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| In space, no one can hear you scream... |
The infinite vastness of space is terrifying.
For all those brave astronauts exploring distant galaxies on long space voyages, one's conception of reality and time is completely different. What constitutes reality in space if you are a billion miles from Earth? Are you considered dead if you cease to exist only as a memory to those still left on Earth? Without empirical evidence, how do you know something actually exists? Is memory and imagination enough? These are some of the philosophical questions that haunt Hitchcock as he struggles to adjust to his new life aboard a spaceship drifting through the stars.
He tries explaining to his friend Clemens about the inherent fallacy and paradox of only relying on empirical evidence:
"You see. You have no mental evidence. That's what I want, a mental evidence I can feel. I don't want physical evidence, proof you have to go out and drag in. I want evidence that you can carry in your mind and always touch and smell and feel. But there's no way to do that. In order to believe in a thing you've got to carry it with you. You can't carry the Earth, or a man, in your pocket. I want a way to do that, carry things with me always, so I can believe in them."
The metaphysical discourse between the two astronauts takes precedence over plot. Bradbury's empathetic depiction of Hitchcock's fractured state of mind and dreaded paranoia is convincingly portrayed. Even though it soon becomes clear there is no avoiding his inevitable fate, the ending is still haunting as he takes one final space-walk into the void.
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