“Professor Rosette, I suppose,” Ben Zoof remarked, “would pretty soon find out all about that.” “But we will leave this hypothesis,” said the lieutenant; “our own experience has sufficiently shown us its advantages and its disadvantages. We will proceed to consider the infinitely more serious alternative of direct impact; of a shock that would hurl the comet straight on to the earth, to which it would become attached.” “A great wart upon her face!” said Ben Zoof, laughing. The captain held up his finger to his orderly, making him understand that he should hold his tongue. “It is, I presume, to be taken for granted,” continued Lieutenant Procope, “that the mass of the earth is comparatively so large that, in the event of a direct collision, her own motion would not be sensibly retarded, and that she would carry the comet along with her, as part of herself.” “Very little question of that, I should think,” said Servadac. “Well, then,” the lieutenant went on, “what part of this comet of ours will be the part to come into collision with the earth? It may be the equator, where we are; it may be at the exactly opposite point, at our antipodes; or it may be at either pole. In any case, it seems hard to foresee whence there is to come the faintest chance of deliverance.” “Is the case so desperate?” asked Servadac. “I will tell you why it seems so. If the side of the comet on which we are resident impinges on the earth, it stands to reason that we must be crushed to atoms by the violence of the concussion.” “Regular mincemeat!” said Ben Zoof, whom no admonitions could quite reduce to silence. “And if,” said the lieutenant, after a moment’s pause, and the slightest possible frown at the interruption--“and if the collision should occur at our antipodes, the sudden check to the velocity of the comet would be quite equivalent to a shock _in situ_; and, another thing, we should run the risk of being suffocated, for all our comet’s atmosphere would be assimilated with the terrestrial atmosphere, and we, supposing we were not dashed to atoms, should be left as it were upon the summit of an enormous mountain (for such to all intents and purposes Gallia would be), 450 miles above the level of the surface of the globe, without a particle of air to breathe.” “But would not our chances of escape be considerably better,” asked Count Timascheff, “in the event of either of the comet’s poles being the point of contact?” “Taking the combined velocity into account,” answered the lieutenant, “I confess that I fear the violence of the shock will be too great to permit our destruction to be averted.” A general silence ensued, which was broken by the lieutenant himself. “Even if none of these contingencies occur in the way we have contemplated, I am driven to the suspicion that we shall be burnt alive.” “Burnt alive!” they all exclaimed in a chorus of horror.