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The wireless operator gave their position to all the stations on the line. From Magellan Strait to Buenos Aires the airports were strung out across fifteen hundred miles and more， but this one led toward the frontiers of night， just as in Africa the last conquered hamlet opens on to the unknown.
The wireless operator handed the pilot a slip of paper： “There are so many storms about that the discharges are fouling my ear-phones. Shall we stop the night at San Julian?”
Fabien smiled; the sky and all the stations ahead were signaling， “Clear sky： no wind.”
“No， we'll go on.”
But the wireless operator was thinking： these storms had lodged themselves some??where or other， as worms do in a fruit; a fine night， but they would ruin it， and he loathed entering this shadow that was ripe to rotten??ness.
As he slowed down his engine for the San Julian landing， Fabien knew that he was tired. All that endeared his life to man was looming up to meet him; men's houses， friendly little cafes， trees under which they walk. He was like some conqueror who， in the aftermath of victory， bends down upon his territories and now perceives the humble happiness of men. A need came over Fabien to lay his weapons down and feel the aching burden of his limbs — for even our misfor??tunes are a part of our belongings — and to stay， a simple dweller here， watching from his window a scene that would never change. This tiny village， he could gladly have made friends with it; the choice once made， a man accepts the issue of his venture and can love the life. Like love， it hems him in. Fabien would have wished to live a long while here — here to possess his morsel of eternity. These little towns， where he lived an hour， their gardens girdled by old walls over which he passed， seemed something apart and everlasting. Now the village was rising to meet the plane， opening out toward him. And there， he mused， were friendliness and gentle girls， white napery spread in quiet homes; all that is slowly shaped toward eternity. The village streamed past beneath his wings， yield??ing the secrets of closed gardens that their walls no longer guarded. He landed; and now he knew that he had seen nothing at all， only a few men slowly moving amongst their stones. The village kept， by its mere immo??bility， the secret of its passions and withheld its kindly charm; for， to master that， he would have needed to give up an active life.
The ten minutes‘ halt was ended and Fabien resumed his flight. He glanced back toward San Julian; all he now could see was a cluster of lights， then stars， then twinkling star-dust that vanished， tempting him for the last time.
“I can't see the dials; I'll light up.”
He touched the switches， but the red light falling from the cockpit lamps upon the dial-hands was so diluted with the blue evening glow that they did not catch its color. When he passed his fingers before a bulb， they were hardly tinged at all.
“Too soon.”
But night was rising like a tawny smoke and already the valleys were brimming over with it. No longer were they distinguishable from the plains. The villages were lighting up， constellations that greeted each other across the dusk. And， at a touch of his finger， his flying-lights flashed back a greeting to them. The earth grew spangled with light-signals as each house lit its star， searching the vastness of the night as a lighthouse sweeps the sea. Now every place that sheltered human life was sparkling. And it rejoiced him to enter into this one night with a measured slowness， as into an anchorage.
He bent down into the cockpit; the lumi??nous dial-hands were beginning to show up. The pilot read their figures one by one; all was going well. He felt at ease up here， snugly ensconced. He passed his fingers along a steel rib and felt the stream of life that flowed in it; the metal did not vibrate， yet it was alive. The engine's five-hundred horse-power bred in its texture a very gentle current， fraying its ice-cold rind into a velvety bloom. Once again the pilot in full flight experienced neither giddiness nor any thrill; only the mys??tery of metal turned to living flesh.
So he had found his world again. 。 。 。 A few digs of his elboe. He tapped the dashboard， touched the contacts one by one， shifting his limbs a little， and， settling himself more solidly， felt for the best position whence to gage the faintest lurch of his five tons of metal， jostled by the heaving darkness. Groping with his fingers， he plug??ged in his emergency-lamp， let go of it， felt for it again， made sure it held; then lightly touched each switch， to be certain of finding it later， training his hands to function in a blind man's world. Now that his hands had learnt their role by heart， he ventured to turn on a lamp， making the cockpit bright with polished fittings and then， as on a submarine about to dive， watched his passage into night upon the dials only. Nothing shook or rattled， neither gyroscope nor altimeter flickered in the least， the engine was running smoothly; so now he relaxed his limbs a little， let his neck sink back into the leather padding and fell into the deeply meditative mood of flight， mellow with inexplicable hopes.
Now， a watchman from the heart of night， he learnt how night betrays man's presence， his voices， lights， and his unrest. That star down there in the shadows， alone; a lonely house. Yonder a fading star; that house is closing in upon its love. 。 。 。 Or on its lassi??tude. A house that has ceased to flash its signal to the world. Gathered round their lamp-lit table， those peasants do not know the measure of their hopes; they do not guess that their desire carries so far， out into the vastness of the night that hems them in. But Fabien has met it on his path， when， coming from a thousand miles away， he feels the heavy ground-swell raise his panting plane and let it sink， when he has crossed a dozen storms like lands at war， between them neutral tracts of moonlight， to reach at last those lights， one following the other — and knows himself a conqueror. They think， these peasants， that their lamp shines only for that little table; but， from fifty miles away， some one has felt the summons of their light， as though it were a desperate signal from some lonely island， flashed by shipwrecked men toward the sea.
chapter two
Thus the Three Planes of the Air-Mail Service —
Thus the three planes of the air-mail service， from Patagonia， Chile， and Paraguay， were converging from south， west， and north on Buenos Aires. Their arrival with the mails would give the signal for the departure， about midnight， of the Europe postal plane.
Three pilots， each behind a cowling heavy as a river-barge， intent upon his flight， were hastening through the distant darkness， soon to come slowly down， from a sky of storm or calm， like wild， outlandish peasants descend??ing from their highlands.
Rivière， who was responsible for the entire service， was pacing to and fro on the Buenos Aires landing-ground. He was in silent mood， for， till the three planes had come in， he could not shake off a feeling of apprehension which had been haunting him all day. Minute by minute， as the telegrams were passed to him， Rivière felt that he had scored another point against fate， reduced the quantum of the unknown， and was drawing his charges in， out of the clutches of the night， toward their haven.
One of the hands came up to Rivière with a radio message.
“Chile mail reports： Buenos Aires in sight.” “Good.”
Presently， then， Rivière would hear its drone; already the night was yielding up one of them， as a sea， heavy with its secrets and the cadence of the tides， surrenders to the shore a treasure long the plaything of the waves. And soon the night would give him back the other two.
Then to-day's work would be over. Worn out， the crews would go to sleep， fresh crews replace them. Rivière alone would have no respite; then， in its turn， the Europe mail would weigh upon his mind. And so it would always be. Always. For the first time in his life this veteran fighter caught himself feeling tired. Never could an arrival of the planes mean for him the victory that ends a war and preludes a spell of smiling peace. For him it meant just one more step， with a thousand more to follow， along a straight， unending road. Rivière felt as though for an eternity he had been carrying a crushing load on his up??lifted arms; an endless， hopeless effort.
“I'm aging.” If he no longer found a solace in work and work alone， surely he was grow??ing old. He caught himself puzzling over problems which hitherto he had ignored. There surged within his mind， like a lost ocean， murmuring regrets， all the gentler joys of life that he had thrust aside. “Can it be coming on me — so soon?” He realized that he had always been postponing for his de??clining years， “when I have time for it，” every??thing that makes life kind to men. As if it were ever possible to “have time for it” one day and realize at life's end that dream of peace and happiness！ No， peace there could be none; nor any victory， perhaps. Never could all the air-mails land in one swoop once for all.
Rivière paused before Leroux; the old foreman was hard at work. Leroux， too， had forty years of work behind him. All his energies were for his work. When at ten o'clock or midnight Leroux went home it certainly was not to find a change of scene， escape into another world. When Rivière smiled toward him， he raised his heavy head and pointed at a burnt-out axle. “Jammed it was， but I've fixed it up.” Rivière bent down to look; duty had regained its hold upon him. “You should tell the shop to set them a bit looser.” He passed his finger over the trace of seizing， then glanced again at Leroux. As his eyes lingered on the stern old wrinkled face， an odd question hovered on his lips and made him smile.
“Ever had much to do with love， Leroux， in your time?”
“Love， sir? Well， you see —”
“Hadn't the time for it， I suppose — like me.
“Not a great deal， sir.”
Rivière strained his ears to hear if there were any bitterness in the reply; no， not a trace of it. This man， looking back on life， felt the quiet satisfaction of a carpenter who has made a good job of planing down a board： “There you are！ That's done.”
“There you are，” thought Rivière. “My life's done.”
Then， brushing aside the swarm of somber thoughts his weariness had brought， he walked toward the hangar; for the Chile plane was droning down toward it.
chapter three
The Sound of the Distant Engine Swelled and Thickened —
The sound of the distant engine swelled and thickened; a sound of ripening. Lights flashed out. The red lamps on the light-tower sil??houetted a hangar， radio standards， a square landing-ground. The setting of a gala night.
“There she comes！”
A sheaf of beams had caught the grounding plane， making it shine as if brand-new. No sooner had it come to rest before the hangar than mechanics and airdrome hands hurried up to unload the mail. Only Pellerin， the pilot， did not move.
“Well， aren't you going to get down?”
The pilot， intent on some mysterious task， did not deign to reply. Listening， perhaps， to sounds that he alone could hear， long echoes of the flight. Nodding reflectively， he bent down and tinkered with some unseen object. At last he turned toward the officials and his comrades， gravely taking stock of them as though of his possessions. He seemed to pass them in review， to weigh them， take their measure， saying to himself that he had earned his right to them， as to this hangar with its gala lights and solid concrete and， in the offing， the city， full of movement， warmth， and women. In the hollow of his large hands he seemed to hold this folk; they were his subjects， to touch or hear or curse， as the fancy took him. His impulse now was to curse them for a lazy crowd， so sure of life they seemed， gaping at the moon; but he decided to be genial instead.
“。 。 。 Drinks are on you！”
Then he climbed down.
He wanted to tell them about the trip. “If only you knew 。 。 。 ！”
Evidently， to his thinking， that summed it up， for now he walked off to change his flying gear.
As the car was taking him to Buenos Aires in the company of a morose inspector and Rivière in silent mood， Pellerin suddenly felt sad; of course， he thought， it's a fine thing for a fellow to have gone through it and， when he's got his footing again， let off a healthy volley of curses. Nothing finer in the world！ But afterwards 。 。 。 when you look back on it all; you wonder， you aren't half so sure！
A struggle with a cyclone， that at least is a straight fight， it's real. But not that curious look things wear， the face they have when they think they are alone. His thoughts took form. “Like a revolution it is; men's faces turning only the least shade paler， yet utterly unlike themselves.”
He bent his mind toward the memory.
He had been crossing peacefully the Cor??dillera of the Andes. A snow-bound stillness brooded on the ranges; the winter snow had brought its peace to all this vastness， as in dead castles the passing centuries spread peace. Two hundred miles without a man， a breath of life， a movement; only sheer peaks that， flying at twenty thousand feet， you almost graze， straight-falling cloaks of stone， an ominous tranquillity.
It had happened somewhere near the Tupungato Peak. 。 。 。
He reflected. 。 。 。 Yes， it was there he saw a miracle take place.
For at first he had noticed nothing much， felt no more than a vague uneasiness—as when a man believes himself alone， but is not; some one is watching him. Too late， and how he could not comprehend， he realized that he was hemmed in by anger. Where was it coming from， this anger? What told him it was oozing from the stones， sweating from the snow? For nothing seemed on its way to him， no storm was lowering. And still—another world， like it and yet unlike， was issuing from the world around him. Now all those quiet-looking peaks， snow-caps， and ridges， growing faintly grayer， seemed to spring to life， a people of the snows. And an inex??plicable anguish gripped his heart.
