“Its good,” said I.  “Infernally good!  What a home for our surplus population!  Our poor surplus population,” and I broke off another large portion.  It filled me with a curiously benevolent satisfaction that there was such good food in the moon.  The depression of my hunger gave way to an irrational exhilaration.  The dread and discomfort in which I had been living vanished entirely.  I perceived the moon no longer as a planet from which I most earnestly desired the means of escape, but as a possible refuge from human destitution.  I think I forgot the Selenites, the mooncalves, the lid, and the noises completely so soon as I had eaten that fungus.

Cavor replied to my third repetition of my “surplus population” remark with similar words of approval.  I felt that my head swam, but I put this down to the stimulating effect of food after a long fast.  “Ess’lent discov’ry yours, Cavor,” said I.  “Se’nd on’y to the ’tato.”

“Whajer mean?” asked Cavor. “’Scovery of the moon—­se’nd on’y to the ’tato?”

I looked at him, shocked at his suddenly hoarse voice, and by the badness of his articulation.  It occurred to me in a flash that he was intoxicated, possibly by the fungus.  It also occurred to me that he erred in imagining that he had discovered the moon; he had not discovered it, he had only reached it.  I tried to lay my hand on his arm and explain this to him, but the issue was too subtle for his brain.  It was also unexpectedly difficult to express.  After a momentary attempt to understand me—­I remember wondering if the fungus had made my eyes as fishy as his—­he set off upon some observations on his own account.

“We are,” he announced with a solemn hiccup, “the creashurs o’ what we eat and drink.”

He repeated this, and as I was now in one of my subtle moods, I determined to dispute it.  Possibly I wandered a little from the point.  But Cavor certainly did not attend at all properly.  He stood up as well as he could, putting a hand on my head to steady I himself, which was disrespectful, and stood staring about him, quite devoid now of any fear of the moon beings.

I tried to point out that this was dangerous for some reason that was not perfectly clear to me, but the word “dangerous” had somehow got mixed with “indiscreet,” and came out rather more like “injurious” than either; and after an attempt to disentangle them, I resumed my argument, addressing myself principally to the unfamiliar but attentive coralline growths on either side.  I felt that it was necessary to clear up this confusion between the moon and a potato at once—­I wandered into a long parenthesis on the importance of precision of definition in argument.  I did my best to ignore the fact that my bodily sensations were no longer agreeable.

In some way that I have now forgotten, my mind was led back to projects of colonisation.  “We must annex this moon,” I said.  “There must be no shilly-shally.  This is part of the White Man’s Burthen.  Cavor—­we are—­hic—­Satap—­mean Satraps!  Nempire Caesar never dreamt.  B’in all the newspapers.  Cavorecia.  Bedfordecia.  Bedfordecia—­hic—­Limited.  Mean—­unlimited!  Practically.”