“I see it!” cried the Captain. “There, in the telescope.”
The Door Closer peered through the scope. “I see naught but a blurry speck of something.”
“Pish!” cried the Captain. Nobody had made him Captain; he had been born that way. Rocket fuel was in his blood, and this puzzled his physicians, for these eminent professionals had persisted through life with the fixed notion that blood was the best thing to use for blood, while rocket fuel was best suited for fueling rockets. Yet despite the extravagantly toxic brew in his veins, the Captain kept being alive, although the best scientific theories insisted that he really ought to drop dead.
“Look again!” cried the Captain. The Door Closer looked. He saw the same blurry bit of light. A tear flowed down his cheek.
“I see nothing,” and here the Door Closer began to bawl. He deserved better than this. He was a vital member of the Crew. If no one closed the rocket’s door, the air would eventually get out, and the Crew would go mad wondering where it had got to.
The Captain comforted him. “A telescope is an utterly useless apparatus,” he explained to his friend. “In our benighted age, making tiny bits of light ever so much less-tiny is a pastime wicked amusing. Some enjoy it, I suppose,” here he flung the offending instrument into the atomic furnace, “but I say that the only way to find out whether a star has a planet next to it is to go there, and I further say that the only way to find out if that planet has a Snark upon it is to land there and hunt!