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Updated: June 12, 2025
Pretty soon his friends saw a color stealing into Barbican's pale face, and a triumphant light glittering in his eye. "No, my brave boys!" he exclaimed at last throwing down his pencil, "we're not falling! Far from it, we are at present more than 150 thousand miles from the Earth!"
This is probably also the reason why half-scientists talk so much dogmatic nonsense about her. Enough, however, had appeared in the notes to warrant the general opinion that Barbican's explorations had set at rest forever several pet theories lately started regarding the nature of our satellite.
The Queen of the Stars now glittered with a light more dazzling than ever, whilst from an opposite part of the sky the glorious King of Day flooded her with his fires. The situation began to look a little serious. "Shall we ever get there!" asked the Captain. "Let us be prepared for getting there, any how," was Barbican's dubious reply.
This was in consequence of two different phenomena, one of which they could easily account for; but the other they could not explain without Barbican's assistance. No wonder. Never before had mortal eye beheld such a sight. Let us take each in its turn.
We must surely have changed heads during that concussion! No matter, there is some sense left in us yet. Come now, Captain, consider a little, if you can. Weren't we both half-killed by the shock? Didn't I rescue you from certain death with these two hands? Don't you see Barbican's shoulder still bleeding by the violence of the shock?"
"We're not to land in the Moon! Well! let us do the next best thing pass close enough to discover her secrets!" But M'Nicholl could not accept the situation so coolly. On the contrary, he decidedly lost his temper, as is occasionally the case with even phlegmatic men. He muttered an oath or two, but in a voice hardly loud enough to reach Barbican's ear.
The number of champagne bottles drunk on these occasions, or of the speeches made, or of the jokes told, or of the toasts offered, or of the hands shaken, of course, I cannot now weary my kind reader by detailing, though I have the whole account lying before me in black and white, written out day by day in Barbican's own bold hand.
But Barbican's pitiless logic left him no reply. "No, dear friend, no. We can reach the Moon only by a fall, and we don't fall. Centripetal force keeps us at least for a while under the lunar influence, but centrifugal force drives us away irresistibly." These words were uttered in a tone that killed Ardan's last and fondest hope.
In fact, there is no knowing how far they would have proceeded with their designations, comparisons, and scientific expressions, had not Ardan, driven to extremities by Barbican's last profanity, suddenly jumped up, broken away from his companions, and clapped a forcible extinguisher on their eloquence by putting his hands on their lips and keeping them there awhile.
He stared around for a few seconds at his friends, evidently unconscious, but his senses were not long in returning. "Say!" he uttered at last in a faint voice. "Well!" replied Belfast. "Where is that infernal Pro pro jectile?" "In the Pacific Ocean." "What??" He was on his feet in an instant. "Say that again!" "In the Pacific Ocean." "Hurrah! All right! Old Barbican's not made into mincemeat yet!
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