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. They had to endure an eternity of anxious waiting, huddled in a snowbank while a Nip patrol went by. Gunnar held on to his loot. He had gotten one glimpse of the contents, and it looked like food. Their clothing was soaked with melted snow and sweat when at last they regained the comparative safety of their cave. Gunnar had trouble with the container. The fastenings refused to unfasten. "Quit stalling," Martha complained. "I'm hungry." Finally Gunnar smashed the thing open with a chunk of rock and hacked off a couple of pieces with his trench knife. The meat resembled an outstandingly low grade of Spam, interspersed with bits of gristle that made tough chewing, and it had a strong gamey taste. "Not American," Gunnar remarked. "Some kind of ersatz, probably Jap," Martha commented between bites. They were too hungry to be choosey. A sound from the cave's mouth interrupted their meal. Gunnar gripped his trench knife and pistol as he moved stealthily forward. Then he laughed. "What is it?" Martha inquired, her gun ready, too.
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