The only individual whose soul seemed unstirred by the approaching earth
was Palmyrin Rosette. Leaning over the side of the car, he kept his eyes
fixed upon the abandoned comet, now floating about a mile and a half
below him, bright in the general irradiation which was flooding the
surrounding space.

Chronometer in hand, Lieutenant Procope stood marking the minutes and
seconds as they fled; and the stillness which had once again fallen upon
them all was only broken by his order to replenish the stove, that the
montgolfier might retain its necessary level. Servadac and the count
continued to gaze upon the earth with an eagerness that almost amounted
to awe. The balloon was slightly in the rear of Gallia, a circumstance
that augured somewhat favorably, because it might be presumed that if
the comet preceded the balloon in its contact with the earth, there
would be a break in the suddenness of transfer from one atmosphere to
the other.

The next question of anxiety was, where would the balloon alight? If
upon _terra firma_, would it be in a place where adequate resources for
safety would be at hand? If upon the ocean, would any passing vessel be
within hail to rescue them from their critical position? Truly, as the
count observed to his comrades, none but a Divine Pilot could steer them
now.

"Forty-two minutes past!" said the lieutenant, and his voice seemed to
thrill through the silence of expectation.

There were not 20,000 miles between the comet and the earth!

The calculated time of impact was 2 hours 47 minutes 35.6 seconds. Five
minutes more and collision must ensue!

But was it so? Just at this moment, Lieutenant Procope observed that the
comet deviated sensibly in an oblique course. Was it possible that after
all collision would not occur?

The deviation, however, was not great; it did not justify any
anticipation that Gallia would merely graze the earth, as it had done
before; it left it certain that the two bodies would inevitably impinge.

"No doubt," said Ben Zoof, "this time we shall stick together."

Another thought occurred. Was it not only too likely that, in the fusion
of the two atmospheres, the balloon itself, in which they were being
conveyed, would be rent into ribbons, and every one of its passengers
hurled into destruction, so that not a Gallian should survive to tell
the tale of their strange peregrinations?

Moments were precious; but Hector Servadac resolved that he would adopt
a