A death-like stillness was everywhere. In that total absence of sound, Dawson was aware of a throbbing, pounding pain in his head that made him feel as though somebody were chopping it apart. Silence, darkness, and somebody chopping his head to pieces. These three things Dawson's sluggish brain could grasp, or at least grasp for a moment at a time. All else, though, was just a great big blank. He didn't know where he was, or what had happened. He scarcely remembered who he was.

Suddenly a prickly pain all over his face seemed to speed up the functioning of his brain. That, and the dull realization that he could barely breathe because something was clamped hard against his nose and mouth. Realization, yes; but there was not yet enough strength in his body to do anything about it. For that matter, he felt as if he had no body. He was aware of nothing but the pain in his head. Maybe his body was gone, and only his head was living on. Did such things happen? Was it possible for—

"Dave! Dave, old man! Oh—Dave!"

Sound? Yes, that was the sound of a voice! But whose voice? Dave couldn't see anything because of the darkness, shattered every now and then by pin-points of glittering light, like falling stars in the night heavens. He—The thought dribbled away as a sense feeling returned to his "absent" body. He suddenly realized that he was being picked up, or rolled over on his back. The prickly pain left his face at once. In the next instant he knew that his eyes were open, because he was conscious of many shadows. The shadows moved, but no objects were clearly outlined.

"Dave! Dave, old thing! Can you hear me?"

An arm was about his shoulders, and a hand was brushing his face. The brushing seemed to remove every trace of the prickly pain. It also seemed to cause the shadows to stop moving and gradually take on shape and outline. He know he was looking at treetops outlined against a pale grey sky that grew darker and darker as he looked at it. A head came into view. He saw wide, fear-filled eyes and lips that moved but made no sound, save dry sobs. Suddenly, as though a button had been pressed inside his head, his sluggish brain started to speed up, and in a flash complete consciousness returned. Memory too, came flooding back like waters pouring through a broken dam.

"Freddy!" he heard himself gasp. "You—you okay, Freddy?"

The arm about his shoulders tightened, and Freddy's choking voice answered, "Thank goodness, Dave! I thought—I could hardly feel your heart beat. You can thank God for your helmet, and I for mine, too. Our heads would have been caved in but for them. No, Dave! Don't try to sit up. You got it worse than I, or maybe my head is harder."

"I'll feel better sitting up, Freddy," Dawson mumbled, and sat up in spite of Farmer's plea for him to lie still.

For the first couple of seconds, though, it didn't help at all. The throbbing pain doubled in intensity, and he thought his head was going to fly off his shoulders. After the first couple of seconds the throbbing pain died down, and he could feel new strength surging through his body. It was then that he took a good look at Freddy Farmer, let out a little startled cry, and impulsively reached out a hand.

"Jeepers, Freddy!" he gasped. "You look like you've been through a meat grinder, and—Holy smokes! Look at me, will you? I look even worse. My tunic's in ribbons, and—"

Dawson stopped talking and stared wide-eyed at young Farmer. The English-born air ace returned his look and nodded slowly as he wet his lips with his tongue.

"Quite, Dave," he said in a strained voice. "Some dirty beggar chopped us down and searched us from head to foot for something he didn't find."

An icy chill swept through Dawson, and he swallowed hard. It was a second or two before he could speak.

"Those sealed envelopes, I bet!" he whispered. "We got rid of them just in time. But, my gosh, Freddy! Who—"

Dawson let the thought go unspoken because it seemed so utterly incredible."Yes, who?" Freddy Farmer echoed, and gave a little shrug of his shoulders. "Somebody, that's certain. Gosh, he came close to killing us. When I came to and saw you with your ripped tunic pulled up over your head and your face pushed down into the dirt, I thought sure you were a goner. Look, Dave, take off your helmet, if it doesn't hurt too much. I want to see if it's more than just a bump. If your scalp's been cut, I can patch it from this pocket Red Cross kit I carry."

But Dawson had already explored under his helmet with very gentle fingertips. He had two bumps side by side, not over an inch above a point where two such blows would undoubtedly have paralyzed him for life, if not killed him instantly. As it was, there were just the two bumps and no wet or caked blood.

"Just bumps, Freddy," he said, and forced a chuckle. "A couple of pips, but you know me, Old Iron Head. How about you, though?"

"I'm lucky," Freddy said, and tried to match Dawson's forced gaiety. "Just one lump, but I'm sure the old noggin will ache for months. We'd better bear this in mind, Dave. We can't stand another of these attacks."

"Says which?" Dawson mumbled."We couldn't possibly be that lucky twice," the English youth explained. "Blast this whole business, though! I don't like things I don't understand. I definitely don't!"

Dave Dawson didn't make any comment on that. He got slowly to his feet, steeled himself while a dizziness swept through his head, and then began a methodical search of his uniform pockets. Watching him, Freddy Farmer waited until he had inspected their contents and had put them back.

"Anything missing, Dave?" he asked.

"Nothing, not even my money," Dawson replied with a note of grimness in his voice. "So that proves it. Proves it wasn't a stick-up and plain robbery. That we're both still alive and more or less kicking proves murder wasn't the big idea, either. They were after something that we didn't have any more. And—Sweet tripe, Freddy! That was over a couple of hours ago. Look at the time, will you?"

As Dawson spoke he thrust out his wrist watch. Ferry Farmer didn't glance at the radium-painted dial. He simply nodded.

"I know," he said. "I didn't enjoy our little nap at all. If you really do feel up to it, Dave, what say we get on along back, what? Major Parker may be wondering about us."

"Yeah," Dawson said, and stopped short. "Major Parker, Freddy?" he said after a long pause. "He knows that code of the colonel's. He delivered that message to us, but swears he read only the signature. And he is the only one, outside of those two Air Transport Command pilots, that we've spoken to here. But heck! I'm just plain nuts. It just couldn't be!"

"And I don't think it is, Dave," Freddy Farmer murmured. "I'd bet my life it wasn't Major Parker. He—Half a minute, Dave! Here comes somebody along the path! I can see two flashlights!"

"Me, too!" Dawson answered quickly. "I can—" He stopped as the silence of night was suddenly broken with a loud hail.

"Hello-o-o-o-o! Dawson and Farmer! Where are you? Hello-o-o-o! Dawson and Farmer-r-r-r!"

"That's Parker!" Dawson cried. "Out looking for us. Let's go, Freddy!"

Dawson took a couple of steps, then stopped and cupped his two hands to his mouth.

"Hello-o-o there, Major!" he bellowed. "We're coming!"

As his call died away, he could tell by the movement of the beams of light far back along the path that whoever held the flashlights was coming on the run. He and Freddy walked toward the approaching lights, and after a couple of minutes one of them was playing over him at close quarters. Major Parker's dumbfounded comments were splitting the night air.

"Good grief, what happened to you two? I waited mess for you, but when you didn't show up I got worried for fear you'd got lost. Somebody said they saw you heading up this path, so we came after you. Good grief! What happened? Are you badly hurt?"

By "we," Major Parker meant himself and one of the field pilots, who was carrying the other flashlight. On impulse Dawson gave the man, whose name was Tracey, a searching look, but he saw only bewildered amazement and sympathy in the sun-and-wind bronzed face.

"We don't exactly know, sir," Dawson answered the major. "We were heading back to the base when suddenly the lights went out. Somebody jumped us from the sugar cane. When we woke up, we were as you see us, but nothing was missing."

"Nothing?" Major Parker asked sharply.

"Not a darn thing, sir!" Dawson replied truthfully. "I don't get it. And I don't like it, either. Thanks, though, for coming after us."

Major Parker dismissed the last with a wave of his hand, and opened his mouth as though to say something important. He seemed to change his mind as he shot a quick glance at Tracey, because he gave a little shrug and remarked, "Well, standing around here isn't helping anything. I'd better get you two back so you can clean up. We've got some spare uniforms, and it won't be hard to find your fit. Slugged, and not a thing missing, huh? Well, that's a new one on me. Okay, let's get back—if you two really aren't hurt badly?"

"Just a bump or two, sir," Dawson assured him. "Nothing to write home about, at all."

"Quite," Freddy Farmer murmured. "Received worse than this in a crash or two. We're quite all right, sir."

Major Parker paused, scowled, and shot them both a keen, searching look. He said nothing, though; he just shrugged, turned around, and started leading the way back along the path that skirted the sugar cane plantation.