第12章
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Every thirty seconds Fabien bent down into the cockpit to check the gyroscope and compass. He dared not light the dim red lamps which would have dazzled his eyes for some moments， but the luminous dial-hands were ceaselessly emitting their pale and starry radiance. And in all those needles and printed figures the pilot found an illusive reassurance， as in the cabin of a ship swept by the waves. For， like a very sea of strange fatality， the night was rolling up against him with all its rocks and reefs and wreckage.
“Where are we?” the operator asked again.
Fabien drew himself up and， leaning to the left， resumed his tremendous vigil. He had no notion left how many hours more and what efforts would be needed to deliver him from fettering darkness. Would he ever come clear， he wondered， for he was staking his life on this little slip of dirty crumpled paper， which he unfolded and re-read a thousand times to nurse his hopes： Trelew. Sky three-quarters overcast. Westerly breeze. If there still re??mained a clear patch over Trelew， he would presently glimpse its lights across a cloud-rift. Unless. 。 。 。
That promise of a faint gleam far ahead beckoned him on; but， to make sure， he scribbled a message to the radio operator. “Don't know if I can get through. Ask if the weather's holding out behind.”
The answer appalled him.
“Commodoro reports： Impossible return here. Storm.”
He was beginning to measure this unfore??seen offensive， launched from the Cordillera toward the sea. Before he could make them the storm would have burst upon the cities.
“Get the San Antonio weather report.”
“San Antonio reports： West wind rising. Storm in the west. Sky three-quarters over??cast. San Antonio picking up badly on ac??count of interferences. I'm having trouble too. I shall have to pull up the aerial on ac??count of the lightning. Will you turn back? What are your plans?”
“Stow your damned questions！ Get Bahia Blanca！”
“Bahia Blanca reports： Violent westerly gale over Bahia Blanca expected in less than twenty minutes.”
“Ask Trelew.”
“Trelew reports： Westerly gale; a hundred feet per second; rain squalls.”
“Inform Buenos Aires： We are cut off on all sides; storm developing over a depth of eight hundred miles; no visibility. What shall we do?”
A shoreless night， the pilot thought， lead??ing to no anchorage （for every port was un??attainable， it seemed）， nor toward dawn. In an hour and twenty minutes the fuel would run out. Sooner or later he must blindly founder in the sea of darkness. Ah， if only he could have won through to daylight！
Fabien pictured the dawn as a beach of golden sand where a man might get a foot??hold after this hard night. Beneath him the plains， like friendly shores， would spread their safety. The quiet land would bear its sleeping farms and flocks and hills. And all the flotsam swirling in the shadows would lose its menace. If it were possible， how gladly he would swim toward the strand of daylight！ But， well he knew， he was surrounded; for better or for worse the end would come with??in this murk of darkness. 。 。 。 Sometimes， indeed， when daybreak came， it seemed like convalescence after illness.
What use to turn his eyes toward the east， home of the sun? Between them lay a gulf of night so deep that he could never clamber up again.
chapter thirteen
The Asuncion Mail Is Making Good Headway —
“The Asuncion mail is making good head??way; it should be in at about two. The Pata??gonia mail， however， seems to be in difficul??ties and we expect it to be much overdue.”
“Very good， Monsieur Rivière.”
“Quite possibly we won't make the Europe mail wait for it; as soon as Asuncion's in， come for instructions， please. Hold yourself in readiness.”
Rivière read again the weather reports from the northern sectors. “Clear sky; full moon; no wind.” The mountains of Brazil were standing stark and clear against the moonlit sky， the tangled tresses of their jet-black forests falling sheer into a silver tracery of sea. Upon those forests the moonbeams played and played in vain， tingeing their blackness with no light. Black， too， as drifting wreckage， the islands flecked the sea. But all the outward air-route was flooded by that ex??haustless fountain of moonlight.
If Rivière now gave orders for the start， the crew of the Europe mail would enter a stable world， softly illuminated all night long. A land which held no threat for the just bal??ance of light and shade， unruffled by the least caress of those cool winds which， when they freshen， can ruin a whole sky in an hour or two.
Facing this wide radiance， like a prospector eyeing a forbidden gold-field， Rivière hesi??tated. What was happening in the south put Rivière， sole protagonist of night flights， in the wrong. His opponents would make such moral capital out of a disaster in Patagonia that all Rivière's faith would henceforth be unavailing. Not that his faith wavered; if， through a fissure in his work， a tragedy had entered in， well， the tragedy might prove the fissure—but it proved nothing else. Perhaps， he thought， it would be well to have look-out posts in the west. That must be seen to. “After all，” he said to himself， “my previous argu??ments hold good as ever and the possibilities of accident are reduced by one， the one to??night has illustrated.” The strong are strengthened by reverses; the trouble is that the true meaning of events scores next to nothing in the match we play with men. Appearances decide our gains or losses and the points are trumpery. And a mere semblance of defeat may hopelessly checkmate us.
He summoned an employee. “Still no radio from Bahia Blanca?”
“No.”
“Ring up the station on the phone.”
Five minutes later he made further in??quiries. “Why don't you pass on the mes??sages?”
“We can't hear the mail.”
“He's not sending anything?”
“Can't say. Too many storms. Even if he was sending we shouldn't pick it up.”
“Can you get Trelew?”
“We can't hear Trelew.”
“Telephone.”
“We've tried. The line's broken.”
“How's the weather your end?”
“Threatening. Very sultry. Lightning in the west and south.”
“Wind?”
“Moderate so far. But in ten minutes the storm will break; the lightning's coming up fast.”
Silence.
“Hullo， Bahia Blanca！ You hear me? Good. Call me again in ten minutes.”
Rivière looked through the telegrams from the southern stations. All alike reported： No message from the plane. Some had ceased by now to answer Buenos Aires and the patch of silent areas was spreading on the map as the cyclone swept upon the little towns and one by one， behind closed doors， each house along the lightless streets grew isolated from the outer world， lonely as a ship on a dark sea. And only dawn would rescue them.
Rivière poring on the map， still hoped against hope to discover a haven of clear sky， for he had telegraphed to the police at more than thirty up-country police-stations and their replies were coming in. And the radio-posts over twelve hundred miles of country had orders to advise Buenos Aires within thirty seconds if any message from the plane was picked up， so that Fabien might learn at once whither to fly for refuge.
The employees had been warned to attend at 1 A. M. and were now at their posts. Some??how， mysteriously， a rumor was gaining ground that perhaps the night flights would be suspended in the future and the Europe mail would leave by day. They spoke in whispers of Fabien， the cyclone and， above all， of Rivière whom they pictured near at hand and point by point capitulating to this rebuff the elements had dealt.
Their chatter ceased abruptly; Rivière was standing at his door， his overcoat tight-buttoned across his chest， his hat well down upon his eyes， like the incessant traveler he always seemed. Calmly he approached the head clerk.
“It's one ten. Are the papers for the Eu??rope mail in order?”
“I — I thought —”
“Your business is to carry out orders， not to think.”
Slowly turning away， he moved toward an open window， his hands clasped behind his back. A clerk came up to him.
“We have very few replies， sir. We hear that a great many telegraph lines in the in??terior have been destroyed.”
“Right！”
Unmoving， Rivière stared out into the night.
Thus each new message boded new peril for the mail. Each town， when a reply could be sent through before the lines were broken， announced the cyclone on its way， like an in??vading horde. “It's coming up from the Cor??dillera， sweeping everything before it， toward the sea.”
To Rivière the stars seemed over-bright， the air too moist. Strange night indeed！ It was rotting away in patches， like the substance of a shining fruit. The stars， in all their host， looked down on Buenos Aires — an oasis， and not to last. A haven out of Fabien's range， in any case. A night of menace， touched and tainted by an evil wind. A difficult night to conquer.
Somewhere in its depths an airplane was in peril; here， on the margin， they were fight??ing to rescue it， in vain.
chapter fourteen
Fabien's Wife Telephoned.
Fabien's wife telephoned.
Each night she calculated the progress of the homing Patagonia mail. “He's leaving Trelew now，” she murmured. Then went to sleep again. Presently： “He's getting near San Antonio， he has its lights in view.” Then she got out of bed， drew back the curtains and summed up the sky. “All those clouds will worry him.” Sometimes the moon was wan??dering like a shepherd and the young wife heartened by the faithful moon and stars， the thousand presences that watched her hus??band. Toward one o'clock she felt him near her. “Not far to go， Buenos Aires is in sight.” Then she got up again， prepared a meal for him， a nice steaming cup of coffee. “It's so cold up there！” She always welcomed him as if he had just descended from a snow-peak. “You must be cold！” “Not a bit.” “Well， warm yourself anyhow！” She had everything ready at a quarter past one. Then she telephoned. Tonight she asked the usual ques??tion.
“Has Fabien landed?”
The clerk at the other end grew flustered. “Who's speaking?”
“Simone Fabien.”
“Ah！ A moment， please. 。 。 。”
Afraid to answer， he passed the receiver to the head clerk.
“Who's that?”
“Simone Fabien.”
“Yes. What can I do for you?”
“Has my husband arrived?”
After a silence which must have baffled her， there came a monosyllable. “No.”
“Is he delayed?”
“Yes.”
Another silence. “Yes， he is delayed.”
“Ah！”
The cry of a wounded creature. A little delay， that's nothing much， but when it lasts， when it lasts. 。 。 。
“Yes. And when — when is he expected in?”
“When is he expected? We 。 。 。 we don't know exactly 。 。 。”
A solid wall in front of her， a wall of silence， which only gave her back the echo of her questions.
“Do please tell me， where is he now?”
“Where is he? Wait. 。 。 。”
This suspense was like a torture. Something was happening there， behind that wall.
At last， a voice！ “He left Commodoro at seven thirty this evening.”
“Yes? And then?”
“Then — delayed， seriously delayed by stormy weather.”
“Ah！ A storm！”
The injustice of it， the sly cruelty of that moon up there， that lazing moon of Buenos Aires！ Suddenly she remembered that it took barely two hours to fly from Commodoro to Trelew.
“He's been six hours on the way to Tre??lew！ But surely you've had messages from him. What does he say?”
“What does he say? Well， you see， with weather like that 。 。 。 it's only natural 。 。 。 we can't hear him.”
“Weather like — ？”
“You may rest assured， madame， the mo??ment we get news of him， we will ring you up.”
“Ah！ You've no news.”
“Good-night， madame.”
“No！ No！ I want to talk to the director.” “I'm sorry， he's very busy just now; he has a meeting on — ”
“I can't help that. That doesn't matter. I insist on speaking to him.”
The head clerk mopped his forehead. “A moment， please.”
He opened Rivière's door.
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