“Stop!” I cried. “You’re positively giving me a chill up my spine. You’re making me feel so lonesome, Gershom, that you’re giving me goose-flesh. You’re not leaving me anything to get hold of. You haven’t even left me anything to stand on. I’m only a little speck of Nothing on a nit of a world in a puny little universe which is only a little freckle on the face of some greater universe which is only a lost child in a city of bigger constellations which in turn have still lonelier suns to swing about, until I go on and on, and wonder with a gasp what is beyond the end of space. But I can’t go on thinking about it. I simply can’t. It upsets me, the same as an earthquake would, when you look about for something solid and find that even your solid old earth is going back on you!” 168
“On the contrary,” said Gershom as he put down his telescope, “I know nothing more conducive to serenity than the study of astronomy. It has a tendency to teach you, in the first place, just how insignificant you are in the general scheme of things. The naked eye, in clear air like this, can see over eight thousand stars. The larger telescopes reveal a hundred million stars, and the photographic dry-plate has shown that there are several thousands of millions which can be definitely recorded. So that you and I are not altogether the whole works. And to remember that, when we are feeling a bit important, is good for our Ego!”
I didn’t answer him, for I was busy just then studying the Milky Way. And I couldn’t help feeling that it must have been on a night like this that a certain young shepherd watching his flocks on the uplands of Canaan sat studying the infinite stairways of star-dust that “sloped through darkness up to God” and was moved to say: “When I consider the heavens, the work of Thy fingers, the moon and the stars which Thou hast ordained, what is man that Thou art mindful of him, or the son of man that Thou visitest him?”
“Yes, Gershom, it’s horribly humiliating,” I said 169 as I squinted up at those serene heavens. “They last forever. And we come and go out, and nobody knows why!”
“Pardon me,” corrected the literal-minded Gershom. “They do not last forever. They come and go out, just as we do. Only they take longer. Consider the Dipper up there, for instance. A hundred thousand years from now that Dipper will be perceptibly altered, for we know the lateral movement of Dubhe and Benetnasch will give the outer line of the bowl a greater flare and make the crook of the handle a trifle sharper. Even a thousand years would show change enough for instruments to detect. And a million years will probably show the group pretty well broken up. But the one regrettable feature, of course, is that we will not be here to see it.”
“Where will we be?” I asked Gershom.
“I don’t know,” he finally admitted, after an unexpectedly long silence.
“But will it all go on, forever and forever and forever?”
“To do so is not in the nature of things,” was Gershom’s quiet-toned reply. “It is the destiny of our own earth, of course, which most interests us. And however we look at it, that destiny is a gloomy one. 170 Its heat may fail. Stupart, in fact, has established that its temperature is going down one and a half degrees every thousand years. Or its volcanic elevating forces may give out, so that the land will subside and the water wash over it from pole to pole. Or a comet may wipe up its atmosphere, the same as one sponge-sweep wipes up moisture from a slate. Or the sun itself may cool, so that the last of our race will stand huddled together in a solarium somewhere on the Equator. Or as our sun rushes toward Lyra, it may bump into a derelict sun, just as a ship bumps into a wreck. If that derelict were as big as our sun, astronomers would see it at least fifteen years before the collision. For five or six years it would even be visible to the naked eye, so that the race, or what remained of the race, would have plenty of time to think things over and put its house in order. Then, of course, we’d go up like a singed feather. And there’d be no more breakfasts to worry over, and no more wheat to thresh, and no more school fires to start in the morning, and no more children to make think you know more than you really do, and not even any more hearts to ache. There would be just Emptiness, just voiceless and never-ending Nothingness!” 171
Gershom stopped speaking and sat staring up at Orion. Then he turned and looked at me.