wind sand and stars st.antoine de saint-exupery-第5部分

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g　gusts　sweep　through　the　narrow　walls　of　their　rocky　corridors　and　force　the　pilot　to　a　sort　of　hand…to…hand　bat。　Mermoz　enrolled　in　this　war　in　plete　ignorance　of　his　adversary；　with　no　notion　at　all　of　the　chances　of　ing　forth　alive　from　battle　with　this　enemy。　His　job　was　to　〃try　out〃　for　the　rest　of　us。　And；　〃trying　out〃　one　day；　he　found　himself　prisoner　of　the　Andes。　
　　Mermoz　and　his　mechanic　had　been　forced　down　at　an　altitude　of　twelve　thousand　feet　on　a　table…land　at　whose　edges　the　mountain　dropped　sheer　on　all　sides。　For　two　mortal　days　they　hunted　a　way　off　this　plateau。　But　they　were　trapped。　Everywhere　the　same　sheer　drop。　And　so　they　played　their　last　card。　
　　Themselves　still　in　it；　they　sent　the　plane　rolling　and　bouncing　down　an　incline　over　the　rocky　ground　until　it　reached　the　precipice；　went　off　into　air；　and　dropped。　In　falling；　the　plane　picked　up　enough　speed　to　respond　to　the　controls。　Mermoz　was　able　to　tilt　its　nose　in　the　direction　of　a　peak；　sweep　over　the　peak；　and；　while　the　water　spurted　through　all　the　pipes　burst　by　the　night　frost；　the　ship　already　disabled　after　only　seven　minutes　of　flight；　he　saw　beneath　him　like　a　promised　land　the　Chilean　plain。　
　　And　the　next　day　he　was　at　it　again。　
　　When　the　Andes　had　been　thoroughly　explored　and　the　technique　of　the　crossings　perfected；　Mermoz　turned　over　this　section　of　the　line　to　his　friend　Guillaumet　and　set　out　to　explore　the　night。　The　lighting　of　our　airports　had　not　yet　been　worked　out。　Hovering　in　the　pitch　black　night；　Mermoz　would　land　by　the　faint　glimmer　of　three　gasoline　flares　lined　up　at　one　end　of　the　field。　This　trick；　too；　he　taught　us；　and　then；　having　tamed　the　night；　he　tried　the　ocean。　He　was　the　first；　in　1931；　to　carry　the　mails　in　four　days　from　Toulouse　to　Buenos　Aires。　On　his　way　home　he　had　engine　trouble　over　a　stormy　sea　in　mid…Atlantic。　A　passing　steamer　picked　him　up　with　his　mails　and　his　crew。　
　　Pioneering　thus；　Mermoz　had　cleared　the　desert；　the　mountains；　the　night；　and　the　sea。　He　had　been　forced　down　more　than　once　in　desert；　in　mountain；　in　night；　and　in　sea。　And　each　time　that　he　got　safely　home；　it　was　but　to　start　out　again。　Finally；　after　a　dozen　years　of　service；　having　taken　off　from　Dakar　bound　for　Natal；　he　radioed　briefly　that　he　was　cutting　off　his　rear　right…hand　engine。　Then　silence。　
　　There　was　nothing　particularly　disturbing　in　this　news。　Nevertheless；　when　ten　minutes　had　gone　by　without　report　there　began　for　every　radio　station　on　the　South　Atlantic　line；　from　Paris　to　Buenos　Aires；　a　period　of　anxious　vigil。　It　would　be　ridiculous　to　worry　over　someone　ten　minutes　late　in　our　day…to…day　existence；　but　in　the　air…mail　service　ten　minutes　can　be　pregnant　with　meaning。　At　the　heart　of　this　dead　slice　of　time　an　unknown　event　is　locked　up。　Insignificant；　it　may　be；　a　mishap；　possibly：　whatever　it　is；　the　event　has　taken　place。　Fate　has　pronounced　a　decision　from　which　there　is　no　appeal。　An　iron　hand　has　guided　a　crew　to　a　sea…landing　that　may　have　been　safe　and　may　have　been　disastrous。　And　long　hours　must　go　by　before　the　decision　of　the　gods　is　made　known　to　those　who　wait。　
　　We　waited。　We　hoped。　Like　all　men　at　some　time　in　their　lives　we　lived　through　that　inordinate　expectancy　which　like　a　fatal　malady　grows　from　minute　to　minute　harder　to　bear。　Even　before　the　hour　sounded；　in　our　hearts　many　among　us　were　already　sitting　up　with　the　dead。　All　of　us　had　the　same　vision　before　our　eyes。　It　was　a　vision　of　a　cockpit　still　inhabited　by　living　men；　but　the　pilot's　hands　were　telling　him　very　little　now；　and　the　world　in　which　he　groped　and　fumbled　was　a　world　he　did　not　recognize。　Behind　him；　in　the　glimmer　of　the　cabin　light；　a　shapeless　uneasiness　floated。　The　crew　。moved　to　and　fro；　discussed　their　plight；　feigned　sleep。　A　restless　slumber　it　was；　like　the　stirring　of　drowned　men。　The　only　element　of　sanity；　of　intelligibility；　was　the　whirring　of　the　three　engines　with　its　reassuring　evidence　that　time　still　existed　for　them。　
　　We　were　haunted　for　hours　by　this　vision　of　a　plane　in　distress。　But　the　hands　of　the　clock　were　going　round　and　little　by　little　it　began　to　grow　late。　Slowly　the　truth　was　borne　in　upon　us　that　our　rades　would　never　return；　that　they　were　sleeping　in　that　South　Atlantic　whose　skies　they　had　so　often　ploughed。　Mermoz　had　done　his　job　and　slipped　away　to　rest；　like　a　gleaner　who；　having　carefully　bound　his　sheaf；　lies　down　in　the　field　to　sleep。　
　　When　a　pilot　dies　in　the　harness　his　death　seems　something　that　inheres　in　the　craft　itself；　and　in　the　beginning　the　hurt　it　brings　is　perhaps　less　than　the　pain　sprung　of　a　different　death。　Assuredly　he　has　vanished；　has　undergone　his　ultimate　mutation　；　but　his　presence　is　still　not　missed　as　deeply　as　we　might　miss　bread。　For　in　this　craft　we　take　it　for　granted　that　we　shall　meet　together　only　rarely。　
　　Airline　pilots　are　widely　dispersed　over　the　face　of　the　world。　They　land　alone　at　scattered　and　remote　airports；　isolated　from　each　other　rather　in　the　manner　of　sentinels　between　whom　no　words　can　be　spoken。　It　needs　the　accident　of　journeyings　to　bring　together　here　or　there　the　dispersed　members　of　this　great　professional　family。　
　　Round　the　table　in　the　evening；　at　Casablanca；　at　Dakar；　at　Buenos　Aires；　we　take　up　conversations　interrupted　by　years　of　silence；　we　resume　friendships　to　the　acpaniment　of　buried　memories。　And　then　we　are　off　again。　
　　Thus　is　the　earth　at　once　a　desert　and　a　paradise；　rich　in　secret　hidden　gardens；　gardens　inaccessible；　but　to　which　the　craft　leads　us　ever　back；　one　day　or　another。　Life　may　scatter　us　and　keep　us　apart；　it　may　prevent　us　from　thinking　very　often　of　one　another；　but　we　know　that　our　rades　are　somewhere　〃out　there〃　…　where；　one　can　hardly　say…silent；　forgotten；　but　deeply　faithful。　And　when　our　path　crosses　theirs；　they　greet　us　with　such　manifest　joy；　shake　us　so　gaily　by　the　shoulders！　Indeed　we　are　accustomed　to　waiting。　
　　Bit　by　bit；　nevertheless；　it　es　over　us　that　we　shall　never　again　hear　the　laughter　of　our　friend；　that　this　one　garden　is　forever　locked　against　us。　And　at　that　moment　begins　our　true　mourning；　which；　though　it　may　not　be　rending；　is　yet　a　little　bitter。　For　nothing；　in　truth；　can　replace　that　panion。　Old　friends　cannot　be　created　out　of　hand。　Nothing　can　match　the　treasure　of　mon　memories；　of　trials　endured　together；　of　quarrels　and　reconciliations　and　generous　emotions。　It　is　idle；　having　planted　an　acorn　in　the　morning；　to　expect　that　afternoon　to　sit　in　the　shade　of　the　oak。　
　　So　life　goes　on。　For　years　we　plant　the　seed；　we　feel　ourselves　rich；　and　then　e　other　years　when　time　does　its　work　and　our　plantation　is　made　sparse　and　thin。　One　by　one；　our　rades　slip　away；　deprive　us　of　their　shade。　
　　This；　then；　is　the　moral　taught　us　by　Mermoz　and　his　kind。　We　understand　better；　because　of　him；　that　what　constitutes　the　dignity　of　a　craft　is　that　it　creates　a　fellowship；　that　it　binds　men　together　and　fashions　for　them　a　mon　language。　For　there　is　but　one　veritable　problem　…　the　problem　of　human　relations。　
　　We　forget　that　there　is　no　hope　of　joy　except　in　human　relations。　If　I　summon　up　those　memories　that　have　left　with　me　an　enduring　savor；　if　I　draw　up　the　balance　sheet　of　the　hours　in　my　life　that　have　truly　counted；　surely　I　find　only　those　that　no　wealth　could　have　procured　me。　True　riches　cannot　be　bought。　One　cannot　buy　the　friendship　of　a　Mermoz；　of　a　panion　to　whom　one　is　bound　forever　by　ordeals　suffered　in　mon。　There　is　no　buying　the　night　flight　with　its　hundred　thousand　stars；　its　serenity；　its　few　hours　of　sovereignty。　It　is　not　money　that　can　procure　for　us　that　new　vision　of　the　world　won　through　hardship…those　trees；　flowers；　women；　those　treasures　made　fresh　by　the　dew　and　color　of　life　which　the　dawn　restores　to　us；　this　concert　of　little　things　that　sustain　us　and　constitute　our　pensation。　
　　Nor　that　night　we　lived　through　in　the　land　of　the　unconquered　tribes　of　the　Sahara；　which　now　floats　into　my　memory。　
　　Three　crews　of　Aeropostale　men　had　e　down　at　the　fall　of　day　on　the　Rio　de　Oro　coast　in　a　part　of　the　Sahara　whose　denizens　acknowledge　no　European　rule。　Riguelle　had　landed　first；　with　a　broken　connecting　rod。　Bourgat　had　e　along　to　pick　up　Riguelle's　crew；　but　a　minor　accident　had　nailed　him　to　earth。　Finally；　as　night　was　beginning　to　fall；　I　arrived。　We　decided　to　salvage　Bourgat's　ship；　but　we　should　have　to　spend　the　night　and　do　the　job　of　repair　by　day…light。　
　　Exactly　on　this　spot　two　of　our　rades；　Gourp　and　Erable；　had　been　murdered　by　the　tribesmen　a　year　earlier。　We　knew　that　a　raiding　party　of　three　hundred　rifles　was　at　this　very　moment　encamped　somewhere　near　by；　round　Cape　Bojador。　Our　three　landings　had　been　visible　from　a　great　distance　and　the　Moors　must　have　seen　us。　We　began　a　vigil　which　might　turn　out　to　be　our　last。　
　　Altogether；　there　were　about　ten　of　us；　pilots　and　mechanics；　when　we　made　ready　for　the　night。　We　unloaded　five　or　six　Wooden　cases　of　merchandise　out　of　the　hold；　emptied　them；　and　set　them　about　in　a　circle。　At　the　deep　end　of　each　case；　as　in　a　sentry…box；　we　set　a　lighted　candle；　its　flame　poorly　sheltered　from　t