Peter Storm grinned. Two inches under his companion's six foot length, he weighed ten pounds more—a heavily muscled figure who could move with deceptive speed as many an opposing eleven had found out in his college football days. Blond, phlegmatic of nature, he took things easier than his more restless friend.
"Meteor, you dummox!" he jibed, good-naturedly. "Ever hear of one before?"
Hammond stared at the spot where the agitation was quieting. "I heard of them," he said shortly. "But this is the first time one ever fell this close to me."
Storm shrugged. "Forget it. This is our last day before going back to the grind. Let's make the most of it. Remember that bet we—Boy!" He broke off, standing up to haul in.
His catch proved to be a bluefish, a three pounder. He unhooked it, disgustedly, while Frank, measuring it with a quick glance, gave him a Bronx cheer. "If you can't do better than that that new hat's in the bag," he jeered.
They went back to their heaving and hauling, bantering good naturedly over every catch, completely forgetting the strange visitor from the skies.
Both were research chemists for the New York Analytical Laboratories; both were unmarried. They had been inseparable comrades since their college days, when both wore identical crew cuts, dressed alike, and always either double-dated or stagged it. In memory of those days their skiff, the Crawfish, had been painted maroon inside and a golden yellow outside, maroon and gold having been their school colors.
Their vacation camp was on Ramson's Island, just off Ramson's point on the Connecticut shore. The rocky island was uninhabited. They had left camp early, intent on making the most of their last day. Reaching the fishing "hole" they had anchored. Both men taped their hands, and each prepared his jig, a long bar of lead to which a hook was attached, and began the process of "heaving and hauling" used in the vicinity for luring bluefish.
They had been at it for about an hour when the "meteor" landed.
Fifteen minutes later they had forgotten it.