“Some hours of sleep will restore our strength.”
“Never,” interrupted Michel.
“Well,” continued Nicholl, “every one to his taste; I shall go
to sleep.” And stretching himself on the divan, he soon snored
like a forty-eight pounder.
“That Nicholl has a good deal of sense,” said Barbicane;
“presently I shall follow his example.” Some moments after his
continued bass supported the captain’s baritone.
“Certainly,” said Michel Ardan, finding himself alone, “these
practical people have sometimes most opportune ideas.”
And with his long legs stretched out, and his great arms folded
under his head, Michel slept in his turn.
But this sleep could be neither peaceful nor lasting, the minds
of these three men were too much occupied, and some hours after,
about seven in the morning, all three were on foot at the same instant.
The projectile was still leaving the moon, and turning its
conical part more and more toward her.
An explicable phenomenon, but one which happily served
Barbicane’s ends.
Seventeen hours more, and the moment for action would have arrived.
The day seemed long. However bold the travelers might be, they
were greatly impressed by the approach of that moment which
would decide all– either precipitate their fall on to the moon,
or forever chain them in an immutable orbit. They counted the
hours as they passed too slow for their wish; Barbicane and
Nicholl were obstinately plunged in their calculations, Michel
going and coming between the narrow walls, and watching that
impassive moon with a longing eye.
At times recollections of the earth crossed their minds. They saw
once more their friends of the Gun Club, and the dearest of all,
J. T. Maston. At that moment, the honorable secretary must be
filling his post on the Rocky Mountains. If he could see the
projectile through the glass of his gigantic telescope, what
would he think? After seeing it disappear behind the moon’s
south pole, he would see them reappear by the north pole!
They must therefore be a satellite of a satellite! Had J. T.
Maston given this unexpected news to the world? Was this the
_denouement_ of this great enterprise?
But the day passed without incident. The terrestrial
midnight arrived. The 8th of December was beginning.
One hour more, and the point of equal attraction would
be reached. What speed would then animate the projectile?
They could not estimate it. But no error could vitiate
Barbicane’s calculations. At one in the morning this speed
ought to be and would be _nil_.
Besides, another phenomenon would mark the projectile’s
stopping-point on the neutral line. At that spot the two
attractions, lunar and terrestrial, would be annulled.
Objects would “weigh” no more. This singular fact, which had
surprised Barbicane and his companions so much in going, would
be repeated on their return under the very same conditions.
At this precise moment they must act.
Already the projectile’s conical top was sensibly turned toward
the lunar disc, presented in such a way as to utilize the whole
of the recoil produced by the pressure of the rocket apparatus.
The chances were in favor of the travelers. If its speed was
utterly annulled on this dead point, a decided movement toward
the moon would suffice, however slight, to determine its fall.
“Five minutes to one,” said Nicholl.
“All is ready,” replied Michel Ardan, directing a lighted match
to the flame of the gas.
“Wait!” said Barbicane, holding his chronometer in his hand.
At that moment weight had no effect. The travelers felt in
themselves the entire disappearance of it. They were very near
the neutral point, if they did not touch it.
“One o’clock,” said Barbicane.
Michel Ardan applied the lighted match to a train in
communication with the rockets. No detonation was heard in
the inside, for there was no air. But, through the scuttles,
Barbicane saw a prolonged smoke, the flames of which were
immediately extinguished.
The projectile sustained a certain shock, which was sensibly
felt in the interior.
The three friends looked and listened without speaking, and
scarcely breathing. One might have heard the beating of their
hearts amid this perfect silence.
“Are we falling?” asked Michel Ardan, at length.
“No,” said Nicholl, “since the bottom of the projectile is not