“Explain yourself, Ned.” “It’s just that I soon realized why my harpoon got blunted and couldn’t puncture its hide.” “Why, Ned, why?” “Because, professor, this beast is made of boilerplate steel!” At this point in my story, I need to get a grip on myself, reconstruct exactly what I experienced, and make doubly sure of everything I write. The Canadian’s last words caused a sudden upheaval in my brain. I swiftly hoisted myself to the summit of this half-submerged creature or object that was serving as our refuge. I tested it with my foot. Obviously it was some hard, impenetrable substance, not the soft matter that makes up the bodies of our big marine mammals. But this hard substance could have been a bony carapace, like those that covered some prehistoric animals, and I might have left it at that and classified this monster among such amphibious reptiles as turtles or alligators. Well, no. The blackish back supporting me was smooth and polished with no overlapping scales. On impact, it gave off a metallic sonority, and as incredible as this sounds, it seemed, I swear, to be made of riveted plates. No doubts were possible! This animal, this monster, this natural phenomenon that had puzzled the whole scientific world, that had muddled and misled the minds of seamen in both hemispheres, was, there could be no escaping it, an even more astonishing phenomenon—a phenomenon made by the hand of man. Even if I had discovered that some fabulous, mythological creature really existed, it wouldn’t have given me such a terrific mental jolt. It’s easy enough to accept that prodigious things can come from our Creator. But to find, all at once, right before your eyes, that the impossible had been mysteriously achieved by man himself: this staggers the mind! But there was no question now. We were stretched out on the back of some kind of underwater boat that, as far as I could judge, boasted the shape of an immense steel fish. Ned Land had clear views on the issue. Conseil and I could only line up behind him. “But then,” I said, “does this contraption contain some sort of locomotive mechanism, and a crew to run it?” “Apparently,” the harpooner replied. “And yet for the three hours I’ve lived on this floating island, it hasn’t shown a sign of life.” “This boat hasn’t moved at all?” “No, Professor Aronnax. It just rides with the waves, but otherwise it hasn’t stirred.” “But we know that it’s certainly gifted with great speed. Now then, since an engine is needed to generate that speed, and a mechanic to run that engine, I conclude: we’re saved.” “Humph!” Ned Land put in, his tone denoting reservations. Just then, as if to take my side in the argument, a bubbling began astern of this strange submersible—whose drive mechanism was obviously a propeller—and the boat started to move. We barely had time to hang on to its topside, which emerged about eighty centimeters above water. Fortunately its speed was not excessive.