It was a cannon that hurled the projectile up to the Moon; it was to be a cannon that was to change the terrestrial axis! The cannon! Always the cannon! Barbicane and Co. evidently suffered from chronic attacks of aggravated “cannonism”! Was a cannon the ultima ratio of the world? was it to be the brutal sovereign of the universe? The canon rules theology, was the cannon to give the law to commerce and cosmology?

A cannon was the engine Barbicane & Co. were to bring into action. They had not devoted their lives to ballistics for nothing. After the Columbiad of Tampa Town there was to come the monster cannon of—of—the place x! And already there were people who could hear the sonorous command.

“No. 1! Aim at the Moon! Fire!”

“No. 2! Change the Earth’s axis! Fire!”

And then for the “general upset” predicted by Sulphuric Alcide!

The publication of the report of the Commission produced an effect of which it is impossible even to give an idea. There was nothing in it of a soothing tendency, it must be admitted. By J. T. Maston’s calculations, the problem had evidently been solved. The operation to be attempted by Barbicane & Co. would, it was only too clear, introduce a most regrettable modification in the diurnal movement. A new axis would be substituted for the old. And we know what would be the consequences of that substitution.

The enterprise of Barbicane & Co. was thus judged, cursed, and demitted to general reprobation. Barbicane and Co. were dangers to society. If they retained a few partisans in the United States, the partisans were few indeed.

From the point of view of their own personal safety, Impey Barbicane and Captain Nicholl had certainly done wisely to clear out. They would assuredly have come to grief if they had not done so. It was not with impunity that they could menace fourteen hundred millions of people, upset their habits and customs, and disturb their very existence by provoking a general catastrophe.

But how had these two men managed to disappear without leaving a trace? How could they have got away unperceived with the men and material necessary for their project? Hundreds of waggons, if they went by railway, and hundreds of ships, if they went by sea, would be required for the transport of the metal, the fuel, and the meli-melonite. It was quite incomprehensible how the departure could have taken place incognito. But it had taken place nevertheless.

Inquiries were made, but nothing was discovered as to any order being sent to any of the metallurgical or chemical works of the world. It was inexplicable! But the explanation would come—some day!

Barbicane and Nicholl having mysteriously disappeared, were beyond immediate danger. But J. T. Maston! He was under lock and key; but were not public reprisals to be feared? Bah! He did not trouble himself about that in the least! Admirably obstinate was the calculator! He was of iron—like his fore-arm! At nothing did he quail!

From the depths of his cell in the gaol of Baltimore the secretary of the Gun Club became more and more absorbed in the distant contemplation of the colleagues he had not accompanied. In his mind’s eye he could see Barbicane and Nicholl preparing their gigantic enterprise in that unknown region where no one could interfere with them. He saw them making the cannon, mixing the meli-melonite, casting the projectile which the Sun would soon count among its minor asteroids! That new star which was to bear the name of Scorbitta, as a delicate compliment to the millionaire of New Park! and J. T. Maston began to count the days that would elapse before the word to fire was given.

It was the month of April. In two months and a half the Sun would halt at the solstice on the Tropic of Cancer and retrograde towards the Tropic of Capricorn. Three months later he would cross the Equator at the autumnal equinox. And with that would finish the seasons that for millions of ages had alternated with such regularity in every terrestrial year. For the last time the spheroid would submit to the inequality of its days and nights. For the future the number of hours between sunrise and sunset would be equal all over the globe.

In truth it was a magnificent work! J. T. Maston forgot all about the Polar coal-field in contemplating the cosmographical consequences of his labours. The principal object of the Association had been forgotten in the transformations the face of the earth would undergo—notwithstanding that the earth did not care about these magnificent transformations.

J. T. Maston, alone and defenceless in his cell, resisted every pressure brought to bear on him. The members of the Commission of Inquiry visited him daily, and obtained nothing. It occurred at last to John Prestice to make use of an influence that might succeed better than his—that of Mrs. Scorbitt. No one was ignorant of the lengths to which the widow would go when the celebrated calculator was in peril.

There was a meeting of the Commission, and Mrs. Scorbitt was authorized to visit the prisoner as often as she thought fit. Was not she threatened with the danger from the recoil of the monster cannon as much as any other of the world’s inhabitants? Would her New Park mansion escape the final catastrophe any more than the wigwam of the poor Indian or the humble hut of the backwoodsman? Was not her life as much in danger as that of the obscurest Samoyed or South Sea Islander? The president of the Commission elaborately explained this to her, and suggested that she should bring her influence to bear for the general good.

If she could only get J. T. Maston to state where Barbicane and Nicholl had gone, there would still be time to pursue them and save humanity from the impending fate.

And so Mrs. Scorbitt had access to the gaol. What she desired above all was to see J. T. Maston, who had been torn by the police from the comforts of his cottage. Let it not be supposed that the heroic Evangelina was a slave to human weakness. And if, on the 9th of April, some indiscreet ear had been applied to the keyhole the first time that the widow appeared in the cell, this is what would have met it,—

“At last, dear Maston, I see you again!”

“You, Mrs. Scorbitt!”

“Yes, my friend, after four weeks, four long weeks of separation—”

“Exactly twenty-eight days, five hours, forty-five minutes,” said Maston, looking at his watch.

“At last we meet!”

“But why, Mrs. Scorbitt? Why have they allowed you to come here?”

“To use whatever influence a boundless admiration may have on him who is its object!”

“What!” exclaimed J. T. Maston, “you have consented to talk thus to me! You have imagined that I would betray my colleagues?”

“Do you think so meanly of me? I to ask you to sacrifice your safety to your honour? I to urge you to an act which would be the disgrace of a life consecrated to the highest speculations of the higher mechanics?”

“Bravo, Mrs. Scorbitt! I recognize the worthy shareholder of our Association! Never did I doubt your courage!”

“Thank you, dear Maston.”

“As for me, to divulge our work; to reveal at what spot on the surface of the earth our effort is to be made; to sell the secret I fortunately kept hidden within me; to permit these barbarians to launch off in pursuit of our friends, to interrupt the labours they are engaged in for our profit and our glory! I would rather die first!”

“Maston, you are sublime!” said Evangelina.

In truth, these two beings, so closely united in enthusiasm—and equally mad—were born to understand each other.

“No!” continued Maston. “Never shall they know the name of the country which my calculations have designated, and which will become immortal. They may kill me if they will, but they shall never possess my secret.”

“And they may kill me with you,” said Mrs. Scorbitt; “for I also will be dumb.”

“Fortunately, they do not know that you possess the secret.”

“Do you think I am capable of revealing it because I am only a woman? to betray our colleagues and you? No, my friend; no! The Philistines may raise the world against you to tear you from your cell, but I will be with you, and we shall have at least the consolation of dying together!”

And that was the way the conversation ended every time the widow visited the prisoner. And every time the Commissioners inquired as to the result the answer was the same.

“Nothing yet; but in time I hope to obtain what you want!”

Oh, the astuteness of woman!

“In time!” she said. But time marched on; weeks went by like days, days like hours, hours like minutes.

It was now May. Mrs. Scorbitt had obtained nothing; and if she had failed, who could hope to succeed? Was the world to resign itself to this terrible blow without a chance of hindering it?

Well, no! in such things resignation is unacceptable. Our friends the delegates were unceasing in fomenting the excitement. Jansen overwhelmed the Commissioners daily. Karkof picked a quarrel with the secretary. Donellan, to make things worse, directed attention to another victim in the shape of the codfish merchant, Forster, who had sunk into insignificance after the auction sale, to bid at which he had been engaged. And in order to bring the phlegmatic fishmonger prominently to the front, the Canadian attempted to knock him down. To complicate matters further, “the friendly Powers” began “to bring pressure to bear” on the Washington Government, which had quite enough to do to withstand the “pressure” of its own people. In reply the Washington Government issued a circular authorizing the arrest of the two “malefactors” by any power whatsoever. But none the less did it remain impossible to discover where the malefactors had got to.

Then the Powers hinted that if J. T. Maston were properly dealt with, J. T. Maston would reveal the secret. But the Government might as well have tried to extract a word from Harpocrates, the god of silence, or from the chief deaf-mute of the New York Institute.

And then the exasperation increased with the general anxiety, and a few practical minds drew attention to the fact that the torture system of the Middle Ages was not without some advantages. So it was proposed to introduce, for the benefit of J. T. Maston, a few experiments with the “boot,” the “scavenger’s daughter,” “molten lead,” “boiling oil,” “the wooden horse,” the “bastinado,” &c., &c. But such things were impossible in the century which invented the magazine rifle, roburite, bellite, panclastite, and other “ites,” not to mention the far superior meli-melonite.

J. T. Maston had, then, no fear of being put to the torture. All that could be done with him was to hope that he would speak, or that chance would speak for him.