The wrecked flying-boat was practically in the centre of a circular patch of sand and gravel about three-quarters of a mile in diameter. On all sides rose rugged mountains with precipitous faces in places rising sheer to a height of at least two thousand feet. The plain was almost dead level and absolutely destitute of verdure. No sign of life was visible. The flying-boat had struck a snag in the form of a mass of rock about four feet in height and less than a couple of yards in circumference. Otherwise, the sandy waste was free from irregularities. It would have been an ideal landing-ground, for the sand was fairly hard; and it was certainly a case of sheer hard luck that the machine should have wrecked herself on the only dangerous bit of ground in the extensive circle. On the other hand, it was a rare slice of good fortune that had accompanied the flying-boat on her downward glide. She must have skimmed the summit of the encircling mountains with but a few feet to spare. In the darkness Peter had been in entire ignorance of the danger. Equally fortunate was the fact that the timely lighting of the acetylene head-lamp had enabled the pilot to escape crashing nose-on against the opposite wall of the huge basin of natural stone. "We're here," decided Peter grimly. "We're here; but goodness only knows how we are going to get out. It's been a fine old smash-up. However, there's some consolation: the Rioguayan air fleet has lost one unit." So severe had been the impact that both of the for'ard motors had broken away and lay quite fifteen yards from the crumpled bows. The after portion of the fuselage had broken off short, forming with the buckled 'midship part an irregular, inverted "V". Four of the subsidiary fuel tanks had completely parted company with the hull, while the steel water-tank had burst from its securing bonds and now rested bottom upwards upon the sand. The tank was practically intact, but, since Uncle Brian had not had time to replace the cover after chipping the ice, the precious contents had drained into the parched ground. The outstanding feature was the sight of the two rear propellers, both intact, standing up like flaming crosses as the sunlight glinted upon the polished metal blades. "And we're a long way from the sea," exclaimed Peter aloud. "Did I hear anyone say 'tea'?" inquired Uncle Brian, from the depths of his temporary sleeping compartment. "If so, many thanks." "You didn't," replied his nephew. "There's nothing doin' in that line, I'm afraid. No water to be had." "That's a rotten look-out," said Uncle Brian, as he emerged from his retreat. With his bruised features, torn clothing, and staggering gait, he looked more like a dissipated tramp than an engineering expert. He glanced at the debris, then at the mountain barrier. "The old horse jibbed at that fence, Peter," he added. "It'll mean padding the hoof for us, I fancy. Any grub going?"