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A resounding crash split the air. Metal ripped, a fuel tank exploded. A black wing scaled earthward, zigzagging oddly. Dane’s craft and the Eastern ship clung in an embrace of death. They started to drop. But, queerly, the black plane fell faster, left the white one behind as its descent gained speed till it splashed against concrete below. The American helicopter was dropping, too, but sluggishly. Something was buoying it up. Allan, momentarily struggling out of the welter of blackness and pain into which the concussion had thrown him, heard a familiar whine. His helio-vanes were still twirling, limply, stutteringly, bent and twisted, but gripping the air sufficiently 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 have been standing by your couch, drinking in the dear sight of you. You sleep soundly, tired as you are by the long-promised story we told you on this, your sixteenth birthday, the tale of how the world you know only from our teachings was destroyed, of how we planned with our friends to escape the general fate, of how an accident separated us from them and immured us here alone, of how you were born in this room and why you have lived here all your short life. We told you all that, but there is one thing we did not tell you.

Our food supply has run low, and the gas outside shows no signs of abatement. With careful husbanding we could all three live for another four months, but there is no prospect that we shall be released in so short a time. Alone, you will have sufficient for a year. If we had had some of Carl Thorman’s life-suspension serum–but it was his perfection of that which caused the change of plan to a common refuge, and we never thought to stock with it the discarded rooms in our own apartments.