“Indulge your astonishment, my friend, and have a look, because there’s plenty of work here for a classifier of your talents.” Conseil needed no encouraging. Bending over the glass cases, the gallant lad was already muttering choice words from the naturalist’s vocabulary: class Gastropoda, family Buccinoidea, genus cowry, species Cypraea madagascariensis, etc. Meanwhile Ned Land, less dedicated to conchology, questioned me about my interview with Captain Nemo. Had I discovered who he was, where he came from, where he was heading, how deep he was taking us? In short, a thousand questions I had no time to answer. I told him everything I knew—or, rather, everything I didn’t know—and I asked him what he had seen or heard on his part. “Haven’t seen or heard a thing!” the Canadian replied. “I haven’t even spotted the crew of this boat. By any chance, could they be electric too?” “Electric?” “Oh ye gods, I’m half tempted to believe it! But back to you, Professor Aronnax,” Ned Land said, still hanging on to his ideas. “Can’t you tell me how many men are on board? Ten, twenty, fifty, a hundred?” “I’m unable to answer you, Mr. Land. And trust me on this: for the time being, get rid of these notions of taking over the Nautilus or escaping from it. This boat is a masterpiece of modern technology, and I’d be sorry to have missed it! Many people would welcome the circumstances that have been handed us, just to walk in the midst of these wonders. So keep calm, and let’s see what’s happening around us.” “See!” the harpooner exclaimed. “There’s nothing to see, nothing we’ll ever see from this sheet-iron prison! We’re simply running around blindfolded—” Ned Land was just pronouncing these last words when we were suddenly plunged into darkness, utter darkness. The ceiling lights went out so quickly, my eyes literally ached, just as if we had experienced the opposite sensation of going from the deepest gloom to the brightest sunlight. We stood stock-still, not knowing what surprise was waiting for us, whether pleasant or unpleasant. But a sliding sound became audible. You could tell that some panels were shifting over the Nautilus’s sides. “It’s the beginning of the end!” Ned Land said. “. . . order Hydromedusa,” Conseil muttered. Suddenly, through two oblong openings, daylight appeared on both sides of the lounge. The liquid masses came into view, brightly lit by the ship’s electric outpourings. We were separated from the sea by two panes of glass. Initially I shuddered at the thought that these fragile partitions could break; but strong copper bands secured them, giving them nearly infinite resistance. The sea was clearly visible for a one-mile radius around the Nautilus. What a sight! What pen could describe it? Who could portray the effects of this light through these translucent sheets of water, the subtlety of its progressive shadings into the ocean’s upper and lower strata?