"What's the matter now?" asked Barbican.
"Satellite's attack is over," replied Ardan.
"Good!" said M'Nicholl, misunderstanding him.
"Yes, I suppose it is good for the poor fellow," observed Ardan, in
melancholy accents. "Life with one's skull broken is hardly an enviable
possession. Our grand acclimatization project is knocked sky high, in
more senses than one!"
There was no doubt of the poor dog's death. The expression of Ardan's
countenance, as he looked at his friends, was of a very rueful order.
"Well," said the practical Barbican, "there's no help for that now; the
next thing to be done is to get rid of the body. We can't keep it here
with us forty-eight hours longer."
"Of course not," replied the Captain, "nor need we; our lights, being
provided with hinges, can be lifted back. What is to prevent us from
opening one of them, and flinging the body out through it!"
The President of the Gun Club reflected a few minutes; then he spoke:
"Yes, it can be done; but we must take the most careful precautions."
"Why so?" asked Ardan.
"For two simple reasons;" replied Barbican; "the first refers to the air
enclosed in the Projectile, and of which we must be very careful to lose
only the least possible quantity.
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