There was a flooded forest, the morning sun shining through the branches. The water was clear, like a chartreuse ocean, and little boats made of leaf skeletons floated along the surface. In each of them was a tiny candle, which seemed to be singing. As I, some odd, blue creature, moved closer to them, they began to flicker angrily, and make a sound that resembled the howling wind. So I stayed away, and kept wandering. A massive, dark fish swam below my feet as I traveled, leaving a trail of stars in its wake. As I followed it, I began to splash the water, and the droplets turned to fireflies of different colors. Suddenly, it was nighttime already, and they glowed so brilliantly, lighting up the trees like fire. When I looked below the surface of the water, I could see little glowing flowers. I dove down, following the trail they led me on. A beautiful song filled my ears as I neared a clearing, surrounded by rocks and bushes. The grass swayed to the rhythm, and seemed to pulse with light. The music was entrancing, in a way I can’t describe. It was like nothing I’d ever heard in my waking hours before. I started to swim towards the sound, getting closer and closer with every passing moment. Just as I was about to pull the bushes aside, I woke up crying.
And yet, the Golden Age of Sci-Fi is dominated my tales of rugged individualism, heroes who defied the odds and opposition to find fortune and glory among the stars. Feel free to cling to your bread lines and vodka, you can’t take away the Sky from me!
Interesting choice of references, because, of course, you’ll remember how many times Mal and the crew of Serenity decided to take the money and protect themselves, rather than doing the right thing to help out others at great cost to themselves and, I dunno, hide the Tams from the Alliance, return the medicine to the town instead of selling it to Niska, run the risk of getting captured by the Alliance to save Book’s life, help the workers at the Heart of Gold fight off a wealthy landowner, possibly sacrifice their own lives to get out the truth about Miranda…
Yep. Individualists who would never identify with Aasimov in that quote. To the last.