"Sure. Did I say that preachers--let alone plain folks--or any handful of contemporary men--knew what they were doing? Or why? Or what anybody else was doing? They don't know. So they go on by instinct--the statistical sweep of impulses that lop off nations as readily as the wind lops trees. I said we _could_ know. I said we weren't trying. Instinct is the immortal property--the urge in behalf of the future. Ants are doing what they can for ants, bees for bees, fish for fish--without much individual hesitation. But not men for men. Men today are trying either to get themselves into heaven, or to make a mint, or just to get by, as individuals. The future, to most men, means their own here--or their reward in heaven. To instinct, the future means the future of awareness, and men are but its most conspicuous exponents here and now. If we began to plan life for our progeny--what a world!" I was getting sick of the guy. Sick, rather, of myself--my endless efforts to put a simple idea in some form that would perfuse skulls hardened against it--sometimes even by what they imagined to be open-mindedness. "Look. You believe, don't you, that you could sit down and write out a mode of behavior satisfactory for man to the end of time?" "I could take a crack at it," he said. "Well--I don't. I believe that future men should be left free to make up their minds without consulting any bulls and fiats from me. I get some sense of orientation, a _raison d'être_, from giving thought to the rights of the species now and to come. Not saving adult souls for present bliss--or spiritual cradle-snatching, either--but forwarding the whole, rolling business of biology on this sin-drenched planet, is the fun--for me." "You are totally pessimistic about the present scene, apparently." I looked out the window. It was getting on toward sunset. "Excepting for a few physical technologies--are we so different from our human predecessors? Crueler, it may be. And weaker physically, perhaps. Otherwise--not any different. And has there ever been a time in our past history when optimism for even one era or one society was warranted? History says not--the record. It is hardly an encouraging fact." "No hope, then? No fringe of lining on the cloud--?" "I didn't say that. The record has at least--continued. I hardly expect mankind to be blotted out. I just don't have a very high opinion of man's present works in relation to what he really is, desperately needs, and someday could be. There are compensations. I give you one. We won't be missed." He began putting on his dickey. It plastered itself against his sodden undershirt. He ran his thick fingers around his collar. "You're a hard person, Phil." "I am a very gentle guy, Socker. The men of the earth are hard. They have confused another instinct here--and think to be hard is estimable." "Somehow, I believe you're all wrong."