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.
