“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.
“I've made my plans. I know exactly where to turn.”
He still was bending down， inhaling deeply like a man about to plunge， naked， into the sea.
“You don't even seem to mind it！ How long will you be away?” she asked.
A week or ten days， he couldn't say. “Mind it?” Why should he? All those cities， plains， and mountains. 。 。 。 In freedom he was go ing out to conquer them. In under an hour， he thought， he would have annexed Buenos Aires and tossed it aside！
He smiled at his thoughts. This town 。 。 。 it will soon be left behind. It's fine starting out at night. One opens out the gas， facing south， and ten seconds later swings the landscape roundabout， heading up north. The town looks like the bottom of the sea.
She thought of all a man must lay aside to conquer. “So you don't like your home?”
“I do like my home.”
But his wife knew that he was already on his way and even now his sturdy shoulders were pressing up against the sky.
She pointed to the sky. “A fine night. See， your road is paved with stars！”
He laughed. “Yes.”
She rested her hand on his shoulder and its moist warmth disquieted her; did some dan ger threaten this young flesh of his?
“I know how strong you are， but — do take care！”
“Of course I'll take care.”
Then he began dressing. For the occasion he chose the coarsest， roughest fabrics， the heaviest of leather — a peasant's kit. The hea vier he grew， the more she admired him. Her self she buckled his belt， helped to pull his boots on.
“These boots pinch me！”
“Here are the others.”
“Bring a cord for my emergency-lamp.”
She looked at him， set to rights the last flaw in his armor; all fell into place.
“You look splendid.”
Then she noticed that he was carefully brushing his hair.
“For the benefit of the stars?” she ques tioned.
“I don't want to feel old.”
“I'm jealous.”
He laughed again and kissed her， pressing her to his heavy garments. Then he lifted her from the ground between his outstretched arms like a little girl， and laughing still， de posited her on the bed.
“Go to sleep！”
He shut the door behind him and passing amongst the indistinguishable folk of night， took the first step toward his conquests.
She remained， sadly looking at these flowers and books， little friendly things which meant for him no more than the bottom of the sea.
chapter eleven
Rivière Greeted Him.
Rivière greeted him.
“That's a nice trick you played on me， your last trip！ You turned back though the weather reports were good. You could have pushed through all right. Get the wind up?”
Surprised， the pilot found no answer. He slowly rubbed his hands one on the other. Then， raising his head， he looked Rivière in the eyes.
“Yes，” he answered.
Deep in himself Rivière felt sorry for this brave fellow who had been afraid. The pilot tried to explain.
“I couldn't see a thing. No doubt， further on 。 。 。 perhaps 。 。 。 the radio said. 。 。 。 But my lamp was getting weak and I couldn't see my hands. I tried turning on my flying-light so as to spot a wing anyhow， but I saw nothing. It was like being at the bottom of a huge pit， and no getting out of it. Then my engine started a rattle.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No， we had a look at it. In perfect order. But a man always thinks the engine's rattling when he gets the wind up.”
“And who wouldn't? The mountains were above me. When I tried to climb I got caught in heavy squalls When one can't see a damned thing， squalls， you know. 。 。 。 In stead of climbing I lost three hundred feet or more. I couldn't even see the gyroscope or the manometers. It struck me that the engine was running badly and heating up， and the oil-pressure was going down. And it was dark as a plague of Egypt. Damned glad I was to see the lights of a town again.”
“You've too much imagination. That's what it is.”
The pilot left him.
Rivière sank back into the arm-chair and ran his fingers through his grizzled hair.
The pluckiest of my men， he thought. It was a fine thing he did that night， but I've stopped him from being afraid.
He felt a mood of weakness coming over him again.
To make oneself beloved one need only show pity. I show little pity， or I hide it. Sure enough it would be fine to create friendships and human kindness around me. A doctor can enjoy that in the course of his profession. But I'm the servant of events and， to make others serve them too， I've got to temper my men like steel. That dark necessity is with me every night when I read over the flight reports. If I am slack and let events take charge， trusting to routine， always mysteri ously something seems to happen. It is as if my will alone forbade the plane in flight from breaking or the storm to hold the mail up. My power sometimes amazes me.
His thoughts flowed on.
Simple enough， perhaps. Like a gardener's endless labor on his lawn; the mere pressure of his hand drives back into the soil the virgin forest which the earth will engender time and time again.
His thoughts turned to the pilot.
I am saving him from fear. I was not at tacking him but， across him， that stubborn inertia which paralyzes men who face the un known. If I listen and sympathize， if I take his adventure seriously， he will fancy he is returning from a land of mystery， and mystery alone is at the root of fear. We must do away with mystery. Men who have gone down into the pit of darkness must come up and say — there's nothing in it！ This man must enter the inmost heart of night， that clotted dark ness， without even his little miner's davy， whose light， falling only on a hand or wing， suffices to push the unknown a shoulder's breadth away.
