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boy banter in the midst of danger and the hour of death。 The man did not know you； Guillaumet。 You never felt the need of cheapening your adversaries before confronting them。 When you saw a foul storm you said to yourself； 〃Here is a foul storm。〃 You accepted it； and you took its measure。
These pages； Guillaumet； written out of my memory； are addressed in homage to you。
It was winter and you had been gone a week over the Andes。 I had e up from farthest Patagonia to join Deley at Mendoza。 For five days the two of us； each in his plane； had ransacked the mountains unavailingly。 Two ships！ It seemed to us that a hundred squadrons navigating for a hundred years would not have been enough to explore that endless； cloud…piercing range。 We had lost all hope。 The very smugglers themselves； bandits who would mit a crime for a five…peso note； refused to form a rescue party out of fear of those counterforts。 〃We should surely die；〃 they said； 〃the Andes never give up a man in winter。〃
And when Deley and I landed at Santiago； the Chilean officers also advised us to give you up。 〃It is mid…winter；〃 they said； 〃even if your rade survived the landing； he cannot have survived the night。 Night in those passes changes a man into ice。〃
And when； a second time； I slipped between the towering walls and giant pillars of the Andes； it seemed to me I was no longer seeking； but was now sitting up with； your body in the silence of a cathedral of snow。
You had been gone a week； I say； and I was lunching between flights in a restaurant in Mendoza when a man stuck his head in the door and called out：
〃They've found Guillaumet！〃
All the strangers in the restaurant embraced。
Ten minutes later I was off the ground； carrying two mechanics； Lefebvre and Abri。 Forty minutes later I had landed alongside a road； having recognized from the air； I know not by what sign； the car in which you were being brought down from San Rafael。 I remember that we cried like fools ； we put our arms about a living Guillaumet； resuscitated； the author of his own miracle。 And it was at that moment that you pronounced your first intelligible sentence； a speech admirable in its human pride：
〃I swear that what I went through； no animal would have gone through。〃
Later； you told us the story。 A storm that brought fifteen feet of snow in forty…eight hours down on the Chilean slope had bottled up all space and sent every other mail pilot back to his starting point。 You； however； had taken off in the hope of finding a rift in the sky。 You found this rift； this trap； a little to the south； and now； at twenty thousand feet； the ceiling of clouds being a couple of thousand feet below you and pierced by only the highest peaks； you set your course for Argentina。
Down currents sometimes fill pilots with a strange uneasiness。 The engines run on； but the ship seems to be sinking。 You jockey to hold your altitude： the ship loses speed and goes mushy。 And still you sink。 So you give it up； afraid that you may have jockeyed too much； and you let yourself drift to right or left；； striving to put at your back a favorable peak； that is； a peak off which the winds rebound as off a springboard。
And yet you go on sinking。 The whole sky seems to be ing down on you。 You begin to feel like the victim of some cosmic accident。 You cannot land anywhere； and you try in vain to turn round and fly back into those zones where the air； as dense and solid as a pillar； had held you up。 That pillar has melted away。 Everything here is rotten and you slither about in a sort of universal deposition while the cloud…bank rises apathetically； reaches your level； and swallows you up。
〃It almost had me in a corner once；〃 you explained； 〃but I still wasn't sure I was caught。 When you get up above the clouds you run into those down currents that seem to be perfectly stationary for the simple reason that in that very high altitude they never stop flowing。 Everything is queer in the upper range。〃
And what clouds！
〃As soon as I felt I was caught I dropped the controls and grabbed my seat for fear of being flung out of the ship。 The jolts were so terrible that my leather harness cut my shoulders and was ready to snap。 And what with the frosting on the panes； my artificial horizon was invisible and the wind rolled me over and over like a hat in a road from eighteen thousand feet down to ten。
〃At ten thousand I caught a glimpse of a dark horizontal blot that helped me right the ship。 It was a lake； and I recognized it as what they call Laguna Diamante。 I remembered that it lay at the bottom of a funnel； and that one flank of the funnel； a volcano called Maipu； ran up to about twenty thousand feet。
〃There I was； safe out of the clouds ； but I was still blinded by the thick whirling snow and I had to hang on to my lake if I wasn't to crash into one of the sides of the funnel。 So down I went； and I flew round and round the lake； about a hundred and fifty feet above it； until I ran out of fuel。 After two hours of this； I set the ship down on the snow…and over on her nose she went。
〃When I dragged myself clear of her I stood up。 The wind knocked me down。 I stood up again。 Over I went a second time。 So I crawled under the cockpit and dug me out a shelter in the snow。 I pulled a lot of mail sacks round me； and there I lay for two days and two nights。 Then the storm blew over and I started to walk my way out。 I walked for five days and four nights。〃
But what was there left of you； Guillaumet？ We had found you again； true； but burnt to a crisp； but shriveled； but shrunken into an old woman。 That same afternoon I flew you back to Mendoza； and there the cool white sheets flowed like a balm down the length of your body。
They were not enough； though。 Your own foundered body was an encumbrance： you turned and twisted in your sleep； unable to find lodgment for it。 I stared at your face： it was splotched and swollen； like an overripe fruit that has been repeatedly dropped on the ground。
You were dreadful to see； and you were in misery； for you had lost the beautiful tools of your work： your hands were numb and useless； and when you sat up on the edge of your bed to draw a free breath； your frozen feet hung down like two dead weights。 You had not even finished your long walk back； you were still panting； and when you turned and stirred on the pillow in search of peace； a procession of images that you could not escape； a procession waiting impatiently in the wings； moved instantly into action under your skull。 Across the stage of your skull it moved； and for the twentieth time you fought once more the battle against these enemies that rose up out of their ashes。
I filled you with herb…teas。
〃Drink； old fellow。〃
〃You know 。 。 。 what amazed me 。 。 。〃
Boxer victorious； but punch…drunk and scarred with blows； you were re…living your strange adventure。 You could divest yourself of it only in scraps。 And as you told your dark tale； I could see you trudging without ice…axe； without ropes； without provisions； scaling cols fifteen thousand feet in the air； crawling on the faces of vertical walls； your hands and feet and knees bleeding in a temperature twenty degrees below zero。
Voided bit by bit of your blood； your strength； your reason； you went forward with the obstinacy of an ant； retracing your steps to go round an obstacle； picking yourself up after each fall to earth； climbing slopes that led to abysses； ceaselessly in motion and never asleep； for had you slept； from that bed of snow you would never have risen。 When your foot slipped and you went down； you were up again in an instant； else had you been turned into stone。 The cold was petrifying you by the minute； and the price you paid for taking a moment too much of rest； when you fell； was the agony of revivifying dead muscles in your struggle to rise to your feet。
〃You resisted temptation。 〃Amid snow；〃 you told me； 〃a man loses his instinct of self…preservation。 After two or three or four days of tramping； all you think about is sleep。 I would long for it； but then I would say to myself； 'If my wife still believes I am alive； she must believe that I am