They looked at each other, speechless, breathless, for about as long as
it would take you to count five: the silence so intense that they could
easily hear the pulsation of their hearts. Ardan was the first to break
it.
"Are we falling or are we not?" he asked in a loud whisper.
"We're not!" answered M'Nicholl, also hardly speaking above his breath.
"The base of the Projectile is still turned away as far as ever from the
Moon!"
Barbican, who had been looking out of the window, now turned hastily
towards his companions. His face frightened them. He was deadly pale;
his eyes stared, and his lips were painfully contracted.
"We _are_ falling!" he shrieked huskily.
"Towards the Moon?" exclaimed his companions.
"No!" was the terrible reply. "Towards the Earth!"
"_Sacre!_" cried Ardan, as usually letting off his excitement in French.
"Fire and fury!" cried M'Nicholl, completely startled out of his
habitual _sang froid_.
"Thunder and lightning!" swore the usually serene Barbican, now
completely stunned by the blow. "I had never expected this!"
Ardan was the first to recover from the deadening shock: his levity came
to his relief.
"First impressions are always right," he muttered philosophically.
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