Science fiction is no more written for scientists that ghost

Host: The neon lights flickered above a near-empty diner at the edge of a sleeping city. It was well past midnight, and the rain outside struck the windows with soft, rhythmic insistence. The air smelled of coffee, wet asphalt, and quiet fatigue. Inside, two figures sat opposite each other in a booth near the corner — Jack, leaning back with his usual wary calm, and Jeeny, her eyes bright with unspent thought, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug.

The television above the counter hummed faintly, showing an old black-and-white film where a spaceship drifted through paper-made stars. The waitress had long stopped caring who stayed past closing.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how every science fiction movie ends the same way, Jack? Either with a question or an explosion.”

Jack: “That’s because both are the only honest endings left. Questions for the dreamers, explosions for the realists.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “You sound like Brian Aldiss tonight.”

Jack: “He’s the one who said it best: ‘Science fiction is no more written for scientists than ghost stories are written for ghosts.’ I get it. It’s not for the experts—it’s for the haunted.”

Host: A flicker of lightning painted their faces silver for a brief second. Outside, a car passed by, its headlights sliding across the diner’s fogged glass. The moment seemed suspended—two souls floating in a sea of electric hum and midnight coffee.

Jeeny: “Haunted by what, though? Curiosity? Hope? Or just the need to escape the walls we build for ourselves?”

Jack: “Haunted by the truth that we’ll never touch the future we imagine. We write about stars and machines, but we’re still scared of dying in the same old ways. Science fiction isn’t about discovery—it’s about denial.”

Jeeny: “Denial?”

Jack: “Yeah. We build rockets in our heads to avoid looking at the graves under our feet. Think about it—every great sci-fi story, from Blade Runner to 2001: A Space Odyssey, it’s never about space. It’s about us trying to outrun decay.”

Host: Jeeny tilted her head, her eyes glimmering beneath the dim fluorescence. The rain softened outside, becoming a steady murmur, like the whisper of something ancient and patient.

Jeeny: “You call it denial. I call it survival. We imagine because we must. If people like Mary Shelley or Asimov or Aldiss hadn’t dreamed beyond the limits of their time, we’d still be crawling through fear. Science fiction is faith disguised as speculation.”

Jack: “Faith? Faith in what—our own cleverness? We’ve imagined utopias for centuries, and still, we build wars faster than cures. You really think fiction saves us?”

Jeeny: “It does, in small ways. It teaches us to feel what hasn’t happened yet. When Star Trek showed a black woman commanding a starship in the ‘60s, it wasn’t fantasy—it was prophecy. Fiction didn’t just reflect society; it provoked it.”

Host: Jack’s eyes darkened, his fingers tapping the rim of his cup in slow, mechanical rhythm. The sound of the rain deepened, as though echoing his thoughts.

Jack: “Prophecy, maybe. But even prophets are forgotten. You know what I think? We tell ghost stories because we can’t face death. We tell science fiction because we can’t face the present. Either way, we’re running from something.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe running is part of being human. Ghosts don’t need stories, Jack. But we do. We write to remind ourselves that we exist in more ways than one. The scientist dissects what is. The writer imagines what could be. And between them—there’s life.”

Host: The camera of the world seemed to move closer. The flickering neon sign outside stuttered, casting the word OPEN in broken pulses of pink and blue over their faces. For a moment, it looked as though time itself hesitated, listening.

Jack: “You talk like fiction is sacred.”

Jeeny: “It is. Because it’s the only place we can fail safely. We can destroy worlds, rebuild them, resurrect the dead, and still wake up human. Isn’t that a kind of mercy?”

Jack: leaning forward, voice low “Mercy, or delusion? You really think all those stories mean something beyond entertainment? Most people read about aliens and time travel while their real lives fall apart.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly why they read. You can’t measure meaning only by results, Jack. Sometimes, meaning is simply the act of reaching—of dreaming at all. Like Aldiss said, ghost stories aren’t for ghosts. They’re for us—the living haunted by questions too heavy to bear in daylight.”

Host: A long silence followed. The rain stopped. The city exhaled. Somewhere in the distance, a train wailed, the sound unraveling into the night like a ribbon of memory.

Jack: “You really believe the imagination can save us from reality?”

Jeeny: “Not save. Illuminate. Fiction doesn’t erase the dark—it helps us see within it. It’s how we make peace with the incomprehensible. Think of it—every spaceship, every ghost, every time machine—it’s all a mirror. Every story says: look at yourself.”

Host: Jack’s hand froze mid-air. His eyes met hers, and for a fleeting moment, the sharp edges of his skepticism softened into something quieter—something almost like awe.

Jack: “You know, I used to write stories when I was a kid. Dumb ones. About astronauts finding God in the stars.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they weren’t dumb. Maybe you were closer to truth back then.”

Jack: half-smiling “Truth, or wishful thinking?”

Jeeny: “Does it matter? Sometimes, the wish is truer than the fact.”

Host: The diner around them seemed to blur into the rhythm of the night—the hum of the refrigerator, the soft buzz of light, the faint trace of a forgotten song playing somewhere in the back.

Jack: “Maybe Aldiss was mocking us, you know. Maybe he meant that stories are written by the haunted, for the haunted. Not for scientists or ghosts, but for the rest of us—trapped somewhere between knowledge and mystery.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But even the haunted need a home. That’s what stories are—a place to rest our questions.”

Host: Jeeny reached out and gently tapped the side of Jack’s cup, her eyes meeting his with quiet resolve.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why you’re here tonight, Jack. Not for coffee. Not for company. But to remember that wondering still matters.”

Jack: after a long pause “Maybe you’re right.”

Host: The camera pulled back through the diner’s window, into the gentle dark beyond. The neon sign flickered one last time, its light reflected on the wet pavement—a pulse, faint but alive.

Inside, two figures sat surrounded by half-drunk coffee and infinite questions, caught between the science of what is and the fiction of what could be.

The rain began again, softly this time, like applause for a truth neither could fully name.

And somewhere, in that quiet echo, the ghosts of stories yet unwritten stirred—waiting for someone, anyone, to imagine them into being.