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Possibly I inherited one other trait from my father: that same faith in the future which was in him a perversion of reality, a substitute for religion, was in me a belief in purely scientific progress. Verne and Wells, and also the many articles and stories in Pearson’s, were to fire me with a sense of wonder at the marvels of science and technology. Even before reading these authors I had determined to become an engineer. In this I was motivated by a noble love of the discipline itself. I did not corrupt it with mock-humanitarian rationalisations, like some nervous monk of the Middle Ages excusing his interest in alchemy by saying it was ‘God’s work’. I maintained a loathing for all political pieties. I saw myself as one of those who would give a whole Slavic character to science and put it at the service of the Slavic soul. By introducing extraneous themes into their tales, Verne, the anarchist, and Wells, the socialist, did themselves and their readers great harm, warping their visions to fit completely unscientific themes, just as Rasputin warped religion to make it speak for every sexual perversion. We lived in an age when a pure heart and a truthful tongue were great liabilities. Even Jack London, who wrote so feelingly of nature and the nobility of the untamed North, came to betray his gift with tales of pessimism and polemics: because it was demanded of him that he did so, otherwise nobody would have taken him seriously. He would have lost prestige amongst those so-called liberals who have brought our world to its present sorry state. Everyone cares for the good opinion of his neighbours, but sometimes the price we pay for that opinion is far too high.