"Seen anybody--Look out! Duck!"

Kinnison had already heard that unmistakable, unforgettable screech, was
already diving headlong into the nearest hole. There was a crash as
though the world were falling apart. Something smote him; seemed to
drive him bodily into the ground. His light went out. When he recovered
consciousness he was lying upon a stretcher; two men were bending over
him.

"What hit me?" he gasped. "Am I...?" He stopped. He was afraid to ask:
afraid even to try to move, lest he should find that he didn't have any
arms or legs.

"A wheel, and maybe some of the axle, of the other ambulance, is all,"
one of the men assured him. "Nothing much; you're practically as good as
ever. Shoulder and arm bunged up a little and something--maybe shrapnel,
though--poked you in the guts. But we've got you all fixed up, so take
it easy and...."

"What we want to know is," his partner interrupted, "Is there anybody
else alive up here?"

"Uh-huh," Kinnison shook his head.

"O.K. Just wanted to be sure. Lots of business back there, and it won't
do any harm to have a doctor look at you."

"Get me to a 'phone, as fast as you can," Kinnison directed, in a voice
which he thought was strong and full of authority, but which in fact
was neither. "I've got an important message for General Weatherby, at
Spearmint."

"Better tell us what it is, hadn't you?" The ambulance was now jolting
along what had been the road. "They've got phones at the hospital where
we're going, but you might faint or something before we get there."

Kinnison told, but fought to retain what consciousness he had.
Throughout that long, rough ride he fought. He won. He himself spoke to
General Weatherby--the doctors, knowing him to be a Captain of Aviation
and realizing that his message should go direct, helped him telephone.
He himself received the General's sizzlingly sulphurous assurance that
relief would be sent and that that quadruply-qualified line would be
rectified that night.

Then someone jabbed him with a needle and he lapsed into a dizzy, fuzzy
coma, from which he did not emerge completely for weeks. He had lucid
intervals at times, but he did not, at the time or ever, know surely
what was real and what was fantasy.

There were doctors, doctors, doctors; operations, operations,
operations. There were hospital tents, into which quiet men were
carried; from which still quieter men were removed. There was a larger
hospital, built of woo