Stephen Morris by Nevil Shute

said Riley, ‘to have that engine down for a top overhaul. It’s no good sending her over in her present condition. She’d be a laughing-stock. Let’s have her down and see if we can get her any better. Get a man down from the Blundell people – a man who knows all about this Stoat. Then after that I can fly her over in time for the race.’
    Rawdon was plainly uneasy. ‘I’ll ring up Baynes,’ he said, ‘and tell him about it – ask him to come down thisafternoon if he can spare the time. I should think myself that that’s the only thing to do, unless he decides to send it over as it is and hope for the best.’
    But the decision lay with Riley.
    So the Laverock was taken to the engine shop and the Stoat extracted with a tackle. On the bench there seemed nothing in particular the matter with the engine. A gentleman came down on a motor-cycle from the makers, took off his coat, and worked on it for three days, assisted by the usual staff. Finally he expressed himself satisfied.
    ‘But they’re no class, the Mark I,’ he added, wiping his hands on a piece of waste.
    Two days later the machine was ready for flying. It was late one evening when Riley took it up again; Morris and one or two others stayed to watch. The promoters of the venture were also present.
    The flight was much the same as before. The landing was every bit as unpleasant to watch, though he seemed to be able to do it with certainty, given enough space. The report was better.
    ‘I got her up to about a hundred and seventy-eight,’ said Riley afterwards to Morris. ‘I think that’s about all she’s going to do. One might get another mile or two out of her on the day – I rather doubt it. They’re putting a fairing on the tail-skid for me now; I’ll have her up again tomorrow morning. Come and have supper at my place; we’ll come back afterwards and have a look how they’ve done that skid.’
    It was dark when they returned. Riley went on down to the shop, and Morris turned into the offices to fetch some data that he needed for his private work. He stayed for a time in the deserted office, musing over his papers. Then he went down to the erecting-shop, brilliant with arc-lamps.
    The men had finished work upon the tail-skid andwere brewing tea over a blow-lamp preparatory to knocking off. Morris examined the skid critically. They hadn’t made a bad job of it.
    ‘Where’s Captain Riley?’ he asked one of the men.
    The man jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Out on the aer’drome, I think, sir.’ He moved away down the shop through the shadowy aeroplanes, softly whistling the air from
Samson and Delilah.
Morris walked to a crack between the great sliding doors and stood looking out into the darkness; behind him the song was gathering strength and throbbing plaintively between the long iron walls.
    He moved out on to the aerodrome. It was a bright, starlit night, calm and warm. If it stayed like that, Riley ought to have little difficulty in getting that machine across … though it was not exactly a job that Morris would have cared to tackle himself.
    ‘Riley?’ he called quietly.
    There was no answer. He walked on a little past the hangars, a little sobered by the quiet and the darkness. This was as quiet as an Oxford night.… His mind went off at a tangent:
    Fair Helena, who more engilds the night
Than all yon fiery oes and eyes of light …
Fair Helena …
    He smiled a little to himself and walked on past the hangars. Beyond them somebody was smoking a cigarette on a pile of lumber under the hedge.
    ‘That you, Morris?’ asked Riley.
    Morris sat down beside him. ‘They’ve made a pretty little job of your skid,’ he said. ‘Probably put another hundred yards on her to carry in landing.’
    The other grunted sourly. ‘All very well for you to talk,’ he said. ‘They won’t let you go near it, let alone fly it.’
    ‘I sometimes lie awake o’nights,’ retorted Morris, ‘sweating blood for fear they’ll come and ask