Early the next morning, with all hands on duty, the _Viking's_ helicopters began to drop her down into the cloud-mass. The cottony billows swept up to meet them--and then they were submerged in a dense and yellowish fog. Moisture gathered thickly on the windows of the control room. "This reminds me of a good London fog!" said Angus McTavish, who had come up from his engine rooms for a few minutes. "I wonder if they have any good pubs down there!" The soupy, saffron-colored fog enshrouded the _Viking_ as she dropped lower and lower. Gerry Norton checked the altitude personally, watching the slowly moving hand of the indicator. Twice he held her motionless while he sent echo-soundings down to make sure they were not too close to land. Then they went a little lower--and suddenly came clear of the cloud mass. They were sinking slowly downward through a peculiarly murky, golden light that was the normal day-time condition on the planet of Venus. They had arrived! Below them stretched the rippling waters of a vast and greenish sea. It was broken by scattered islands, bare bits of rock that were dotted with a blue moss and were utterly bare of life except for a few swooping sea-birds. On a distant shore were lofty mountains whose peaks were capped with snow. In one or two places a narrow shaft of sunlight struck down through a brief gap in the canopy of eternal clouds, but otherwise there was only that subdued and peculiarly golden light. Nothing moved but those few oddly shaped birds. "Lord--but it's lonely!" Gerry muttered. There was no sign of human existence, no trace of the towers and buildings of mankind. Not even any sign of life at all, except for those sea-birds. It was like a scene from the long-ago youth of the world, when the only life was that of the teeming shallows or the muddy shores of warm seas. The place was desolate, and forlorn, and inexpressibly lonely. They had opened some of the ports for a breath of fresh air after long weeks of the flat and second-hand product of the air filters, with its faint odor of oil and disinfectant. The breeze that came in the open ports was warm and moist and faintly salty. "Rocket motors--minimum power!" Gerry commanded quietly. "There's no use landing on one of those bare islets. We'll see what lies beyond the mountains." The subdued blast of only two rocket tubes began to drive the _Viking_ forward at a slow speed of about 300 M.P.H., while long fins were thrust out at the sides to carry the weight and free the helicopters. All hands were crowded at the windows and ports. After a moment Olga Stark turned to Gerry. "Our magnetic compasses are working again, Captain," she said quietly. "I suggest going across the mountains and then turning southwest." "Why there--rather than in any other direction?" Gerry asked quietly. The girl shrugged. "Just a hunch. Of course, it's all guesswork."