(no subject)
At ten o'clock the old, long-out-of-print science fiction writer announced it was his bedtime. There was one last thing he wanted to say to us, his family. Like a magician seeking a volunteer from the audience, he asked someone to stand up beside him and do what he said. I held up my hand. "Me, please, me," I said.
The crowd fell quiet as I took my place to his right.
"The Universe has expanded so enormously," he said, "with the exception of the minor glitch it put us through, that light is no longer fast enough to make any trips worth taking in even the most unreasonable lengths of time. Once the fastest thing possible, they say, light now belongs in the graveyard of history, like the Pony Express.
"I now ask this human being brave enough to stand next to me to pick two twinkling points of obsolete light in the sky above us. It doesn't matter what they are, except that they must twinkle. If they don't twinkle. they are either planets or satellites. Tonight we are not interested in planets or satellites."
I picked two points of light maybe ten feet apart. One was Polaris. I have no idea what the other one was. For all I knew, it was Puke, Trout's star the size of a BB.
"Do they twinkle?" he said.
"Yes they do," I said.
"Promise?" he said.
"Cross my heart," I said.
The crowd fell quiet as I took my place to his right.
"The Universe has expanded so enormously," he said, "with the exception of the minor glitch it put us through, that light is no longer fast enough to make any trips worth taking in even the most unreasonable lengths of time. Once the fastest thing possible, they say, light now belongs in the graveyard of history, like the Pony Express.
"I now ask this human being brave enough to stand next to me to pick two twinkling points of obsolete light in the sky above us. It doesn't matter what they are, except that they must twinkle. If they don't twinkle. they are either planets or satellites. Tonight we are not interested in planets or satellites."
I picked two points of light maybe ten feet apart. One was Polaris. I have no idea what the other one was. For all I knew, it was Puke, Trout's star the size of a BB.
"Do they twinkle?" he said.
"Yes they do," I said.
"Promise?" he said.
"Cross my heart," I said.