One raid more or less meant little in their situation and, even while they crouched between two huge boulders, Gunnar kept remembering that wonderful restaurant in his Minnesota home town, its strong black coffee and thick steaks and beautiful apple pie.
"Quit that, stomach!" he told himself.
The raid seemed to have ended and they were moving on again when, without warning, the night was shattered by a blue flash somewhere above. The glare penetrated even the blanketing fog and for an instant left the island starkly outlined in a brilliance exceeding daylight. Instantly the ack-ack resumed its uproar, firing blindly. A thousand freight trains seemed to rumble by overhead.
Then a ball-shaped object, emitting a dying trail of flame, whistled out of the overcast like a gigantic bomb. Sparks flashed from a rock as it struck and rebounded. It bounced again and came tumbling down the hill, clanging against boulders, hissing and steaming with its own heat as it encountered patches of snow.
"What—what the hell is it?" Martha whispered.
"Some sort of rocket plane. I didn't know we had anything like that."
Gunnar ran forward to investigate as it came to rest near them. It was metal, but battered completely beyond recognition. Part of it was ripped and torn as though by a shell.
"Let's get out of here," Martha urged as Gunnar probed the wreckage. "The Japs are coming."
Gunnar prodded once more at a loosened section, which swung aside to disclose a padded compartment. The transparent cylindrical container he hauled out was scorched but unbroken.
"Let's go!" Martha pleaded.