"I'm not that important, to them or anybody else. Or am I?"
"I wouldn't know," said the ensign.
"I don't know anything I haven't told," said Coburn grimly, "and the
creatures can't suppress any information by killing me now. Anyhow, if
they'd wanted to they'd have done it."
A dull, faint sound came from high overhead. Coburn stepped out from
under the shelter of the upper works of the island. He stared up into
the sky. He saw a lurid spot of blue-white flame. He saw others. He
realized that all the sky was interlaced with contrails--vapor-trails of
jet-planes far up out of sight. But they were fine threads. The jets
were up very high indeed. The pin-points of flame were explosions.
"Using wing-rockets," said the ensign hungrily, "since fifty-calibres
did no good last night, until one made a lucky hit. Rockets with
proximity fuses. Our jets don't carry cannon."
There were more explosions. There was a bright glint of reflected
sunshine. It was momentary, but Coburn knew that it was from a flat,
bright space-ship, which had tilted in some monstrously abrupt maneuver,
and the almost vertical sunshine shone down from its surface.