A Fall of Moondust by Arthur C. Clarke

unfortunately, we’re too short of paper to make that possible. So
     we’ll have to think of something else.
    “There’s not much reading matter on board, and some of it is rather specialised. But
     we do have two novels—a University edition of one of the classic westerns,
Shane
, and this new historical romance,
The Orange and the Apple
. The suggestion is that we form a panel of readers and go through them. Has anyone
     any objection—or any better ideas?”
    “We want to play poker,” said a firm voice from the rear.
    “But you can’t play poker
all
the time,” protested the Professor, thus showing a certain ignorance of the non-academic
     world. The Commodore decided to go to his rescue.
    “The reading need not interfere with the poker,” he said. “Besides, I suggest you
     take a break now and then. Those cards won’t last much longer.”
    “Well, which book shall we start on first? And any volunteers as readers? I’ll be
     quite happy to do so, but we want some variety—”
    “I object to wasting our time on
The Orange and the Apple
.” said Miss Morley. “It’s utter trash, and most of it is—er—near-pornography.”
    “How do
you
know?” asked David Barrett, the Englishman who had commended the tea. The only answer
     was an indignant sniff. Professor Jayawardene looked very unhappy, and glanced at
     the Commodore for support. He did not get any; Hansteen was studiously looking the
     other way. If the passengers relied on him for everything, that would be fatal; as
     far as possible, he wanted them to stand on their own feet.
    “Very well,” said the Professor. “To prevent any argument, we’ll start with
Shane
.”
    There were several protesting cries of: “We want
The Orange and the Apple
!” but, surprisingly, the Professor stood firm. “It’s a very long book,” he said.
     “I really don’t think we’ll have time to finish it before we’re rescued.” He cleared
     his throat, looked around the cabin to see if there were any further objections, and
     then started to read in an extremely pleasant though rather sing-song voice.
    “‘Introduction—the Role of the Western in the Age of Space. By Karl Adams, Professor
     of English. Being based on the 2037 Kingsley Amis Seminars in Criticism at the University
     of Chicago.’”
    The poker players were wavering; one of them was nervously examining the worn pieces
     of paper that served as cards. The rest of the audience had settled down, with looks
     of boredom or anticipation. Miss Wilkins was back in the airlock-galley, checking
     the provisions. The melodious voice continued:
    “‘One of the most unexpected literary phenomena of our age has been the revival, after
     half a century of neglect, of the romance known as the “Western”. These stories, set
     in a background extremely limited both in space and time—the United States of America,
     Earth,
circa
1865–1900—were for a considerable period one of the most popular forms of fiction
     the world has ever known. Millions were written, almost all published in cheap magazines
     and shoddily-produced books, but out of those millions, a few have survived both as
     literature and as a record of an age—though we must never forget that the writers
     were describing an era that had passed long before they were born.
    “‘With the opening up of the Solar System in the 1970s, the earth-based frontier of
     the American West seemed so ludicrously tiny that the reading public lost interest
     in it. This, of course, was as illogical as dismissing
Hamlet
on the grounds that events restricted to a small and draughty Danish castle could
     not possibly be of universal significance.
    “‘During the last few years, however, a reaction has set in. I am creditably informed
     that Western stories are among the most popular reading matter in the libraries of
     the space-liners now plying between the planets. Let us see if we can discover the
     reason for this apparent paradox—this