“That I went round them! They thought that they were the centre of the Universe, and that Creation circled round and round them, just in the same way that their little pet cinder, they call the Moon, goes round and round them!”
“Blessed if that isn’t the funniest thing I’ve heard for ten million years!” said the Comet. “I’ll make my little corner in Space fairly scream with that!” He was genuinely amused, and shook to such an extent that he gave rise to considerable disturbances on a large scale.
“Look out, old man! you’re upsetting my System!” said the Sun.
“Smother your System!” yelled the Comet. “That little pill of mud and water to think itself the centre of all things! Why don’t you smash it or frizzle it up?”
“We must be patient. It knows somewhat better now. If it would only be commonly grateful and realise a little of what it owed me, I would overlook the bumptiousness. That’s natural to all small things.”
“I believe you. For sheer side, not to say impertinence, commend me to shooting-stars. Space is full of them, and they go slogging about in clusters, as if the Universe had been designed for nothing but their especial amusement and convenience. Little cads! They always think it a huge joke to go right through me like a bullet through a piece of paper.”
“But they can’t hurt you.”
“No, not physically; it’s the moral disgrace of the thing. One feels so powerless against the little brutes; and satire’s thrown away on ’em.”
“They get precious small change out of me or my System either,” answered the Sun. “I burn them up in billions myself; I light my cigars with ’em. And the Planets—they’ve all got their own atmospheres; and when a shooting-star gets into an atmosphere, it’s done for. You ought to cultivate an atmosphere.”
“No time,” said the Comet. “In fact, I must be off as it is. Can’t stop! Can’t stop! Can’t stop!”