second, actually sufficient to carry them from London to New York in six
minutes? These, and a hundred other questions of a similar nature were
asked that night by the millions who had been watching the explosion
from the base of Stony Hill. Themselves they forgot altogether for the
moment; they forgot everything in their absorbing anxiety regarding the
fate of the daring travellers. Had one among them, our friend Marston,
for instance, been favored with a glimpse at the interior of the
projectile, what would he have seen?

Nothing at all at first, on account of the darkness; except that the
walls had solidly resisted the frightful shock. Not a crack, nor a bend,
nor a dent could be perceived; not even the slightest injury had the
admirably constructed piece of mechanical workmanship endured. It had
not yielded an inch to the enormous pressure, and, far from melting and
falling back to earth, as had been so seriously apprehended, in showers
of blazing aluminium, it was still as strong in every respect as it had
been on the very day that it left the Cold Spring Iron Works, glittering
like a silver dollar.

Of real damage there was actually none, and even the disorder into which
things had been thrown in the interior by the violent shock was
comparatively slight. A few small objects lying around loose had been
furiously hurled against the ceiling, but the others appeared not to
have suffered the slightest injury. The straps that fastened them up
were unfrayed, and the fixtures that held them down were uncracked.

The partitions beneath the disc having been ruptured, and the water
having escaped, the false floor had been dashed with tremendous violence
against the bottom of the Projectile, and on this disc at this moment
three human bodies could be seen lying perfectly still and motionless.