The Flying Legion | Page 9

and saluted.
The Master returned the salute. A moment's silence followed. No man was looking
elsewhere than at this interloper.
Not much could be seen of him, so swaddled was he in sheepskin jacket, aviator's helmet,
and goggles. Leather trousers and leggings completed his costume. The collar of the
jacket, turned up, met the helmet. Of his face, only the chin and lower part of the cheeks
remained visible.
The silence tautened, stretched to the breaking-point. All at once the master of Niss'rosh
demanded, incisively:
"Your name, sir?"

"Captain Alfred Alden, of the R.A.F."
"Royal Air Force man, eh? Are you prepared to prove that?"
"I am."
"If you're not, well--this won't be exactly a salubrious altitude for you."
"I have my papers, my licenses, my commission."
"With you here?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very well," answered the Master, "I will examine them in due time. English, American,
or--?"
"I am a Canadian." answered the aviator. "I have seen nearly two years' active service. I
rank as an ace. I bear three wounds and have been cited several times. I have the
Distinguished Service Cross. What more need I tell you, sir?"
His voice was steady and rang true. The Master nodded approval, that seemed to echo
round the room in a buzz of acceptance. But there were still other questions to be asked.
The next one was:
"How did you come here? It's obvious my man didn't bring you up."
"I came in my own plane, sir," the stranger answered, in a dead hush of stillness. "It just
now landed on the roof of this building. If you will draw the curtains, there behind you, I
believe you can see it for yourself."
"I heard no engine."
"I volplaned in. I don't say this to boast sir, but I can handle the average plane as
accurately as most men handle their own fingers."
"Were you invited to attend this meeting by either Major Bohannan or by me?"
"No, sir, I was not."
"Then, why are you here?"
"Why am I here? For exactly the same reason that all the rest are here, sir!" The aviator
swept his arm comprehensively at the ranks of eagerly listening men. "To resume active
service. To get back to duty. To live, again! In short, to join this expedition and to share
all its adventures!"
"Hm! Either that, or to interfere with us."

"Not the latter, sir! I swear that!"
"How did you know there was going to be an expedition, at all?" demanded the Master,
his brows tensed, lips hard, eyes very keen. The aviator seemed smiling, as he answered:
"I know many things. Some may be useful to you all. I am offering you my skill and
knowledge, such as they may be, without any thought or hope of reward."
"Why?"
"Because I am tired of life. Because I want--must have--the freedom of the open roads,
the inspiration of some great adventure! Surely, you understand."
"Yes, if what you say is true, and you are not a spy. Show us your face, sir!"
The aviator loosened his helmet and removed it, disclosing a mass of dark hair, a
well-shaped head and a vigorous neck. Then he took off his goggles.
A kind of communal whisper of astonishment and hostility ran round the apartment. The
man's whole face--save for eyeholes through which dark pupils looked strangely out--was
covered by a close-fitting, flesh-colored celluloid mask.
This mask reached from the roots of his hair to his mouth. It sloped away down the left
jaw, and somewhat up the cheekbone of the right side. The mask was firmly strapped in
place around the head and neck.
"What does all this mean, sir?" demanded the Master, sharply. "Why the mask?"
"Is that a necessary question, sir?" replied the aviator, while a buzz of curiosity and
suspicion rose. "You have seen many such during the war and since its close."
"Badly disfigured, are you?"
"That word, 'disfigured,' does not describe it, sir. Others have wounds, but my whole face
is nothing but a wound. No, let me put it more accurately--there is, practically speaking,
no face at all. The gaping cavity that exists under this mask would certainly sicken the
strongest men among you, and turn you against me.
"We can't tolerate what disgusts, even if its qualities be excellent. In exposing myself to
you, sir, I should certainly be insuring my rejection. But what you cannot see, what you
can only imagine, will not make you refuse me."
The Master pondered a moment, then nodded and asked:
"Is it so very bad, sir?"
"It's a thing of horror, incredible, awful, unreal! In the hospital at Rouen, they called me
'The Kaiser's Masterpiece.' Some of the most hardened surgeons couldn't look at me, or
dress my--wound, let us call it--without a