They all laughed, and seemed obliged to her for providing an excuse. At any rate, Conway thought, she wasn’t hysterical.
All afternoon the plane had soared through the thin mists of the upper atmosphere, far too high to give clear sight of what lay beneath. Sometimes, at longish intervals, the veil was torn for a moment, to display the jagged outline of a peak, or the glint of some unknown stream. The direction could be determined roughly from the sun; it was still east, with occasional twists to the north; but where it had led depended on the speed of travel, which Conway could not judge with any accuracy. It seemed likely, though, that the flight must already have exhausted a good deal of the gasoline; though that again depended on uncertain factors. Conway had no technical knowledge of aircraft, but he was sure that the pilot, whoever he might be, was altogether an expert. That halt in the rock-strewn valley had demonstrated it, and also other incidents since. And Conway could not repress a feeling that was always his in the presence of any superb and indisputable competence. He was so used to being appealed to for help that mere awareness of someone who would neither ask nor need it was slightly tranquilizing, even amidst the greater perplexities of the future. But he did not expect his companions to share such a tenuous emotion. He recognized that they were likely to have far more personal reasons for anxiety than he had himself. Mallinson, for instance, was engaged to a girl in England; Barnard might be married; Miss Brinklow had her work, vocation, or however she might regard it. Mallinson, incidentally, was by far the least composed; as the hours passed he showed himself increasingly excitable – apt, also, to resent to Conway’s face the very coolness which he had praised behind his back. Once, above the roar of the engine, a sharp storm of argument arose. “Look here,” Mallinson shouted angrily, “are we bound to sit here twiddling our thumbs while this maniac does everything he damn well wants? What’s to prevent us from smashing that panel and having it out with him?”
“Nothing at all,” replied Conway, “except that he’s armed and we’re not, and that in any case, none of us would know how to bring the machine to earth afterwards.”
“It can’t be very hard, surely. I daresay you could do it.”
“My dear Mallinson, why is it always me you expect to perform these miracles?”
“Well, anyway, this business is getting hellishly on my nerves. Can’t we make the fellow come down?”
“How do you suggest it should be done?”
Mallinson was becoming more and more agitated. “Well, he’s there, isn’t he? About six feet away from us, and we’re three men to one! Have we got to stare at his damned back all the time? At least we might force him to tell us what the game is.”
“Very well, we’ll see.” Conway took a few paces forward to the partition between the cabin and the pilot’s cockpit, which was situated in front and somewhat above. There was a pane of glass, about six inches square and made to slide open, through which the pilot, by turning his head and stooping slightly, could communicate with his passengers. Conway tapped on this with his knuckles. The response was almost comically as he had expected. The glass panel slid sideways and the barrel of a revolver obtruded. Not a word; just that. Conway retreated without arguing the point, and the panel slid back again.
Mallinson, who had watched the incident, was only partly satisfied. “I don’t suppose he’d have dared to shoot,” he commented. “It’s probably bluff.”
“Quite,” agreed Conway, “but I’d rather leave you to make sure.”
“Well, I do feel we ought to put up some sort of a fight before giving in tamely like this.”
Conway was sympathetic. He recognized the convention, with all its associations of red-coated soldiers and school history books, that Englishmen fear nothing, never surrender, and are never defeated. He said: “Putting up a fight without a decent chance of winning is a poor game, and I’m not that sort of hero.”
“Good for you, sir,” interposed Barnard heartily. “When somebody’s got you by the short hairs you may as well give in pleasantly and admit it. For my part I’m going to enjoy life while it lasts and have a cigar. I hope you don’t think a little bit of extra danger matters to us?”
“Not so far as I’m concerned, but it might bother Miss Brinklow.”