But his slumbers were too much disturbed to last long. After an uneasy,
restless, unrefreshing attempt at repose, he sat up at about half-past
seven o'clock, and began stretching himself, when he found his
companions already awake and discussing the situation in whispers.
The Projectile, they were remarking, was still pursuing its way from the
Moon, and turning its conical point more and more in her direction. This
latter phenomenon, though as puzzling as ever, Barbican regarded with
decided pleasure: the more directly the conical summit pointed to the
Moon at the exact moment, the more directly towards her surface would
the rockets communicate their reactionary motion.
Nearly seventeen hours, however, were still to elapse before that
moment, that all important moment, would arrive.
The time began to drag. The excitement produced by the Moon's vicinity
had died out. Our travellers, though as daring and as confident as ever,
could not help feeling a certain sinking of heart at the approach of the
moment for deciding either alternative of their doom in this
world--their fall to the Moon, or their eternal imprisonment in a
changeless orbit. Barbican and M'Nicholl tried to kill time by revising
their calculations and putting their notes in order; Ardan, by
feverishly walking back and forth from window to window, and stopping
for a second or two to throw a nervous glance at the cold, silent and
impassive Moon.
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