—Five Weeks in a BalloonJULES VERNE, 1869 To Charles, the balloon felt like a live thing. The gondola surged under him, and his stomach lurched as it did when his horse cleared a high stone fence. They were rising—no, shooting up, in an ascent that was beyond their control, beyond anyone’s control. In two beats of the heart—and Charles’s heart was beating fast with excitement—they were twenty feet above the milling crowd. The mooring lines writhed like snakes, just out of reach of the grasping hands of the marchers, who were furious to have been cheated out of their victory. The vicar pulled off his bright-colored scarf and began to wave it. “Goodbye!” he called, his high, thin voice almost lost in the rough hubbub of shouts and jeers. “Good luck!” Bradford shouted. “Telegraph as soon as you’ve set down.” But through the din, it was Kate’s sweeter voice that rang in Charles’s ears, calling with love, “Goodbye, Charles, goodbye, my dear!” For the moment, there was almost no breeze.
