His course lay across the head of the Gulf of Carpentaria.  By daybreak, if he were able to keep up full speed through the night, he should have passed the northernmost end of the Yorke Peninsula, and it might then be possible to take his bearings by the group of islands in the Torres Straits.  On leaving these islands behind him he should soon come in sight of the mountain chain running from the middle of the Gulf of Paqua to the south-eastern extremity of New Guinea.  He might expect to sight these mountains from a very great distance, and in particular, if he could distinguish Mount Astrolabe, the square, flat-topped mountain lying behind Port Moresby, he would have no further anxiety about his position.

The engine was working as well as ever, and by keeping over the sea, Smith was able to avoid any gusts or cross-currents of air that might be set up by irregularities in the conformation of the land.  Taking turns as usual with Rodier at the wheel, he was able to get a few hours of sleep; about an hour and a half after daybreak he descried the strange shape of Mount Astrolabe towering nearly four thousand feet into the sky, and in less than a quarter of an hour afterwards he came to the coast, a little to the west, as he judged, of Port Moresby.

The aspect of the coast was far from inviting.  There were long stretches of mangrove forest lining the shore, from which unpleasant exhalations arose, affecting his sense of smell even at the height of a hundred feet.  Beyond rose limestone hills, very scantily wooded, with a plentiful crop of rocks and stones.  There was scarcely a patch of level ground to be seen.  He came almost suddenly upon the port, lying in a hollow of the hills, and for some time looked in vain for a suitable landing place.  The aeroplane, circling over the harbour, was seen by the sailors on the ships and the people on the quays, and its appearance brought all work to a standstill.

At length Smith discovered at the north end of the little town a spot where landing was just possible if the descent was not endangered by the wind.  He felt more nervous than at any other time during his voyage, and was on the alert to set the propellers working at the first sign that the wind was too strong for him.  To his great relief he came safely to the ground, with no other misadventure than collision with a huge eucalyptus tree at the edge of the clearing.  Without loss of time he made his way down to the town, and accosting the first white man he met, asked to be directed to the residence of the Administrator.

“You’re a stranger, I guess,” said the man, who had not seen the aeroplane.  “Come from Sydney?”

“No, from Port Darwin.”

“Gosh!  We don’t often have vessels from there.  How’s my friend Mr. Pond?”

“I don’t know him.”

“Well, that’s real strange.  I thought everybody knew Dick Pond; he’s lived there fifty years or more.  Say, what’s up?” he asked of a man hurrying in the opposite direction.