Fletcher Pratt 
The Blue Star 

Penfield twirled the stem of his port-glass between thumb and finger. “ I don’t agree, ” he said. “It’s nothing but egocentric vanity to consider our form of life as unique among those on the millions of worlds that must exist.” “ How do you know they exist?” said Hodge. “ Observation, ” said Mc Call. “The astronomers have proved that other stars beside our sun have planets.” “ You’re playing into his hands, ” observed Penfield, the heavy eyebrows twitching as he cracked a nut. “The statistical approach is better. Why doesn’t this glass of port suddenly boil and spout all over the ceiling? You’ve never seen a glass of port behave that way, but the molecules that compose it are in constant motion, and any physicist will tell you that there’s no reason why they can’t all decide to move in the same direction at once. There’s only an overwhelming possibility that it won’t happen. To believe that we, on this earth, one of the planets of a minor star, are the only form of intelligent life, is like expecting the port to boil any moment.”