In spi­te of all that has hap­pen­ed sin­ce, I still remem­ber that vigil very distinct­ly: the black and silent obser­va­to­ry, the shadowed lan­tern thro­wing a feeb­le glow upon the flo­or in the cor­ner, the ste­ady ticking of the clock­work of the telescope, the litt­le slit in the roof–an oblong pro­fun­di­ty with the star­dust strea­k­ed across it. Ogil­vy moved about, invi­si­ble but audi­ble. Loo­king through the telescope, one saw a cir­cle of deep blue and the litt­le round pla­net swim­ming in the field. It see­med such a litt­le thing, so bright and small and still, faint­ly mark­ed with trans­ver­se stripes, and slight­ly flat­ten­ed from the per­fect round. But so litt­le it was, so sil­very warm–a pin’s‑head of light! It was as if it qui­ver­ed, but real­ly this was the telescope vibra­ting with the acti­vi­ty of the clock­work that kept the pla­net in view.
As I wat­ched, the pla­net see­med to grow lar­ger and smal­ler and to advan­ce and rece­de, but that was sim­ply that my eye was tired. For­ty mil­li­ons of miles it was from us–more than for­ty mil­li­ons of miles of void. Few peo­p­le rea­li­se the immensi­ty of vacan­cy in which the dust of the mate­ri­al uni­ver­se swims.