The buzzard went out of sight. Once more the clear sky was all that
could be seen; that, and the continual roar of the engine, were all that
Smith actually knew. He became impatient for his agent to look
elsewhere; it might be that the craft contained other specimens of the
unknown creatures. But there was no change in the vigilant watch which
was being kept upon the sky.

Suddenly the engineer became exceedingly alert. He had noticed something
new--something so highly different from anything he had expected to
learn that it was some minutes before he could believe it true.

His borrowed eyes had no eyelids! At least, if they did, they were never
used. Not once did they flicker in the slightest; not once did they
blink or wink, much less close themselves for a momentary rest from the
sun's glare. They remained as stonily staring as the eyes of a marble
statue.

Then something startling happened. With the most sickening suddenness
the aircraft came to an abrupt halt. Smith's senses swam with the jolt
of it. All about him was a confused jumble of blurred figures and forms;
it was infinitely worse than his first ride in a hoist. In a moment,
however, he was able to examine things fairly well.

The aircraft had come to a stop in the middle of what looked like a cane
brake. On all sides rose yellowish-green shafts, bearing leaves
characteristic of the maize family. Smith knew little about cane, yet
felt sure that these specimens were a trifle large. "Possibly due to
difference in gravitation," he thought.