In consequence of some force, to me utterly inexplicable, the Projectile still seems disposed to turn its base towards the Earth.

In fact, it is likely enough that at the neutral point its cone will point vertically to the Moon.

That being the moment when its velocity will most probably be _nil_, it will also be the moment for us to discharge our rockets, and the possibility is that we may force a direct fall on the lunar disc." "Good!" cried Ardan, clapping hands.
"Why didn't we execute this grand manoeuvre the first time we reached the neutral point ?" asked M'Nicholl a little crustily.
"It would be useless," answered Barbican; "the Projectile's velocity at that time, as you no doubt remember, not only did not need rockets, but was actually too great to be affected by them." "True!" chimed in Ardan; "a wind of four miles an hour is very little use to a steamer going ten." "That assertion," cried M'Nicholl, "I am rather dis--" -- "Dear friends," interposed Barbican, his pale face beaming and his clear voice ringing with the new excitement; "let us just now waste no time in mere words.

We have one more chance, perhaps a great one.

Let us not throw it away! We have been on the brink of despair--" -- "Beyond it!" cried Ardan.
-- "But I now begin to see a possibility, nay, a very decided probability, of our being able to attain the great end at last!" "Bravo!" cried Ardan.
"Hurrah!" cried M'Nicholl.
"Yes! my brave boys!" cried Barbican as enthusiastically as his companions; "all's not over yet by a long shot!" What had brought about this great revulsion in the spirits of our bold adventurers?
The breakfast?
Prince Esterhazy's Tokay?
The latter, most probably.