I was in the saddle of the cockpit, feeling on my face the bite of the slipstream--no, that was a later term--the prop-wash?--no, that was still later--the backlash from the screw, that was it. I was lifting to meet the Fokker triplanes in the dawn sky. Then in a moment my Vickers was chattering in answer to Spandaus, firing through the screw outfitted with iron edges to deflect bullets that did not pass to the left and right. And back through the aerial maps in the cockpit pocket at my knee. Here he comes, the Spandaus firing right through the screw in perfect synchronization. Look at that chivalrous wave. You can almost see the dueling scar on his cheek from old Krautenberg. He can afford to be chivalrous in that Fokker. I'd like to trade this skiddoo for it. That may be just what I do too if I don't watch it. You ain't any Boelcke, mister, but this is from the Fifth for Squadron 70. Missed! Hard on that rudder! God, look at the snake in that fabric. At least it was a lie about them using incendiaries. One of your own tricks for you, Heinie. Up on the stick, up under your tail, into the blind spot. Where am I? Where am I? _Right here._ Look at that tail go. Tony can't be giving you as good stuff as he claims. So long. I'm waving, see. He's pulling her up. No tail and he's pulling her up. He's a good man. Come on. A little more. A little more and you can deadstick her. Come on, buddy. You're doing it. You're pulling her up-- But not enough. God, what a mess. I'm sick. That damned castor oil in the carburetor. I'll be in the W. C. until oh-six-hundred.... * * * * * No, the air wasn't one of castor oil but the pleasant smell of aged paper and printer's ink. I'd been daydreaming again. I shouldn't forget things were getting different lately. It was becoming dangerous. I gathered up an armload of air-war magazines at random. Leaning across the table, I noticed the curtain in back for the first time. It was a beaded curtain of many different colors. Theda Bara might have worn it for a skirt. Behind the curtain was a television set. It was a comforting anti-anachronism here. The six- or eight-inch picture was on a very flat tube, a more pronounced Predicta. The size and the flatness didn't seem to go together. Then I saw that the top part of the set was a mirror reflecting an image from the roof of the cabinet where the actual picture tube lay flat. There was an old movie on the channel. An old, old movie. Lon Chaney, Sr., in a western as a badman. He was protecting a doll-faced blonde from the rest of the gang, standing them off from a grove of rocks. The flickering action caught my unblinking eyes.