“That’s it! that’s it!” at last he cried.
“Is it clear?” asked Barbicane.
“It is written in letters of fire,” said Nicholl.
“Wonderful fellows!” muttered Ardan.
“Do you understand it at last?” asked Barbicane.
“Do I understand it?” cried Ardan; “my head is splitting with it.”
“And now,” said Nicholl, “to find out the speed of the projectile when it leaves the atmosphere, we have only to calculate that.”
The captain, as a practical man equal to all difficulties, began to write with frightful rapidity. Divisions and multiplications grew under his fingers; the figures were like hail on the white page. Barbicane watched him, while Michel Ardan nursed a growing headache with both hands.
“Very well?” asked Barbicane, after some minutes’ silence.
“Well!” replied Nicholl; every calculation made, v zero, that is to say, the speed necessary for the projectile on leaving the atmosphere, to enable it to reach the equal point of attraction, ought to be—”