real world.

He opened his eyes and groaned. He tried to move and found that he could not. He might as well be covered up to the eyebrows in concrete.

He looked around and saw a crowd of people watching him.

"Welcome home."

"But—?"

"I owe you an apology." Dave looked and saw President Morgan.

"Apology?"

"I got too tough with them. They flashed you back while you were flying the helicopter. You're banged up a little."

"Nothing that can't be repaired," said Doctor Meteridge cheerfully. "A beautiful case. Fractures of the tibia, fibula, radius and ulna on one side, humerus and clavicle on the other. Bruises and a couple of abrasions. Nothing serious."

"David," said President Morgan, "a grateful people is waiting for your convalescence so that we can show you our appreciation."

"Yes," said Jane. "Get well. We all have plans for you!"

Dave tried to shake his head. "No, Jane. Doc'll tell you. Six months—"

"You can't escape me that easily," said Jane. "While you're all neatly immobilized in that plaster cast, we are using their machine to separate out the widespread specks of fission products that were killing you. Just a matter of tuning critically so that it will send certain isotopes into the half-world instead of the whole human being. So by the time you get off your back, we'll have you healthy again and then, Dave Crandall, just you think up another excuse!"

"Pick on a guy when he's down," grumbled Dave. He was laughing, then, but the room blurred through the tears in his eyes.

[1] For Self Propelled Atomic Missile: a humorous contraction used in a novel, "Murder of the U.S.A.," by Will F. Jenkins, shortly after World War II. When self-propelled guided missiles came into being, General Lansdowne conferred Jenkins' appellation upon them and the name has remained.—G.O.S.

[1]

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