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you think you are justified in doing anything—absolutely anything—here and now, on the off chance that some creatures or other descended from man as we know him may crawl about a few centuries longer in some part of the universe.” “Yes—anything whatever,” returned the scientist sternly, “and all educated opinion—for I do not call classics and history and such trash education—is entirely on my side.
“I always thought space was dark and cold,” he remarked vaguely. “Forgotten the sun?” said Weston contemptuously.
A nightmare, long engendered in the modern mind by the mythology that follows in the wake of science, was falling off him.
He had not known how much it affected him till now—now that the very name “Space” seemed a blasphemous libel for this empyrean ocean of radiance in which they swam. He could not call it “dead”;
No: Space was the wrong name. Older thinkers had been wiser when they named it simply the heavens—the heavens which declared the glory
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His whole imaginative training somehow encouraged him to associate superhuman intelligence with monstrosity of form and ruthlessness of will.
It even occurred to him that the distinction between history and mythology might be itself meaningless outside the Earth.
