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[The Blog of Phileas Fogg: 1883 onwards] October 7th 1884

From: Harry Hayfield <harryhayfield~at~googlemail.com>
Date: Sun, 19 Jul 2009 15:17:05 -0700 (PDT)
To: jvf~at~gilead.org.il

It is not often that I write something that will outlive me, but
following today's events I have a nagging suspicion this could be the
last thing I ever write.

At 1430 UTC (which I understand means Universal Time Coordination) Mr.
Barbicane started the procedure to ensure that the Columbiad would be
captured by the moon and enable us to travel a couple of times around
it and have a look at the surface. Sadly though about 15 minutes later
something happened to make that idea completely impossible. The idea
was to turn the Columbia through an angle of 38° in order to enable us
to attain "orbital capture" as my box of tricks called it but because
of the fact that a tiny force can lead to a large movement, the
application of the force had to be just precise based on the weight of
us all, so with the Columbiad at 17° we suddenly heard a noise that
sounded like something screaming and then from out of one of the
cupboards in the upper section a person fell out. Passepartout tried to
catch the person but just missed and he landed on the floor with a bump
causing Mr. Barbicane to misjudge the amount of force needed and ended
up turning the Columbiad upside down and increasing in speed to such a
degree that according to this box of tricks we will impact into the
moon in a little over 17 hours.

And who was the person who had fallen out of the cupboard? It was none
other than my son and when I announced who it was Barbicane lost his
temper to such a degree that I tore the back of my jacket off (the tail
section) and gagged him saying into his ear "Mr. Barbicane, that person
is my son. I have no idea what he is doing here but if you as so much
say anything that would make the air bluer than a navies' conference
then I may not be reponsible for my actions!" and when it was clear
that the message had been recieved and understood, I turned to my son.
He told me about the eclipse of the moon he had seen in San Francisco
earlier in the year, the red dots and that he was determined to find
out what they were.

"DO YOU REALISE WHAT YOU HAVE DONE?" shouted Mr. Barbicane (at which
point I nodded to Passepartout who growled and knocked Mr. Barbicane
out cold). I looked at my son and said quietly, "Do you realise?" He
looked at me and started to cry sobbing "I just wanted to find out what
those lights were?". I hugged him and explained to him what he had done
was not only wrong but had jeopardised the whole expedition not to
mention was probably worrying the Princess something rotten.

So here we are now, some 16½ hours from impact all quietly
comtemplating what may happen. I have no idea what to do and suspect
that not even Doctor Smith could help. Oh, what's this? "Are you in a
serious pickle?" Yes, we are. "Are you about to impact with an object
that could kill you?" Yes. "If so, press this button". "Thank you, help
is on it's way".

--
Posted By Harry Hayfield to The Blog of Phileas Fogg: 1883 onwards on
7/19/2009 10:41:00 PM

Received on Mon 20 Jul 2009 - 01:17:14 IDT

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