seven o'clock
`` It ca n't be denied , '' he muttered , slowly nodding his head , `` that even your practical men sometimes stumble on a good idea . '' Then curling up his long legs , and folding his arms under his head , his restless brain was soon forming fantastic shapes for itself in the mysterious land of dreams . But his slumbers were too much disturbed to last long . After an uneasy , restless , unrefreshing attempt at repose , he sat up at about half-past seven o'clock , and began stretching himself , when he found his companions already awake and discussing the situation in whispers . The Projectile , they were remarking , was still pursuing its way from the Moon , and turning its conical point more and more in her direction . This latter phenomenon , though as puzzling as ever , Barbican regarded with decided pleasure : the more directly the conical summit pointed to the Moon at the exact moment , the more directly towards her surface would the rockets communicate their reactionary motion . Nearly seventeen hours , however , were still to elapse before that moment , that all important moment , would arrive .