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Instinctively he tightened his grasp on the controls. Something he did not understand was on its way and he tautened his muscles， like a beast about to spring. Yet， as far as eye could see， all was at peace. Peaceful， yes， but tense with some dark potency.
Suddenly all grew sharp; peaks and ridges seemed keen-edged prows cutting athwart a heavy head wind. Veering around him， they deployed like dreadnoughts taking their posi??tions in a battle-line. Dusk began to mingle with the air， rising and hovering， a veil above the snow. Looking back to see if retreat might still be feasible， he shuddered; all the Cordillera behind him was in seething ferment.
“I'm lost！”
On a peak ahead of him the snow swirled up into the air — a snow volcano. Upon his right flared up another peak and， one by one， all the summits grew lambent with gray fire， as if some unseen messenger had touched them into flame. Then the first squall broke and all the mountains round the pilot quiv??ered.
Violent action leaves little trace behind it and he had no recollection of the gusts that buffeted him then from side to side. Only one clear memory remained; the battle in a welter of gray flames.
He pondered.
“A cyclone， that's nothing. A man just saves his skin！ It's what comes before it — the thing one meets upon the way！”
But already even as he thought he had re??called it， that one face in a thousand， he had forgotten what it was like.
chapter four
Rivière Glanced at the Pilot.
Rivière glanced at the pilot. In twenty min??utes Pellerin would step from the car， mingle the crowd， and know the burden of his lassitude. Perhaps he would murmur： “Tired out as usual. It's a dog's life！” To his wife he would， perhaps， let fall a word or two： “A fellow's better off here than flying above the Andes！” And yet that world to which men hold so strongly had almost slipped from him; he had come to know its wretchedness. He had returned from a few hours‘ life on the other side of the picture， ignoring if it would be possible for him ever to retrieve this city with its lights， ever to know again his little human frailties， irksome yet cherished child??hood friends.
“In every crowd，” Rivière mused， “are cer??tain persons who seem just like the rest， yet they bear amazing messages. Unwittingly， no doubt， unless—” Rivière was chary of a certain type of admirers， blind to the higher side of this adventure， whose vain applause per??verted its meaning， debased its human dig??nity. But Pellerin's inalienable greatness lay in this — his simple yet sure awareness of what the world， seen from a special angle， signified， his massive scorn of vulgar flattery. So Rivière congratulated him： “Well， how did you bring it off?” And loved him for his knack of only “talking shop，” referring to his flight as a blacksmith to his anvil.
Pellerin began by telling how his retreat had been cut off. It was almost as if he were apologizing about it. “There was nothing else for it！” Then he had lost sight of everything， blinded by the snow. He owed his escape to the violent air-currents which had driven him up to twenty-five thousand feet. “I guess they held me all the way just above the level of the peaks.” He mentioned his trouble with the gyroscope and how he had had to shift the air-inlet， as the snow was clogging it; “form??ing a frost-glaze， you see.” After that another set of air-currents had driven Pellerin down and， when he was only at ten thousand feet or so， he was puzzled why he had not run in??to anything. As a matter of fact he was al??ready above the plains. “I spotted it all of a sudden when I came out into a clear patch.” And he explained how it had felt at that moment; just as if he had escaped from a cave.
“Storm at Mendoza， too?”
“No. The sky was clear when I made my landing， not a breath of wind. But the storm was at my heels all right！”
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.
