“Burnt alive!” they all exclaimed in a chorus of horror.
“Yes. If the deductions of modern science be true, the speed of the comet, when suddenly checked, will be transmuted into heat, and that heat will be so intense that the temperature of the comet will be raised to some millions of degrees.”
No one having anything definite to allege in reply to Lieutenant Procope’s forebodings, they all relapsed into silence. Presently Ben Zoof asked whether it was not possible for the comet to fall into the middle of the Atlantic.
Procope shook his head. “Even so, we should only be adding the fate of drowning to the list of our other perils.”
“Then, as I understand,” said Captain Servadac, “in whatever way or in whatever place the concussion occurs, we must be either crushed, suffocated, roasted, or drowned. Is that your conclusion, lieutenant?”
“I confess I see no other alternative,” answered Procope, calmly.
“But isn’t there another thing to be done?” said Ben Zoof.
“What do you mean?” his master asked.
“Why, to get off the comet before the shock comes.”
“How could you get off Gallia?”