permanent position. The light inside was dim enough, but he could see
the other men and the animals and the birds. He could make out the
riveted plates which formed the box's sides and top.

Inconspicuously, he worked his hand down through the sand bottom of
the prison. Four inches down the sand ended and there was earth. He
felt around. He found grass stems. The box, then, rested on top of the
ground, which was perfectly natural for a compost pit shell not yet
placed where it would finally belong. The sand.... He explored
further.

He waited. The other three stayed quiet. The faint brightness around
the cover hole faded away. The interior of the tank-like box became
abysmally black.

"Can anybody guess the time?" he asked, after aeons seemed to have
passed.

"It feels like next Thursday," said the voice of the moustached man,
"but it's probably ten or eleven o'clock. Looks like we're just going
to be left here till they get around to us."

"I think we'd better not wait," said Lockley. "We've been pretty
quiet. They probably think we're well-behaved specimens of this
planet's wild life. They won't expect us to try anything this late.
Suppose we get out."

"How?" demanded the chunky man.

Lockley said carefully, "This box is resting on top of the ground.