by Nevil Shute
Helen nodded comprehendingly.
"It's really rather rotten," said Wallace gravely. "She never thought he'd go off the deep end like this—I don't suppose she thought about it at all. And now she thinks she's sent him off on a thing that's dangerous. She thinks that his taking part in this expedition is all her fault. She thinks he's going to be killed."
The girl did not move.
Wallace rose to his feet and looked her squarely in the face. "I came over to ask if you'd come and see her," he said, "and stay with her a day or two. I know it's a damn funny thing to ask. Perhaps it's a rotten thing to ask you—I don't know about that. But you're the only person who can tell her all about the flight and what the danger really is. That's what she wants to know, though she doesn't say so. She'll believe you. You know, and I know, that there's not much risk about it. They prepare so carefully. I've told her all that, but she doesn't believe me—she thinks I'm just saying it on purpose for her."
"Stephen always says," the girl said absently, "that if anyone was to get hurt it would wreck the scheme at the outset —destroy the confidence of the public. It would ruin it financially. And they can't afford to let that happen."
She turned to Wallace. "Of course I'll come," she said. "I'm frightfully sorry Sheila's taking it so much to heart. I think I can tell her as much as anyone can. I'm awfully glad I can help."
There was a silence. The girl moved slowly to the mantelpiece. "He left his pipe behind," she said in a troubled tone. "Wasn't it silly of him? He'll be miserable without it. I do hope he got one in Southampton."
Wallace could find nothing to say.
The girl left him and walked down the garden to where her friend was still weeding the border, to where the puppy Was still snapping at the bees.
"Eileen!" she said. "Come here. I've got a funny story to tell you. I've got to go away tomorrow." She laughed queerly. "I've got to go and convince a girl that there's really no danger in flying halfway across the Atlantic."
She explained the circumstances.
Her friend plucked a grass and chewed the end of it. "Best thing in the world for you," she said.
So Rawdon's arrangements underwent a modification.
He sat in his shabby little office on the aerodrome, laboriously construing an article in a German technical paper with the aid of a dictionary. It was half an hour after lunch on a hot afternoon. He was unbearably sleepy; he could hardly keep his eyes open; the print grew misty before his eyes. He sat relaxed in his deck chair, his brows knitted in a frown, the paper on his knee. One would have said that here was an amateur golfer reckoning his handicap in the club house of an impecunious golf club, instead of a celebrated engineer at work.
A knock at the door made him raise his head. "Come in," he called, in a voice curiously soft and deep.
His commissionaire opened the door. She was a pretty child about fifteen years of age, with short fair hair, dressed in a blue gym tunic. She gazed kindly at the red-haired man in the chair.
"Please sir," she said, "Mrs. Morris would like to speak to you."
Rawdon laid down his paper. "Tell her to come in," he said. He gazed at her severely. "Then you'd better go and find your hair ribbon."
The child put her hand to her head and smiled shyly, then disappeared. Rawdon heaved his great bulk out of the chair. A moment later Helen Morris entered the room.
Rawdon greeted her and gave her his deck chair. Then he sat himself on his desk and swung his legs like a schoolboy.
"Well," he said, "I've got rooms at both hotels. The arrangements are that we meet at Truro on the evening of the first. Then we get up very early next morning and drive to Poldhu and wait there for the wireless from the Iberian. That should come in about eight in the morning—as soon as they get away. Then we drive to Padstow and get there in time for lunch. I've got rooms at the hotel there for us all— for you, Sir David, and myself—and also for Dennison and your husband. They should be arriving about six in the evening, if they get away up to time."
Helen nodded. "I understand," she said. "We meet at Truro then."
"That's it," said Rawdon. "I'm driving down in my car—probably I'll take two days over it. But I'll meet you at Truro. Sir David will be coming down by train. Have you ever met him?"
"No," said Helen. "But what I came to ask you was this. Do you mind if I bring another girl with me?"
Rawdon hesitated. "We don't want to get any more people there than we can possibly help, you know," he said gently.
"I know," said the girl. "This is a friend of mine—and of Dennison. I couldn't leave her behind."
Briefly she explained as much of the circumstances as she thought it necessary for the designer to know.
"Anyway," she said finally, "I can't possibly go traipsing about the country with you and Sir David without a companion."
Rawdon smiled, but still hesitated. From the start he had been opposed to taking Helen Morris to Padstow, though it had been impossible to refuse. He owed that to Morris. But he had never lost a certain feeling of uneasiness. He was a level-headed man and had to look at every aspect of the situation. Suppose the thousandth chance turned up to defeat all their care and labour, and the machine were lost. Padstow would be no place for the wife of the pilot.
And now there would be two of them . . .
He turned to her. "I don't suppose Sir David will mind," he said, "so long as she keeps her mouth shut. You'll impress that on her? It'll be nice for you to have a companion. I'm afraid you'd be very bored otherwise."
He slipped from the table. "So that's all right," he said softly. "We shall like to have her very much. I'll write and get an extra room at the hotel."
Chapter 8
Rawdon came out of the little wireless house and walked down the path to the car. "Nothing in yet," he said.
They had left Truro early in the morning for Poldhu.
Rawdon drove with Sir David beside him, Helen and Sheila in the rear scat.
It was a delicious morning, calm, sunny, and fresh. Raw-don laughed, settled himself into his seat, and swung the car along the deserted roads at a good pace. As they drove through the lanes. Sir David leaned back chatting cheerfully with Sheila, in contrast to his habitual reserve. It was exhilarating. Upon all of them lay the feeling that that day history would be made; that that day there would be a tiny advance in the utilization of science, in the civilization of the world. And they were the only people in England who knew about it. At that moment in the towns and cities the people were going to work as they had done every morning of their working lives. To them this day would be like any other day. But to the little party motoring through Cornwall, this day would be different, a day to which they would look back with wonder as one upon which they had helped in doing something new.
Sir David got out of the car, fumbled for his watch, and closed it again with a sharp click.
"Twenty minutes to nine," he said briefly. "They're late off the mark, I'm afraid."
They chatted for a little round the car, then turned and fell to pacing up and down the road, Rawdon and Sir David a little way ahead of the others.
"We are fortunate in the weather," said Sir David. "A very high barometer."
Rawdon did not answer. Sir David glanced at him; he was evidently uneasy and paced up and down in silence for a little. At last, "We ought to be hearing something by now," he said. "They must have got away by this time."
Sir David glanced again at his watch. "They may not be in position," he said. "If the vessel were too far out they'd have to wait, of course;—even if it meant finishing the flight in the dark."
Rawdon bit his lip. "I know," he said. "We ought to have given them night-flying equipment. It comes out so frightfully heavy. The dynamo, and the batteries . . . For that we could give them extra fuel for half an hour."
At a quarter past nine Helen Morris came strolling towards them. "No news?" she inquired.
"Not yet," said Rawdon, in his soft, gentle little voice. "It means
that the Iberian hasn't got within flying distance up to time. We're going to give them an hour more, then we'll try and get a message through to them and find out what s happening."
He laughed, and stretched his immense frame. "I didn't have half enough breakfast," he said cheerfully.
They turned and walked up and down the road again. Presently Rawdon stopped and glanced towards Helen and Sheila. They were not looking at them.
"Look at that," he said to the baronet.
He pointed to a cottage about a mile away to the north of them. From the one stone chimney a thin wreath of blue smoke rose almost vertically into the air and drifted seawards.
Sir David regarded it for a while in silence. "Coming out easterly—nor'easterly," he said at last. "I was afraid it might with this high glass."
He turned to Rawdon. "Probably entirely local," he said. "It comes round that hill."
The designer did not speak, and they resumed their pacing up and down the road. Presently Sir David stopped.
"How would it be to try and get through to them now?" he said. The wind had risen to a light air, and fanned his cheek as he spoke. "They ought to know about this east in the wind. We didn't count much on that."
"It was a hundred to one against it at this time of year," said Rawdon fretfully.
They turned towards the wireless house. As they approached a man in shirtsleeves appeared at the door and waved a paper at them. Rawdon looked at the baronet for a moment without speaking.
"That's bad luck," he said quietly, and went to fetch the message. It ran:
9.57. Goods safely despatched as arranged Scheme one 963 miles. Willett.
Helen looked over Rawdon's arm at the paper. "What does Scheme one mean?" she asked.
"Scheme-one means coming to Padstow," said Sir David. "Scheme two was for use if it was very bad weather and meant making for Baltimore Harbour—west of Ireland, you know."
"I see," said Helen.
Rawdon turned cheerfully to Sheila. "That's all right," he said. "That's just over nine and a half hours' flight. They'll arrive about half-past seven in the evening, in time for a late dinner." He turned to the car. "Talking of food," he said, "what about another breakfast? We've got all day to get to Padstow." He turned. "Where's Sir David?"
"He went into the wireless hut," said Helen.
Rawdon left the girls to pack themselves into the car and swung jauntily down the path and into the office. He found Sir David at a table, pencilling figures on a scrap of paper.
Rawdon's jaunty bearing dropped from him like a garment. "They're cutting it mighty fine," he said grimly.
Sir David tapped his pencil on the table and gazed at the other for a moment in silence. "Evidently they were late in getting to the spot," he said. "It was to be a maximum of nine hundred and fifty miles."
Rawdon nodded. "Nine hundred and sixty-three miles," he said. "That's just over nine and a half hours' flight, say nine hours and forty minutes—in a calm. And petrol for ten and a quarter hours. They didn't count on having a head wind," he added grimly.
Sir David glanced out of the door at the open moor. "It's probably entirely local," he said again.
They returned to the car and drove back to Truro. At the hotel where they had passed the night they had a second breakfast.
"I say," said Sheila. "Let's get some lunch put up and have it on the way. We shan't want much after a breakfast like this." So they set off for Padstow, driving in the sunshine through the heart of Cornwall.
Sir David sat in the front seat by Rawdon, calm and impassive. They did not speak at all. Behind them Helen and Sheila were cheerful enough; the keen wind and the sunshine had lifted their troubles from them and they were enjoying the drive.
At about half-past one they stopped for lunch on the summit of the moor, not very far from the point where the road branches away downhill to Padstow. On the moor the wind blew strong and free. Rawdon and Sir David left the girls with a perfunctory remark or two, and walked up on to a knoll while they laid out the lunch.
For a long while neither of them spoke.
At last, "Fifteen miles an hour at least," said Rawdon. "Probably nearer twenty."
"Will they know they have a wind against them?"
Rawdon considered. "The smoke of a steamer might tell them," he said. "Nothing else."
There was a pause, and presently Rawdon spoke again. "One couldn't have foreseen a wind like this at this time of year," he said. "The weather report said southwesterly. It's practically dead east."
He turned to the other. "We may as well face the facts. If this wind holds all day, they can't do it. They haven't got the petrol."
Down the road the girls sat on the heather beside the car, the lunch spread on a patch of grass before them. Helen Morris gazed at the two men on the knoll a little anxiously.
"What's the matter with them?" she said to Sheila. "Why don't they come?"
They looked uneasily at the men. Presently they stirred, and rose to their feet. "What are they talking about up there?" said Sheila. "There's something up."
"I know."
The wife of the pilot went to the other side of the road and stood erect upon a little heap of stones looking intently round at the sunlit moor, at the yellow gorse, and at the sea, mistily blue away upon the horizon. Sheila stood watching her, reminded in a queer ■way of a child that ventures timidly into a darkened room.
Helen turned slowly towards the knoll; the breeze caught her hair and blew a wisp of it across her face.
"Oh!" she cried. For a moment she stood quite still, then turned and walked across the road to Sheila.
"My dear," she said quietly. "I know what it is. It's the wind. It's blowing against them—and it's very strong."
The afternoon dragged wearily away. They made a hurried lunch and drove down to the little seaport town. At the hotel Rawdon was very good to them, and showed them to their rooms overlooking the estuary. Sir David, on the other hand, had retired absolutely into himself and had become again the man of affairs. He left them and retired to the manager's office and the telephone. Rawdon joined him as soon as he could decently leave the two girls.
Helen and Sheila wandered out into the little town and along the quays, miserably endeavouring to hearten each other. Down the river the wind blew strongly, raising little rollers upon the surface.
At the end of the jetty Sheila turned to Helen.
"I've never been here before," she said, "but Peter knows it well. He's often been in here in his boat." She paused. "I suppose he rows up to these steps in his dinghy,' she said, "and ties her up to that ring. And then he walks up there and does his shopping. Bully beef, and tinned milk and things . . ."
Helen passed a hand through her arm, but could find nothing to say.
The other did not move. "It all seems so unreal," she said. "I've never seen a flying boat close to and I—I don't know what it's like . . ."
Presently they returned to the hotel. At tea Sir David was more communicative. He had managed to get a telephone call through to the Admiralty where he had spoken to a cousin of his. A destroyer would be held ready to proceed to sea at Plymouth. No authority for her to sail could be issued till the machine was two hours overdue. Sir David was to put through another telephone call at ten o'clock, if necessary.
At the end of the day they got into the car again and drove out to the headland at the mouth of the river. Stepper Point. It was half-past seven when they arrived, the time fixed for the arrival of the machine. They left the car in a lane and walked over a field to a stretch of open gorse-covered land where they could see the whole expanse of the western horizon. The wind was dying with the evening.
Sheila and Helen sat down together on a mossy slab of granite overlooking the sea; Rawdon and Sir David stood behind a little way off.
"I'm afraid there's not a chance of it," said Rawdon quietly to the baronet.
"It was better to bring them out," said the other. "And we can do nothing till ten."
&n
bsp; Slowly the sun drew nearer the horizon; in the deepening sky appeared the silvery disc of the full moon. The day had been very hot; on the headland the falling breeze grew cool and refreshing. At last Sir David closed his watch with a sharp click. Rawdon raised his eyebrows.
"Twenty past eight," said the baronet. By calculation the petrol would be exhausted by a quarter past.
"It would be possible to run for a little bit longer," said Rawdon. "By cruising at a slower speed they might get as much as half an hour more."
The sun sank lower and lower. The two girls sat together motionless, now and again speaking a word or two in a whisper. At last the lower limb of the sun dipped into the sea. Rawdon looked at his watch; it was nearly nine o'clock.
He glanced towards Helen and Sheila.
"Damn it," he said. "We oughtn't to have brought them."
The baronet shifted a little, and raised the collar of his ulster. He was stiff with standing, and suddenly to Rawdon he seemed to have grown old.
"We must get them back to the hotel," he said. "Will you take Mrs. Morris? You know her better than I."
He moved forward to where the two girls were still watching the afterglow of the sunset. "Come," he said, and there was nothing of the man of business about him now. Only an old man was speaking to the two girls; a man tall, white-haired, and a little old-fashioned in his manner.
"Come," he said. "We must get back to the hotel. They must be down by now. I think by the time we get back to the hotel we shall find a message from them from Ireland."
He turned to Sheila and offered her his arm. "Will you come with me?" he said.
The girl took his arm and they went stumbling over the heather towards the car.
"All evening," she said, "I've been watching the gulls. They do it so easily—so effortlessly. All along the cliff." She turned to the old man. "It's worth it, isn't it?" she said pathetically.
"My dear," said the baronet, "you should ask them."
And that was all that anybody said until they reached the hotel.
Rawdon dropped them at the porch and took the car round to the garage. Sir David ushered Helen and Sheila into the hall. He dropped his hat on to a peg and turned to face them.
