TRIPLANETARY. E. E. Smith

of them say. "And such contusions and multiple and compound fractures as those don't help a bit. Prognosis unfavorable—distinctly so—but we'll soon see what we can do. Interesting case ... fascinating. What would you do, Doctor, if you were doing it?"

      "I'd let it alone!" A younger, stronger voice declared, fervently. "Multiple perforations, infection, extravasation, oedema—uh-uh! I am watching, Doctor, and learning!"

      Another interlude, and another. Another. And others. Until finally, orders were given which Kinnison did not hear at all.

      "Adrenalin! Massage! Massage hell out of him!"

      Kinnison again came to—partially to, rather—anguished in every fiber of his being. Somebody was sticking barbed arrows into every square inch of his skin; somebody else was pounding and mauling him all over, taking particular pains to pummel and to wrench at all the places where he hurt the worst. He yelled at the top of his voice; yelled and swore bitterly: "QUIT IT!" being the expurgated gist of his luridly profane protests. He did not make nearly as much noise as he supposed, but he made enough.

      "Thank God!" Kinnison heard a lighter, softer voice. Surprised, he stopped swearing and tried to stare. He couldn't see very well, either, but he was pretty sure that there was a middle-aged woman there. There was, and her eyes were not dry. "He is going to live, after all!"

      As the days passed, he began really to sleep, naturally and deeply.

      He grew hungrier and hungrier, and they would not give him enough to eat. He was by turns sullen, angry, and morose.

      In short, he was convalescent.

      For Captain Ralph K. Kinnison, THE WAR was over.