"Fine," answered Mark. "But while I was shut up in that old house I
feared I'd never have this chance again."
"It seems like old times again, to be flying through space," remarked
Jack. "My! but we aren't making half the speed of which the projectile
is capable. Why, we're only going about twenty miles a second," and he
spoke as if that was a mere nothing.
"Twenty miles is some speed," observed Mark.
"The earth goes around the sun at the rate of nineteen miles a second,
or about seventy-five times as fast as the swiftest cannon-ball, so you
see, Jack, you are 'going some,' as the boys say."
"Yes, but we went much faster when we went to Mars. Still, no matter
how fast we travel, you'd never realize it inside here."
This was true. So well balanced was the projectile, and so delicately
poised was the machinery, that the terrifically fast rate of travel,
rivalling that of the earth, was no more noticed than we, on this
globe, notice our pace of nineteen miles a second around the sun.
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