(In the "Evening Standard")
We took off at Barranquilla with only three passengers. A party of five more had made reservations, filling the airplane, but they hadn't arrived at the airport And so, operating on schedule, we had to leave without them.
Tt wac my first flight as ce-pilot with BW Hornay. I didn't.know much about him, except the rumour that he'd broken with a rich and shocked family to take this job as a sky chauffeur. He looked all right—big of body, strong of face, with a competent set to his lips. And he seemed to know his way along the edge of these Andes. But also—and this puzzled me from the outset—he seemed always to have some secret worry.
We flew in silence, save for the periodical radio reports, until Hornay nodded jerkily to the mountains at our left, "Thats where my father's copper mines lie," he said. "Every time I fly near them I get homesick."
I asked, "What do you mean?"
He laughed, but there wasn't much humour in the sound. "Copper concessions have to be protected," he said. "I was meant to be the family's private ambassador down here. Attending official dinners and dances and doing a lot of ming to keep the Hornay name in the good graces of the local government."
I said, "Sounds like a nice job."
"Not for me. I wanted to be on my own. I wanted to fly. So I got this berth. That was five years ago, and—and my father hasn't talked to me since. He couldn't understand my wanting to travel my own road instead of being his ambassador."
Queer Yearning A queer yearning had come into his voice, and I guessed suddenly how Bill Hornay ached for a chance io return to his family—without giving up his own life.
"Five years," I said slowly, "must have changed your father's feelings a little."
Again he laughed in that brief, mirthless way. "Nothing can change his feelings. Nothing but my quitting this job. And I won't do that."
It was then that the panel in the door behind us slid open, and I turned to see the steward's face, white and terrified. The three passengers were standing behind him. Two of them, I saw, gripped auto-maties, and my heart zoomed like a skyrocket into my throat.
These men—" the steward began, choking on the words.
He was shoved aside. A muscular face glowered in at us. The man was about fifty. He spoke fairly good English and he emphasized his words with the muzzle of the automatic.
"Amigos," he said, "if you do what I tell you there will be no trouble, If not—these two men are flyers. I can put bullets into your heads right now, and my friends will take the plane where we want to go. Is it understood?"
I sat paralyzed. Bill Hornay, his face losing colour, said choppily, "What do you want?"
Instead of flying to Bogota, you will turn east and land us on Lake Antilla. I will direct you. And you will not communicate with anyone by radio."
Bill looked at the automatic. His face became rocky. Then he nodded and said to the steward, "We don't seem to have much choice, Bert. Go back and strap yourself into a seat, where you'll be out of these gentlemen's way."
The man with the heavy countenance snapped, "You will do as I tell said Bill "Think I want a bullet in my head?"
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.