Barbican looked puzzled and uneasy. A collision was
quite possible, and the results, even if not frightful in the highest
degree, must be extremely deplorable. The Projectile, if not absolutely
dashed to pieces, would be diverted from its own course and dragged
along in a new one in obedience to the irresistible attraction of this
furious asteroid.
Barbican fully realized that either alternative involved the complete
failure of their enterprise. He kept perfectly still, but, never losing
his presence of mind, he curiously looked on the approaching object with
a gladiatorial eye, as if seeking to detect some unguarded point in his
terrible adversary. The Captain was equally silent; he looked like a man
who had fully made up his mind to regard every possible contingency with
the most stoical indifference. But Ardan's tongue, more fluent than
ever, rattled away incessantly.
"Look! Look!" he exclaimed, in tones so perfectly expressive of his
rapidly alternating feelings as to render the medium of words totally
unnecessary. "How rapidly the cursed thing is nearing us! Plague take
your ugly phiz, the more I know you, the less I like you! Every second
she doubles in size! Come, Madame Projectile! Stir your stumps a little
livelier, old lady! He's making for you as straight as an arrow! We're
going right in his way, or he's coming in ours, I can't say which.
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