按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
eign who； five hours later； leaving behind him the rains and snows of the North； repudiating winter； had throttled down his motor and begun to drift earthward in the summer air beneath the shining sun of Alicante。
The old omnibus has vanished； but its austerity； its disfort； still live in my memory。 It was a proper symbol of the apprenticeship we had to serve before we might possess the stern joys of our craft。 Everything about it was intensely serious。 I remember three years later； though hardly ten words were spoken； learning in that bus of the death of Lecrivain； one of those hundred pilots who on a day or a night of fog have retired for eternity。
It was four in the morning； and the same silence was abroad when we heard the field manager； invisible in the darkness； address the inspector：
〃Lecrivain didn't land at Casablanca last night。〃
〃Ah！〃 said the inspector。 〃Ah？〃
Torn from his dream he made an effort to wake up； to display his zeal； and added：
〃Is that so？ Couldn't he get through？ Did he e back？〃
And in the dead darkness of the omnibus the answer came： 〃No。〃
We waited to hear the rest； but no word sounded。 And as the seconds fell it became more and more evident that that 〃no〃。 would be followed by no further word； was eternal and without appeal； that L6crivain not only had not landed at Casablanca but would never again land anywhere。
And so； at daybreak on the morning of my first flight with the mails； I went through the sacred rites of the craft； and I felt the self…confidence oozing out of me as I stared through the windows at the macadam shining and reflecting back the street lights。 Over the pools of water I could see great palms of wind running。 And I thought： 〃My first flight with the mails！ Really； this is not my lucky day。〃
I raised my eyes and looked at the inspector。 〃Would you call this bad weather ？〃 I asked。
He threw a weary glance out of the window。 〃Doesn't prove anything；〃 he growled finally。
And I wondered how one could tell bad weather。 The night before； with a single smile Guillaumet had wiped out all the evil omens with which the veterans overwhelmed us； but they came back into my memory。 〃I feel sorry for the man who doesn't know the whole line pebble by pebble； if he runs into a snow…storm。 Oh； yes； I pity the fellow。〃 Our elders； who had their prestige to think of； had all bobbed their heads solemnly and looked at us with embarrassing sympathy； as if they were pitying a flock of condemned sheep。
For how many of us had this old omnibus served as refuge in its day？ Sixty？ Eighty？ I looked about me。 Luminous points glowed in the darkness。 Cigarettes punctuated the humble meditations of worn old clerks。 How many of us had they escorted through the rain on a journey from which there was no ing back？
I heard them talking to one another in murmurs and whispers。 They talked about illness； money； shabby domestic cares。 Their talk painted the walls of the dismal prison in which these men had locked themselves up。 And suddenly I had a vision of the face of destiny。
Old bureaucrat； my rade； it is not you who are to blame。 No one ever helped you to escape。 You； like a termite； built your peace by blocking up with cement every chink and cranny through which the light might pierce。 You rolled yourself up into a ball in your genteel security； in routine； in the stifling conventions of provincial life； raising a modest rampart against the winds and the tides and the stars。 You have chosen not to be perturbed by great problems； having trouble enough to forget your own fate as man。 You are not the dweller upon an errant planet and do not ask yourself questions to which there are no answers。 You are a petty bourgeois of Toulouse。 Nobody grasped you by the shoulder while there was still time。 Now the clay of which you were shaped has dried and hardened； and naught in you will ever awaken the sleeping musician； the poet； the astronomer that possibly inhabited you in the beginning。
The squall has ceased to be a cause of my plaint。 The magic of the craft has opened for me a world in which I shall confront； within two hours； the black dragons and the crowned crests of a a of blue lightnings； and when night has fallen I； delivered； shall read my course in the stars。
Thus I went through my professional baptism and I began to fly the mails。 For the most part the flights were without incident。 Like sea…divers； we sank peacefully into the depths of our element。
Flying； in general； seemed to us easy。 When the skies are filled with black vapors； when fog and sand and sea are confounded in a brew in which they bee indistinguishable； when gleaming flashes wheel treacherously in these skyey swamps； the pilot purges himself of the phantoms at a single stroke。 He lights his lamps。 He brings sanity into his house as into a lonely cottage on a fearsome heath。 And the crew travel a sort of submarine route in a lighted chamber。
Pilot； mechanic； and radio operator are shut up in what might be a laboratory。 They are obedient to the play of dial…hands； not to the unrolling of the landscape。 Out of doors the mountains are immersed in tenebrous darkness； but they are no longer mountains； they are invisible powers whose approach must be puted。
The operator sits in the light of his lamp； dutifully setting down figures； the mechanic ticks off points on his chart； the pilot swerves in response to the drift of the mountains as quickly as he sees that the summits he intends to pass on the left have deployed straight ahead of him in a silence and secrecy as of military preparations。 And below on the ground the watchful radio men in their shacks take down submissively in their notebooks the dictation of their rade in the air： 〃12：40 a。m。 En route 230。 All well。〃
So the crew fly on with no thought that they are in motion。 Like night over the sea； they are very far from the earth； from towns； from trees。 The motors fill the lighted chamber with a quiver that changes its substance。 The clock ticks on。 The dials； the radio lamps； the various hands and needles go through their invisible alchemy。 From second to second these mysterious stirrings； a few muffled words； a concentrated tenseness； contribute to the end result。 And when the hour is at hand the pilot may glue his forehead to the window with perfect assurance。 Out of oblivion the gold has been smelted： there it gleams in the lights of the airport。
And yet we have all known flights when of a sudden； each for himself； it has seemed to us that we have crossed the border of the world of reality； when； only a couple of hours from port； we have felt ourselves more distant from it than we should feel if we were in India； when there has e a premonition of an incursion into a forbidden world whence it was going to be infinitely difficult to return。
Thus； when Mermoz first crossed the South Atlantic in a hydroplane； as day was dying he ran foul of the Black Hole region； off Africa。 Straight ahead of him were the tails of tornadoes rising minute by minute gradually higher； rising as a wall is built； and then the night came down upon these preliminaries and swallowed them up； a