Night Flight (Harbrace Paperbound Library, Hpl63)
Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
Language: English
Pages: 96
ISBN: 0156656051
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
City of Swords (Rogue Angel, Book 39)
The Commodore (Aubrey/Maturin, Book 17)
Supervisor Richard, is transferred on the following grounds...” He signed. Then, as the pain in his side, slumbering but persistent, new as a new meaning in life, drove his thoughts inward toward himself, an almost bitter mood came over him. “Am I just or unjust? I’ve no idea. All I know is that when I hit hard there are fewer accidents. It isn’t the individual that’s responsible but a sort of hidden force and I can’t get at it without—getting at every one! If I were merely just, every night
it. “Impossible communicate Buenos Aires. Can’t even touch the key, the shocks are numbing my hands.” In his vexation Fabien wanted to reply, but the moment his hands left the controls to write, a vast ground swell seemed to surge up across his body; the eddies lifted him in his five tons of metal and rocked him to and fro. He abandoned the attempt. Again he clenched his hands upon the tempest and brought it down. Fabien was breathing heavily. If that fellow pulled up the aerial for fear of
his engine gives out when he is over a wood?” Robineau inquired of his chief. “Even when it occurs above a wood.” Robineau took to heart the ipse dixit. “I regret,” he would inform the pilots with cheerful zest, “I regret it very much indeed, but you should have had your breakdown somewhere else.” “But, Monsieur Robineau, one doesn’t choose the place to have it.” “Those are the orders.” The orders, thought Rivière, are like the rites of a religion; they may look absurd but they shape men in
it up. He would have liked to save the company from some tremendous peril; but it was not in any danger. All he had saved so far was a slightly rusted propeller-boss. He had slowly passed his finger over the rust with a mournful air, eyed by an airport overseer, whose only comment was: “Better call up the last halt; this plane’s only just in.” Robineau was losing confidence in himself. At a venture he essayed a friendly move. “Would you care to dine with me?” he asked Pellerin. “I’d enjoy a
in a bulky register. Rivière sat down and read them. All that he read, the Chile episode excepted, told of one of those favored days when things go right of themselves and each successive message from the airports is another bulletin of victory. The Patagonia mail, too, was making headway; all the planes were ahead of time, for fair winds were bearing them northward on a favoring tide. “Give me the weather reports.” Each airport vaunted its fine weather, clear sky, and clement breeze. The
