The wind charged him from the side, and it took all his strength to right the plane.
Now the fog choked him in gray darkness, and he had only instinct and a pathetically inadequate compass as his guide. A strange fear gripped him in this mist-woven wilderness of sky. Suddenly the image of the director drawing the red pencil through his name reappeared.... But the fat-jowled, thin-lipped face had no eyes—just sockets.
To the fear-crazed pilot, this was the writing in the sky—the red pencil was Death and the eyeless face was Fate.
“A man can fight Death—but not Fate,” shouted Vladimir, but no one heard. And no one saw when, slumping to his knees, he clutched the control lever as if in prayer. The plane with its unconscious burden crazily sank.
He opened his eyes in a snug attic with a roof so low that he could touch it with his hand, if he felt like trying. But Vladimir didn’t feel like trying. Didn’t feel like moving at all. Underneath the warm feather-bed, his body lay stiffly tired. But his eyes roved fearfully from wooden ceiling to whitewashed walls and unpainted door. No thought disturbed the vacancy of his gaze.
Suddenly his ears caught the steady clop-clop of some one ascending stairs, and then the door opened and an old peasant with a long pipe entered. He took a deep puff and nodded several times. “How do you feel?” he asked.
Vladimir recognized it with difficulty as the German spoken in bleak Pomerania.
“Feeling better?” the old fellow repeated, louder and with a hint of irritation.
Vladimir nodded.
The old man regarded him for a moment, then puffed and spoke again: