Blame Those Who Die

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A young man with pale blue eyes and a shy smile entered the offices of the Hindustan Aircraft Works at Bangalore and asked the clerk if he could see Mr. Duton. The clerk typed busily, and in about five minutes the stranger came back out of Mr. Duton’s office. He and Mr. Duton stood at the door a moment, lire young man held a sheet of paper with Mr. Duton’s distinctive scribbling on it in his hand.

Mr. Duton was saying, “—and if your people find the installation doesn’t suit them, fly the aircraft back here and we’ll try a slower reverse gear in the drum.”

“I’m certain that it will be acceptable. I merely take this sheet to Building 18, they’ll wheel it out and I can fly it off?”

“Quite right. And we appreciate being able to do business with you.”

The young man said a polite good day and left. Mr. Duton stood for a few moments after the outer door had closed behind the straight back, a pleased look on his face. “Nice young man,” he murmured.

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