"Okay, Red--bail out! They can't land here. Maybe we can get away on the ground. Red! _Red!_" Then, as there came neither answering word nor movement, he shot a quick glance at his buddy. One look told the story. Red did not move because he could not. Limp as a bag of sodden meal, he lay slumped in his seat, eyes closed, arms dangling uselessly at his sides. And in horrible contrast to the pallor of his cheeks, his face was mottled with a spreading nastiness that matched the color of his hair! * * * * * It was at that moment a sort of madness seized Ramey Winters. He was a soldier, aware of, and daily accepting, the hazards of his calling. He had seen death often; had several times heard whispering within inches of his own ears the sigh of the ancient scythe. It did not sicken him to see men die, nor was he afraid to die himself.... But this--this was different! This time the reaper had struck down Red Barrett, his chum, his more-than-brother. Struck him down traitorously and from behind without a chance to defend himself. Red, who had asked nothing more than to go down fighting--and had not been granted that break! It did not even occur to Ramey that as he sat there, stunned, stricken, about him still hammered the blazing darts of enemy fire. There was welling within him a great flame, a torrential, all-consuming fire of rage that burned through his veins like vitriol. And suddenly it no longer seemed to matter that he was under orders to avoid all fights; the problem of an "international incident" was a hollow legality in which he had no concern. If he thought at all, his thoughts were mere rationalization. Three Japanese flyers--and himself! Lost in the clouds above a wild, green jungle. Unspied upon, unseen. If none of the three were ever to return to his base, who was to report this episode? Who accuse the Thais of violating their neutrality? And did it make much difference, anyway? Everyone knew the Sons of Heaven--on some excuse or other--would march into Siam when they were ready. So-- Ramey decided. His hand found the trigger-press for which Red's fingers had yearned. A kick on the rudder ... knee to the gun ... and the tiny Curtis came up and over like a wild bird soaring. And it was no longer a startled swallow, but a killer-shrike, vengeance-bent and striking with the pent fury of boundless wrath. The butcher-bird darting on its prey. And finding it! Before the foremost of his pursuers could analyze and parry this unexpected maneuver, Winters was upon him. In the circular machine-gun sight the Jap airplane loomed nearer, larger, more solid. Then--the gun bucked and kicked against his palms. The vision before him quivered and seemed to crumple, sheered off and away, spun giddily.... "_One!_" said Ramey Winters, and did not know he spoke aloud. "That's one!"