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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； and when； an hour later； he slipped under the clouds； he came out into a fantastic kingdom。
Great black waterspouts had reared themselves seemingly in the immobility of temple pillars。 Swollen at their tops； they were supporting the squat and lowering arch of the tempest； but through the rifts in the arch there fell slabs of light and the full moon sent her radiant beams between the pillars down upon the frozen tiles of the sea。 Through these uninhabited ruins Mermoz made his way； gliding slantwise from one channel of light to the next； circling round those giant pillars in which there must have rumbled the upsurge of the sea； flying for four hours through these corridors of moonlight toward the exit from the temple。 And this spectacle was so overwhelming that only after he had got through the Black Hole did Mermoz awaken to the fact I that he had not been afraid。
I remember； for my part； another of those hours in which a pilot finds suddenly that he has slipped beyond the confines of this world。 All that night the radio messages sent from the ports in the Sahara concerning our position had been inaccurate； and my radio operator； Neri； and I had been drawn out of our course。 Suddenly； seeing the gleam of water at the bottom of a crevasse of fog； I tacked sharply in the direction of the coast； but it was by then impossible for us to say how long we had been flying towards the high seas。 Nor were we certain of making the coast； for our fuel was probably low。 And even so； once we had reached it we would still have to make port … after the moon had set。
We had no means of angular orientation； were already deafened； and were bit by bit growing blind。 The moon like a pallid ember began to go out in the banks of fog。 Overhead the sky was filling with clouds； and we flew thenceforth between cloud and fog in a world voided of all substance and all light。 The ports that signaled us ' had given up trying to tell us where we were。 〃No bearings； no bearings；〃 was all their message； for our voice reached them from every…where and nowhere。 With sinking hearts Neri and I leaned out； he on his side and I on mine； to see if anything； anything at all； was distinguishable in this void。 Already our tired eyes were seeing things … errant signs； delusive flashes； phantoms。
And suddenly； when already we were in despair； low on the horizon a brilliant point was un…veiled on our port bow。 A wave of joy went through me。 Neri leaned forward； and I could hear him singing。 It could not but be the beacon of an airport； for after dark the whole Sahara goes black and forms…a great dead expanse。 That light twinkled for a space…and then went out！ We had been steering for a star which was visible for a few minutes only； just before setting on the horizon between the layer of fog and the clouds。
Then other stars took up the game； and with a sort of dogged hope we set our course for each of them in turn。 Each time that a light lingered a while； we performed the same crucial experiment。 Neri would