CHAPTER ONE

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     He awakened to flame and smoke and it was as though he had been born

again. About him lay thick, summer cloaked forests and heavy carpets of

laurel and brush. Obviously, it was some sort of plane that was burning

nearby and he had probably been in it. In his mind, he remembered only

the blinding flash of white light, then a sea of darkness that had

enveloped him. Whether he had been thrown, clear of the wreck, or whether

he had crawled, he didn't know. But the torn flying suit he wore

convinced him that he had once been airborne in that battered craft.

The heavy, canvas-like material of the flying suit had protected the

blue serge business suit underneath, so that besides a ripped pocket it

was presentable. He grinned wryly in the pre-dawn darkness. Presentable

to whom? The squirrels? He peeled off the flying suit and added it to

the flaming wreckage, then staggered off through the night toward the

valley below. There was usually, he recalled, water in ravines.

He used small saplings for handholds while his head thumped and

thundered wildly. Probing fingers found a lump beneath blood matted hair

that was sensitive to the touch. There was a scratch on his cheek,

sealed with dried blood, and his hands were skinned as though he had

broken a fall in cinders with them. It was, he decided, amazing that he

had survived a plane crash with so little injury; but then, stranger

things had happened.

     There was a run at the bottom of the hill, one of those leaf choked,

meandering little creeks that become stagnant pools in July and August,

and raging torrents of brown water in the spring. Lying on a sloping,

flat rock he thrust his face into the stream and drank deeply, feeling

the life flow from the water into the weariness of his body. He washed

his face in it, splashing it over his head until his mind began to

function with familiar clarity.

However, he still did not know who he was...

     When he tried to search backward into the past, he could see only the

white flash and the darkness. It was frightening. It was as though

someone had taken a pair of scissors and cut away the whole memory of

his past life. He fumbled through his pockets, found the wallet and the

cigarette lighter and began flipping through the cards with the help of

the tiny lighter flame.

     An identification card labelled him NicholasHowardDanson and stated

that he lived at 2312 Weisman Drive, Everett, Pennsylvania. There was

also, a draft, social security and drivers license card. The others were

membership certificates to various clubs and organizations. Finally

there were several pictures of himself and a woman; in fact, there were

a great many pictures of the woman. One was a portrait of her,

inscribed, "love, Margret", which told him that she was either a girlfriend

or his wife.

     Nick extinguished the light and put the wallet away. In his shirt pocket

he found a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He shook one out, lit it and

dragged the smoke down deep into his lungs while he pondered over his

newly discovered self.

Of course the proper thing to do would be to get to a phone, call the

local authorities and explain the crash. The law would help him get home

and check him out. That was the proper thing - but he wasn't about to

do the proper thing. He was a stranger to himself. Who was he? What was

he? He could well be outside the law, a criminal... Then what? Turn

yourself in, Danson, he grimaced, and discover that you are wanted by

the law for something? To hell with that. Get to this Margret woman and get

some answers to a few questions before you bring in the law.

     Apparently, no one had seen the crash. No one knew he was here. Perhaps

it would be better to leave it like that until he had a chance to find

out just what he was up against.

He decided not to contact anyone. When it was light, enough he would look

for a ride to somewhere. At a gas station he could find out where he was

and where Everett, Pennsylvania was. Then, by thumbing, he could get a

ride to where he lived. If this Margret woman was his wife, she could fill

him in. There was plenty of time to call the law.

Sleep, when he tried it, refused to come. There were too many unanswered

questions rocketing around in his brain. Well, he had to find a road,

eventually, so it might as well be now. Perhaps the more distance

he put between himself and the wreck, the better it would be for him. He

took a final drink of water from the creek and stood up, his sore,

battered muscles protesting violently. Then he began to stumble through

the adumbral forests to find a road.

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