Tex Langdon recovered consciousness slowly. His head ached; he raised a hand to bandages wound about it. Slowly he blinked the dizziness away from his eyes, wet his oil-stained lips with the tip of his tongue. He looked around.
He was propped up against the wreckage of a plane. There were khaki-clad figures moving in the mud of a field, against a back-ground of drifting fog. He turned his head slightly. The eyes of Lieutenant Adames smiled at him.
“Feel rotten, ’eh? But you do feel! That’s something.”
Lieutenant Tex Langdon managed a painful grin. It was more than something, he thought, It was everything. His blue eyes narrowed on Lieutenant Adams’ dark ones.
“You—came back—” he muttered thickly. “You got—me—down here—”
Adams grunted. “Didn’t quite do that Tex,” he stated grimly. “That tail-assembly of yours collapsed before you set her down. Figured this lope would have less fog and headed for it.”
“You came back—” Tex persisted. “After you winged into the white stuff.”
Lieutenant Adams swore softly. “You and I, Lieutenant—we’ve been acting up,” he said slowly. “You may crack up your own ships, but you cracked up two other ships, today! And you saved my neck. I couldn’t wing out on you, Tex. Figured I might be able to bank around, without the droop getting me into a slip. It was pretty rotten—winging out on you. Didn’t know, though, that you had a crippled ship.”
Tex grinned feebly. “It was damn white—after what I’ve said to you, Adams—” he said slowly. “We’ve both been—pretty thick.”