"We'll land in the open space and make sure," he said suddenly, and the plane dived again.
Before Gerrod could protest they were just skimming the surface of the silver sea. The plane settled gently into the now liquid spot of ocean, and Davis shut off the motors. The occupants of the cabin looked eagerly out of the windows. All about them, in a space perhaps sixty or seventy yards across, the water was yellowed and oily, but was certainly water, and not the horrible, jellylike stuff the world had so much cause to fear. The concussion from the high-explosive bomb had shattered the fragile shells of the silver animalcules, and, with their protection gone, they had relapsed into liquid. At the edge of that space, however, the silver-sea began again, as placid and malignant as before.
The plane floated lightly on the surface while the little party congratulated itself.
"It works," said Davis proudly. Nita squeezed his hand ecstatically.
"I knew he'd think of something," she announced cheerfully.
Evelyn and Gerrod were estimating the area of cleared water with gradually lengthening faces.
"Let's see how much space a hand grenade clears," suggested Evelyn thoughtfully.
Davis opened the case and took out one of the wicked little bombs. He wriggled through a window and out on the massive lower plane of the flying boat. Balancing himself carefully, he flung the grenade some sixty yards into the untouched silver sea. It burst with a cracking detonation and amid a fountain of spume and spray. The four of them eyed the resultant area of clear water.
"How wide do you suppose that is?" asked Gerrod rather depressedly.
"Ten—no, fifteen yards by fifteen."