* * * * * And--it was no longer possible for Ramey to take to his 'chute. Somehow, _somehow!_ he must get this crippled ship to earth. He stared down wildly. Trees ... trees ... an endless tangle of foliage towering high, bayonet-tipped. But--Ramey trembled with sudden, feverish eagerness--over there a patch of lighter green! And something that looked like gray walls, a manmade building! A cleared field. If he could-- Once more and desperately he wrestled with the unresponsive stick. No good! The rudders, then? If the aileron wires were undamaged he might be able to control, to some extent, the direction of their glide. Ease the brutal shock of landing. But now the ground was a vast, blunt bulwark rushing up to meet them. Like an organist treading the pedals of his instrument, Ramey played the only controls he had. Composing out of urgency and stress a symphony which, when the ultimate note was scored, must be either a paean or a dirge! And the ship responded. Weakly, true! But its nose lifted a trifle, the ailerons caught and gripped the air, the drifting leaf spun lazily toward the clearing. Earth looming larger, and the indistinguishable whole of the jungle sharpened to single trees and tangled groves of bamboo and liana. Gray of swamp water and brown of soil; sudden pink of a frightened flamingo racing for leafy covert. Almost down, now ... and the wind howling through the motionless propeller like a taunting fiend. His own voice, strange in his ears, calling senseless encouragement to his unhearing companion: "All right, Red! Hold tight, boy! In a minute--" Then one wheel touched the ground, bounced; the ship reeled shuddering forward. Clear of the trees, but careening wildly, drunkenly, across a furrowed field. Rocking, swaying madly. Then--the crash! The moment of slashing pain ... the dancing light ... the numb despair. Then nothing.... CHAPTER II The Mystery of Angkor When you are dead, the little demons gather and make merry. They will not let you rest. Huddled about your weary soul they chatter in bee-thin voices; they lift your head and force open your lips and pour molten fire down your throat, a liquid fire that chokes and strangles. Ramey strangled on liquid fire, and opened his eyes. He--he was not dead, after all, but alive! The sweetness of native brandy was on his lips, the far voices waxed nearer as consciousness returned, and he was surrounded by the familiar figures of _not_ scarlet imps but human beings! Or--wait a minute! Maybe his first hunch was right after all. For _most_ of those staring down at him looked like people, but surely the vision bent closest was that of an angel? A golden-haired angel with heaven-blue eyes, warm lips, a cool, white skin which the sun seemed never to have burned, but only to have endowed with a memory of its own inner glow.