I am often amazed at how much more capability and enthusiasm for

Host:
The afternoon sun poured through the glass dome of the planetarium, scattering fragments of light across the rows of empty seats. A faint hum of machinery filled the air, and the dust motes drifted lazily, dancing in the gold haze like tiny galaxies.

Outside, the sky hung in a blue stillness, but inside — beneath the arched ceiling painted with the constellations — two figures sat in quiet contrast. Jack, in his worn leather jacket, stared up at the projection dome, his grey eyes reflecting the constellations above. Jeeny, beside him, leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her hair catching the sunlight like a dark waterfall.

Between them, written on the screen of an old tablet, glowed the words of Carl Sagan — words that had brought them here, to this empty echo of a once-lively classroom of stars:

“I am often amazed at how much more capability and enthusiasm for science there is among elementary school youngsters than among college students.” — Carl Sagan

The quote hovered in the air, like a spark waiting for breath.

Jeeny: softly, almost wistfully “He’s right, isn’t he? When we’re children, we look at the stars and wonder. When we’re adults, we just check the weather app.”

Jack: chuckling dryly “Because wonder doesn’t pay rent, Jeeny. Curiosity is cute until the bills come in.”

Host:
The light shifted as a cloud drifted past, casting shadows across Jack’s face — the sharp lines of logic, the weariness of a man who had reasoned too long.

Jeeny: “But it’s more than that, Jack. Children believe they can learn anything — that they can touch the moon if they try hard enough. Somewhere along the way, we start believing we can’t. That’s what we call growing up.”

Jack: leaning back, arms crossed “No, that’s what we call reality. A child dreams of being an astronaut; a college student realizes NASA has budget cuts. Innocence fades when data arrives.”

Host:
A silence followed — not cold, but thoughtful. The sound of the planetarium’s gears turning above them filled the space, like the heartbeat of some mechanical cosmos.

Jeeny: “You make it sound like knowledge kills curiosity.”

Jack: “It doesn’t kill it. It just… disillusions it. The more you know, the smaller you feel. Science shows us how things work, but not why they should matter. Maybe that’s why college students seem so tired. They’ve learned everything except how to believe again.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “You’re saying knowledge kills faith.”

Jack: “It doesn’t kill it. It replaces it — with metrics, with proofs, with numbers that don’t lie. But they don’t comfort, either.”

Host:
The projection system flickered to life, and suddenly, the ceiling came alive with stars — hundreds, then thousands — spinning, shimmering, breathing in the darkness. The light washed over their faces, turning them into silhouettes beneath the infinite sky.

Jeeny: whispering, awestruck “Look at that. You can’t tell me there’s no magic left in the universe, Jack.”

Jack: quietly “It’s not magic, Jeeny. It’s physics. Refraction, matter, energy — all following the laws.”

Jeeny: turning to him, fiercely “Then maybe the laws are the magic. Why does it have to be one or the other? Why can’t we wonder at the mechanism as much as the mystery?”

Host:
Her voice, though soft, carried — like a comet streaking through the dark, bright and impossible to ignore. Jack’s hands tightened slightly on his knees, his jaw working as he searched for words.

Jack: “Because wonder is emotional. Science isn’t. You can’t measure awe, Jeeny. You can only simulate it. That’s the problem — people want meaning, but science gives them methods.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s where we fail as educators, not as scientists. We teach formulas but forget to teach wonder. We drill facts but starve curiosity.”

Host:
A beam of light drifted across her face, illuminating her eyes — bright, alive, filled with that same childlike fire Sagan once celebrated.

Jeeny: “Children don’t ask if the universe cares about them. They just ask why the stars twinkle. That’s the purest curiosity there is — the kind that doesn’t need a reward.”

Jack: voice low, reflective “And yet, they’ll grow up. They’ll learn entropy, gravity, death. The universe won’t twinkle anymore. It’ll just expand — cold and indifferent.”

Host:
The stars above them began to move, forming patterns — the constellations of myth and memory. Orion, Cassiopeia, Draco — all the stories humanity had once told itself to make the darkness less terrifying.

Jeeny: “And still we name the stars, don’t we? Even knowing they don’t know our names. Maybe that’s what enthusiasm is — defiance in the face of indifference.”

Jack: looking up, his voice almost reverent now “Defiance. Or denial.”

Jeeny: smiling sadly “Maybe both. But isn’t that the heart of science? To refuse to stop asking, even when the answers are cold?”

Host:
Their words echoed faintly against the dome, lost in the hollow acoustics of the room. The projector spun again, and the stars began to fade, replaced by the faint outline of a single blue sphere — Earth, suspended in the void.

Jack: “So maybe Sagan was right. Maybe children are better at science because they haven’t yet confused knowledge with cynicism. They still think the Earth is something to be loved, not just studied.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. They still see possibility. They don’t need to justify their awe.”

Host:
The projector dimmed, leaving only the afterglow of the planet on the dome, and the two of them in near darkness. Outside, the sun had begun to set, its light bleeding through the glass, painting the floor in streaks of crimson and gold.

Jack: after a long silence “You know, I used to build little rockets when I was a kid. They barely flew, but I thought I’d reach space one day.”

Jeeny: softly “What happened?”

Jack: smiling, bittersweet “I started calculating fuel ratios.”

Jeeny: reaching out, touching his hand lightly “Then maybe it’s time you stop calculating and start launching again.”

Host:
Her touch lingered, a small warmth against his cold reason. For a moment, Jack didn’t speak. The machines around them hummed, the stars dimmed, and the room filled with the soft hum of humanity’s oldest longing — the desire to understand, and to feel.

Jack: quietly “Maybe the enthusiasm isn’t gone. Maybe it’s just… waiting for permission to return.”

Jeeny: “Then let’s grant it. Every generation needs someone to remind them that science isn’t a subject — it’s a love affair with the universe.”

Host:
And as the last light of sunset dissolved into night, the planetarium came alive once more — the stars burning with renewed clarity, like the eyes of children rediscovering the sky.

Jack and Jeeny sat in their silence, their faces lifted toward the infinite, two souls suspended between logic and wonder, between the known and the possible.

The Host’s voice softened, like a breeze across the cosmos:

In the end, perhaps Sagan’s amazement was not about children at all — but about the child that still lives in every adult, waiting, listening, aching for one more reason to look up and believe again.