Presently, near the line, the bus above him wabbled and dipped its nose. He stared at it. It went into a long, even glide that grew slowly steeper as he watched. He looked down for Huns. There were none. The glide became a dive, the dive twisted into an aimless spin, like the flopping of a lazy swimmer turning over in shallow water. The spin flattened and the Camel whipped out upside down, stalled, snapped out again, and again spun downward in that ghastly slow way. Over and over, only to whip out, stall and spin again. It was miles below him now. Nothing to do. Fascinated, he watched it as he followed Hoyt’s tail. It was a mere dot now, flashing once or twice in the sun as it flopped over and over. Close to the ground now--closer. Then, suddenly, a tiny sheet of pink flame leaped up like the flash of a far beacon. That was all. Hoyt was side-slipping below him, and he saw his own airdrome under the leading edge of his bottom wing. He followed Hoyt down. They landed together and taxied slowly in toward the hangars. They stopped side by side and climbed out stiff-legged. Paterson looked down and saw that his right flying boot was torn and flayed into shreds across the outer side. There was a jagged fringe on the skirt of his coat where the leather had been ripped into ruffles. Dumbly, he looked back into his cockpit. The floor boards were splintered and the wicker arm of his seat was eaten away. He shrugged and walked over toward Hoyt. There was blood on the rabbit fur of Hoyt’s goggles, blood that oozed slowly down and dripped from his chin piece in bright drops. “Cigarette?” Paterson gave him one. They walked into the flight office and slumped into chairs. Hoyt ripped off his helmet and dabbed at the scratch on his cheek. “I’m glad you got out, Pat,” he said absently. Then the fear spot broke and spattered into the four corners of Paterson’s soul. He sprang up trembling, with his fists beating the air. “The dirty lice!” he screamed. “They’ve killed P-B! They’ve killed Trent! D’y’ hear me, Hoyt?--they’ve killed ’em! They’re gone! They’ll never come back! They’ve----” Hoyt’s voice came evenly, calmly, through his screaming. “Steady, boy! Steady! You can’t help it. No one can. Steady, now!” A mat of white oil-splotched faces stared at them from the open doorway that led into the hangar. The boy turned wildly. “Clear out!” he shrieked. They vanished, open-mouthed. Hoyt drew him down into a chair. “No, Hoyt, no! Can’t you see? P-B and you and Trent have meant everything to me. I can’t go on. I’ve fought this thing till I’m crazy.” Hoyt reached quickly and slammed the door. “I’ve fought it night and day!” He threw up his arms hopelessly and covered his face with his shaking hands. Hoyt put his hand on his trembling shoulders and patted them. “Steady, now! Steady! None of that!” he said awkwardly.