The image of the galaxy’s swirling fire-mists faded: light returned to the sudden silence of the great chamber.
Karellen turned to go: the audience was over. At the door he paused and looked back upon the hushed crowd.
“It is a bitter thought, but you must face it. The planets you may one day possess. But the stars are not for Man.”
“The stars are not for Man.” Yes, it would annoy them to have the celestial portals slammed in their faces. But they must learn to face the truth — or as much of the truth as could mercifully be given to them.
From the lonely heights of the stratosphere, Karellen looked down upon the world and the people that had been given into his reluctant keeping. He thought of all that lay ahead, and what this world would be only a dozen years from now. They would never know how lucky they had been. For a lifetime Mankind had achieved as much happiness as any race can ever know. It had been the Golden Age. But gold was also the colour of sunset, of autumn: and only Karellen’s ears could catch the first wailings of the winter storms.
And only Karellen knew with what inexorable swiftness the Golden Age was rushing to its close.
III. THE LAST GENERATION
15
“Look at this!” exploded George Greggson, hurling the paper across at Jean. It came to rest, despite her efforts to intercept it, spread listlessly across the breakfast table. Jean patiently scraped away the jam and read the offending passage, doing her best to register disapproval. She was not very good at this, because all too often she agreed with the critics. Usually she kept these heretical opinions to herself; and not merely for the sake of peace and quiet. George was perfectly prepared to accept praise from her (or anyone else), but if she ventured any criticism of his work she would receive a crushing lecture on her artistic ignorance.
She read the review twice, then gave up. It appeared quite favourable, and she said so.