By the time he began to stir again I had, I thought, grasped the situation, and determined to intervene. So I drew near, and addressed him: “Can I be mistaken in thinking that I see before me the far-famed hero, Tantalus, boon companion of the gods?” “And their victim.” “And what tree is this, I pray you, about which you busy yourself?” “The Tree of Knowledge.” “And the water, which you have trampled into mud, is what?” “The Elixir of Life.” “Then you seem to have all the materials for a happy life. Why don’t you eat of the fruits of the tree, and drink of the elixir?” “You have seen the results of my efforts.” “I cannot but think you have been unfortunate in your choice of the fruits: there are many that look much better higher up.” “And how am I to get at them?” “Well, of course, you must break through all these _debris_ of former animal life, which bar your access to the trunk of the tree, and prevent you from drinking of the water of life; after that, you can climb up the tree, and pick the best of the fruits.” “And how am I to break through the barrier of bones?” “Even though you appear to have no instruments, you can surely find a stone?” “Where shall I find a stone in the Plain of Forgetfulness? And besides, how should I climb the tree with these ... feet?” And he lifted up one of his monstrous limbs. “Certainly you seem to be pretty badly earth-bound,” said I, “but I will try to find you some stones.” So off I set. I had not got far when a fierce blast struck me and peppered me with sand. I struggled stoutly against it, but was nearly choked. And then, suddenly, I awoke to find that day was dawning and that the wind had gone round to the north, and was blowing in my face. But I was well satisfied with my experiment. The interpretation of the response I had obtained from Tantalus was too plain to need the aid of a psycho-analyst. I Our best prophets are growing very anxious about our future. They are afraid we are getting to know too much, and are likely to use our knowledge to commit suicide, or rather, mutual murder, after the fashion of the Kilkenny cats. To these dismal forecasts it is reasonable to reply that there is nothing novel in the present situation. The human race has always known enough to wreck itself, and its abounding folly has always inspired its wise men with the gravest apprehension for its future. Yet, either by chance or providence, it has always known also how to avoid destruction. It has never known enough to make itself happy; nor does it know enough to do so now. Its future has always been precarious, because it has always been uncertain whether it would use its knowledge well or ill, to improve or to ruin itself. It has always had a choice between alternative policies, and it has so now.