and useless thing; still, hers. She must use
it as she sees fit. Say to her--no, say nothing more. She is my Janie,
and has no need of words. Tell her to send me only one, and I will
be content.' For that one word, Janie, I have come many miles. What
shall it be?"

And she had cried out exultantly, "Why, tell him that I say--" But
the word had died in her throat. Her treacherous lips had mutinied,
and she had sat there, feeling the blood drain back out of her
face--out of her heart--feeling her eyes turn back with sheer terror,
while she fought with those stiffened rebels. Such a little word
"Live!"--surely they could say that. Was it not what he was waiting
for, lying far away and still--schooled at last to patience, the
reckless and the restless! Oh, Jerry, Jerry, live! Even now she
could feel her mind, like some frantic little wild thing, racing,
racing to escape Memory. What had he said to her? "You, wise beyond
wisdom, will never hold me--you will never hold me--you will never--"

And suddenly she had dropped her twisted hands in her lap and lifted
her eyes to Jerry's ambassador.

"Will you please tell him--will you please tell him that I
say--'Contact'?"

"Contact?" He had stood smiling down at her, ironical and tender.
"Ah, what a race! That is the prettiest word that you can find for
Jerry? But then it means to come very close, to touch, that poor
harsh word--there he must find what comfort he can. We, too, in
aviation use that word--it is the signal that says--'Now, you can fly!'
You do not know our vocabulary, perhaps?"

"I know very little."

"That is all then? No other message? He will understand, our Jerry?"

And Janie had smiled--rather a terrible small smile.

"Oh, yes," she told him. "He will understand. It is the word that he
is waiting for, you see."

"I see." But there had been a grave wonder in his voice.

"Would it----" she had framed the words as carefully as though it
were a strange tongue that she was speaking--"would it be possible
to buy his machine? He wouldn't want any one else to fly it."

"Little Janie, never fear. The man does not live who shall fly poor
Peg again. Smashed to kindling-wood and burned to ashes, she has
taken her last flight to the heaven for good and brave birds of war.
Not enough was left of her to hold in your two hands."

"I'm glad. Then that's all--isn't it? And thank you for coming."

"It is I who thank you. What was hard as death you have made easy. I