Dawson shouted the last because young Farmer, some ten or fifteen feet ahead of him in the gloom, had suddenly buckled at the knees and had fallen slowly to the ground. Dave leaped forward toward his prostrate pal and had started to kneel down beside him when suddenly there was a rustling sound in the sugar cane to his right. He turned his head and caught a fleeting glimpse of bare feet and trousers. Then the Trinidad sky seemed to fall on top of his head with a thunderous roar of sound, and a great shower of red, yellow, orange and purple sparks.
"Hey! What—"
From a million miles away he heard the hoarse whisper of his own voice. Then the hands of an invisible giant seemed to grab hold of him, lift him high, and fling him spinning head over heels out across a world composed of booming sound and flashing light.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Eagles Can Take It
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!"