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“Landing-ground speaking. Who is there?” “Rivière.”
“No. 650 is on the tarmac， sir.”
“Good.”
“We've managed to fix it up， but the elec??tric 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 up??root 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 it??self 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 pre??cise 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.
chapter ten
Roused By The Call， The Pilot's Wife —
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 bare 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 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， 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 tender??ness; their real task was dark to her. She knew this man's smile， his gentle ways of love， but not his godlike fury in the storm. She might snare him in a fragile net of music， love and flowers， but， at each departure， he would break forth without， it seemed to her， the least regret.
He opened his eyes. “What time is it?”
“Midnight.”
“How's the weather?”
“I don't know.”
He rose and， stretching himself， walked to the window. “Won't be too cold. What's the wind?”
“How should I know?”
He leaned out. “Southerly. That's tophole. It'll hold as far as Brazil anyhow.”
He looked at the moon and reckoned up his riches and then his gaze fell upon the town below. Not warm or kind or bright it seemed to him; already in his mind's eye its worthless， shining sands were running out.
“What are you thinking about?”
He was thinking of the fog he might en??counter toward Porto Allegre.
“I've made my plans. I know exactly where to turn.”
He still was bending down， inhaling deeply like a man about to plunge， naked， into the sea.
“You don't even seem to mind it！ How long will you be away?” she asked.
A week or ten days， he couldn't say. “Mind it?” Why should he? All those cities， plains， and mountains. 。 。 。 In freedom he was go??ing out to conquer them. In under an hour， he thought， he would have annexed Buenos Aires and tossed it aside！
He smiled at his thoughts. This town 。 。 。 it will soon be left behind. It's fine starting out at night. One opens out the gas， facing south， and ten seconds later swings the landscape roundabout， heading up north. The town looks like the bottom of the sea.
She thought of all a man must lay aside to conquer. “So you don't like your home?”
“I do like my home.”
But his wife knew that he was already on his way and even now his sturdy shoulders were pressing up against the sky.
She pointed to the sky. “A fine night. See， your road is paved with stars！”
He laughed. “Yes.”
She rested her hand on his shoulder and its moist e dan??ger threaten this young flesh of his?
“I know how strong you are， but — do take care！”
“Of course I'll take care.”
Then he began dressing. For the occasion he chose the coarsest， roughest fabrics， the heaviest of leather — a peasant's kit. The hea??vier he grew， the more she admired him. Her??self she buckled his belt， helped to pull his boots on.
