“But, unfortunate man! the fearful shock will smash you to pieces when you start.”
“You have there put your finger upon the real and only difficulty; but I have too good an opinion of the industrial genius of the Americans to believe that they will not overcome that difficulty.”
“But the heat developed by the speed of the projectile whilst crossing the beds of air?”
“Oh, its sides are thick, and I shall so soon pass the atmosphere.”
“But provisions? water?”
“I have calculated that I could carry enough for one year, and I shall only be four days going.”
“But air to breathe on the road?”
“I shall make some by chemical processes.”
“But your fall upon the moon, supposing you ever get there?”
“It will be six times less rapid than a fall upon the earth, as attraction is six times less on the surface of the moon.”
“But it still will be sufficient to smash you like glass.”
“What will prevent me delaying my fall by means of rockets conveniently placed and lighted at the proper time?”
“But lastly, supposing that all difficulties be solved, all obstacles cleared away by uniting every chance in your favour, admitting that you reach the moon safe and well, how shall you come back?”
“I shall not come back.”
Upon this answer, which was almost sublime by reason of its simplicity, the assembly remained silent. But its silence was more eloquent than its cries of enthusiasm would have been. The unknown profited by it to protest one last time.
“You will infallibly kill yourself,” he cried, “and your death, which will be only a madman’s death, will not even be useful to science.”
“Go on, most generous of men, for you prophesy in the most agreeable manner.”
“Ah, it is too much!” exclaimed Michel Ardan’s adversary, “and I do not know why I go on with so childish a discussion. Go on with your mad enterprise as you like. It is not your fault.”
“Fire away.”
“No, another must bear the responsibility of your acts.”
“Who is that, pray?” asked Michel Ardan in an imperious voice.
“The fool who has organised this attempt, as impossible as it is ridiculous.”
The attack was direct. Barbicane since the intervention of the unknown had made violent efforts to contain himself and “consume his own smoke,” but upon seeing himself so outrageously designated he rose directly and was going to walk towards his adversary, who dared him to his face, when he felt himself suddenly separated from him.
The platform was lifted up all at once by a hundred vigorous arms, and the president of the Gun Club was forced to share the honours of triumph with Michel Ardan. The platform was heavy, but the bearers came in continuous relays, disputing, struggling, even fighting for the privilege of lending the support of their shoulders to this manifestation.
However, the unknown did not take advantage of the tumult to leave the place. He kept in the front row, his arms folded, still staring at President Barbicane.
The president did not lose sight of him either, and the eyes of these two men met like flaming swords.
The cries of the immense crowds kept at their maximum of intensity during this triumphant march. Michel Ardan allowed himself to be carried with evident pleasure.
Sometimes the platform pitched and tossed like a ship beaten by the waves. But the two heroes of the meeting were good sailors, and their vessel safely arrived in the port of Tampa Town.
Michel Ardan happily succeeded in escaping from his vigorous admirers. He fled to the Franklin Hotel, quickly reached his room, and glided rapidly into bed whilst an army of 100,000 men watched under his windows.
In the meanwhile a short, grave, and decisive scene had taken place between the mysterious personage and the president of the Gun Club.
Barbicane, liberated at last, went straight to his adversary.
“Come!” said he in a curt voice.
The stranger followed him on to the quay, and they were soon both alone at the entrance to a wharf opening on to Jones’ Fall.
There these enemies, still unknown to one another, looked at each other.
“Who are you?” asked Barbicane.
“Captain Nicholl.”
“I thought so. Until now fate has never made you cross my path.”
“I crossed it of my own accord.”
“You have insulted me.”
“Publicly.”
“And you shall give me satisfaction for that insult.”
“Now, this minute.”
“No. I wish everything between us to be kept secret. There is a wood situated three miles from Tampa—Skersnaw Wood. Do you know it?”
“Yes.”
“Will you enter it tomorrow morning at five o’clock by one side?”
“Yes, if you will enter it by the other at the same time.”
“And you will not forget your rifle?” said Barbicane.
“Not more than you will forget yours,” answered Captain Nicholl.
After these words had been coldly pronounced the president of the Gun Club and the captain separated. Barbicane returned to his dwelling; but, instead of taking some hours’ rest, he passed the night in seeking means to avoid the shock of the projectile, and to solve the difficult problem given by Michel Ardan at the meeting.
How a Frenchman Settles an Affair
Whilst the duel was being discussed between the president and the captain—a terrible and savage duel in which each adversary became a man-hunter—Michel Ardan was resting after the fatigues of his triumph. Resting is evidently not the right expression, for American beds rival in hardness tables of marble or granite.
Ardan slept badly, turning over and over between the serviettes that served him for sheets, and he was thinking of installing a more comfortable bed in his projectile when a violent noise startled him from his slumbers. Thundering blows shook his door. They seemed to be administered with an iron instrument. Shouts were heard in this racket, rather too early to be agreeable.
“Open!” someone cried. “Open, for Heaven’s sake!”
There was no reason why Ardan should acquiesce in so peremptory a demand. Still he rose and opened his door at the moment it was giving way under the efforts
