"We're only going fifty miles a second now," whispered Jack.
Mark nodded his head. "Can't you pull the lever over faster?" he asked.
"I don't dare," replied his chum. There was nothing to do but to wait and gradually slow up the projectile as much as possible. The boys could hear the professors in the pilothouse shifting gears, valves and levers to change the course of the projectile. Andy Sudds and Washington White, with fear on their faces, looked into the engine room, waiting anxiously for the outcome.
"Hab—hab we hit it yet?" asked Washington, moving his hands nervously.
"I reckon not, or we'd know it," said the hunter.
"No, not yet," answered Jack, in a low voice. "How much are we making now, Mark?"
"Only thirty a second."
"Good! She's coming down."
Hardly had he spoken than there sounded a noise like thunder, or the rushing of some mighty wind. The projectile, which was trembling throughout her length from the force of the motor, shivered as though she had plunged into the unknown depths of some mighty sea. The roaring increased. Mark and Jack looked at each other. Washington White fell upon his knees and began praying in a loud voice. Old Andy grasped his gun, as though to say that, even though on the brink of eternity, he was ready.
Then, with a scream as of some gigantic shell from a thousand-inch rifle, something passed over the Annihilator; something that shook the great projectile like a leaf in the wind. And then the scream died away, and there was silence. For a moment no one spoke, and then Jack whispered hoarsely: