When Ben Ruby came to, he beheld a ceiling which moved jerkily to and fro and stared lazily at it, wondering what it was. Then memory returned with a snap; he sat up and looked about him. He was in one of those cubby-holes which are called "cabins" on warships, and alone. Beneath him he could hear the steady throb of the engines; at his side was a small table with a wooden rack on it, in one compartment of which stood a glass, whose contents, on inspection, proved to be oil. He drank it, looked at and felt of himself, and finding nothing wrong, got out of the hammock and stepped to the door. A seaman was on guard in the corridor.
"Where is everybody?"
"On deck, sir. I hope you are feeling all right now sir."
"Top of the world, thanks. Is the aviator O.K.?"
"Yes, sir. This way."
He ascended to the bridge, to be greeted riotously by the assembled company. The Brisbane was steaming steadily along in the open sea, with no speck of land in sight and no traces of the giant birds.
"What happened?" Ben asked. "Did you get rid of 'em?"
"I think so. We shot down two and the rest made off after trying to bomb us. What did you two find out?"
Ben briefly described their experiences. "I thought there was something wrong with one of your wingtips," said the captain, "but your plane sank so quickly after being hit that we didn't have time to examine it. That light-ray cannon of theirs sounds serious. Do you suppose the dodos managed it?"