gasoline left?”
“For thirty minutes.” These words sped back from post to post to Buenos Aires.
In under half an hour the plane was doomed to plunge into a cyclone which would crash it to the earth.
chapter eighteen
Rivire Was Musing， All Hope Lost –
Rivière was musing， all hope lost; some??where this plane would founder in the dark??ness. A picture rose in his mind of a scene which had impressed him in his boyhood; a pond that was being emptied to find a body. Thus， till this flood of darkness had been drained off the earth and daylight turned toward the plains and cornfields， noth??ing would be found. Then some humble peasants perhaps would come on two young bodies， their elbows folded on their faces， like children asleep amid the grass and gold of some calm scene. Drowned by the night.
Rivière thought of all the treasure buried in the depths of night， as in deep， legendary seas. Night's apple-trees that wait upon the dawn with all their flowers that serve as yet no purpose. Night， perfume-laden， that hidesthe lambs asleep and flowers that have no color yet.
Little by little the lush tilth， wet woods， and dew-cool meadows would swing toward the light. But somewhere in the hills， no longer dark with menace， amid the fields and flocks， a world at peace again， two children would seem to sleep. And something would have flowed out of the seen world into that other.
Rivière knew all the tenderness of Fabien's wife， the fears that haunted her; this love seemed only lent her for a while， like a toy to some poor child. He thought of Fabien's hand which， firm on the controls， would hold the balance of his fate some minutes yet; that hand had given caresses and lingered on a breast， wakening a tumult there; a hand of godlike virtue， it had touched a face， trans??figuring it. A hand that brought miracles to pass.
Fabien was drifting now in the vast splen??dor of a sea of clouds， but under him there lay eternity. Among the constellations still he had his being， their only denizen. For yet a while he held the universe in his hand， weighed it at his breast. That wheel he clutched upbore a load of human treasure and desperately， from one star to the other， he trafficked this useless wealth， soon to be his no more.
A single radio post still heard him. The only link between him and the world was a wave of music， a minor modulation. Not a lament， no cry， yet purest of sounds that ever spoke despair.
chapter nineteen
Robineau Broke In Upon His Thoughts.
Robineau broke in upon his thoughts.
“I've been thinking， sir. 。 。 。 Perhaps we might try — ”
He had nothing really to suggest but thus proclaimed his good intentions. A solution， how he would have rejoiced to find it！ He went about it as if it were a puzzle to be solved. Solutions were his forte， but Rivière would not hear of them. “I tell you， Robi??neau， in life there are no solutions. There are only motive forces， and our task is to set them acting — then the solutions follow.” The only force that Robineau had to activate was one which functioned in the mechanics‘ shop， a humble force which saved propeller-bosses from rusting.
But this night's happenings found Robi??neau at fault. His inspectorial mandate could not control the elements， nor yet a phantom ship that， as things were， struggled no longer to win a punctuality-bonus but only to evade a penalty which canceled all that Robineau imposed， the penalty of death.
There was no use for Robineau now and he roamed the offices， forlorn.
Rivière was informed that Fabien's wife wished to see him. Tormented by anxiety， she was waiting in the clerk's office till Rivière could receive her. The employees were steal??ing glances at her face. She felt shy， almost shamefast， and gazed nervously around her; she had no right of presence here. They went about their tasks as usual and to her it was as if they were trampling on a corpse; in their ledgers no human sorrow but dwindled to dross of brittle figures. She looked for some??thing that might speak to her of Fabien; at home all things confessed his absence — the sheets turned back upon the bed， the coffee on the table， a vase of flowers. Here there was nothing of him; all was at war with pity， friendship， memories. The only word she caught （for in her presence they instinctively lowered their voices） was the oath of an em??ployee clamoring for an invoice. “The dyna??mo account， God blast you！ The one we send to Santos.” Raising her eyes she gazed toward this man with a look of infinite wonder. Then to the wall where a map hung. Her lips trembled a little， almost imperceptibly.
The realization irked her that in this room she was the envoy of a hostile creed and almost she regretted having come; she would have liked to hide somewhere and， fearful of being remarked， dared neither cough nor weep. She felt her presence here misplaced， indecent， as though she were standing naked before them. But so potent was her truth， the truth within her， that furtively their eyes strayed ever and again in her direction， trying to read it on her face. Beauty was hers and she stood for a holy thing， the world of human happiness. She vouched for the sanctity of that material something with which man tampers when he acts. She closed her eyes before their crowded scrutiny， revealing all the peace which in his blindness man is apt to shatter.
Rivière admitted her.
So now she was come to make a timid plea for her flowers， the coffee waiting on the table， her own young body. Again， in this room， colder even than the others， her lips began to quiver. Thus， too， she bore witness to her truth， unutterable in this alien world. All the wild yearning of her love， her heart's devo??tion， seemed here invested with a selfish， pes??tering aspect. And again she would have liked to leave this place.
“I am disturbing you — ”
“No，” said Rivière， “you are not disturbing me. But unfortunately neither you nor I can do anything except — wait.”
There was a faint movement of her shoul??ders and Rivière guessed its meaning. “What is the use of that lamp， the dinner waiting， and the flowers there when I return?” Once a young mother confided in Rivière， “I've hardly realized my baby's death as yet. It's the little things that are so cruel — when I see the baby-clothes I had ready， when I wake up at night and there rises in my heart a tide of love， useless now， like my milk 。 。 。 all useless！” And for this woman here， Fabien's death would only just begin to-morrow — in every action， useless now in trivial objects 。 。 。 use??less. Little by little Fabien would leave his home. A deep， unuttered pity stirred in Rivière's heart.
“Madame — ”
The young wife turned and left him with a weak smile， an almost humble smile， ignor??ing her own power.
Rivière sat down again rather heavily. “Still she is helping me to discover the thing I'm looking for.”
He fingered absent-mindedly the messages from the northern airports. “We do not pray for immortality，” he thought， “but only not to see our acts and all things stripped sud??denly of all their meaning; for then it is the utter emptiness of everything reveals itself.”
His gaze fell on the telegrams.
“These are the paths death takes to enter here — messages that have lost their meaning.”
He looked at Robineau. Meaningless， too， this fellow who served no purpose now. Rivière addressed him almost gruffly.
“Have I got to tell you what your duties are?”
Then he pushed open the door that led into the Business Office and saw how Fabien's dis??appearance was recorded there in signs his wife could not have noticed. The slip marked R.B.903， Fabien's machine， was already in??serted in the wall-index of Unavailable Plant. The clerks preparing the papers for the Eu??rope mail were working slackly， knowing it would be delayed. The airport was ringing up for orders respecting the staff on night duty whose presence was no longer necessary. The functions of life were slowing down. That is death！ thought Rivière. His work was like a sailing-ship becalmed upon the sea.
He heard Robineau speaking. “Sir， they had only been married six weeks.”
“Get on with your work！”
Rivière， watching the clerks， seemed to see beyond them the workmen， mechanics， pilots， all who had helped him in his task， with the faith of men who build. He thought of those little cities of old time where men had mur??mured of the “Indies，” built a ship and freighted it with hopes. That men might see their hope outspread its wings across the sea. All of them magnified， lifted above them??selves and saved — by a ship！ He thought： The goal， perhaps， means nothing， it is the thing done that delivers man from death. By their ship those men will live.
Rivière， too， would be fighting against death when he restored to those telegrams their full meaning， to these men on night duty their unrest and to his pilots their tragic purpose; when life itself would make his work alive again， as winds restore to life a sailing-ship upon the sea.
chapter twenty
Commodoro Rivadavia Could Hear Nothing Now
Commodoro Rivadavia could hear nothing now， but twenty seconds later， six hundred miles away， Bahia Blanca picked up a second message.
“Coming down. Entering the clouds. 。 。 。” Then two words of a blurred message were caught at Trelew.
“。 。 。 see nothing 。 。 。”
Short waves are like that; here they can be caught， elsewhere is silence. Then， for no rea??son， all is changed. This crew， whose position was unknown， made itself heard by living ears， from somewhere out of space and out of time， and at the radio station phantom hands were tracing a word or two on this white paper.
Had the fuel run out already or was the pilot， before catastrophe， playing his last card： to reach the earth again without a crash?
Buenos Aires transmitted an order to Tre??lew.
“Ask him.”
The radio station looked like a laboratory with its nickel and its copper， manometers and sheaves of wires. The operators on duty in their white overalls seemed to be bending silently above some simple experiment. Deli??cately they touched their instruments， explor??ing the magnetic sky， dowsers in quest of hidden gold.
“No answer?”
“No answer.”
Perhaps they yet might seize upon its way a sound that told of life. If the plane and its lights were soaring up to join the stars， it might be they would hear a sound—a singing star！
The seconds flowed away， like ebbing blood. Were they still in flight? Each second killed a hope. The stream of time was wear??ing life away. As for twenty centuries it beats against a temple， seeping through the granite， and spreads the fane in ruin， so centuries of wear and tear were thronging in each second， menacing the airmen.
Every second swept something away; Fabien's voice， his laugh， his smile. Silence was gaining ground. Heavy and heavier silence drowned their voices， like a heavy sea.
“One forty，” some one murmured. “They're out of fuel. They can't be flying any more.”
Then silence.
A dry and bitter taste rose on their lips， like the dry savor of a journey's end. Some??thing mysterious， a sickening thing， had come to pass. And all the shining nickel and trel??lised copper seemed tarnished with the gloom that broods on ruined factories. All this ap??paratus had grown clumsy， futile， out of use; a tangle of dead twigs.
One thing remained; to wait for daybreak. In a few hours all Argentina would swing to??ward the sun， and here these men were stand??ing， as on a beach， facing the net that was being slowly， slowly drawn in toward them， none knowing what its take would be.
To Rivière in his office came that quiet aftermath which follows only on great dis??asters， when destiny has spent its force. He had set the police of the entire country on the alert. He could do no more; only wait.
But even in the house of death order must have its due. Rivière signed to Robineau.
“Circular telegram to the northern air??ports. ‘Considerable delay anticipated Patagonia mail. To avoid undue delay Europe mail， will ship Patagonia traffic on follow??ing Europe mail.’”
He stooped a little forward. Then， with an effort， he called something to mind， some??thing important. Yes， that was it. Better make sure.
“Robineaul”
“Sir.”
“Issue an order， please. Pilots forbidden to exceed 1900 revs. They're ruining my en??gines.”
“Very good， sir.”
Rivière bowed his head a little more. To be alone—that was his supreme desire.
“That's all， Robineau. Trot off， old chap！”
And this， their strange equality before the shades， filled Robineau with awe.
chapter twenty-one
Robineau Was Drifting Aimlessly About The Office.
Robineau was drifting aimlessly about the office. He felt despondent. The company's life had come to a standstill， since the Europe mail， due to start at two， would be counter??manded and only leave at daybreak. Morosely the employees kept their posts， but their pres??ence now was purposeless. In steady rhythm the weather reports from the north poured in， but their “no wind，” “clear sky，” “full moon” evoked the vision of a barren king??dom. A wilderness of stones and moonlight. As Robineau， hardly aware what he was up to， was turning over the pages of a file on which the office superintendent was at work， he sud??denly grew conscious that the official in ques??tion was at his side， waiting with an air of mocking deference to get his papers back. As if he were saying： “That's my show. Suppose you leave me to it， eh?”
Shocked though he was by his subordi??nate's demeanor， the inspector found himself tongue-tied and， with a movement of annoy??ance， handed back the documents. The super??intendent resumed his seat with an air of grand punctilio. “I should have told him to go to the devil，” thought Robineau. Then， to save his face， he moved away and his thoughts returned to the night's tragedy. For with this tragedy all his chief's campaign went under and Robineau lamented a twofold loss.
The picture of Rivière alone there in his private office rose in Robineau's mind; “old chap，” Rivière had said. Never had there been a man so utterly unfriended as he， and Robineau felt an infinite compassion for him. He turned over in his mind vague sentences that hinted sympathy and consolation， and the impulse prompting him struck Robineau as eminently laudable. He knocked gently at the door. There was no answer. Not daring in such a silence to knock louder， he turned the handle. Rivière was there. For the first time Robineau entered Rivière's room almost on an equal footing， almost as a friend; he likened himself to the N.C.O. who joins his wounded general under fire， follows him in defeat and， in exile， plays a brother's part. “Whatever happens I am with you” — that was Robineau's unspoken message.
Rivière said nothing; his head was bowed and he was staring at his hands. Robineau's courage ebbed and he dared not speak; the old lion daunted him， even in defeat. Phrases of loyalty， of ever-growing fervor， rose to his lips; but every time he raised his eyes they encountered that bent head， gray hair and lips tight-set upon their bitter secret. At last he summoned up his courage.
“Sir！”
Rivière raised his head and looked at him. So deep， so far away had been his dream that till now he might well have been unconscious of Robineau's presence there. And what he felt， what was that dream and what his heart's bereavement， none would ever know. 。 。 。 For a long while Rivière looked at Robineau as at the living witness of some dark event. Robineau felt ill at ease. An enigmatic irony seemed to shape itself on his chief's lips as he watched Robineau. And the longer his chief watched him， the more deeply Robineau blushed and the more it grew on Rivière that this fellow had come， for all his touching and unhappily sincere good-will， to act as spokes??man for the folly of the herd.
Robineau by now had quite lost his bear??ings. The N.C.O.， the general， the bullets—all faded into mist. Something inexplicable was in the air. Rivière's eyes were still intent on him. Reluctantly he shifted his position， withdrew his hand from his pocket. Rivière's eyes were on him still. At last， hardly knowing what he said， he stammered a few words.
“I've come for orders， sir.”
Composedly Rivière pulled out his watch. “It is two. The Asuncion mail will land at two ten. See that the Europe mail takes off at two fifteen.”
Robineau bruited abroad the astounding news; the night flights would continue. He accosted the office superintendent.
“Bring me that file of yours to check.” The superintendent brought the papers. “Wait！”
And the superintendent waited.
chapter twenty-two
The Asuncion Mail Signaled That It Was About To Land.
The Asuncion mail signaled that it was about to land. Even at the darkest hour， Rivière had followed， telegram by telegram， its well-ordered progress. In the turmoil of this night he hailed it as the avenger of his faith， an all-conclusive witness. Each mes??sage telling of this auspicious flight augured a thousand more such flights to come. “And， after all，” thought Rivière， “we don't get a cyclone every night！ Once the trail is blazed， it must be followed up.”
Coming down， flight by flight， from Para??guay， as from an enchanted garden set with flowers， low houses and slow waters， the pilot had just skirted the edge of a cyclone which never masked from him a single star. Nine passengers， huddled in their traveling rugs， had pressed their foreheads on the window， as if it were a shop-front glittering with gems.
For now the little towns of Argentina were stringing through the night their golden beads， beneath the paler gold of the star-cities. And at his prow the pilot held within his hands his freight of lives， eyes wide open， full of moonlight， like a shepherd. Already Buenos Aires was dyeing the horizon with pink fires， soon to flaunt its diadem of jewels， like some fairy hoard. The wireless operator strummed with nimble fingers the final tele??grams， last notes of a sonata he had played al??legro in the sky—a melody familiar to Rivière's ears. Then he pulled up the aerial and stretched his limbs， yawning and smiling; an??other journey done.
The pilot who had just made land greeted the pilot of the Europe mail， who was lolling， his hands in his pockets， against the plane.
“Your turn to carry on?”
“Yes.”
“Has the Patagonia come in?”
“We don't expect it; lost. How's the weather? Fine?”
“Very fine. Is Fabien lost then?”
They spoke few words of him， for that deep fraternity of theirs dispensed with phrases.
The transit mail-bags from Asuncion were loaded into the Europe mail while the pilot， his head bent back and shoulders pressed against the cockpit， stood motionless， watching the stars. He felt a vast power stirring in him and a potent joy.
“Loaded?” some one asked. “Then， con??tact！”
The pilot did not move. His engine was started. Now he would feel in his shoulders that pressed upon it the airplane come to life. At last， after all those false alarms—to start or not to start—his mind was easy. His lips were parted and in the moon his keen white teeth glittered like a jungle cub's.
“Watch out！ The night， you know 。 。 。 ！”
He did not hear his comrade's warning. His hands thrust in his pockets and head bent back， he stared toward the clouds， mountains and seas and rivers， and laughed silently. Soft laughter that rustled through him like a breeze across a tree， and all his body thrilled with it. Soft laughter， yet stronger， stronger far， than all those clouds and mountains， seas and rivers.
“What's the joke?”
“It's that damned fool Rivière， who said 。 。 。 who thinks I've got the wind up！”
chapter twenty-three
In A Minute He Would Be Leaving Buenos Aires —
In a minute he would be leaving Buenos Aires and Rivière， on active service once again， wanted to hear him go. To hear his thunder rise and swell and die into the dis??tance like the tramp of armies marching in the stars.
With folded arms Rivière passed among the clerks and halted at a window to muse and listen. If he had held up even one de??parture， that would be an end of night flights. But， by launching this other mail into the darkness， Rivière had forestalled the weak??lings who to-morrow would disclaim him.
Victory， defeat—the words were meaning??less. Life lies behind these symbols and life is ever bringing new symbols into being. One nation is weakened by victory， another finds new forces in defeat. Tonight's defeat con??veyed perhaps a lesson which would speed the coming of final victory. The work in progress was all that mattered.
Within five minutes the radio stations would broadcast the news along the line and across a thousand miles the vibrant force of life give pause to every problem.
Already a deep organ-note was booming; the plane.
Rivière went back to his work and， as he passed， the clerks quailed under his stern eyes; Rivière the Great， Rivière the Con??queror， bearing his heavy load of victory.