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?" "Can't tell," said Ben. "From what I could make out through the glasses, it didn't look like birds that were handling it." "But what could it be?" "Ask me! Delirium tremens, I guess. Nothing in this world is like what it ought to be any more. Where did those birds come from; how did we get this way, all of us; who is it up there in the Catskills that don't like us? Answer me those and I'll tell you who was handling the gun." "Message, sir," said a sailor, touching his cap, and handing a folded paper. The captain read it, frowning. "There you are--" he extended the sheet to Ben. "My government is recalling all ships. Our sister-ship, the _Melbourne_, has been attacked off San Francisco and severely damaged by bomb-dropping dodos, and they have made a mass descent on Sumatra. Gentlemen, this has all the characteristics of a formal war." He strode off to give the necessary orders to hurry the cruiser home, but Walter Beeville, who had joined the group at the bridge, said under his breath: "If those birds have enough intelligence to plan out anything like that I'll eat my hat." * * * * *