He thought about Jane, and his heart softened for a moment. This was just as well, however. She would forget him, while he had no future worth thinking about. Only hard work, partly because he liked activity, partly because it kept him from brooding about the date of his certain death.
A wonderful woman, Jane Nolan; one not to be hurt by fate's little tricks. But so long as he was here, she—
The crystal he had in his pocket flashed brilliantly, penetrating the cloth and lighting up the cabin of the helicopter. At once, Dave felt the hard matter of the seat grow tenuous, and there was a bare instant of sliding resistance, like the feeling of plunging a foot into the shifting sand of a beach. Then the helicopter disappeared and Dave felt himself falling.
"Damned unmitigated liar!" growled Dave. Then he crashed into a tree and lost consciousness.
Dave meant the pilot who swore that there was no return to the real world.
He opened his eyes and groaned. He tried to move and found that he could not. He might as well be covered up to the eyebrows in concrete.
He looked around and saw a crowd of people watching him.
"Welcome home."
"But—?"
"I owe you an apology." Dave looked and saw President Morgan.
"Apology?"
"I got too tough with them. They flashed you back while you were flying the helicopter. You're banged up a little."
"Nothing that can't be repaired," said Doctor Meteridge cheerfully. "A beautiful case. Fractures of the tibia, fibula, radius and ulna on one side, humerus and clavicle on the other. Bruises and a couple of abrasions. Nothing serious."
"David," said President Morgan, "a grateful people is waiting for your convalescence so that we can show you our appreciation."
"Yes," said Jane. "Get well. We all have plans for you!"
Dave tried to shake his head. "No, Jane. Doc'll tell you. Six months—"
"You can't escape me that easily," said Jane. "While you're all neatly immobilized in that plaster cast, we are using their machine to separate out the widespread specks of fission products that were killing you. Just a matter of tuning critically so that it will send certain isotopes into the half-world instead of the whole human being. So by the time you get off your back, we'll have you healthy again and then, Dave Crandall, just you think up another excuse!"
"Pick on a guy when he's down," grumbled Dave. He was laughing, then, but the room blurred through the tears in his eyes.
[1]For Self Propelled Atomic Missile: a humorous contraction used in a novel, "Murder of the U.S.A.," by Will F. Jenkins, shortly after World War II. When self-propelled guided missiles came into being, General Lansdowne conferred Jenkins' appellation upon them and the name has remained.—G.O.S.
[1]For Self Propelled Atomic Missile: a humorous contraction used in a novel, "Murder of the U.S.A.," by Will F. Jenkins, shortly after World War II. When self-propelled guided missiles came into being, General Lansdowne conferred Jenkins' appellation upon them and the name has remained.—G.O.S.