To begin with let me admit that I did it on purpose. Perhaps it
was partly from jealousy.
It seemed unfair that other writers should be able at will to drop
into a sleep of four or five hundred years, and to plunge head first
into a distant future and be a witness of its marvels.
I wanted to do that too.
I always had been, I still am, a passionate student of social
problems. The world of to-day with its roaring machinery, the
unceasing toil of its working classes, its strife, its poverty, its
war, its cruelty, appals me as I look at it. I love to think of the
time that must come some day when man will have conquered nature, and
the toil-worn human race enter upon an era of peace.
I loved to think of it, and I longed to see it.
So I set about the thing deliberately.
What I wanted to do was to fall asleep after the customary
fashion, for two or three hundred years at least, and wake and find
myself in the marvel world of the future.
I made my preparations for the sleep.
I bought all the comic papers that I could find, even the
illustrated ones. I carried them up to my room in my hotel: with them
I brought up a pork pie and dozens and dozens of doughnuts. I ate the
pie and the doughnuts, then sat back in the bed and read the comic
papers one after the other. Finally, as I felt the awful lethargy
stealing upon me, I reached out my hand for the London Weekly Times,
and held up the editorial page before my eye.
It was, in a way, clear, straight suicide, but I did it.
I could feel my senses leaving me. In the room across the hall
there was a man singing. His voice, that had been loud, came fainter
and fainter through the transom. I fell into a sleep, the deep
immeasurable sleep in which the very existence of the outer world was
hushed. Dimly I could feel the days go past, then the years, and then
the long passage of the centuries.
Then, not as it were gradually, but quite suddenly, I woke up, sat
up, and looked about me.
Where was I?
Well might I ask myself.
I found myself lying, or rather sitting up, on a broad couch. I
was in a great room, dim, gloomy, and dilapidated in its general
appearance, and apparently, from its glass cases and the stuffed
figures that they contained, some kind of museum.
Beside me sat a man. His face was hairless, but neither old nor
young. He wore clothes that looked like the grey ashes of paper that
had burned and kept its shape. He was looking at me quietly, but with
no particular surprise or interest.
"Quick," I said, eager to begin; "where am I? Who are you? What
year is this; is it the year 3000, or what is it?"
He drew in his breath with a look of annoyance on his face.
"What a queer, excited way you have of speaking," he said.
"Tell me," I said again, "is this the year 3000?"
"I think I know what you mean," he said; "but really I haven't the
faintest idea. I should think it must be at least that, within a
hundred years or so; but nobody has kept track of them for so long,
it's hard to say."
"Don't you keep track of them any more?" I gasped.
"We used to," said the man. "I myself can remember that a century
or two ago there were still a number of people who used to try to
keep track of the year, but it died out along with so many other
faddish things of that kind. Why," he continued, showing for the
first time a sort of animation in his talk, "what was the use of it?
You see, after we eliminated death--"
"Eliminated death!" I cried, sitting upright. "Good God!"
"What was that expression you used?" queried the man.
"Good God!" I repeated.
"Ah," he said, "never heard it before. But I was saying that after
we had eliminated Death, and Food, and Change, we had practically got
rid of Events, and--"
"Stop!" I said, my brain reeling. "Tell me one thing at a
"Humph!" he ejaculated. "I see, you must have been asleep a long
time. Go on then and ask questions. Only, if you don't mind, just as
few as possible, and please don't get interested or excited."
Oddly enough the first question that sprang to my lips was--
"What are those clothes made of?"
"Asbestos," answered the man. "They last hundreds of years. We
have one suit each, and there are billions of them piled up, if
anybody wants a new one."
"Thank you," I answered. "Now tell me where I am?"
"You are in a museum. The figures in the cases are specimens like
yourself. But here," he said, "if you want really to find out about
what is evidently a new epoch to you, get off your platform and come
out on Broadway and sit on a bench."
I got down.
As we passed through the dim and dust-covered buildings I looked
curiously at the figures in the cases.
"By Jove!" I said looking at one figure in blue clothes with a
belt and baton, "that's a policeman!"
"Really," said my new acquaintance, "is that what a policeman was?
I've often wondered. What used they to be used for?"
"Used for?" I repeated in perplexity. "Why, they stood at the
corner of the street."
"Ah, yes, I see," he said, "so as to shoot at the people. You must
excuse my ignorance," he continued, "as to some of your social
customs in the past. When I took my education I was operated upon for
social history, but the stuff they used was very inferior."
I didn't in the least understand what the man meant, but had no
time to question him, for at that moment we came out upon the street,
and I stood riveted in astonishment.
Broadway! Was it possible? The change was absolutely appalling! In
place of the roaring thoroughfare that I had known, this silent,
moss-grown desolation! Great buildings fallen into ruin through the
sheer stress of centuries of wind and weather, the sides of them
coated over with a growth of fungus and moss! The place was
soundless. Not a vehicle moved. There were no wires overhead--no
sound of life or movement except, here and there, there passed slowly
to and fro human figures dressed in the same asbestos clothes as my
acquaintance, with the same hairless faces, and the same look of
infinite age upon them.
Good heavens; And was this the era of the Conquest that I had
hoped to see! I had always taken for granted, I do not know why, that
humanity was destined to move forward. This picture of what seemed
desolation on the ruins of our civilization rendered me almost
There were little benches placed here and there on the street. We
"Improved, isn't it," said man in asbestos, "since the days when
you remember it?"
He seemed to speak quite proudly.
I gasped out a question.
"Where are the street cars and the motors?"
"Oh, done away with long ago," he said; "how awful they must have
been. The noise of them!" and his asbestos clothes rustled with a
"But how do you get about?"
"We don't," he answered. "Why should we? It's just the same being
here as being anywhere else." He looked at me with an infinity of
dreariness in his face.
A thousand questions surged into my mind at once. I asked one of
"But how do you get back and forwards to your work?"
"Work!" he said. "There isn't any work. It's finished. The last of
it was all done centuries ago."
I looked at him a moment open-mouthed. Then I turned and looked
again at the grey desolation of the street with the asbestos figures
moving here and there.
I tried to pull my senses together. I realized that if I was to
unravel this new and undreamed-of future, I must go at it
systematically and step by step.
"I see," I said after a pause, "that momentous things have
happened since my time. I wish you would let me ask you about it all
systematically, and would explain it to me bit by bit. First, what do
you mean by saying that there is no work?"
"Why," answered my strange acquaintance, "it died out of itself.
Machinery killed it. If I remember rightly, you had a certain amount
of machinery even in your time. You had done very well with steam,
made a good beginning with electricity, though I think radial energy
had hardly as yet been put to use."
I nodded assent.
"But you found it did you no good. The better your machines, the
harder you worked. The more things you had the more you wanted. The
pace of life grew swifter and swifter. You cried out, but it would
not stop. You were all caught in the cogs of your own machine. None
of you could see the end."
"That is quite true," I said. "How do you know it all?"
"Oh," answered the Man in Asbestos, "that part of my education was
very well operated--I see you do not know what I mean. Never mind, I
can tell you that later. Well, then, there came, probably almost two
hundred years after your time, the Era of the Great Conquest of
Nature, the final victory of Man and Machinery."
"They did conquer it?" I asked quickly, with a thrill of the old
hope in my veins again.
"Conquered it," he said, "beat it out! Fought it to a standstill!
Things came one by one, then faster and faster, in a hundred years it
was all done. In fact, just as soon as mankind turned its energy to
decreasing its needs instead of increasing its desires, the whole
thing was easy. Chemical Food came first. Heavens! the simplicity of
it. And in your time thousands of millions of people tilled and
grubbed at the soil from morning till night. I've seen specimens of
them--farmers, they called them. There's one in the museum. After the
invention of Chemical Food we piled up enough in the emporiums in a
year to last for centuries. Agriculture went overboard. Eating and
all that goes with it domestic labour, housework--all ended. Nowadays
one takes a concentrated pill every year or so, that's all. The whole
digestive apparatus, as you knew it, was a clumsy thing that had been
bloated up like a set of bagpipes through the evolution of its
I could not forbear to interrupt. "Have you and these people," I
said, "no stomachs--no apparatus?"
"Of course we have," he answered, "but we use it to some purpose.
Mine is largely filled with my education--but there! I am
anticipating again. Better let me go on as I was. Chemical Food came
first: that cut off almost one-third of the work, and then came
Asbestos Clothes. That was wonderful! In one year humanity made
enough suits to last for ever and ever. That, of course, could never
have been if it hadn't been connected with the revolt of women and
the fall of Fashion."
"Have the Fashions gone," I asked, "that insane, extravagant idea
of--" I was about to launch into one of my old-time harangues about
the sheer vanity of decorative dress, when my eye rested on the
moving figures in asbestos, and I stopped.
"All gone," said the Man in Asbestos. "Then next to that we
killed, or practically killed, the changes of climate. I don't think
that in your day you properly understood how much of your work was
due to the shifts of what you called the weather. It meant the need
of all kinds of special clothes and houses and shelters, a wilderness
of work. How dreadful it must have been in your day--wind and storms,
great wet masses--what did you call them?--clouds--flying through the
air, the ocean full of salt, was it not?--tossed and torn by the
wind, snow thrown all over everything, hail, rain--how awful!"
"Sometimes," I said, "it was very beautiful. But how did you alter
"Killed the weather!" answered the Man in Asbestos. "Simple as
anything--turned its forces loose one against the other, altered the
composition of the sea so that the top became all more or less
gelatinous. I really can't explain it, as it is an operation that I
never took at school, but it made the sky grey, as you see it, and
the sea gum-coloured, the weather all the same. It cut out fuel and
houses and an infinity of work with them!"
He paused a moment. I began to realize something of the course of
evolution that had happened.
"So," I said, "the conquest of nature meant that presently there
was no more work to do?"
"Exactly," he said, "nothing left."
"Food enough for all?"
"Too much," he answered.
"Houses and clothes?"
"All you like," said the Man in Asbestos, waving his hand. "There
they are. Go out and take them. Of course, they're falling
down--slowly, very slowly. But they'll last for centuries yet, nobody
Then I realized, I think for the first time, just what work had
meant in the old life, and how much of the texture of life itself had
been bound up in the keen effort of it.
Presently my eyes looked upward: dangling at the top of a
moss-grown building I saw what seemed to be the remains of telephone
"What became of all that," I said, "the telegraph and the
telephone and all the system of communication?"
"Ah," said the Man in Asbestos, "that was what a telephone meant,
was it? I knew that it had been suppressed centuries ago. Just what
was it for?"
"Why," I said with enthusiasm, "by means of the telephone we could
talk to anybody, call up anybody, and talk at any distance."
"And anybody could call you up at any time and talk?" said the Man
in Asbestos, with something like horror. "How awful! What a dreadful
age yours was, to be sure. No, the telephone and all the rest of it,
all the transportation and intercommunication was cut out and
forbidden. There was no sense in it. You see," he added, "what you
don't realize is that people after your day became gradually more and
more reasonable. Take the railroad, what good was that? It brought
into every town a lot of people from every other town. Who wanted
them? Nobody. When work stopped and commerce ended, and food was
needless, and the weather killed, it was foolish to move about. So it
was all terminated. Anyway," he said, with a quick look of
apprehension and a change in his voice, "it was dangerous!"
"So!" I said. "Dangerous! You still have danger?"
"Why, yes," he said, "there's always the danger of getting
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Why," said the Man in Asbestos, "I suppose it's what you would
call being dead. Of course, in one sense there's been no death for
centuries past; we cut that out. Disease and death were simply a
matter of germs. We found them one by one. I think that even in your
day you had found one or two of the easier, the bigger ones?"
"Yes, you had found diphtheria and typhoid and, if I am right,
there were some outstanding, like scarlet fever and smallpox, that
you called ultra-microscopic, and which you were still hunting for,
and others that you didn't even suspect. Well, we hunted them down
one by one and destroyed them. Strange that it never occurred to any
of you that Old Age was only a germ! It turned out to be quite a
simple one, but it was so distributed in its action that you never
even thought of it."
"And you mean to say," I ejaculated in amazement, looking at the
Man in Asbestos, "that nowadays you live for ever?"
"I wish," he said, "that you hadn't that peculiar, excitable way
of talking; you speak as if everything mattered so tremendously.
Yes," he continued, "we live for ever, unless, of course, we get
broken. That happens sometimes. I mean that we may fall over a high
place or bump on something, and snap ourselves. You see, we're just a
little brittle still--some remnant, I suppose, of the Old Age
germ--and we have to be careful. In fact," he continued, "I don't
mind saying that accidents of this sort were the most distressing
feature of our civilization till we took steps to cut out all
accidents. We forbid all street cars, street traffic, aeroplanes, and
so on. The risks of your time," he said, with a shiver of his
asbestos clothes, "must have been awful."
"They were," I answered, with a new kind of pride in my generation
that I had never felt before, "but we thought it part of the duty of
brave people to--"
"Yes, yes," said the Man in Asbestos impatiently, "please don't
get excited. I know what you mean. It was quite irrational."
We sat silent for a long time. I looked about me at the crumbling
buildings, the monotone, unchanging sky, and the dreary, empty
street. Here, then, was the fruit of the Conquest, here was the
elimination of work, the end of hunger and of cold, the cessation of
the hard struggle, the downfall of change and death--nay, the very
millennium of happiness. And yet, somehow, there seemed something
wrong with it all. I pondered, then I put two or three rapid
questions, hardly waiting to reflect upon the answers.
"Is there any war now?"
"Done with centuries ago. They took to settling international
disputes with a slot machine. After that all foreign dealings were
given up. Why have them? Everybody thinks foreigners awful."
"Are there any newspapers now?"
"Newspapers! What on earth would we want them for? If we should
need them at any time there are thousands of old ones piled up. But
what is in them, anyway; only things that happen, wars and accidents
and work and death. When these went newspapers went too. Listen,"
continued the Man in Asbestos, "you seem to have been something of a
social reformer, and yet you don't understand the new life at all.
You don't understand how completely all our burdens have disappeared.
Look at it this way. How used your people to spend all the early part
of their lives?"
"Why," I said, "our first fifteen years or so were spent in
"Exactly," he answered; "now notice how we improved on all that.
Education in our day is done by surgery. Strange that in your time
nobody realized that education was simply a surgical operation. You
hadn't the sense to see that what you really did was to slowly
remodel, curve and convolute the inside of the brain by a long and
painful mental operation. Everything learned was reproduced in a
physical difference to the brain. You knew that, but you didn't see
the full consequences. Then came the invention of surgical
education--the simple system of opening the side of the skull and
engrafting into it a piece of prepared brain. At first, of course,
they had to use, I suppose, the brains of dead people, and that was
ghastly"--here the Man in Asbestos shuddered like a leaf--"but very
soon they found how to make moulds that did just as well. After that
it was a mere nothing; an operation of a few minutes would suffice to
let in poetry or foreign languages or history or anything else that
one cared to have. Here, for instance," he added, pushing back the
hair at the side of his head and showing a scar beneath it, "is the
mark where I had my spherical trigonometry let in. That was, I admit,
rather painful, but other things, such as English poetry or history,
can be inserted absolutely without the least suffering. When I think
of your painful, barbarous methods of education through the ear, I
shudder at it. Oddly enough, we have found lately that for a great
many things there is no need to use the head. We lodge them--things
like philosophy and metaphysics, and so on--in what used to be the
digestive apparatus. They fill it admirably."
He paused a moment. Then went on:
"Well, then, to continue, what used to occupy your time and effort
after your education?"
"Why," I said, "one had, of course, to work, and then, to tell the
truth, a great part of one's time and feeling was devoted toward the
other sex, toward falling in love and finding some woman to share
"Ah," said the Man in Asbestos, with real interest. "I've heard
about your arrangements with the women, but never quite understood
them. Tell me; you say you selected some woman?"
"And she became what you called your wife?"
"Yes, of course."
"And you worked for her?" asked the Man in Asbestos in
"And she did not work?"
"No," I answered, "of course not."
"And half of what you had was hers?"
"And she had the right to live in your house and use your
"Of course," I answered.
"How dreadful!" said the Man in Asbestos. "I hadn't realized the
horrors of your age till now."
He sat shivering slightly, with the same timid look in his face as
Then it suddenly struck me that of the figures on the street, all
had looked alike.
"Tell me," I said, "are there no women now? Are they gone
"Oh, no," answered the Man in Asbestos, "they're here just the
same. Some of those are women. Only, you see, everything has been
changed now. It all came as part of their great revolt, their desire
to be like the men. Had that begun in your time?"
"Only a little." I answered; "they were beginning to ask for votes
"That's it," said my acquaintance, "I couldn't think of the word.
Your women, I believe, were something awful, were they not? Covered
with feathers and skins and dazzling colours made of dead things all
over them? And they laughed, did they not, and had foolish teeth, and
at any moment they could inveigle you into one of those contracts?
"Asbestos," I said (I knew no other name to call him), as I turned
on him in wrath, "Asbestos, do you think that those jelly-bag
Equalities out on the street there, with their ash-barrel suits, can
be compared for one moment with our unredeemed, unreformed,
heaven-created, hobble-skirted women of the twentieth century?"
Then, suddenly, another thought flashed into my mind--
"The children," I said, "where are the children? Are there
"Children," he said, "no! I have never heard of there being any
such things for at least a century. Horrible little hobgoblins they
must have been! Great big faces, and cried constantly! And grew, did
they not? Like funguses! I believe they were longer each year than
they had been the last, and--"
"Asbestos!" I said, "this, then, is your coming Civilization, your
millennium. This dull, dead thing, with the work and the burden gone
out of life, and with them all the joy and sweetness of it. For the
old struggle mere stagnation, and in place of danger and death, the
dull monotony of security and the horror of an unending decay! Give
me back," I cried, and I flung wide my arms to the dull air, "the old
life of danger and stress, with its hard toil and its bitter chances,
and its heartbreaks. I see its value! I know its worth! Give me no
rest," I cried aloud--
. . . . . . .
"Yes, but give a rest to the rest of the corridor!" cried an
angered voice that broke in upon my exultation.
Suddenly my sleep had gone.
I was back again in the room of my hotel, with the hum of the
wicked, busy old world all about me, and loud in my ears the voice of
the indignant man across the corridor.
"Quit your blatting, you infernal blatherskite," he was calling.
"Come down to earth."