ently to
brake his crushed plane's fall.

Afterwards, Allan figured it out. The black pilot had slipped sidewise
in that last frantic moment. His effort to escape had been futile, but
instead of his ship's body, Dane's plane had struck the wing and torn
it off. The impact had irreparably damaged the American craft, but the
helicopter motor and vanes had somehow continued to function--just
enough. The stanch alumino-steeloid fuselage, though bent and
disfigured, had fended the full force of the crash from Allan and his
passenger.

Just now, however, Allan Dane was doing no figuring. Pain welled
behind his eyes, his left arm was limp, and a broken stanchion jammed
his feet so they couldn't move. The vane motor stuttered and stopped,
the plane floor dropped away from beneath him, then thudded against
something. The jar jolted Allan into a gray land where there was
nothing....

* * * * *

Someone was talking. He couldn't make out the words, but the sound was
pleasant. It soothed the throb, throb in his head. Gosh, that had been
some party last night, celebrating Flight ZLX's first prize in
maneuvers! Great bunch, but would they be as good in real war--sure to
come soon? Dane's stuff had too much kick; he must have passed out
early.

Somebody shaking him.

"Lea' me 'lone; wanna sleep."

"Oh, wake up, please wake up."

Girl's voice. Nice voice. Voice like that should have pretty face.
Better not look, though; too bad if she had buck teeth or squint eyes.

"Oh, what will I do? You're not dead? Please, you're not dead?"

"Don't think so. Head hurts too much." Allan opened his eyes. "Wrong
again. Mus' be dead. Only angel could look like that. Not in right
place, though. Mistake in shipping directions--tags switched or
something."

A cold hand lay across his brow, and he felt it quiver. "Don't talk
like that. Wake up." There was hysteria in the limpid tones.

Allan's brain mists cleared, and he grinned wryly. "I remember now.
You all right?"

"Yes. But who are you? Are you Anthony Starr?"

"No. But Anthony sent me." Allan struggled to rise. He saw twisted
wreckage beside him. He gasped. "I seem to be a bit conked. But
what--what do you know about Anthony?"

The girl fumbled in her garments, brought out a paper. Allan found
that he could move his right arm without much pain. He took the
yellowed sheet, and read the faded writing.

Dear Naomi:

You are asleep, and we