"How far off are we?"

"Forty-six degrees south of X Island, or two thousand eight hundred
miles."

"All the more reason to get our propellers into order," said the
mate. "We may have the wind against us this passage, and with the
little stores we have left we ought to get to X as soon as possible."

"Yes, Tom, and I hope to get under way tonight, even if I go with one
screw, and put the other to-rights on the voyage."

"Mr. Robur," said Tom "What is to be done with those two gentlemen
and their servant?"

"Do you think they would complain if they became colonists of X
Island?"

But where was this X? It was an island lost in the immensity of the
Pacific Ocean between the Equator and the Tropic of Cancer--an
island most appropriately named by Robur in this algebraic fashion.
It was in the north of the South Pacific, a long way out of the route
of inter-oceanic communication. There it was that Robur had founded
his little colony, and there the "Albatross" rested when tired with
her flight. There she was provisioned for all her voyages. In X
Island, Robur, a man of immense wealth, had established a shipyard in
which he built his aeronef. There he could repair it, and even
rebuild it. In his warehouses were materials and provisions of all
sorts stored for the fifty inhabitants who lived on the island.