he aches and pains took
charge of his body, and his brain awakened fully with a terrible memory.

"Freddy! Freddy Farmer!"

Hardly realizing that his lips had gasped out his pal's name, he
struggled to push himself up. But even as he started the effort, other
hands were placed upon him and he was gently pressed down to his
original position. A position that he then realized was flat on his back
in a hospital bed. And then the face of the owner of those gently
pressing hands came into his vision, and he recognized Colonel Welsh.

"Don't, son," the Intelligence Chief said softly. "Just let yourself go,
boy, and relax completely. Farmer is all right. Shot up a little, just
as you were, but he'll pull through with flying colors."

"You're sure, sir?" Dawson choked out. "You mean it? You wouldn't kid
a--"

"My word of honor," Colonel Welsh stopped him. "He's weak, yes, from the
loss of blood, just as you are. But he'll be all right, just as you'll
be all right after a period of mending and resting. And if you'll
promise to get another good sleep, I'll have you moved into Farmer's
room so that you can be together. And, son--"

"Hey!" Dawson blurted out, as the thought suddenly came to him. "The
President's party, and--"

He would have said more, but Colonel Welsh put a hand to his lips.
"Don't waste strength talking, son," he admonished with a smile.
"Believe me, everything is perfect. The war conference is under way
right now. And never mind giving me a report, either. Both you and
Farmer have babbled it all in the two days since you've been here. I
don't know what to say, Dawson. Wonderful isn't half the word that's
needed. I can only say that it is another great debt that civilized man
owes to you two. But for what you did, just you two alone, there's no
telling what terrible changes there might have been in this war. We
caught the Nazi agent here who sent the signal of the President's coming
to that secret base. He was one of von Steuben's men my agents had been
watching, hoping he would lead them to bigger fish. But it turned out
_he_ was the big fish here at Casablanca. We caught him at his hidden
radio, but the message had already gone through. He admitted it, even
boasted about it, saying that it was too late for us to do anything. No
matter how many planes we put in the air, some of those Junkers would
get through in time. That was no lie. Some of them, and maybe all of
them would have gotten through, because