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Then, as Turnbull made no answer, his host continued:

“That is the really fine thing about space. It is topsy-turvy. You have only to climb far enough toward the morning star to feel that you are coming down to it. You have only to dive deep enough into the abyss to feel that you are rising. That is the only glory of this universe—it is a giddy universe.”

Then, as Turnbull was still silent, he added:

“The heavens are full of revolution—of the real sort of revolution. All the high things sinking low and all the big things looking small. All the people who think they are aspiring find they are falling head foremost. And all the people who think they are condescending find they are climbing up a precipice. That is the intoxication of space. That is the only joy of eternity—doubt. There is only one pleasure the angels can possibly have in flying, and that is, that they do not know whether they are on their head or their heels.”

Then, finding his companion still mute, he fell himself into a smiling and motionless meditation, at the end of which he said suddenly:

“So MacIan converted you?”

Turnbull sprang up as if spurning the steel car