第14章
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“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.
The picture of Rivière alone there in his private office rose in Robineau's mind; “old chap，” Rivière had said. Never had there been a man so utterly unfriended as he， and Robineau felt an infinite compassion for him. He turned over in his mind vague sentences that hinted sympathy and consolation， and the impulse prompting him struck Robineau as eminently laudable. He knocked gently at the door. There was no answer. Not daring in such a silence to knock louder， he turned the handle. Rivière was there. For the first time Robineau entered Rivière's room almost on an equal footing， almost as a friend; he likened himself to the N.C.O. who joins his wounded general under fire， follows him in defeat and， in exile， plays a brother's part. “Whatever happens I am with you” — that was Robineau's unspoken message.
Rivière said nothing; his head was bowed and he was staring at his hands. Robineau's courage ebbed and he dared not speak; the old lion daunted him， even in defeat. Phrases of loyalty， of ever-growing fervor， rose to his lips; but every time he raised his eyes they encountered that bent head， gray hair and lips tight-set upon their bitter secret. At last he summoned up his courage.
“Sir！”
Rivière raised his head and looked at him. So deep， so far away had been his dream that till now he might well have been unconscious of Robineau's presence there. And what he felt， what was that dream and what his heart's bereavement， none would ever know. 。 。 。 For a long while Rivière looked at Robineau as at the living witness of some dark event. Robineau felt ill at ease. An enigmatic irony seemed to shape itself on his chief's lips as he watched Robineau. And the longer his chief watched him， the more deeply Robineau blushed and the more it grew on Rivière that this fellow had come， for all his touching and unhappily sincere good-will， to act as spokes??man for the folly of the herd.
Robineau by now had quite lost his bear??ings. The N.C.O.， the general， the bullets—all faded into mist. Something inexplicable was in the air. Rivière's eyes were still intent on him. Reluctantly he shifted his position， withdrew his hand from his pocket. Rivière's eyes were on him still. At last， hardly knowing what he said， he stammered a few words.
“I've come for orders， sir.”
Composedly Rivière pulled out his watch. “It is two. The Asuncion mail will land at two ten. See that the Europe mail takes off at two fifteen.”
Robineau bruited abroad the astounding news; the night flights would continue. He accosted the office superintendent.
“Bring me that file of yours to check.” The superintendent brought the papers. “Wait！”
And the superintendent waited.
chapter twenty-two
The Asuncion Mail Signaled That It Was About To Land.
The Asuncion mail signaled that it was about to land. Even at the darkest hour， Rivière had followed， telegram by telegram， its well-ordered progress. In the turmoil of this night he hailed it as the avenger of his faith， an all-conclusive witness. Each mes??sage telling of this auspicious flight augured a thousand more such flights to come. “And， after all，” thought Rivière， “we don't get a cyclone every night！ Once the trail is blazed， it must be followed up.”
Coming down， flight by flight， from Para??guay， as from an enchanted garden set with flowers， low houses and slow waters， the pilot had just skirted the edge of a cyclone which never masked from him a single star. Nine passengers， huddled in their traveling rugs， had pressed their foreheads on the window， as if it were a shop-front glittering with gems.
For now the little towns of Argentina were stringing through the night their golden beads， beneath the paler gold of the star-cities. And at his prow the pilot held within his hands his freight of lives， eyes wide open， full of moonlight， like a shepherd. Already Buenos Aires was dyeing the horizon with pink fires， soon to flaunt its diadem of jewels， like some fairy hoard. The wireless operator strummed with nimble fingers the final tele??grams， last notes of a sonata he had played al??legro in the sky—a melody familiar to Rivière's ears. Then he pulled up the aerial and stretched his limbs， yawning and smiling; an??other journey done.
The pilot who had just made land greeted the pilot of the Europe mail， who was lolling， his hands in his pockets， against the plane.
“Your turn to carry on?”
“Yes.”
“Has the Patagonia come in?”
“We don't expect it; lost. How's the weather? Fine?”
“Very fine. Is Fabien lost then?”
They spoke few words of him， for that deep fraternity of theirs dispensed with phrases.
The transit mail-bags from Asuncion were loaded into the Europe mail while the pilot， his head bent back and shoulders pressed against the cockpit， stood motionless， watching the stars. He felt a vast power stirring in him and a potent joy.
“Loaded?” some one asked. “Then， con??tact！”
The pilot did not move. His engine was started. Now he would feel in his shoulders that pressed upon it the airplane come to life. At last， after all those false alarms—to start or not to start—his mind was easy. His lips were parted and in the moon his keen white teeth glittered like a jungle cub's.
“Watch out！ The night， you know 。 。 。 ！”
He did not hear his comrade's warning. His hands thrust in his pockets and head bent back， he stared toward the clouds， mountains and seas and rivers， and laughed silently. Soft laughter that rustled through him like a breeze across a tree， and all his body thrilled with it. Soft laughter， yet stronger， stronger far， than all those clouds and mountains， seas and rivers.
“What's the joke?”
“It's that damned fool Rivière， who said 。 。 。 who thinks I've got the wind up！”
chapter twenty-three
In A Minute He Would Be Leaving Buenos Aires —
In a minute he would be leaving Buenos Aires and Rivière， on active service once again， wanted to hear him go. To hear his thunder rise and swell and die into the dis??tance like the tramp of armies marching in the stars.
With folded arms Rivière passed among the clerks and halted at a window to muse and listen. If he had held up even one de??parture， that would be an end of night flights. But， by launching this other mail into the darkness， Rivière had forestalled the weak??lings who to-morrow would disclaim him.
Victory， defeat—the words were meaning??less. Life lies behind these symbols and life is ever bringing new symbols into being. One nation is weakened by victory， another finds new forces in defeat. Tonight's defeat con??veyed perhaps a lesson which would speed the coming of final victory. The work in progress was all that mattered.
Within five minutes the radio stations would broadcast the news along the line and across a thousand miles the vibrant force of life give pause to every problem.
Already a deep organ-note was booming; the plane.
Rivière went back to his work and， as he passed， the clerks quailed under his stern eyes; Rivière the Great， Rivière the Con??queror， bearing his heavy load of victory.
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