“That’s all right,” was all he had to say. “That’s right. Stay!” And then—He pictured the torrent of joy that would flow through those old hands. Nothing in all the world, it seemed to him, could be more beautiful than that joy revealed not on a face, but in those toil-worn hands. Shall I tear up this paper? He imagined the old man’s homecoming to his family, his modest pride.

“So they’re keeping you on?”

“What do you think? It was I who assembled the first plane in Argentina!”

The old fellow would get back his prestige, the youngsters cease to laugh.

As he was asking himself if he would tear it up, the telephone rang.

There was a long pause, full of the resonance and depth that wind and distance give to voices.

“Landing ground speaking. Who is there?”

“Rivière.”

“No. 650 is on the tarmac, sir.”

“Good.”

“We’ve managed to fix it up, but the electric circuit needed overhauling at the last minute, the connections had been bungled.”

“Yes. Who did the wiring?”

“We will inquire and, if you agree, we’ll make an example. It’s a serious matter when the lights give out on board.”

“You’re right.”

If, Rivière was thinking, one doesn’t uproot the mischief whenever and wherever it crops up, the lights may fail and it would be criminal to let it pass when, by some chance, it happens to unmask its instrument; Roblet shall go.

The clerk, who had noticed nothing, was busy with his typewriter.

“What’s that?”

“The fortnightly accounts.”

“Why not ready?”

“I ... I...”

“We’ll see about that.”

Curious, mused Rivière, how things take the upper hand, how a vast dark force, the force that thrusts up virgin forests, shows itself whenever a great work is in the making! And he thought of temples dragged asunder by frail liana tendrils.

A great work....

And, heartening himself, he let his thought flow on. These men of mine, I love them; it’s not they whom I’m against, but what comes about through them.... His heart was throbbing rapidly and it hurt him.... No, I cannot say if I am doing right or what precise value should be set on a human life, or suffering, or justice. How should I know the value of a man’s joys? Or of a trembling hand? Of kindness, or pity?

Life is so full of contradictions; a man muddles through it as best he can. But to endure, to create, to barter this vile body....

As if to conclude his musings he pressed the bell-push.

“Ring up the pilot of the Europe mail and tell him to come and see me before he leaves.”

For he was thinking: I must make sure he doesn’t turn back needlessly. If I don’t stir my men up the night is sure to make them nervous.

X

Roused by the call, the pilot’s wife looked musingly at her husband. I’ll let him sleep a bit longer, she thought.

She admired that spanned bared chest of his and the thought came to her of a well-built ship. In the quiet bed, as in a harbor, he was sleeping and, lest anything should spoil his rest, she smoothed out a fold of the sheet, a little wave of shadow, with her hand, bringing calm upon the bed, as a divine hand calms the sea.

Rising, she opened the window and felt the wind on her face. Their room overlooked Buenos Aires. A dance was going on in a house near by and the music came to her upon the wind, for this was the hour of leisure and amusement. In a hundred thousand barracks this city billeted its men and all was peaceful and secure; but, the woman thought, soon there’ll be a cry “To arms!” and only one man—mine—will answer it. True, he rested still, yet his was the ominous rest of reserves soon to be summoned to the front. This town at rest did not protect him; its light would seem as nothing when, like a young god, he rose above its golden dust. She looked at the strong arms which, in an hour, would decide the fortune of the Europe mail, bearing a high responsibility, like a city’s fate. The thought troubled her. That this man alone, amongst those millions, was destined for the sacrifice made her sad. It estranged him from her love. She had cherished him, watched over him, caressed him, not for herself but for this night which was to take him. For struggles, fears, and victories which she would never know. Wild things they were, those hands of his, and only tamed to tenderness; their real task was dark to her.