Argosy: The Short Story Magazine — page 89: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

— ——>Y > SY aye ——_—— a, ae oe el bs -- — ~~ ay tt —=— >i Se ed i | = 4 — Pe PP ee ee , “ > £- t = Cc’ % ‘ “~ : - HEART OF THE STORM 89 Kelston felt tired. His arms ached after their continuous wrestling with the controls. Dried sweat and oil had caked his hands with grime. He-turned on the taps in the adjoining bath- room, and then, sitting on the bed, he started undressing slowly and mechanically, while he thought about the Santa Lucinda. Now that he was back on the ground, like most other airline pilots, Kelston had a lost look about him which even the kindliness of the room could not quite drive away. Not even his own house. where he spent a week out of every three, could be called his home. The nearest thing to it was the inside of a Marlborough. That noisy, confined little kingdom was where normally he felt happiest When he was not flying, Kelston tended to feel frustrated, con- scious of the many things he had not done with his life. He had gone into his father’s export business, which had been one of the first casualties of the war. He had joined the Air Force, learnt to fly, acquired a certain tight-lipped stoniness on his face, which conveniently walled out his thoughts from other people. And afterwards, partly because there was nothing else to do, partly because flying was now in his blood, he had joined British Empire Airways. It was a familiar pattern that he shared with many people, but in his heart he was not satisfied with it. As a kind of sop to an active and intelligent brain that largely lay idle, for his work was mainly routine, he wrote articles on the technical side of flying for several aviation magazines. When he was fully undressed and his clothes lay in a heap around him, he padded across the carpet to the bathroom in his bare feet and turned off the hot tap. After he’d scrubbed himself clean, Kelston relaxed in the warm water, feeling its comfortable touches all over his skin. Then with an effort he got out, dried himself, and put on his pyjamas He would have a couple of hours’ sleep till dinner-time. Normally his body was used to misuse. It had to be prepared for long hours on duty without a rest. Even at home, five hours’ sleep at night was enough. Round dawn, he would wake and read until everyone else was ready to get up. But this time, the storm had taken more than the usual amount of energy a trip demanded. He was dead tired. He stretched on the bed. Within a few minutes he was asleep. The room’s quiet serenity hung over him as he lay, looking strangely defenceless, his long fingers unaware how tightly they gripped the coverlet over him. The old-fashioned furniture in the room seemed to hold its breath lest it disturb him. But, nevertheless, he slept restlessly. For three hours he always seemed just on the point of waking. Even in unconsciousness, the Santa Lucinda was still weighing on his mind It was past ten when he awoke. ‘That meant he had missed dinner and he swore softly when he looked at his watch. It was still pouring with rain outside He pushed back the bedclothes and comiclbooks.comnn