第9章

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　　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.

　　But a speck of light remained for Robi??neau， as for every man， and it was in a mood of quiet ecstasy that he drew， from the bottom of his valise， a little bag carefully wrapped up in paper. He fumbled with it some mo??ments without speaking. Then he unclasped his hands.

　　“I brought this from the Sahara.”

　　The inspector blushed to think that he had thus betrayed himself. For all his chagrins， domestic misadventures， for all the gray re??ality of life he had a solace， these little black??ish pebbles—talismans to open doors of mys??tery.

　　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！”

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