“I would rather have the other supposition, whatever it is,” replied Michel.

“Or the velocity will be sufficient,” resumed Barbicane, “and it will continue its elliptical orbit, and gravitate eternally round the orb of night.”

“Not very consoling that revolution,” said Michel, “to become the humble servants of a moon whom we are in the habit of considering our servant.  And is that the future that awaits us?”

Neither Barbicane nor Nicholl answered.

“Why do you not answer?” asked the impatient Michel.

“There is nothing to answer,” said Nicholl.

“Can nothing be done?”

“No,” answered Barbicane.  “Do you pretend to struggle with the impossible?”

“Why not?  Ought a Frenchman and two Americans to recoil at such a word?”

“But what do you want to do?”

“Command the motion that is carrying us along!”

“Command it?”

“Yes,” resumed Michel, getting animated, “stop it or modify it; use it for the accomplishment of our plans.”

“And how, pray?”

“That is your business!  If artillerymen are not masters of their bullets they are no longer artillerymen.  If the projectile commands the gunner, the gunner ought to be rammed instead into the cannon!  Fine savants, truly! who don’t know now what to do after having induced me—­”

“Induced!” cried Barbicane and Nicholl.  “Induced!  What do you mean by that?”

“No recriminations!” said Michel.  “I do not complain.  The journey pleases me.  The bullet suits me.  But let us do all that is humanly possible to fall somewhere, if only upon the moon.”

“We should only be too glad, my worthy Michel,” answered Barbicane, “but we have no means of doing it.”

“Can we not modify the motion of the projectile?”

“No.”

“Nor diminish its speed?”

“No.”

“Not even by lightening it like they lighten an overloaded ship?”

“What can we throw out?” answered Nicholl.  “We have no ballast on board.  And besides, it seems to me that a lightened projectile would go on more quickly.”

“Less quickly,” said Michel.

“More quickly,” replied Nicholl.

“Neither more nor less quickly,” answered Barbicane, wishing to make his two friends agree, “for we are moving in the void where we cannot take specific weight into account.”

“Very well,” exclaimed Michel Ardan in a determined tone; “there is only one thing to do.”

“What is that?” asked Nicholl.

“Have breakfast,” imperturbably answered the audacious Frenchman, who always brought that solution to the greatest difficulties.

In fact, though that operation would have no influence on the direction of the projectile, it might be attempted without risk, and even successfully from the point of view of the stomach.  Decidedly the amiable Michel had only good ideas.