“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.
