“You’re an engineer, then, Captain Nemo?”
“Yes, professor,” he answered me. “I studied in London, Paris, and New York back in the days when I was a resident of the earth’s continents.”
“But how were you able to build this wonderful Nautilus in secret?”
“Each part of it, Professor Aronnax, came from a different spot on the globe and reached me at a cover address. Its keel was forged by Creusot in France, its propeller shaft by Pen & Co. in London, the sheet-iron plates for its hull by Laird’s in Liverpool, its propeller by Scott’s in Glasgow. Its tanks were manufactured by Cail & Co. in Paris, its engine by Krupp in Prussia, its spur by the Motala workshops in Sweden, its precision instruments by Hart Bros. in New York, etc.; and each of these suppliers received my specifications under a different name.”
“But,” I went on, “once these parts were manufactured, didn’t they have to be mounted and adjusted?”
“Professor, I set up my workshops on a deserted islet in midocean. There our Nautilus was completed by me and my workmen, in other words, by my gallant companions whom I’ve molded and educated. Then, when the operation was over, we burned every trace of our stay on that islet, which if I could have, I’d have blown up.”
“From all this, may I assume that such a boat costs a fortune?”
“An iron ship, Professor Aronnax, runs 1,125 francs per metric ton. Now then, the Nautilus has a burden of 1,500 metric tons. Consequently, it cost 1,687,000 francs, hence 2,000,000 francs including its accommodations, and 4,000,000 or 5,000,000 with all the collections and works of art it contains.”
“One last question, Captain Nemo.”
“Ask, professor.”