IT was typical of Conway that he let the others waken for themselves, and made small response to their exclamations of astonishment; yet later, when Barnard sought his opinion, gave it with something of the detached fluency of a university professor elucidating a problem. He thought it likely, he said, that they were still in India; they had been flying east for several hours, too high to see much, but probably the course had been along some river valley, one stretching roughly east and west. “I wish I hadn’t to rely on memory, but my impression is that the valley of the upper Indus fits in well enough. That would have brought us by now to a very spectacular part of the world, and, as you see, so it has.”
“You know where we are, then?” Barnard interrupted.
“Well, no – I’ve never been anywhere near here before, but I wouldn’t be surprised if that mountain is Nanga Parbat, the one Mummery lost his life on. In structure and general lay-out it seems in accord with all I’ve heard about it.”
“You are a mountaineer yourself?”
“In my younger days I was keen. Only the usual Swiss climbs, of course.”
Mallinson intervened peevishly: “There’d be more point in discussing where we’re going to. I wish to God somebody could tell us.”
“Well, it looks to me as if we’re heading for that range yonder,” said Barnard. “Don’t you think so, Conway? You’ll excuse me calling you that, but if we’re all going to have a little adventure together, it’s a pity to stand on ceremony.”
Conway thought it very natural that anyone should call him by his own name, and found Barnard’s apologies for so doing a trifle needless. “Oh, certainly,” he agreed, and added: “I think that range must be the Karakorams. There are several passes if our man intends to cross them.”
“Our man?” exclaimed Mallinson. “You mean our maniac! I reckon it’s time we dropped the kidnaping theory. We’re far past the frontier country by now, there aren’t any tribes living around here. The only explanation I can think of is that the fellow’s a raving lunatic. Would anybody except a lunatic fly into this sort of country?”
“I know that nobody except a damn fine airman could,” retorted Barnard. “I never was great at geography, but I understand that these are reputed to be the highest mountains in the world, and if that’s so, it’ll be a pretty first-class performance to cross them.”
“And also the will of God,” put in Miss Brinklow unexpectedly.
Conway did not offer his opinion. The will of God or the lunacy of man – it seemed to him that you could take your choice, if you wanted a good enough reason for most things. Or, alternatively (and he thought of it as he contemplated the small orderliness of the cabin against the window background of such frantic natural scenery), the will of man and the lunacy of God. It must be satisfying to be quite certain which way to look at it. Then, while he watched and pondered, a strange transformation took place. The light turned to bluish over the whole mountain, with the lower slopes darkening to violet. Something deeper than his usual aloofness rose in him – not quite excitement, still less fear, but a sharp intensity of expectation. He said: “You’re quite right, Barnard, this affair grows more and more remarkable.”
“Remarkable or not, I don’t feel inclined to propose a vote of thanks about it,” Mallinson persisted. “We didn’t ask to be brought here, and heaven knows what we shall do when we get there, wherever there is. And I don’t see that it’s any less of an outrage because the fellow happens to be a stunt flyer. Even if he is, he can be just as much a lunatic. I once heard of a pilot going mad in mid-air. This fellow must have been mad from the beginning. That’s my theory, Conway.”
Conway was silent. He found it irksome to be continually shouting above the roar of the machine, and after all, there was little point in arguing possibilities. But when Mallinson pressed for an opinion, he said: “Very well-organized lunacy, you know. Don’t forget the landing for gasoline, and also that this was the only machine that could climb to such a height.”
“That doesn’t prove he isn’t mad. He may have been mad enough to plan everything.”
“Yes, of course, that’s possible.”
“Well, then, we’ve got to decide on a plan of action. What are we going to do when he comes to earth? If he doesn’t crash and kill us all, that is. What are we going to do? Rush forward and congratulate him on his marvelous flight, I suppose.”
“Not on your life,” answered Barnard. “I’ll leave you to do all the rushing forward.”
Again Conway was loth to prolong the argument, especially since the American, with his level-headed banter, seemed quite capable of handling it himself. Already Conway found himself reflecting that the party might have been far less fortunately constituted. Only Mallinson was inclined to be cantankerous, and that might partly be due to the altitude. Rarefied air had different effects on people; Conway, for instance, derived from it a combination of mental clarity and physical apathy that was not unpleasant. Indeed, he breathed the clear cold air in little spasms of content. The whole situation, no doubt, was appalling, but he had no power at the moment to resent anything that proceeded so purposefully and with such captivating interest.