The music was soft and soothing; like no other music ever heard on earth before. And all about was beauty far beyond the reach of words, or the brush of an artist. Everything was so wonderful, so perfect, and so—

But into Dawson's throbbing, pounding head slipped a tiny inkling of the stark naked truth. There was no soft, soothing music. And there was no breathtaking beauty. In fact, nothing was wonderful, or even approaching perfection. All was Death! Horrible, lingering, painful death that comes to a man lost and unarmed in the steaming lush jungle of northern Burma.

Yes, it was just his brain, and all of his senses playing him tricks originated by the Devil. Tricks to make him let go, and just relax peacefully—and die! But he wouldn't let go. And he wouldn't die. He couldn't! There was too much to—

The roaring whine of aircraft engines pulled his head up out of the jungle mud and slime. He rolled half over on his back, gritted his teeth against the pain that movement caused, and peered up through the canopy of jungle growth at four Jap Zeros cutting across the blue-white sky toward the north. For a moment or so he blinked up at them stupidly. And then, like flood waters storming over a broken dam, memory came rushing back.

"Freddy!" he gasped, and pushed himself painfully up onto his feet. "Freddy! I saw him bail out! Or did he?"

The thought seemed to catch hold of his brain and twist it savagely. White hot fire shot across the backs of his eyeballs, and the mass of lush green jungle all about began to swim around and become as so much churned up pea soup. He grabbed hold of a hanging vine for support, closed his eyes tight and fought grimly to drive back the wave of black oblivion that tried to engulf him. After a few moments his brain cleared a little, and his thumping heart eased off considerably.

"Easy does it, pal!" he told himself, tight-lipped. "Don't go off half-cocked. It'll just get you that much more trouble."

The sound of his own voice seemed to soothe his jangled nerves. He nodded, and slowly looked about him.

"One thing at a time is the way," he went on talking to himself. "First, get out of this spot. Pick some high ground, and head for it. You can't be so very far away from the Salween. Pick a hill and maybe you'll spot the river. But take it easy, and don't break a leg getting there. You—"

A thought suddenly cut into his head and froze his brain solid. And for a long minute he just stood there hanging onto the vine as he mentally died a thousand times over. Then, with an almost superhuman effort, he reached his right hand inside his tunic. When his fingers touched the stiff paper of the sealed envelope, tears of utter, inexpressible relief sprang to his eyes, and a great big lump clogged up his throat. Praise be to God! The sealed envelope for Chiang Kai-shek was still safe! But for a moment—

He shook his head, refusing to finish the horrible thought. It did little good, however, to brush that unfinished thought from his brain. Another one popped right in that was equally heart-stopping. The thought, the realization that he was completely lost in the North Burma jungle with no telling what was lurking in wait for him. If he didn't get out and complete his trip to Chungking, it would be just the same as though Freddy and he had been killed in that German U-boat, or by that Jap near Pearl Harbor, or by the little brown rats at Legaspi. Yes, to fail now would be just as bad as failing right at the very start. And he might—

"Cut it, cut it!" he rasped savagely at himself. "Words won't help a darn bit. Action is what's needed! Snap out of it, you sniveling punk. Get going! Stop crying for your Mama! Get going!"

The commands from his tongue put his muscles into action. He took a quick glance at the position of the sun, and then headed north, and slightly to the east. He had a hunch that the Salween River lay in that direction, and until he was proved wrong the only thing he could do was to play hunches.

An hour later, though, the soul-crushing torment that comes to men lost in the jungle was closing in on him from all sides like an invisible army of demons. With every step he had practically walked hand and hand with Death. Every step? His travel through the thick jungle growth could hardly be called steps. It was more falling forward, scrambling forward, lurching, twisting, and virtually clawing and tearing his way through the hanging vines. Hard ground would be beneath his feet at one moment, and in the next he would be up to his knees in muck and mire. Clouds of insects attacked him every inch of the way, and there was the constant danger of the needle fangs of deadly snakes. He spotted at least a dozen of them in the nick of time. But as the year long minutes dragged on and on, he ceased to care about what might be in his path. And there was so much pain in all parts of his body that he would have been unable to feel any new pain from the fangs of a striking snake, or any other jungle animal.

And then, when his brain as well as his body was hovering on the verge of a complete breakdown, he stumbled out onto open ground. But for a moment or two his befuddled brain was unable to grasp that truth, and he continued lurching and reeling forward until his foot tripped over a stone, and he fell flat on his face. It was the sharp, jarring pain of meeting hard ground that shook the red cobwebs from his brain, and pulled away the grey-green curtains from in front of his eyes. Yet even then the brain was not quite ready to function as it should, and he stared blankly up the bare slope of a hill without realizing what it was.

Eventually, though, it registered on his brain. And he also took note of the fact that a thin column of oily black smoke was mounting high into the still air from around the left side of the hill. A little door in his brain seemed to open up and tell him that that smoke must be from a burning plane. His plane, or Freddy Farmer's? He didn't know. The thin column of smoke was simply a welcoming beacon. Something tangible between a lost man and a world he had once known. He only knew that tears were streaming down his cheeks, that gagging sobs filled his throat, and that a pair of legs that had been on the point of quitting completely a moment or two before were carrying him at full speed around the base of the hill.

The gleefully jeering gods of war refused to let him alone, however. As he skirted the base of the hill, jungle growth leaped up in front of him to block off what was at the ground end of that mounting column of smoke. It forced him high and higher up the hill, and made him travel a good two miles toward a spot that was actually a short six hundred yards from his starting point. But eventually he reached a spot where the heavy growth ceased abruptly, and he found himself staring down the hill at the burning wreckage of a plane on the edge of a fair-sized plot of barren level ground. It was as though Nature had taken a pair of shears, started some three hundred yards back in the jungle, and cut a perfect swath through the jungle and right up the side of the hill.

Yes, that's what it looked like, but Dawson didn't tarry one fleeting instant to observe and marvel. He didn't for the simple reason that he saw the figure of Freddy Farmer standing a little off from the burning wreckage. Freddy Farmer spotted him at almost the same instant, and started jumping up and down, waving his arms wildly, and shouting like a maniac. But Dawson didn't wave or shout back in reply. He didn't wave because he was using his arms to pump his body down the hill. And he didn't shout because the air he sucked into his lungs was needed to keep his piston rod legs going at full speed.

As a matter of fact, when he finally reached Freddy Farmer and practically fell into the English youth's arms, there wasn't the air in his lungs to permit him to say anything. Nor could Freddy speak, either. The emotions of both of them had hit an all-time high, and they could only cling to each other and struggle for control and sanity.

"Freddy, Freddy, boy!" Dawson finally managed to force out past his lips. "Am I happy to see your ugly mug! Say, am I happy?"

"Not half so glad as I am to see you, Dave!" Freddy panted, and pounded him on the back. "I thought it was all up for fair. And it was a horrible thought I never want to have again, old thing. Another five minutes and I'd have given you up for good, and tried to find my way out of here. But—but you did see this smoke, and my prayers were answered. Why, you old good-for-nothing blighter, I never dreamed I'd taken such a fancy to you!"

"Me, too!" Dawson grinned at him. "It had to take something like this to make me realize you're not such a bad guy at times. But hey! That burned crate was the bus I was flying, wasn't it?"

"That's right," Freddy told him. "My aircraft didn't burn. And I bailed out near this spot. I saw this smoke and headed for it, hoping that you'd sight it, too, and we'd meet. And we did. But, good grief, Dave, what took you so long? I've been here almost an hour!"

"What took me so long?" Dawson echoed. "Look, pal! I've been crawling through stuff that you just can't crawl through, if you get what I mean. Sweet tripe! After this little adventure a desert is sure going to look wonderful to me! I'll be tearing vines aside in my dreams for years to come. Holy smokes! Just look at me!"

"I am," Freddy Farmer said with a grin. "And not to be impolite, I'd suggest a good bath for you, old thing!"

"It'll take a day of just soaking to get off the first layer!" Dawson said as he stared down at his mud and slime-caked hands, and at his uniform that just wasn't a uniform any more. "But let's cut the horsing around. We're still in a spot, Freddy. I haven't any idea which way is out, have you?"

"Just a half-belief that the Salween must be east of here," the English youth said. "But goodness knows how many of the Japs may be in between. And—"

"Plane engines!" Dawson barked, and grabbed Freddy's arm. "Probably the Jap patrol I spotted when I woke up. This burning ship. They see the smoke. Let's duck, Freddy! We'd be sweet targets for those rats out here in the open!"

Freddy Farmer didn't reply. He simply nodded and started running with Dawson for the bordering jungle. But when they were a few yards from it some impulse caused Dawson to turn his head and glance back up over his shoulder. A wild cry burst from his lips, and he skidded to such an abrupt halt that he almost tripped over himself to go flat and haul Freddy down with him.

"P-Forties!" he gagged out. "Hold everything. P-Forties! Not Zeros, Freddy!"

The English youth had skidded to a halt, too, and both boys stood gazing unbelieving up at three Flying Tiger P-Forties ripping into view over the brow of the hill. And the next thing Dawson realized he was racing back out onto the field again, jumping up and down and waving both hands over his head. And right beside him Freddy Farmer was doing the same thing, if not a little more violently.

But for one heart-shriveling instant the three Curtiss P-Forties, with their shark-painted noses, went banging right on across the field, as though their pilots hadn't sighted a thing of interest beneath their wings. However, when they reached the far end, two of them came curving around and down, while the third went up for a bit of altitude, and started circling about.

"They're landing, Freddy, they're landing!" Dawson screamed crazily.

"I know, I see!" the English youth screamed back, and pulled on his arm. "So get out of the way, you blasted idiot, before their props chop your head off!"

That bit of sanity registered on Dawson's happy merry-go-round brain, and he let Freddy Farmer pull him clear of the path of the two landing P-Forties. But as soon as they had touched earth, and were wheel-braking to a halt, he broke away from Freddy's grasp and went pounding over. The pilot who leaped out of the first P-Forty was Major Brown, and he let out a warwhoop of greeting.

"Chalk one up for Lady Luck!" he boomed, as the two youths came racing up. "I would have bet my shirt that—But never mind. By luck we spotted this smoke, and came for a look. Thank the Lord for small things, but this isn't small. Heavens above, Dawson! What mud hole and bramble patch did you fall into? But skip the answer. You two got the strength to hang on for a piggy-ride back?"

"If we haven't, we'll find it somewhere!" Dawson grinned. Then, sobering quickly, "But do you think you can get off here with the extra load?"

"If we don't," the other Flying Tiger, a freckle-faced red head, spoke up, "then there'll be four of us stuck here. And after what I saw you two guys do today, you're swell company any place, in my book."

"And that feeling is mutual," Dawson grinned at him. "But tell me, how did the scrap come out? Did the Japs—?"

"Still running, those that aren't dead!" Major Brown said grimly. "Yeah! Another headache for Tokyo, and more coming up. But let's can this chatter session. The Japs occupy this neck of the woods, and they'd be very happy to catch us here with our pants down. So let's get going. Sweeney! You take Farmer, and don't let him fall off, see? Come along, Dawson. Nothing like an airplane ride in the open air!"

Just four minutes later Lieutenant Sweeney, of the American Volunteer Group in China, sent his P-Forty rocketing down the length of the level patch of Burmese ground. And standing on the left wing butt, with his head and shoulders and arms inside the cockpit, Freddy Farmer went along as passenger. The savage prop-wash caught at Freddy's legs and tried to pull them out from under him, but he was well braced, and his hands had an iron grip on the inside of the cockpit. So he stayed put, and the veteran Flying Tiger lifted the fighter plane off the ground at the right moment, and nursed it up over the rim of the jungle and on up toward the blue-white sky.

And thirty seconds later Major Brown took off with Dave Dawson as his "strap-hanging" passenger. When that plane was well clear of the ground, the P-Forty that had been left top-side to ride cover slid downward, and the three planes slid into formation with their noses pointed for the home field at Menglien some eighty odd miles away.