Imprisoned in an iron shroud, flying through profound darkness into the infinite abysses of space, nearly a quarter million of miles distant from all human aid, freezing with the icy cold, their little stock not only of gas but of _air_ rapidly running lower and lower, a near future of the most impenetrable obscurity looming up before them, they never once thought of wasting time in asking such useless questions as where they were going, or what fate was about to befall them.

Knowing that no good could possibly result from inaction or despair, they carefully kept their wits about them, making their experiments and recording their observations as calmly and as deliberately as if they were working at home in the quiet retirement of their own cabinets.
Any other course of action, however, would have been perfectly absurd on their part, and this no one knew better than themselves.

Even if desirous to act otherwise, what could they have done?
As powerless over the Projectile as a baby over a locomotive, they could neither clap brakes to its movement nor switch off its direction.

A sailor can turn his ship's head at pleasure; an aeronaut has little trouble, by means of his ballast and his throttle-valve, in giving a vertical movement to his balloon.

But nothing of this kind could our travellers attempt.