He stopped short, for suddenly the forest had begun to darken and a sharp wind came alive in the trees. He glanced around, startled, as the earth began to tremble beneath them. Instinctively, he whirled about, looking for an escape from the forest, but suddenly, with a groan of dismay, the world went black, and he was only aware of Toffee's arms closing tight about his neck.... * * * * * The orderly was a pale, antiseptic type. And he was resentful. Wheeling Marc along the hallway toward Surgery, he looked down at the drawn face beneath him with a twinge of pique. He strongly resented the fact that the face was not behaving at all as the face of a true corpse-elect should. According to the orderly, a dying man had no right to twitch and flutter his eyelids the way this one was doing, let alone showing signs of coming completely to life. It made the orderly nervous and upset. [Illustration: MARC PILLSWORTH] For a moment the orderly almost succumbed to an impulse to walk off and leave the patient to shift for himself. It was what he deserved if he was going to act that way. Nonetheless, he remained. Consequently, Marc's first vision, upon returning to consciousness, was of a pale, fretful face with white eyelashes and thin lips. He had expected something better. "Who are you?" he asked weakly. "Are you the doctor?" The orderly shook his head sullenly. "I'm the orderly. The doctor's waiting." "They mustn't operate," Marc murmured. "I'll die...." He stopped as a pert face suddenly blurred into view just behind that of the orderly. A slender hand brushed back a wayward lock of red hair. Toffee smiled and winked. Marc moaned. "Oh, so it's you, is it?" he sighed. "What are you so happy about? I feel awful." "I'm not happy, sir," the orderly said, mystified. "I'm not happy at all. In fact, if you want the truth...." He paused, and the apprehensive expression of one who detects an unseen presence behind him overtook his face. Very slowly, he turned around. It would be difficult to say what the orderly expected to find behind him: a fanged reptile might have made a good guess, a slavering fiend another. It is certain, however, judging from his reaction, that on the list of things he did not expect to find, a scantily clad redhead was number one. Toffee, her legs crossed to perfection, the cylinder-like gadget under her arm, sat jauntily on the edge of the cart, smiling a bright greeting. The young man leaped backwards and froze in a transfix of amazement. "Auk!" he exclaimed. Toffee turned to Marc. "Is he doing a bird imitation?" she asked. "Should I applaud?" "Don't be funny," Marc said feebly. "I feel terrible." "I know," Toffee said. "I got here just in time." "For what?" Marc asked apprehensively. "What are you going to do?" Toffee patted the cylinder. "I'm going to save your life," she said. "Don't you remember?"