by High Citadel
He pushed his uniform cap to the back of his head and said. "Take over, Grivas. I'm going to talk to the passengers."
Grivas lifted his eyebrows -- so surprised that he forgot to, be sulky. He shrugged. "Why? What is so important about the passengers? Is this Samair?" He laughed noiselessly. "But, yes, of course -- you have seen the girl; you want to see her again, eh?"
"What girl?"
"Just a girl, a woman; very beautiful. I think I will get to know her and take her out when we arrive in -- er -- Santillana," said Grivas thoughtfully. He looked at O'Hara out of the corner of his eye.
O'Hara grunted and took the passenger manifest from his breast pocket. As he suspected, the majority were American. He went through the list rapidly. Mr. and Mrs. Coughlin of Challis, Idaho -- tourists; Dr. James Armstrong, London, Eng land -- no profession stated; Raymond Forester of New York -- businessman; Senor and Senorita Montes -- Argentinian and no profession stated; Miss Jennifer Ponsky of South Bridge, Connecticut -- tourist; Dr. Willis of California; Miguel Rohde -- no stated nationality, profession -- importer; Joseph Peabody of Chicago, Illinois -- -businessman.
He flicked his finger on the manifest and grinned at Grivas. "Jennifer's a nice name--but Ponsky? I can't see you going around with anyone called Ponsky."
Grivas looked startled, then laughed convulsively. "Ah, my friend, you can have the fair Ponsky -- I'll stick to my girl."
O'Hara looked at the list again. "Then it must be Senorita Montes -- unless it's Mrs. Coughlin."
Grivas chuckled, his good spirits recovered. "You find out for yourself."
"I'll do that," said O'Hara. "Take over."
He went back into the main cabin and was confronted by ten uplifted heads. He smiled genially, modelling himself on the Samair pilots to whom public relations was as important as flying ability. Lifting his voice above the roar of the engines, he said. "I suppose I ought to tell you that we'll be reaching the mountains in about an hour. It will get cold, so I suggest you wear your overcoats. Mi. Filson will have told you that this aircraft isn't pressurised, but we don't fly at any great height for more than an hour, so you'll be quite all right."
A burly man with a whisky complexion interjected. "No one told me that."
O'Hara cursed Filson under his breath and broadened his smile. "Well, not to worry, Mr. -- er . . ."
"Peabody -- Joe Peabody."
"Mr. Peabody. It will be quite all right. There is an oxygen mouthpiece next to every seat which I advise you to use if you feel breathing difficult. Now, it gets a bit wearying shouting like this above the engine noise, so I'll come round and talk to you individually." He smiled at Peabody, who glowered back at him.
He bent to the first pair of seats on the port side. "Could I have your names, please?"
The first man said. "I'm Forester." The other contributed. "Willis."
"Glad to have you aboard, Dr. Willis, Mr. Forester."
Forester said. "I didn't bargain for this, you know. I didn't think kites like this were still flying."
O'Hara smiled deprecatingly. "Well, this is an emergency flight and it was laid on in the devil of a hurry. I'm sure it was an oversight that Mr. Filson forgot to tell you that this isn't a pressurised plane." Privately he was not sure of anything of the kind.
Willis said with a smile. "I came here to study high altitude conditions. I'm certainly starting with a bang. How high do we fly, Captain?"
"Not more than seventeen thousand feet," said O'Hara. "We fly through the passes -- we don't go over the top. You'll find the oxygen mouthpieces easy to use -- all you do is suck." He smiled and turned away and found himself held.
Peabody was clutching his sleeve, leaning forward over the seat behind. "Hey, Skipper. . . ."
"I'll be with you in a moment, Mr. Peabody," said O'Hara, and held Peabody with his eye. Peabody blinked rapidly, released his grip and subsided into his seat, and O'Hara turned to starboard.
The man was elderly, with an aquiline nose and a short grey beard. With him was a young girl of startling beauty, judging by what O'Hara could see of her face, which was not much because she was huddled deep into a fur coat. He said. "Senor Montes?"
The man inclined his head. "Don't worry, Captain, we know what to expect." He waved a gloved hand. "You see we are well prepared. I know the Andes, senor, and I know these aircraft. I know the Andes well; I have been over them on foot and by mule -- in my youth I climbed some of the high peaks -- didn't I, Benedetta?"
"Si, tio," she said in a colourless voice. "But that was long ago. I don't know if your heart ..."
He patted her on the leg. "I will be all right if I relax; is that not so, Captain?"
"Do you understand the use of this oxygen tube?" asked O'Hara.
Montes nodded confidently, and O'Hara said. "Your uncle will be quite all right, Senorita Montes." He waited for her to reply but she made no answer, so he passed on to the seats behind.
These couldn't be the Coughlins; they were too ill-assorted a pair to be American tourists, although the woman was undoubtedly American. O'Hara said inquiringly. "Miss Ponsky?"
She lifted a sharp nose and said. "I declare this is all wrong, Captain. You must turn back at once."
The fixed smile on O'Hara's face nearly slipped. "I fly this route regularly, Miss Ponsky," he said. "There is nothing to fear."
But there was naked fear on her face -- air fear. Sealed in the air-conditioned quietness of a modern jet-liner she could subdue it, but the primitiveness of the Dakota brought it to the surface. There was no clever decor to deceive her into thinking that she was in a drawing-room, just the stark functionalism of unpainted aluminium, battered and scratched, and with the plumbing showing like a dissected body.
O'Hara said quietly, "What is your profession, Miss Ponsky?"
"Fin a school teacher back in South Bridge," she said. "I've been teaching there for thirty years."
He judged she was naturally garrulous and perhaps this could be a way of conquering her fear. He glanced at the man, who said. "Miguel Rohde."
He was a racial anomaly -- a Spanish-German name and Spanish-German features -- straw-coloured hair and beady black eyes. There had been German immigration into South America for many years and this was one of the results.
O'Hara said, "Do you know the Andes, Senor Rohde?"
"Very well," he replied in a grating voice. He nodded ahead. "I lived up there for many years -- now I am going back."
O'Hara switched back to Miss Ponsky. "Do you teach geography, Miss Ponsky?"
She nodded. "Yes, I do. That's one of the reasons I came to South America on my vacation. It makes such a difference if you can describe things first-hand."
"Then here you have a marvellous opportunity," said O'Hara with enthusiasm. "You'll see the Andes as you never would if you'd flown Samair. And I'm sure that Senor Rohde will point out the interesting sights."
Rohde nodded understandingly. "Si, very interesting; I know it well, the mountain country."
O'Hara smiled reassuringly at Miss Ponsky, who offered him a glimmering, tremulous smile in return. He caught a twinkle in Rohde's black eyes as he turned to the port side again.
The man sitting next to Peabody was undoubtedly British, so O'Hara said. "Glad to have you with us, Dr. Armstrong -- Mr. Peabody."
Armstrong said. "Nice to hear an English accent, Captain, after all this Spa "
Peabody broke in. "I'm damned if I'm glad to be here, skipper. What in hell kind of an airline is this, for god-sake?"
"One run by an American, Mr. Peabody," said O'Hara calmly. "As you were saying, Dr. Armstrong?"
"Never expected to see an English captain out here," said Armstrong.
"Well, I'm Irish, and we tend to get about," said O'Hara. "I'd put on some warm clothing if I were you. You, too, Mr. Peabody."
Peabody laughed and suddenly burst into song. "' I've got my love to keep me warm'." He produced a hip flask and waved it. "This is as good as a top-coat."
For a momen
t O'Hara saw himself in Peabody and was shocked and afraid. "As you wish," he said bleakly, and passed on to the last pair of seats opposite the luggage racks.
The Coughlins were an elderly couple, very Darby and Joanish. He roust have been pushing seventy and she was not far behind, but there was a suggestion of youth about their eyes, good-humoured and with a zest for life. O'Hara said, "Are you all right, Mrs. Coughlin?"
"Fine," she said. "Aren't we, Harry?"
"Sure," said Coughlin, and looked up at O'Hara. "Will we be flying through the Puerto de las Aguilas?"
"That's right," said O'Hara. "Do you know these parts?"
Coughlin laughed. "Last time I was round here was in 1912. I've just come down to show my wife where I spent my misspent youth." He turned to her. "That means Eagle Pass, you know; it took me two weeks to get across back in 1910, and here we are doing it in an hour or two. Isn't it wonderful?"
"It sure is," Mrs. Coughlin replied comfortably.
There was nothing wrong with the Coughlins, decided O'Hara, so after a few more words he went back to the cockpit. Grivas still had the plane on automatic pilot and was sitting relaxed, gazing forward at the mountains. O'Hara sat down and looked intently at the oncoming mountain wall. He checked the course and said. "Keep taking a bearing on Chimitaxl and let me know when it's two hundred and ten degrees true bearing. You know the drill."
He stared down at the ground looking for landmarks and nodded with satisfaction as he saw the sinuous, twisting course of the Rio Sangre and the railway bridge that crossed it. Flying this route by day and for so long he knew the ground by heart and knew immediately whether he was on time. He judged that the north-west wind predicted by the meteorologists was a little stronger than they had prophesied and altered course accordingly, then he jacked in the auto pilot again and relaxed. All would be quiet until Grivas came up with the required bearing on Chimitaxl. He sat in repose and watched the ground slide away behind -- the dun and olive foothills, craggy bare rock, and then the shining snow-covered peaks. Presently he munched on the sandwiches he took from his brief-case. He thought of washing them down with a drink from his flask but then he thought of Peabody's whisky-sodden face. Something inside him seemed to burst and he found that he didn't need a drink after all.
Grivas suddenly put down the bearing compass. "Thirty seconds," he said.
O'Hara looked at the wilderness of high peaks before him, a familiar wilderness. Some of these mountains were his friends, li ke Chimitaxl; they pointed out his route. Others were his deadly enemies -- devils and demons lurked among them compounded of down draughts, driving snow and mists. But he was not afraid because it was all familiar and he knew and understood the dangers and how to escape them.
Grivas said. "Now," and O'Hara swung the control column gently, experience telling him the correct turn. His feet automatically moved in conjunction with his hands and the Dakota swept to port in a wide, easy curve, heading for a gap in the towering wall ahead.
Grivas said softly,. "Senor O'Hara."
"Don't bother me now."
"But I must," said Grivas, and there was a tiny metallic click.
O'Hara glanced at him out of the corner of his eye and stiffened as he saw that Grivas was pointing a gun at him -- a compact automatic pistol.
He jerked his head, his eyes widening in disbelief. "Have you gone crazy?"
Grivas's smile widened. "Does it matter?" he said indifferently. "We do not go through the Puerto de las Aguilas this trip, Senor O'Hara, that is all that matters." His voice hardened. "Now steer course one-eight-four on a true bearing."
O'Hara took a deep breath and held his course. "You must have gone out of your mind," he said. "Put down that gun, Grivas, and maybe we'll forget this. I suppose I have been bearing down on you a bit too much, but that's no reason to pull a gun. Put it away and we'll straighten things out when we get to Santillana."
Grivas's teeth flashed. "You're a stupid man, O'Hara; do you think I do this for personal reasons? But since you mention it, you said not long ago that sitting in the captain's seat gave you authority." He lifted the gun slightly. "You were wrong -- this gives authority; ail the authority there is. Now change course or I'll blow your head off. I can fly this aircraft too, remember."
"They'd hear you inside," said O'Hara.
"I've locked the door, and what could they do? They wouldn't take the controls from the only pilot. But that would be of no consequence to you, O'Hara -- you'd be dead."
O'Hara saw his finger tighten on the trigger and bit his lip before swinging the control column. The Dakota turned to fly south, parallel to the main backbone of the Andes. Grivas was right, damn him; there was no point in getting himself killed. But what the hell was he up to?
He settled on the bearing given by Grivas and reached forward to the auto pilot control. Grivas jerked the gun. "No, Senor O'Hara; you fly this aircraft -- it will give you something to do."
O'Hara drew back his hand slowly and grasped the wheel. He looked out to starboard past Grivas at the high peaks drifting by. "Where are we going?" he asked grimly.
"That is of no consequence," said Grivas. "But it is not very far. We land at an air-strip in five minutes."
O'Hara thought about that. There was no air-strip that he knew of on this course. There were no air-strips at all this high in the mountains except for the military strips, and those were on the Pacific side of the Andes chain. He would have to wait and see.
His eyes flickered to the microphone set on its hook close to his left hand. He looked at Grivas and saw he was not wearing his earphones. If the microphone was switched on then any loud conversation would go on the air and Grivas would be unaware of it. It was definitely worth trying.
He said to Grivas. "There are no air-strips on this course." His left hand strayed from the wheel.
"You don't know everything, O'Hara."
His fingers touched the microphone and he leaned over to obstruct Grivas's vision as much as possible, pretending to study the instruments. His fingers found the switch and he snapped it over and then he leaned back and relaxed. In a loud voice he said. "You'll never get away with this, Grivas; you can't steal a whole aeroplane so easily. When this Dakota is overdue at Santillana they'll lay on a search -- you know that as well as I do."
Grivas laughed. "Oh, you're clever, O'Hara -- but I was cleverer. The radio is not working, you know. I took out the tubes when you were talking to the passengers."
O'Hara felt a sudden emptiness in the pit of his stomach. He looked at the jumble of peaks ahead and felt frightened. This was country he did not know and there would be dangers he could not recognise. He felt frightened for himself and for his passengers.
iii
It was cold in the passenger cabin, and the air was thin. Senor Montes had blue lips and his face had turned grey. He sucked on the oxygen tube and his niece fumbled in her bag and produced a small bottle of pills. He smiled painfully and put a pill in his mouth, letting it dissolve on his tongue. Slowly some colour came back into his face; not a lot, but he looked better than he had before taking the pill.
In the seat behind, Miss Ponsky's teeth were chattering, not with cold but with conversation. Already Miguel Rohde had learned much of her life history, in which he had not the slightest interest although he did not show it. He let her talk, prompting her occasionally, and all the time he regarded the back of Montes's head with lively black eyes. At a question from Miss Ponsky he looked out of the window and suddenly frowned.
The Coughlins were also looking out of the window. Mr. Coughlin said. "I'd have sworn we were going to head that way -- through that pass. But we suddenly changed course south."
"It all looks the same to me," said Mrs. Coughlin. "Just a lot of mountains and snow."
Coughlin said. "From what I remember, El Puerto de las Aguilas is back there."
"Oh, Harry, I'm sure you don't really remember. It's nearly fifty years since you were here -- and you never saw it from an airplane."
"Maybe," he said, unconvinced, . "But it sure is funny."
"Now, Harry, the pilot knows what he's doing. He looked a nice efficient young man to me."
Coughlin continued to look from the window. He said nothing more.
James Armstrong of London, England, was becoming very bored with Joe Peabody of Chicago, Illinois. The man was a positive menace. Already he had sunk half the contents of his flask, which seemed an extraordinarily large one, and he was getting combatively drunk. "Whadya think of the nerve of that goddam fly-boy, chokin' me off like that?" he demanded. "Actin' high an' mighty jus' like the goddam limey he is."
Armstrong smiled gently. "I'm a -- er -- goddam limey too. you know," he pointed out.
"Well, jeez, presen' comp'ny excepted," said Peabody. "That's always the rule, ain't it? I ain't got anything against you limeys really, excep' you keep draggin' us into your wars."
"I take it you read the Chicago Tribune," said Armstrong solemnly.
Forester and Willis did not talk much -- they had nothing in common. Willis had produced a large book as soon as they exhausted their small talk and to Forester it looked heavy in all senses of the word, being mainly mathematical.
Forester had nothing to do. In front of him Was an aluminium bulkhead on which an axe and a first-aid box were mounted. There was no profit in looking at that and consequently his eyes frequently strayed across the aisle to Senor Montes. His lips tightened as he noted the bad colour of Montes's face and he looked at the first aid-box reflectively.
iv
"There it is," said Grivas. "You land there."
O'Hara straightened up and looked over the nose of the Dakota. Dead ahead amid a jumble of rocks and snow was a short air-strip, a mere track cut on a ledge of a mountain. He had time for the merest glimpse before it was gone behind them.