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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 hoity 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.”
