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—