Перші люди на Місяці

           ButIcouldnotdoit.IsawBedfordrushingdownChanceryLane,hatonthebackofhishead,coattailsflyingout,enrouteforhispublicexamination.Isawhimdodgingandbumpingagainst,andevensaluting,othersimilarlittlecreaturesinthatswarminggutterofpeople.Me?IsawBedfordthatsameeveninginthesitting-roomofacertainlady,andhishatwasonthetablebesidehim,anditwantedbrushingbadly,andhewasintears.Me?Isawhimwiththatladyinvariousattitudesandemotions—Ineverfeltsodetachedbefore....IsawhimhurryingofftoLympnetowriteaplay,andaccostingCavor,andinhisshirtsleevesworkingatthesphere,andwalkingouttoCanterburybecausehewasafraidtocome!Me?Ididnotbelieveit.

           Istillreasonedthatallthiswashallucinationduetomysolitude,andthefactthatIhadlostallweightandsenseofresistance.Iendeavouredtorecoverthatsensebybangingmyselfaboutthesphere,bypinchingmyhandsandclaspingthemtogether.Amongotherthings,Ilitthelight,capturedthattorncopyofLloyd’s,andreadthoseconvincinglyrealisticadvertisementsabouttheCutawaybicycle,andthegentlemanofprivatemeans,andtheladyindistresswhowassellingthose“forksandspoons.”Therewasnodoubttheyexistedsurelyenough,and,saidI,“Thisisyourworld,andyouareBedford,andyouaregoingbacktoliveamongthingslikethatforalltherestofyourlife.”Butthedoubtswithinmecouldstillargue:“Itisnotyouthatisreading,itisBedford,butyouarenotBedford,youknow.That’sjustwherethemistakecomesin.”