e which at first blush seems a means of isolating man from the great problems of nature； actually plunges him more deeply into them。 As for the peasant so for the pilot； dawn and twilight bee events of consequence。 His essential problems are set him by the mountain； the sea； the wind。 Alone before the vast tribunal of the tempestuous sky； the pilot defends his mails and debates on terms of equality with those three elemental divinities。
The mail pouches for which he is responsible are stowed away in the after hold。 They constitute the dogma of the religion of his craft； the torch which； in this aerial race； is passed from runner to runner。 What matter though they hold but the scribblings of tradesmen and nondescript lovers。 The interests which dictated them may very well not be worth the embrace of man and storm； but I know what they bee once they have been entrusted to the crew； taken over； as the phrase is。 The crew care not a rap for banker or tradesman。 If； some day； the crew are hooked by a cliff it will not have been in the interest of tradespeople that they will have died； but in obedience to orders which ennoble the sacks of mail once they are on board ship。
What concerns us is not even the orders … it is the men they cast in their mould。
Wind； Sand and Stars by Antoine de Saint…Exupery
Chapter 1 … The CraftTitle： Wind； Sand； and Stars
Author： Antoine de Saint…Exupery
Translator： Lewis Galantiere
Publisher： Harcourt Brace Javanovich； New York； 1967
Date first posted： February 2000
Date most recently updated： January 2006
XML markup by Wesman 02/23/2000。
Wind Sand and Stars
Antoine de Saint…Exupery
2
The Men
Mermoz is one airline pilot； and Guillaumet another； of whom I shall write briefly in order that you may see clearly what I mean when I say that in the mould of this new profession a new breed of men has been cast。
I
A handful of pilots； of whom Mermoz was one； surveyed the CasabIanca…Dakar line across the territory inhabited by the refractory tribes of the Sahara。 Motors in those days being what they were； Mermoz was taken prisoner one day by the Moors。 The tribesmen were unable to make up their minds to kill him； kept him a captive a fortnight； and he was eventually ransomed。 Whereupon he continued to fly over the same territory。
When the South American line was opened up Mermoz； ever the pioneer； was given the job of surveying the division between Buenos Aires and Santiago de Chile。 He who had flung a bridge over the Sahara was now to do the same over the Andes。 They had given him a plane whose absolute ceiling was sixteen thousand feet and had asked him to fly it over a mountain range that rose more than twenty thousand feet into the air。 His job was to search for gaps in the Cordilleras。 He who had studied the face of the sands was now to learn the contours of the peaks； those crags whose scarfs of snow flutter restlessly in the winds； whose surfaces are bleached white in the storms； whose blustering gusts sweep through the narrow walls of their rocky corridors and force the pilot to a sort of hand…to…hand bat。 Mermoz enrolled in this war in plete ignorance of his adversary； with no notion at all of the chances of ing forth alive from battle with this enemy。 His job was to 〃try out〃 for the rest of us。 And； 〃trying out〃 one day； he found himself prisoner of the Andes。
Mermoz and his mechanic had been forced down at an altitude of twelve thousand feet on a table…land at whose edges the mountain dropped sheer on all sides。 For two mortal days they hunted a way off this plateau。 But they were trapped。 Everywhere the same sheer drop。 And so they played their last card。
Themselves still in it； they sent the plane rolling and bouncing down an incline over the rocky ground until it reached the precipice； went off into air； and dropped。 In falling； the plane picked up enough speed to respond to the controls。 Mermoz was able to tilt its nose in the direction of a peak； sweep over the peak； and； while the water spurted through all the pipes burst by the night frost； the ship already disabled after only seven minutes of flight； he saw beneath him like a promised land the Chilean plain。
And the next day he was at it again。
When the Andes had been thoroughly explored and the technique of the crossings perfected； Mermoz turned over this section of the line to his friend Guillaumet and set out to explore the night。 The lighting of our airports had not yet been worked out。 Hovering in the pitch black night； Mermoz would land by the faint glimmer of three gasoline flares lined up at one end of the field。 This trick； too； he taught us； and then； having tamed the night； he tried the ocean。 He was the first； in 1931； to carry the mails in four days from Toulouse to Buenos Aires。 On his way home he had engine trouble over a stormy sea in mid…Atlantic。 A passing steamer picked him up with his mails and his crew。
Pioneering thus； Mermoz had cleared the desert； the mountains； the night； and the sea。 He had been forced down more than once in desert； in mountain； in night； and in sea。 And each time that he got safely home； it was but to start out again。 Finally； after a dozen years of service； having taken off from Dakar bound for Natal； he radioed briefly that he was cutting off his rear right…hand engine。 Then silence。
There was nothing particularly disturbing in this news。 Nevertheless； when ten minutes had gone by without report there began for every radio station on the South Atlantic line； from Paris to Buenos Aires； a period of anxious vigil。 It would be ridiculous to worry over someone ten minutes late in our day…to…day existence； but in the air…mail service ten minutes can be pregnant with meaning。 At the heart of this dead slice of time an unknown event is locked up。 Insignificant； it may be； a mishap； possibly： whatever it is； the event has taken place。 Fate has pronounced a decision from which there is no appeal。 An iron hand has guided a crew to a sea…landing that may have been safe and may have been disastrous。 And long hours must go by before the decision of the gods is made known to those who wait。
We waited。 We hoped。 Like all men at some time in their lives we lived through that inordinate expectancy which like a fatal malady grows from minute to minute harder to bear。 Even before the hour sounded； in our hearts many among us were already sitting up with the dead。 All of us had the same vision before our eyes。 It was a vision of a cockpit still inhabited by living men； but the pilot's hands were telling him very little now； and the world in which he groped and fumbled was a world he did not recognize。 Behind him； in the glimmer of the cabin light； a shapeless uneasiness floated。 The crew 。moved to and fro； discussed their plight； feigned sleep。 A restless slumber it was； like the stirring of drowned men。 The only element of sanity； of intelligibility； was the whirring of the three engines with its reassuring evidence that time still existed for them。
We were haunted for hours by this vision of a plane in distress。 But the hands of the clock were going round and little by little it began to grow late。 Slowly the truth was borne in upon us that our rades would never return； that they were sleeping in that South Atlantic whose skies they had so often ploughed。 Mermoz had done his job and slipped away to rest； like a gleaner who； having carefully bound his sheaf； lies down in the field to sleep。
When a pilot dies in the harness his death seems something that inheres in the craft itself； and in the beginning the hurt it brings is perhaps less than the pain sprung of a different death。 Assuredly he has vanished； has undergone his ultimate mutation ； but his presence is still not missed as deeply as we might miss bread。 For in this craft we take it for granted that we shall meet together only rarely。
Airline pilots are widely dispersed over the face of the world。 They land alone at scattered and remote airports； isolated from each other rather in the manner of sentinels between whom no words can be spoken。 It needs the accident of journeyings to bring together here or there the dispersed members of this great professional family。
Round the table in the evening； at Casablanca； at Dakar； at Buenos Aires； we take up conversations interrupted by years of silence； we resume friendships to the acpaniment of buried memories。 And then we are off again。
Thus is the earth at once a desert and a paradise； rich in secret hidden gardens； gardens inaccessible； but to which the craft leads us ever back； one day or another。 Life may scatter us and keep us apart； it may prevent us from thinking very often of one another； but we know that our rades are somewhere 〃out there〃 … where； one can hardly say…silent； forgotten； but deeply faithful。 And when our path crosses theirs； they greet us with such manifest joy； shake us so gaily by the shoulders！ Indeed we are accustomed to waiting。
Bit by bit； nevertheless； it es over us that we shall never again hear the laughter of our friend； that this one garden is forever locked against us。 And at that moment begins our true mourning； which； though it may not be rending； is yet a little bitter。 For nothing； in truth； can replace that panion。 Old friends cannot be created out of hand。 Nothing can match the treasure of mon memories； of trials endured together； of quarrels and reconciliations and generous emotions。 It is idle； having planted an acorn in the morning； to expect that afternoon to sit in the shade of the oak。
So life goes on。 For years we plant the seed； we feel ourselves rich； and then e other years when time does its work and our plantation is made sparse and thin。 One by one； our rades slip away； deprive us of their shade。
This； then； is the moral taught us by Mermoz and his kind。 We understand better； because of him； that what constitutes the dignity of a craft is that it creates a fellowship； that it binds men together and fashions for them a mon language。 For there is but one veritable problem … the problem of human relations。
We forget that there is no hope of joy except in human relations。 If I summon up those memories that have left with me an enduring savor； if I draw up the balance sheet of the hours in my life that have truly counted； surely I find only those that no wealth could have procured me。 True riches cannot be bought。 One cannot buy the friendship of a Mermoz； of a panion to whom one is bound forever by ordeals suffered in mon。 There is no buying the night flight with its hundred thousand stars； its serenity； its few hours of sovereignty。 It is not money that can procure for us that new vision of the world won through hardship…those trees； flowers； women； those treasures made fresh by the dew and color of life which the dawn restores to us； this concert of little things that sustain us and constitute our pensation。
Nor that night we lived through in the land of the unconquered tribes of the Sahara； which now floats into my memory。
Three crews of Aeropostale men had e down at the fall of day on the Rio de Oro coast in a part of the Sahara whose denizens acknowledge no European rule。 Rig