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head at everything that came his way, a movement that struck fear into uneasy consciences and ensured the proper upkeep of the plant.
    He was not beloved—but then inspectors are not made for love and such delights, only for drawing up reports. He had desisted from proposing changes of system or technical improvements since Rivière had written:
Inspector Robineau is requested to supply reports, not poems. He will be putting his talents to better use by speeding up the personnel.
From that day forth Inspector Robineau had battened on human frailties, as on his daily bread; on the mechanic who had a glass too much, the airport overseer who stayed up of nights, the pilot who bumped a landing.
    Rivière said of him: “He is far from intelligent, but very useful to us, such as he is.” One of the rules which Rivière rigorously imposed—upon himself—was a knowledge of his men. For Robineau the only knowledge that counted was knowledge of the
orders.
    â€œRobineau,” Rivière had said one day, “you must cut the punctuality bonus whenever a plane starts late.”
    â€œEven when it’s nobody’s fault? In case of fog, for instance?”
    â€œEven in case of fog.”
    Robineau felt a thrill of pride in knowing that his chief was strong enough not to shrink from being unjust. Surely Robineau himself would win reflected majesty from such overweening power!
    â€œYou postponed the start till six fifteen,” he would say to the airport superintendents. “We cannot allow your bonus.”
    â€œBut, Monsieur Robineau, at five thirty one couldn’t see ten yards ahead!”
    â€œThose are the
orders.
“
    â€œBut, Monsieur Robineau, we couldn’t sweep the fog away with a broom!”
    He alone amongst all these nonentities knew the secret; if you only punish men enough, the weather will improve!
    â€œHe never thinks at all,” said Rivière of him, “and that prevents him from thinking wrong.”
    The pilot who damaged a plane lost his no-accident bonus.
    â€œBut supposing his engine gives out when he is over a wood?” Robineau inquired of his chief.
    â€œEven when it occurs above a wood.”
    Robineau took to heart the
ipse dixit.
    â€œI regret,” he would inform the pilots with cheerful zest, “I regret it very much indeed, but you should have had your breakdown somewhere else.”
    â€œBut, Monsieur Robineau, one doesn’t choose the place to have it.”
    â€œThose are the orders.”
    The orders, thought Rivière, are like the rites of a religion; they may look absurd but they shape men in their mold. It was no concern to Rivière whether he seemed just or unjust. Perhaps the words were meaningless to him. The little townsfolk of the little towns promenade each evening round a bandstand and Rivière thought: It’s nonsense to talk of being just or unjust toward them; they don’t exist.
    For him, a man was a mere lump of wax to be kneaded into shape. It was his task to furnish this dead matter with a soul, to inject will power into it. Not that he wished to make slaves of his men; his aim was to raise them above themselves. In punishing them for each delay he acted, no doubt, unjustly, but he bent the will of every crew to punctual departure; or, rather, he bred in them the will to keep to time. Denying his men the right to welcome foggy weather as the pretext for a leisure hour, he kept them so breathlessly eager for the fog to lift that even the humblest mechanic felt a twinge of shame for the delay. Thus they were quick to profit by the least rift in the armor of the skies.
    â€œAn opening on the north; let’s be off!”
    Thanks to Rivière the service of the mails was paramount over twenty thousand miles of land and sea.
    â€œThe men are happy,” he would say, “because they like their work, and they like it because I am hard.”
    And hard he may have been—still he