Читать книгу Love Stories of India - Эдисон Маршалл - Страница 5

Table of Contents

In April, 1933, I flew from Karachi to Athens over the route described in “Masks Off.” It was only a little more than half of my air trip that had begun at far-off Bangkok. Emergency landing fields were far-flung and few in Asia, and other safety devices of today were in a preliminary stage. My fear of what would happen in case of a forced landing helped to write the story.

It proved an extraordinary success as a magazine feature, and justified the editor in sending me the largest sum I ever received for a short story. Most readers can take off in full assurance of a singular adventure.

Bowing his black, rugged head, Sam Bellamy got his six feet of height and football shoulders through the little metal door of the big cabin plane bound from India to England. At once a boyish-looking steward, neat and trig in the British fashion, took him in charge.

“Mr. Bellamy, sir? Very well, sir. We won’t be crowded today, and you can have a double seat to yourself. Will you sit aft—or would you care to go forward where we have extra seats?”

As Sam considered the question, he was also vaguely considering the steward’s accent. Sam had been long enough in India—in the unimportant post of American vice-consul at one of the western ports—to know British accents fairly well. They were an interesting study. American accents usually meant very little—a seaboard Senator was likely to talk like a midwestern farmer—but the speech of an Englishman often told the whole story of his life. This clear-eyed little man was cockney-born, but he had bettered himself by study and close attention to his masters, until he stood as the best type of British servant, holding down a responsible and dignified job.

“If I may suggest it, sir, you’ll have more company back here,” the steward went on. “A bit lonesome, up forward, all the way to London.”

“Then I’ll sit right here,” Sam told him.

“We’ll be off in a minute, sir... I’ll put your dispatch case handy... Now if you’ll excuse me——”

Sam hung his sun helmet in the rack overhead and settled himself in the seat like one to whom a six-day flight to England was a common thing. Actually it would be his first trip aloft, but this fact he did not mean to publish. Aged twenty-six and proud with the thin-skinned pride of youth, he hoped fervently not to appear excited before those calm-eyed English, his fellow passengers.

Really, some excitement was his due. To fly from Karachi to London was practically as safe as traveling in a ship, yet the route was so new, the deserts to cross so wide, and the big four-motored plane so gallant, that by any man’s standards it constituted a real adventure. Besides, it was a luxury Sam could scarcely afford. His meager salary as vice-consul would not stand many hundred-pound tickets; and only his determination to spend every possible week of his leave on American soil had made him take to the air. Finally, he would travel in remarkably exciting company. The Bombay papers had been full of it for weeks.

He was the first passenger aboard; there had been no reporters to delay him for a farewell message. But at least three of his fellow passengers were surrounded by respectful throngs. One of these, the most famous, was now just outside Sam’s window, shaking hands with half the dignitaries of the Indian Empire. This was no less a personage than Viscount Harbordton, head of the latest and most powerful commission sent out from England to bring calm to stormy India.

“Pronounced Hobton,” Sam told himself, with a wry smile. “And isn’t he the Rock of Gibraltar of British tradition!”

Lord Harbordton was rock-like in many respects. His lean cheeks, cleanly cut, seemed like gray flint. His gray eyes were stony; his facial bones, too large for his spare flesh, gave him a knob of a chin and bulged upward in a noble-looking arch on his long Norman nose. Even under Karachi’s searing sun his tall, fine figure looked cold and gray, as might his own granite statue.

Sam had had plenty of opportunity to read Harbordton’s amazing career. As the younger son of an obscure new baron, he had risen through sheer ability and strength in statecraft to be the virtual chief of the reactionary wing, the hope and stronghold of the most bitter Tory feeling in the British Empire. His visit to India had been of tremendous political importance. His recommendations on his return to London might mean a complete reversal of British colonial policy.

Those recommendations had been carefully guarded from the native press, but Sam could guess their content. The only dogs that Lord Harbordton seemed to like were fox-hounds and setters: the underdog was dirt beneath his feet. His answer to smoldering revolt in India would be a deluge of cold steel.

He was traveling alone. His secretary had met an odd accidental death in Simla.

He came grimly into the cabin and, without a glance at the fluttering steward, took the seat across the aisle from Sam.

The next passenger to enter the plane was quite in contrast to the famous statesman, yet he, too, was a distinguished figure. His clerical clothes identified him as Bishop Scott, who Sam knew was returning to England after visiting his daughter at an Indian army post. His skin was pinkish-white, not gray like Harbordton’s; his face was round and plump, not lean and bony; his eyes were fat and benevolent, not deep-set and hard. He paused in the doorway, beaming on the steward.

“Are you not—give me a moment—Alfred Horner?” he asked the little man in a voice which Sam irreverently called syrupy, but which worked wonders in certain fashionable churches.

Horner turned quite pale with pleasure. “I wouldn’t ’ave thought you’d remember, my lord.”

“I pride myself that I never forget one of my own. I christened you in—let me see—was it nineteen-hundred and eleven?”

“Nineteen-hundred and ten, my lord.”

“To be sure. Now show me where I am to sit. Where the view is good, and where—ah—in case of accident——”

The voice droned off, and Sam’s attention was drawn to a last-minute arrival, now in a tug-of-war with a native porter for the possession of his handbag. This man was not, the native knew, a “proper sahib.” He knew it by his clothes and manner; otherwise he would not dare be so persistent.

“But I’ll carry it myself, I tell you,” the man was protesting in a shrill voice that streamed through the cabin door.

But in the end he yielded. Men with voices of that precise pitch usually did yield, Sam thought. They were the kind to be pushed aside while the world rushed by.

He was in the way of an anticlimax to the two lords who had preceded him. Sam could hardly imagine a more insignificant figure. True, he was middle height, but he looked shorter than Horner. He had colorless hair, pale lashes, and eyes pale-blue and featureless as china marbles. The only conspicuous thing about him was his untidy dress. His flashy cravat was badly tied, his shirt cuffs soiled, and his vest unevenly buttoned. Three small cuts on his newly-shaven face indicated a nervous hand.

He hesitated, faltered, then selected the seat that faced Viscount Harbordton’s, across the reading table. His lordship did not glance up.

“I want my bag beside me,” the man was insisting to the embarrassed steward.

“There’s no room here, sir,” Horner answered kindly. “But I’ll set it just aft, where you can get at it when you like. Would you care to get something out of it now?”

The man got up, with an odd, strained look, walked aft, and knelt beside his cheap-looking bag. As it opened, Horner came up behind him, ready to help him in the trained British-servant fashion. The steward glanced at the contents and gave a little start.

“You have firearms, sir?”

“What of it?”

“It’s against the regulations, sir, to have them in your bag on the ship. You must let me carry them to the captain, to keep for you.”

At that moment the captain—a young blond Englishman with clear, crow-footed, airman eyes—swung aboard. Horner handed him the pistol.

It happened that Sam liked guns. Small-game shooting was one of the compensations of his meager job in India. But he instinctively bristled at a gun like this. It was the mail-order type, cheaply made, brightly nickeled, inconspicuous in a thug’s pocket but quite adequate to kill a man.

“It would save delay—explanations to the police and all that—if you’d tell me why you happen to be carrying this,” Captain Beason said in casual tones.

“Why shouldn’t I carry it? India is an unsafe country to do business in—your cursed British oppressions have made it so—and I got it to protect my property.”

His cracked voice streamed through the compartment, but Lord Harbordton did not look up from his book.

The newcomer—his name was Korlak, he said, and Sam spotted his red passport as American—had no reservations. He had decided to take the plane at the last moment: he would buy a ticket to Bagdad, where he had rush business. He paid in ten-pound notes, and Sam could not help but gasp at the bulk of his purse.

Korlak returned to his seat; the blades began to whirl and clouds of dust dissolved native fieldhands and visiting dignitaries into one gray blur. But one passenger was still missing. Sam noted her absence because he had been reading about her, to the point of acute annoyance, for the past month. He had been shown her, rifle in hand, over a dead tiger; as being received by an important native king; as gazing, with a rapt expression, at the Taj Mahal. Worse still, his bored perusals of snobbish English magazines had acquainted him with her months before.

She was the Lady Darcy Hall, world traveler and an authentic member of the very oldest and most exalted British aristocracy. Her father’s earldom went back to the War of the Roses: indeed, her lofty position had become such an old story to her that she ignored it completely. She even dared be an individualist. Her comings and goings, and the occasional startling things she said and did, had furnished reams of chit-chat for the society columns. Sam had heard enough about her for her to be forty, but she was only twenty-four.

“And I hope she’s gone and missed the boat,” Sam growled to himself.

But Lady Darcy very rarely missed what she really wanted to catch. A slim figure burst from a dust-veiled group beside the plane and took the little metal steps in two leaps. The next instant Sam sensed her standing beside him.

He did not look up. He would emulate Lord Harbordton. He’d be hanged if he would show the slightest interest in her. A curious stubbornness, as well as a full share of cross-grained American pride, were prominent characteristics of Sam Bellamy.

The steward closed the door; watching through the window Sam saw the big right wheel get into motion. He glued his eye upon it. It gathered speed. Presently it made its first tentative leap. Smoothly, miraculously, the great ship took the air.

But it happened that he was the only passenger of the five who saw the ground slanting and falling away beneath the wheels. Lord Harbordton did not miss one word of his book. Korlak sat staring at the statesman’s shirt-front with a look of trance. Bishop Scott bent over his table, his hand shading his eyes. Horner, lingering worshipfully by his chair, suspected that this earthly saint was praying for the safety of all their lives. Lady Darcy’s behavior was frankly out of keeping with the customs of her class. Although there were plenty of extra sections, she carefully chose the seat across the table from and facing Sam; and calmly fixed her clear gray eyes upon his face.

Presently he glanced up, and their eyes met. And then his heart—young, free, and until now perfectly steady and trustworthy—threatened also to take off and go soaring to the sky.

Sam could not understand. He believed he was the victim of a ridiculous illusion. Even though it were real, it could have no meaning.

Granted she was the best type of country-raised English girl. In spite of her slim figure and small bones—her delicate features and sunny coloring—she could land a threshing salmon, tramp the grouse moors all day, and ride to hounds like a witch. But what was all that to him? He owned no salmon rivers, leased no shooting box, and the only horses he had ever sat were his uncle’s plow teams on an Illinois farm.

Wait! There was a look a little forlorn about her mouth. There lay a clew to the mystery.

Somehow that wistfulness, that little touch of common, lonely, lowly earth, might somehow sweep a stranger’s distant admiration into an intimate dream.

“Nice take-off,” she began—as any ordinary girl might begin. So perfect were the acoustical properties of the closed cabin that Sam heard her with ease.

“My first experience,” he confessed.

“I wish it were mine. I’m getting just a little fed-up with nice take-offs. I almost wish——”

“Don’t!” Sam glanced overside at the littling earth.

“Oh, nothing will happen! Captain Beason knows his—what is it you say in America?—onions.” She laughed gayly.

“We haven’t said that for quite a while, now. I think it was yams, the last I heard. But how did you know I am an American?”

“How could I mistake you? The horn-rimmed glasses——”

“But I’m not wearing my horn-rimmed glasses——”

“No, but you have them in your bag. Element’ry, my dear Watson! I can see the little dent between your eyes, and besides, all Americans wear horn-rimmed glasses, whether they need ’em or not. It’s a national obsession.”

“Almost as bad as tea with the British.”

They had an hour’s rapid fire. Sam was so busy forging and hurling shafts that he forgot his introspections, and everything else in the world save his delight.

“What’s your name?” she asked simply and gravely.

“Sam Bellamy.”

“I suppose you know mine. I’ve been making a holy show of myself all over India. It was great fun for me, but it must be harrowing for innocent bystanders who have to read about it.”

Sam caught her frank spirit. “It was a bit tiresome, to tell the truth.”

“Always tell me the truth, and we’ll be friends. I’m so sick of liars. This cabin is full of them.” She was not jesting now. There was a passing intensity in her eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“Old Hob, for instance. Sorry—I mean Lord Harbordton. He’s lied to himself and the country for years. If he’d just tell the truth and be natural, he’d turn out quite a human, decent old man. As it is, he spoils every dinner party people have to invite him to.”

Sam opened his good brown eyes. “What about Bishop Scott? I know you wouldn’t imply——”

“I only wish our little steward wouldn’t hang so worshipfully upon his words. No, my friend, yours is the only honest face in sight, and that’s why I sat down with you.”

“You forget Horner—the steward.”

“I beg your pardon—and his. I wouldn’t wonder but he’s the nicest human being on board, not even excepting you.”

“I’m sure of it. Of course, we won’t get to know the rest of the ship-crew. But you haven’t given me your expert opinion of Korlak.”

“Is that his name? He interests me immensely. I’d have sat down by him if I could have got out of talking to old Hob. What do you think about him?”

“I don’t like him.”

“I’m afraid I don’t either. He’s so weak that he makes people sick, and so they kick him—and—and I’d like to kick him, too. It’s cruel but natural. You know the jackals that come to the rubbish heaps outside the Indian villages? They hate themselves for not being able to kill their own meat, but they hate the villagers that supply the rubbish even more. And occasionally a jackal goes mad——”

At that very instant Korlak was trying to strike up a conversation with Lord Harbordton.

“I’ve been reading about you, sir,” he said. “Don’t you think British troops in India do more harm than good?”

The nobleman did not look up from his book. Possibly he did not hear.

“I say, sir! Can’t you answer a civil question? I tell you that Gandhi is the greatest man in the world today!”

Lord Harbordton’s eyebrows rose and fell in a brief acknowledgment, utterly heartless, willfully blind. “Oh, really?” Apparently he had not even stopped reading.

Darcy shrugged her slim shoulders. “There’s an example,” she told Sam. “He’s acting a lie right now. He hasn’t an idea what he’s reading, thinking so hard about what that vile little man said. But no, he can’t talk to him a few minutes and get on some basis of human understanding. He has to go on playing the part he has written for himself—the uncompromising Tory of old England. No wonder the world is full of wars!”

“Look at Korlak’s face,” Sam said.

“I know. White with fury. If human beings would only treat each other half as decently as they treat dogs——”

Soon their quiet grave talk moved to other subjects. The hours sped. The desert crept, a miraculous seven-league creep, below. At noon they were at Gwadar, that wild city in Baluchistan, a week’s camel journey from their take-off.

Sam and Darcy walked together to inspect a group of Arabs camped back of the rest house. These were haughty-looking sons-of-the-thirst, but at the girl’s frank request, they mounted their horses and posed for her camera.

At lunch the passengers had their first chance to mingle. Bishop Scott told a number of dull jokes, while Horner lingered behind his chair glowing with pride. Lord Harbordton ignored Sam and Korlak—“We’re birds of a feather, as far as his nibs is concerned,” Sam whispered to Darcy—but was polite and almost affable to the Earl’s daughter. Korlak sat brooding, while weird lights chased each other across his pale eyes.

That afternoon they flew over the Gulf of Oman, looked down at its odd purple tints, then stopped for the night in a new tent camp on the Persian Gulf. As the light still held, a young Arab offered to guide them for a call on the local sheik, in an old walled town not far from the landing field.

All except Korlak elected to go. They were led through a number of guarded doors, down a dark passage, and finally into a gaudy chamber where the Sheik sat in state.

Coffee was served, a tablespoonful at a time, in an adequate number of cups. Custom demanded that if they accepted one cup, they must drink three: Darcy made sure by taking four. Lord Harbordton, suspecting insanitary methods in the kitchen, waved the beverage away.

With the coffee came an immense tray filled with some sticky substance that disconcerted even Darcy. Certainly it did not look appetizing. But when she was handed one of the two spoons, she dug in cheerfully. It proved to be a kind of Turkish delight, not precisely good but a long way from bad; and Sam took an enthusiastic turn at the spoon.

Meanwhile it seemed that he and Darcy had known each other all their lives.

After leaving the castle, they strolled through the narrow, evil-smelling streets and returned to camp. After dinner, the Sheik repaid their call, and there was a hurried consultation among the passengers as to what hospitality to offer him. As a Son of the Prophet, he could accept none of the company’s good drinks. Darcy finally solved the problem with two bars of sweet chocolate, which the desert chieftain gobbled with avidity.

“Dirty hog,” Lord Harbordton scorned. “Darcy, I don’t see why you don’t show him the door.”

“He didn’t show me the door. Yet he probably thinks I’m a shameless baggage, not to wear a veil. I shan’t let an Arab outdo me in human tolerance.”

The new moon and the fabulous white stars drew the girl far from the tents to the edge of the desert. Sam saw her go, and followed her with hungry eyes until the darkness swallowed up her form. No doubt she wanted to be alone. What did a girl of her gifts, the toast of princes, want of a dub like him? She had been kind, true—but she was also kind to a fat Arab sheik. Better go to his tent, light his pipe, and begin the long job of driving this sky-madness out of his heart and brain.

This decision made, he marched out of the rest tent straight in the direction the girl had gone.

Soon he saw a wraith-like figure on the silver sand. It spoke without turning its head.

“I thought you would come.”

“Do you mind?”

“No—I’m rather glad. I’m even very glad. I’d be a pig, not to share this marvelous night with someone.”

“Would you rather have me—or Lord Hob?”

“Hob, of course. His society is elevating. But I won’t mind falling to your level tonight.”

He stood beside her and felt the warmth of her bare arm not a quarter of an inch from his hand. “How did you know I would come?”

“You’re a man, aren’t you—young and burly—and I’m the only girl in the vicinity. Of course, I may not be your type—you might even prefer those mysterious-looking Arab ladies—but I’m all there is handy. And if you hadn’t come—I’d have been mighty disappointed in you, Sam.”

Seeing him start, she bit her lip in mock chagrin. “Blimey, what a slip! Won’t I ever learn not to be for’ard with young gentlemen? Oh, Mr. Bellamy, I’ve tried so ’ard to act the perfect lady——”

“See here, Darcy.” Sam spoke sternly.

“Yes, Sam.”

“If you don’t stop ragging me, you know what I’m going to do?”

“I can guess.” This in a very faint voice. “You so big—and burly——”

“And I’m not doing it for a joke. I’m doing it because I want to, powerful’ bad. And I’m not punishing you for ragging me. That’s just an excuse—for something I meant to do all the time.”

“Spoken like a man, Sam.”

“You see, you’re teaching me to be honest. By the way, are you going to fight?”

“Mercy, no. Why should I, after enticing you on? But I’m not sure I’ll like it——”

His arms went about her slim shoulders and drew her close. She gave him her lips, then slipped away.

For a moment he could not speak. He was glad of the veil of the night

“Did you like it?” he asked at last, with a surge of his will.

“It was worth trying—once——”

“Yes or no?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll have to think it over. It wasn’t—just what I expected.”

“You expected just another casual kiss in the moonlight, like——” He paused, knowing he must not give voice to his bitter and senseless jealousy.

“Like those I’ve had scores of times? That was what you were going to say. Curiously enough, it isn’t so, but you won’t believe me, and it doesn’t matter anyway.” She was quite grave, and he saw again the forlorn curve of her lips. “Now let’s walk, and not say one—single—word.”

So they tramped side by side, in silence, nearly to the town and back. When they paused to listen, they could hear the faint hiss-hiss of the sand, restless under the light wind. It had covered lordly temples, thronged cities; in an hour there would be no footprint to show their trail.

So be it, Sam told himself.

But it was not until they returned to the landing field, and saw the great ship silver-gray on the silver desert, that the spell broke, and their own world took them back. When they made out a dim figure that she took to be one of the mechanics tuning up the engines, Darcy called a cheery greeting.

There was no answer. Startled, she came close and peered into the man’s eyes. They were Korlak’s, wide open in the moonlight, and they had an odd, fixed stare. He muttered something about the heat of his tent, and gruffly turned away.

“Poor fellow,” Darcy murmured in Sam’s ear. “I suppose he’s been lying awake, hating himself—and gone out to search for something he’ll never find.”

The next day the plane battled strong winds. The air was rough; Bishop Scott succumbed to air-sickness which even Horner’s reverent nursing could not ease.

When they left the Persian Gulf, flying conditions grew rapidly worse. Captain Beason saw the danger of trying to reach Bagdad, and landed for the night at Basra, four hundred miles to the southeast.

Most of the passengers were glad to be out of the swaying, pitching ship, and to take refuge in the comfortable rest house at the Basra landing field. Korlak alone wanted to go on.

“Captain Beason’s a coward,” he complained bitterly to Sam.

“I can’t let you say that,” Sam answered quietly. “He’s just looking out for our lives.”

“You’re one of ’em too, are you?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“One of the master class who’ve got time to burn, and think only of themselves. I’ve got business in Bagdad. I was supposed to be there tonight. You’ll cut me out of it, rather than stand a little discomfort. You’re all the same.”

As Sam studied the weak face, the hard answer he had been about to make died on his lips. No doubt Korlak was in real distress. He looked sickly white; agony and terror gazed out of his china-marble eyes.

“I’m sorry your plans have been knocked out,” Sam said, and quickly walked away.

Oppressed by the wind-blown solitudes beyond the lamplight, the passengers lingered long in the mess room over their after-dinner coffee. At Captain Beason’s request, Horner got out his banjo and sang in his pleasant tenor voice. Sam, Darcy, and the Bishop joined in on the chorus of an Old West Country ballad. The Bishop contributed a number of anecdotes—they seemed much funnier than on the preceding day—and even Lord Harbordton told an amusing tale of his childhood meeting with Disraeli.

It was a golden hour. Across the gulf that separates human souls—wide and lonely as interstellar space—music and laughter flung an airy bridge... But it quickly fell.

With her unfailing kindness, Darcy had turned at last to Korlak, brooding in a corner. “Can’t you give us something? I’m sure you know a song—or a good story.”

“I know only one song, and you don’t want to hear that,” he answered gruffly. Then, with a certain dignity, “It’s the International.”

“Please sing it. I’ve never heard all of it—there was always a fight. I’d love to hear you.”

“But I would not,” Lord Harbordton broke in sternly. “I heard enough anarchy in India.”

To cover the awkward silence, little Horner broke into “The Road to Mandalay,” rendered with great enthusiasm and the proper barrack-room twang.

There would be no joyous rendezvous on the desert tonight. When the gathering broke up, Darcy went straight to her room. By midnight the mechanics and field hands had finished their regular inspection and thorough tuning-up of the ship, and except for two native guards, had gone to their quarters.

But plainly the sahibs were unusually careful tonight—so the watchman thought—or else special repairs had been ordered. At one o’clock a second work-crew came on the field—a mechanic and a single native helper—and the white man nodded to them as he passed their brazier. They saw his service uniform, but in the darkness and blowing sand could not make out his face.

For more than two hours they saw the workmen moving about the great ship.

“The engineer sahib works late tonight,” said Abdulla to Hafiz.

“The Roc flies far tomorrow. She must be fed and watered, and her feathers combed,” Hafiz replied and shrugged his lack of interest.

So they talked of love and war, and after a while the workmen went away.

Just before dawn, the call-boy knocked on all the passengers’ doors. On Korlak’s door he had to knock thrice. At last a shrill voice, harsh with nerves, came through the wall.

“Go away. Tell the captain I’m not going on—I’m sick. I’ll take the train to Bagdad.”

When Captain Beason got this message, he repeated it to the quarantine officer, early at the airport to check out the passengers.

“I’d better take a look at him,” the doctor said. “Probably it’s just funk—from that rough weather yesterday. But there’s been some cholera in Calcutta.”

When the doctor came into his room and flicked on the light, Korlak’s pale eyes opened very wide. His hand trembled as he held it out for inspection. His temperature and pulse were taken, and his skin examined.

“You can go on, all right,” was the quick verdict. “Your pulse is a little fast, but it’s not from fever. The weather’s a bit gusty, but the captain will fly above it, and the air shouldn’t be too rough.”

Korlak saw the gleam of amusement in the doctor’s eyes. With one leap he was out of bed.

“You think I’m afraid of the air, do you? You think I’m afraid of anything. I will go.”

“See here, my man, if you’ve got a little case of nerves——”

“I’ll show you what my nerves are. I’ll show ’em all.” Then, gripping himself, but still with a touch of melodrama, “Tell the captain I’ll be there.”

The doctor smiled—his patronizing British smile—and walked away. Korlak began to dress mechanically. But at the last he was fairly leaping into his clothes. His pale face had flushed; his eyes slowly caught fire. He remembered the oily eyes and fat palm of the rich Hindu, Puran Dass, bidding him good-bye at the lodge... “You are a very lucky man, Comrade Korlak”...

Stalking to the field, he watched the passengers pass one by one through the little metal door of the plane. And he would go with them!

As the propellers droned and he took his seat, Horner glanced at him in amazement. His scrubby face was alight, almost transfigured by some secret dream. His eyes were lifted, as though he saw his glory in the sky. His manner was lofty.

But Lord Harbordton did not notice him. He did not even glance up.

Together Sam and Darcy watched the sun roll up from behind the utter rim of the desert. It was dull red as though burning through a dust cloud.

“How would you feel,” she asked, “if you knew this was your last day on earth?”

Sam started a little. “What put such a morbid idea in your head?”

“I don’t know—precisely. The last two days I’ve been more conscious of the forces of death surrounding us than ever before. They are so pitiless, so sure. They never forget us, never let us go. They hate us for the air we breathe, for our happiness when we watch the sun rise. And when they see us up here, flying above the earth, they must just ache to cut us down.”

“You’ve been seeing too much desert. It’s deadly stuff. Or else the roar of the engines is getting on your nerves.”

She nodded, a little sadly. “You haven’t answered my question. How do you think you would feel?”

“I can’t say. Once I saw a telephone post and a ditch looming up before our car going fifty miles an hour. All that I remember is saying ‘Ouch!’ But we jumped the ditch and dodged the post.”

“I suppose we’d both be desperately afraid... and both try to hide it.”

“And that would be one lie worth telling, wouldn’t it? To try to smile—and read the paper—and maybe crack a joke—all the time we saw that black shadow rushing toward us. And if we could only say, and really believe, what a great man said as the Lusitania went down—‘Death is the greatest adventure in life——’ ”

Darcy sat very still. “People are great, aren’t they?”

“Marvelous.”

“I’d much rather die—today—than find out they weren’t great. Often it’s hard to see—they hide their greatness behind all kinds of silly, wicked masks—but for one or two minutes, in almost every life, they let it come out. And those minutes are worth living for, aren’t they?”

Suddenly Sam knew that his love had not gone to waste. He would not try to deny it any more, to laugh at it, to scorn it. It would ever be his dearest, most closely-cherished secret. His heart had told him the truth, the splendid untainted truth, and at last it had made him free.

She was the end of one man’s search. And he was proud that he could admit it to himself, and hide from it no more; he was caught up in solemn exaltation that he had found the courage to stand by his idealism, rather than compromise with the world.

“When this flight is over, we’ll probably not meet again,” she said after a long pause.

“Our ways are far apart,” he agreed.

“I’ll probably marry in a few months—a suitable marriage with some clean, fine man I’ve known since childhood—and go to my job of bearing babies, as many as possible. There are only a few of our race left, you know, and it must be carried on.”

He nodded. This was her true call, and he could not blame her for answering it. There were only a few of the race of Darcy Hall, and that race must not die.

“Even if we did meet, we’d both be wearing masks,” Darcy went on. “Much heavier—much uglier—than the little thin ones we’re wearing now.”

She took a book from the rack and began to read. He looked down at the desert valleys of the Tigris-Euphrates, where, perhaps, Darcy’s race and his own had a common origin. But that was long ago.

An hour passed. Sam was still watching the girl’s face when he felt the ship dip to the left, then quickly straighten. Something streaked passed the corner of his eye, making him look out the window. Behind him and far below among the wind-tattered clouds, he saw a round dark object rapidly diminishing to a mere point. But it was not until he glanced at the landing gear and saw the struts hanging bare, that he knew for sure what it was.

The right landing wheel had fallen off.

A cry of alarm rose in his throat, but he forced it back. Slowly, almost furtively, he glanced at his fellow passengers. Darcy was still deep in her book. The remaining three passengers were seated on the left side, out of easy sight of the bare struts. Bishop Scott was reading his Bible. Lord Harbordton was making notes—probably preparing the epochal speech he meant to deliver in London. Korlak sat as if he were in a trance, his face drawn and wet.

Casually Sam rose and went forward. Only his intense pallor showed that this was no common errand. In the pantry between the two compartments he found Horner sitting, reading, on his bench.

Horner leaped to his feet. “You are ill——”

“No.” Sam licked his lips. Horner’s eyes were so clear, his face so young. Then he blurted out, “The right wheel is off.”

The only change in Horner was a slight widening of his eyes. “Do the passengers know?”

“Not yet.”

“They’ll be bound to see it in a minute. I’ll go back and stand by.”

“Right you are! I’ll tell the skipper.”

But, of course, Captain Beason already knew. He had turned over the controls to the first officer, and was coming through the passage. He looked cold and grim.

He glanced only once at each face. “Do the others know?”

“Not yet,” Sam said.

“How much do you know?”

“Only that the right wheel’s off——”

“If you look out, you’ll see the left wheel hanging loose on the axle. Great business, eh, what?”

“In God’s name, what does it mean?”

“Workmanlike job some blighter did at Basra—I s’pose a native mechanic who thought he had a grudge. Well, I’ll break it to the others. They’re a sound lot, ’cept for Korlak.”

Beason led the way aft and halted in the aisle. The Bishop saw him first and with a low cry leaped to his feet. This sudden movement caught Lord Harbordton’s eye and made him glance up from his notes. His face was impassive. Korlak started violently, and his frozen visage jerked into a grimace that might have been either terror or some terrible ecstasy.

Sam looked straight at Darcy. Feeling his eyes, she glanced up. She, too, moved as though to spring, then leaned back, her lips curving in a strange dim smile.

“My friends, I have something to tell you,” Beason began. He did not shout, but his voice carried clear above the subdued roar of the motors. “Something very serious has happened, but I want you to keep calm and help me see it through.”

In the brief pause the only sound was a gasp from Bishop Scott. Sam thought he said, “Oh, my God!”

“The right wheel’s gone, and the other’s loose,” Beason went on. “That means that landing will be a rum go. But I’ll do my best—hold her off as long as possible, then pancake her down. She’ll crack up sure, but with even fair luck we’ll come through.”

There was a brief silence. Lord Harbordton removed his pince-nez and carefully put them in his case. “A question, please, Captain Beason,” he said, perfectly calm.

“Yes?”

“When will you attempt the landing?”

“At Bagdad. We’re nearly halfway there, and facilities are better.”

They all knew what he meant. They were physically stunned, but strangely clear-thinking and alert. The alarm had gone forth by wireless, and they would be met with ambulances, doctors, and fire-fighting equipment.

“I have here a document to be put in your dispatch case,” Lord Harbordton went on.

He rose and handed Beason a folded paper.

Bishop Scott’s face worked, and presently his voice came out, slowly gathering power. “I’ve got a question, too, Captain Beason. We’re all men and women, and we may have certain preparations we wish to make. Would you say—it would be only a guess, I know—that we have one chance in two of coming out alive?”

Beason seemed dismayed by the question. “I’d like to tell you our chances are nine out of ten,” he replied. “They would be, under good weather conditions. The hard wind in the desert is blowing a lot of dust, and visibility—well, let’s look at the worst side, and say four chances out of five.” But Sam knew he was lying like a gentleman.

It seemed that Korlak started to speak but Lord Harbordton’s level tone silenced him.

“You say we are the victims of sabotage.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I wouldn’t call it a workmanlike job—indeed it seems to me quite a slovenly, inadequate job. Only a chance in ten—or of five at most—of killing us off.”

Beason had been thinking about that too. Horner was searching every cubby of the ship for something...

“Well, sir——”

Then came an ugly interruption. Korlak’s mouth opened, a black hole in his twisted face, and a high-pitched howl burst forth. His eyes had a maniacal shine. “You liar! You fool! This plane lands at sixty miles an hour. You’ll be blinded by the sandstorm. You know they haven’t got a dog’s chance——”

He did not say “we.” He said “they,” as though he were merely a spectator. But no one noticed this, at first. With that strange charity that so often softens disaster, the other men thought he was merely hysterical from terror. Only Darcy’s quick imagination leaped to the truth.

“Steady, Korlak,” Beason said. “I know my ship. I tell you honestly that we’ve got a good fighting chance.”

“I tell you, you lie! She’ll pitch over and throw you all in one dead heap, and burn your bones, and you’ll all go to hell where you belong.”

For the first time in the trip, Lord Harbordton turned and looked at Korlak. His aristocratic face was still impassive; but over Beason’s spread a dark cloud. Yet for many seconds more he could not give voice to his appalling thought. His hard-taught British sense of justice tied his tongue: the charge was too dreadful, even against a man like that. He walked to Korlak and examined him closely.

“You speak as though you thought you had expert knowledge of this thing,” he said quietly at last. “Do you know something about it we don’t know?”

The question seemed to steady Korlak. His tortured features relaxed; throwing up his head he appeared to increase in stature. Why, this was his great moment! He had almost failed to recognize it. So real was his illusion of a great deed accomplished and his own vindication, that his eyes kindled and his mean face took on a semblance of grandeur.

“I do know something.” His voice had a ring of power. “I know that an enemy of human freedom is going to his death, and a lot of his gang with him. It’s my work, and I’m proud of it! Now kill me if you want to. Hurrah for the Red Flag!”

The voice ceased, and its echo died. A strange silence, startling, terrifying, almost horrible, filled his ears, his head. He could hear only the steady drone of the motors.

He looked from face to face, but every one was calm. No one was screaming at him, no savage hands were reaching for him. Didn’t they catch what he said? Couldn’t they grasp what he had done? It was his great moment—but no one—not even one—seemed to understand. All they did was look at him, curious, even a little embarrassed... But yes, one face now showed emotion. Two tears were running out of the girl’s eyes, down her cheeks.

He looked at them hungrily until a sudden horrible fear gripped him by the heart. Slowly that dread suspicion became a certainty. Those tears reflected human tragedy; they were tears of pity.

It was his great moment, but it had failed.

Lord Harbordton turned quietly to his other fellow passengers. “I’m sorry you all have to suffer because of my unpopularity,” he said.

It was the first time in the memory of man that he had ever mentioned his unpopularity: Darcy had never dreamed he knew it. And there was no coldness in his face or voice, only the great dignity that is born of sincerity.

It was Sam who answered—perhaps because as an American he was less reserved than these Britons. “It’s all square with us, Lord Harbordton.”

“Thank you.” Then, turning to the broken man beside him: “I’d like to talk to you, Korlak. I still don’t understand why you did this monstrous, this inhuman thing... And we may as well sit down.”

“Just a moment, Lord Harbordton,” Captain Beason broke in. He turned with a low command to Horner, who brought a piece of rope used in securing the ship at night. Round and round it went about Korlak’s wrists. “Now you may talk to him if you wish.”

“But must he wear that rope? I’m sure he’ll make no more trouble.”

“Sorry, we can’t afford to take the chance... Will you all please sit down? I’ll let you know in plenty of time when we’re ready to try to land.”

With odd, stiff movements, the passengers obeyed. Horner went to his pantry, but whether to pray or to hide no one knew. Harbordton’s challenge had aroused Korlak, shocking into life his dazed brain, and color flowed back into his ashen face as he leaned over the table.

“Can you speak to me of inhuman things?” he asked the nobleman.

“But to take the lives of innocent people, just to kill me...”

“Weren’t you ready to wage war in India, to uphold your ideas? Wouldn’t innocent people have suffered then?”

The statesman did not answer this question, but probed into Korlak’s early life and background. He found the usual sordid story. Korlak’s mother and father had emigrated from Russia to America in his early childhood. The elder Korlak’s native taste for vodka changed to an appetite for cheap American whiskey; and in four years he died. His widow supported the child for a year or two more by such means as were most convenient; but one night she went away and never came back. All of Korlak’s days had been spent in twilight; never in the bright sun. Squalor, semi-starvation, disease, vice, and all the ugliness that man can make on his fair world were the child’s daily vistas. And the sins of his fathers had been visited on him in the guise of a weak brain and body.

“I grew up hating,” Korlak said. “I’ve hated ever since. When I saw the rich people ride by, I wanted to kill ’em with a bomb. When the settlement worker came, with her fine clothes and clean face, I wanted to kill her, too. I was inferior and knew it. I was mean and dull-witted and dirty-minded and a liar, and the strong Irish boys kicked me around. I was a cur-dog, that could only snap and run away. And that made me hate all the more.”

Lord Harbordton did not speak for a long time. There were troubled lines between his fine brows. “It was hate that made you an anarchist?” he questioned at last.

“I suppose so, but it became the only beautiful thing in my life. Maybe that’s not the word, but it seemed beautiful to me—to fight for the poor and downtrodden, and put bombs under their cruel masters. For the first time in my life I felt important—a little of human dignity that you feel every day. I was somebody.”

“I understand.” The statesman looked old and weary. “We ourselves are partly to blame.”

Korlak clasped his bound hands, and he could hardly speak. “If I’d only known that you’d admit that——”

“ ‘Take physic, pomp,’ ” the older man quoted, in low tones:

“ ‘Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel, That thou may shake the superflux to them, And show the heavens more just.’ ”

“But things aren’t just, are they?” Korlak begged. “You’ll admit that, too?”

“Very sadly I admit it. But if we had only tried a little harder to understand—if we’d only been willing to compromise, just a little—perhaps it would have never happened.”

Korlak’s pale eyes filled with ugly tears. “You are a human being after all, aren’t you? Not just a block of ice——”

Lord Harbordton rose, and with unsteady steps moved toward the cockpit. “Captain Beason, have you already put that paper in your dispatch case?”

“Haven’t got around to it, yet.”

“Give it back to me, please. I want to make some last-minute revisions.”

He had hardly returned to his seat when Horner emerged from his pantry. His cap was jaunty as ever, his uniform trig and smart, and although his eyes were intensely bright, his movements were sure and calm. In his hand he held a tray loaded with tea and cakes.

He went first to Darcy, spread a doily before her on the table, and filled her cup with the steaming drink.

“How many lumps, my lady?” he asked, with his old cheer.

“One, Horner, and a little cream, and your blessing.”

“You Americans are not so fond of it, sir, as we British,” Horner explained to Sam. “But it’s a grateful drink at a time like this.”

And it was!

Horner went down the aisle. He served Korlak the same as the others, and helped him manage his cup. Bishop Scott was the last.

“It’s so kind of you, Horner, to think of us in this dreadful hour,” the churchman said with ill-restrained emotion.

“It’s about the regular time for a spot of tea anyway, my lord.”

“I wish there was some way I could reward you. Something I could do for you——”

“You have done something for me already, just being on the ship. If I may say so, it’s a great consolation to us all.”

Bishop Scott stared at him as though he did not understand. “You mean—as a Bishop—of the Church of England——”

“Of course, my lord. And to me especially, since it was you who baptized me.”

“Does that mean so much? It seems—so—strange—to me now.”

“It isn’t every one who is baptized by a bishop.”

“I wasn’t a bishop then, Horner. Only a vicar in a small church. How long ago it was—but only twenty-three years—and how much I have changed! I wish I’d taken more real interest in you, Horner.”

“You did remember me, my lord. That was more than I could ask——”

“It is one of my tricks, to remember people—just a common trick. But I wish I could do something real and worth while for you now.”

“You can, my lord—if you would be so kind.”

“I’ll do anything. What is it?”

“This is a fast-landing plane—the wind’s rising and the dust and sand will almost hide the field—it may be none of us will come through alive. It would be a great help to me—a great comfort—if you would come into my pantry, and let me kneel to you and have your blessing.”

The bishop passed his hand over his forehead. “My—my blessing?”

“Yes, if you would care to give it to me.”

“Great God!” Then, with a gray face, “But who am I, that I should presume to let you kneel to me?”

“I don’t understand——”

“I, the politician more than the priest, the amateur Wolsey, the flatterer of the great... You—who do your job—and serve us tea in what is likely the last hour of your life! It would be more fitting that I should kneel to you.”

Horner smiled and put the cream in the tea. “You are a little upset, my lord, and no wonder. We are all out of our heads, I suppose, from thinking of what’s before us. But you couldn’t make me think ill of you.”

“I—I’ll give you my blessing for what it’s worth, from a full heart. But you mustn’t kneel to me. You must kneel to God, whose unworthy servant I am.”

Sam and Darcy were bending over their table talking in low tones. “Are you afraid?” she asked.

“Terribly.”

“Does your mouth feel dry—and your spine cold—and your stomach sick? Are you almost afraid to speak for fear you’ll yell?”

“All of that, and more.”

“But we’ll hold on, won’t we, Sam?”

“We’ll hold on, Darcy.”

She gave him her hand across the table. He pressed it to his lips.

“Masks off, Sam?”

“Masks off, Darcy. Shall I tell you now?”

“If you want to—and if it’s true. There isn’t much more time.”

“It’s true, always and always. I’d never have told you, except for this that’s coming, but now I know it’s the only fair thing for us both.”

“Say it, Sam.”

“I love you, Darcy.”

“I thought so—but I wasn’t sure. I’m glad you told me.”

There seemed nothing more to say. But Darcy still held his hand and searched his eyes.

“Am I still wearing a mask?” she asked at last.

“You never did.”

“Yes, a thin one, so I wouldn’t see so clear the things I fear. And now I don’t know whether it’s just that veil—or something real—that keeps me from answering you.”

His heart made one great bound. “Tell me the truth, Darcy! You must.”

“You are very dear to me. But whether I love you or could ever love you I can’t tell. And it looks as though I may never know.”

At that instant Korlak, still talking to Lord Harbordton, felt a blinding rush of remorse. He sprang to his feet and raised his bound hands in a compelling gesture. Although he was still dramatizing himself to the utmost, it was plain that behind his dramatics lay some stark terrible reality. His pale eyes were wet with tears; his ignoble face flamed.

“Comrades, I’ve got something to tell you,” he began. “I’m sorry for what I’ve done. I never knew—I never dreamed—that you were human beings like me. A world above me, I know, but still my fellow passengers—people with hearts, and troubles of your own, and—and—everything like me. I thought you were all fiends in human form. And so I’m going to do all I can to save you.”

Then, in hoarse, frantic tones: “It’s much worse than you know. We must land at once. I put an acid compound on the rudder wires to crash the ship—loosening the wheels was just to make sure she’d burst and burn. It may eat through at any moment. Quick, someone tell the captain——”

No, he had not told the captain himself at the instant of his penitence and saved many precious seconds. It would have cut him out of his speech. Korlak believed he had been reborn, but he was still Korlak. It was Sam who bounded to the cockpit and gave the alarm.

Captain Beason’s narrowed gaze hardly flickered sideways. “Painstakin’ cove, that Korlak,” he muttered—British to the last—as his eyes scanned the desert.

It was only a few seconds later that he stood in the cabin, facing the white, tense passengers, calmly, tersely telling them of their coming gamble with death. “I’m going to try a kill or cure,” he said. “Can you all swim?”

Most of his hearers nodded.

“I can’t, but it don’t matter,” Korlak said, still clutching at his fading illusion of grandeur.

Horner, who could not swim a stroke, muttered “Righto!”

“There’s a straight stretch of the Euphrates River not far ahead,” Beason went on. “It lies square into the wind, and I can make out the channel through the dust. I’m going to slip down and mush her in. If we strike no submerged bars and the water’s of good depth, we may all come through. If not—but it’s our only chance, anyhow.”

“Let’s go!” Sam cried, with a boom in his voice.

Korlak’s wrists were freed. A document in Harbordton’s neat handwriting was placed in Beason’s fireproof wallet. The emergency exits were made ready. The passengers crowded in the rear seats and fastened their safety belts.

Beason returned to the cockpit, and presently they heard the roar of the motors die away to a dull drone.

“Get close to me, Sam, and hold my hand,” Darcy murmured. “We’re going down.”

There was not a sound in the cabin as the dust-dimmed earth leaped up. With one big-muscled arm around Darcy’s shoulders, strong to help her, and his right hand clasping hers, Sam watched overside. With the face of a snow-image, her eyes burning out of it, Darcy watched only Sam.

Bishop Scott was looking down at his folded hands, and his lips moved. Horner stood beside him, comforted by his nearness. Korlak sat erect and rigid, gazing straight ahead with the fixed stare of a madman. Lord Harbordton closed and laid aside his book, then without a trace of excitement on his gray face calmly looked out his window.

Sam too could make out the course of the river through the blown sand. He glanced up with a grave smile. “Did you know that the lost Garden of Eden is supposed to be somewhere in this valley?” he murmured to his companion.

“Yes—and I think—we may find it.”

Three hundred—two hundred—one hundred feet. The plane cast a broad shadow on the water. Now the dim river seemed to be leaping up, rushing by. Fifty—forty—twenty feet. Sam’s arm tightened like a steel band about Darcy’s waist.

Suddenly the plane seemed to drop from under them. Their hearts ceased; a black shadow leaped across their brains; then came a violent, paralyzing shock. Water leaped high, the great ship lurched on like a dying whale—tipped up—all but turned over—righted with a second shock—shuddered in every beam—groaned loudly—and came to rest.

Sam was jerked half across the table, but there was still something warm and precious, to be guarded with his last breath, in his arms. And as vision came back the first thing he saw was Darcy’s face.

She was alive, not even hurt. As she gazed at him, at first in stupefied amazement, he saw the rapture of deliverance kindle her eyes. They had come through. The ship rested on the river bottom, the floor of the cabin only a little below the water level. They were safe.

They still could not speak, but now their stunned brains moved and began to record the scene about them. They could share their good fortune. Horner was picking up Bishop Scott from the floor—stunned, ghastly white, but apparently uninjured. Korlak sat upright in his chair like a man of wax, with the same fixed stare in his eyes. Lord Harbordton lay over his table with spread-eagled arms, but at once straightened and seemed to be scrutinizing his right hand.

“How odd,” he observed in the hushed cabin. “I can’t lift it. I dare say my wrist is broken.”

And now Beason, pale but cool and steady, was walking among them. “Pretty much all right?” he asked cheerfully.

“Definitely,” Darcy told him.

“Righto! Quite a seaworthy old scow, this packet! You hardly got your feet wet. But I see a native shoving off from shore, and he’ll take you in.”

It was true. The episode was closed. Even before the boat drew alongside, the passengers had set their faces, steadied their voices, said their prayers or their praise, and declared another armistice with death.

“I’ll have this boatman take you to his village, and then we’ll send you by auto to Samara,” Beason went on. “You’ll find a doctor there to fix that wrist, Lord Harbordton. But there’s no plane available, and I think you’ll all have to go as far as Bagdad by train.”

The passengers nodded, but did not speak. And now Captain Beason looked troubled.

“It’s just occurred to me—perhaps I shouldn’t mention it—that some of you might prefer to go by train and steamer all the way to London. A bit of a shock, business like this today. If you would, don’t mind saying so——”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Captain Beason,” Lord Harbordton answered stiffly.

“Right you are... Horner will be along with your baggage in a few minutes.”

The village was typical of Irak. The passengers sought refuge from the dust storm in a byre cleaner than the huts. Time moved; pulses resumed their normal gait; the world was with them once more—far too much with them, Sam thought with a sinking heart.

The gray tints faded from Bishop Scott’s pink face. “You know, we were all a little mad, up there,” he remarked placidly. “What folly we thought and said!”

When Horner came with the bags, the Bishop beamed on him, his very best Sunday beam. “I’m especially indebted to you, my lad, for your solicitations and care,” his voice flowed out. “I’m quite sure I was out of my head, for a little while——”

“It was enough to put anyone out of his head, my lord,” Horner answered gratefully.

“Then you will understand some of the—er—extravagant remarks that I might have made, eh? Very well. And you must come to see me sometime in England. Perhaps you can come to my church. I baptized you, you know, and so I regard you as one of my own flock.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“And I shall be pleased—very pleased—to commend you to your company for the—er—excellent steward that you are.”

Horner flushed with pleasure. “It would be too good of you, my lord.”

In the meantime an efficient light-stepping young Englishman in uniform had arrived by car from Samara. He spoke a moment to Lord Harbordton, then walked to the dazed and staring Korlak and snapped irons about his wrists.

“I recommend leg-irons, too,” the statesman said in icy tones. Save for the sling about his left wrist, he was the same gray man of granite Sam had seen in Karachi. “This is a very smooth and cunning scoundrel, and might easily give you the slip.”

“But you said——” Korlak broke in pitifully, as the sweat rolled down his face.

Lord Harbordton did not turn his head. “It will be a great satisfaction to me to testify against him at his trial,” he went on. “I hope an example will be made of him. I am only sorry that our weak-minded legislators ever repealed the law that made attempted murder punishable by death.”

The officer marched Korlak away: Lord Harbordton turned calmly to Captain Beason.

“By the way, Captain, you may destroy that paper I left with you—better still, let me destroy it. I have decided that my first draft will stand.”

Sam Bellamy listened and bowed his head. “Forgive us our trespasses,” he whispered, to his distant God who alone knew and understood.

Sam and Darcy walked a little way from the village.

“Masks on?” he asked.

“What do you think, Sam?”

“I don’t dare think. I have seen Harbordton and the Bishop, and I don’t dare look at you.”

She laid her hand on his arm and smiled through tears. “Are you sure you still love me?”

He turned to her, his fear conquered, his grave face glowing.

“Completely sure.”

She drew down his head and kissed him. “I believe that I love you, too, Sam,” she told him. “You are kind and good and true... I’m almost sure...”

He would not ask more than this, now. They would be together a few days, and he would come to her on his return from America. Now they looked out on the brown desert, the ancient valleys of the Tigris-Euphrates.

“It isn’t far from here—our lost Eden. Sam, can we find our way back at last?”

So the story ends, not far from the Garden where it began. But the search for the Gate must go on.