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DAVE DAWSON WITH THE FLYING TIGERS
The music was soft and soothing; like no other music ever heard on earth before. And all about was beauty far beyond the power of words to depict, or the brush of an artist. Everything was so wonderful, so perfect, and so—
But through Dawson's throbbing, pounding head slipped a tiny inkling of the stark, naked truth. There was no soft, soothing music, there was no breath-taking beauty, and 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 north 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—and die. But he wouldn't let go. He wouldn't die. He couldn't. There was too much to—
The whine of engines pulled his head up out of the mud and slime. He rolled half over, gritted his teeth against the pain, and peered up through the twisted canopy of jungle growth.