“A great deal,” comes the reply. “If the Earth Chronicle would but open a campaign on our behalf–” “And for what object?” “Simply for the annulment of the Act of Congress annexing to the United States the British islands.” By a just turnabout, Great Britain has become a colony of the United States, but the English are not yet reconciled to their status. At regular intervals they are ever addressing to the American government vain complaints. “A campaign against the annexation that has been an accomplished fact for 150 years!” exclaims Mr. Smith. “How can you believe I would do anything so unpatriotic?” “We at home think your people must now be sated. The Monroe Doctrine is fully applied; the whole of America belongs to the Americans. What more do you want? Besides, we will pay for what we ask.” “Indeed!” answers Mr. Smith, without manifesting the slightest irritation. “Well, you English will ever be the same. No, no, Sir John, don’t count on me for help. Give up our fairest province, Britain? Why not ask France generously to renounce possession of Africa, that magnificent colony the complete conquest of which cost her the labor of 800 years? You will be well received!” “You decline! All is over then!” the British agent murmurs sadly. “The United Kingdom falls to the share of the Americans; the Indies to that of–” “The Russians,” Mr. Smith completes the sentence. “Australia–” “Has an independent government.” “Then nothing at all remains for us!” sighs Sir John, downcast. “Nothing?” asks Mr. Smith, laughing. “Well, now, there’s Gibraltar!” With this sally the audience ends. The clock is striking 12, the hour of breakfast. Mr. Smith returns to his chamber. Where the bed stood in the morning a table all spread comes up through the floor. For Mr. Smith, being above all a practical man, has reduced the problem of existence to its simplest terms. For him, instead of the endless suites of apartments of yesteryear, one room fitted with ingenious mechanical contrivances is enough. Here he sleeps, takes his meals–in short, lives. He seats himself. In the mirror of the phonotelephote is visible the same chamber at Paris which appeared in it this morning. A table furnished forth is likewise in readiness here, for notwithstanding the difference in hours, Mr. Smith and his wife have arranged to take their meals simultaneously. It is delightful thus to breakfast tete-a-tete with someone 3000 miles or so away. Just now, Mrs. Smith’s chamber has no occupant. “She is late! Woman’s punctuality! Progress everywhere except there!” mutters Mr. Smith as he turns the tap for the first dish. For like all wealthy folk in our day, Mr. Smith has done away with the domestic kitchen and is a subscriber to the Grand Alimentation Company, which sends through a vast network of tubes to subscribers’ residences all sorts of dishes, as a varied assortment is always in readiness. A subscription costs money, to be sure, but the cuisine is of the best, and the system has this advantage, that it does away with the pestering race of the cordons bleus. Mr. Smith receives and eats, all alone, the hors d’oeuvres, entrees, roast meat, and legumes that constitute the repast. He is just finishing the dessert when Mrs. Smith appears in the telephote mirror. “Why, where have you been?” asks Mr. Smith through the telephone. “What! You are already at the dessert? Then I am late,” she exclaims, with winsome naivete. “Where have I been, you ask? Why, at my dressmaker’s. The hats are just lovely this season! I suppose I forgot to note the time, and so am a little late.” “Yes, a little,” growls Mr. Smith; “so little that I have already quite finished breakfast. Excuse me if I leave you now, but I must be going.” “Oh certainly, my dear; goodbye till evening.” Smith steps into his air-coach, which awaits him at a window. “Where do you wish to go, sir?” inquires the coachman. “Let me see; I have three hours,” Mr. Smith muses. “Jack, take me to my accumulator works at Niagara.” For Mr. Smith has obtained a lease of the great falls of Niagara. For ages the energy developed by the falls went unutilized. Smith, applying Jackson’s invention, now collects this energy, and sells it. His visit to the works takes longer than anticipated. It is four o’clock when he returns home, just in time for the daily audience he grants to callers. One readily understands how a man in Smith’s situation must be beset with requests of all kinds. Now it is an inventor needing capital; then it is some visionary who comes to advocate a brilliant scheme which must surely yield millions in profits. A choice must be made between these projects, rejecting the worthless, examining the questionable, accepting the meritorious. To this work Mr. Smith devotes two full hours a day. The callers are fewer today than usual–just 12. Of these, eight have only impracticable schemes to propose. In fact, one of them wants to revive painting, an art fallen into desuetude owing to the progress made in color photography. Another, a physician, boasts that he has discovered a cure for nasal catarrh! These impracticalities are dismissed in short order. Of the four projects favorably received, the first is that of a young man whose broad forehead betokens his intellectual power. “Sir, I am a chemist,” he begins, “and as such I come to you.” “Well!” “Once the elementary bodies,” says the young chemist, “were held to be 62 in number; a century ago they were reduced to 10; now only three remain irresolvable, as you are aware.” “Yes, yes.” “Well, sir, these also I will show to be composite. In a few months, a few weeks, I shall have succeeded in solving the problem. Indeed, it may take only a few days.” “And then?” “Then, sir, I shall simply have determined the absolute. All I want is money enough to carry my research to a successful conclusion.” “Very well,” says Mr. Smith. “And what will be the practical outcome of your discovery?” “The practical outcome? Why, that we shall be able to produce easily all bodies whatever–stone, wood, metal, fibers–” “And flesh and blood?” interrupts Mr. Smith. “Do you pretend that you expect to manufacture a human being out and out?” “Why not?” Mr. Smith advances $100,000 to the young chemist, and engages his services for the Earth Chronicle laboratory. The second of the four successful applicants, starting from experiments made so long ago as the 19th century and again and again repeated, has conceived the idea of moving an entire city all at once from one place to another. His particular interest is the city of Granton, situated, as everyone knows, some 15 miles inland. He proposes transporting the city on rails, turning it into a beachfront resort. The profit, of course, would be enormous. Mr. Smith, captivated by the scheme, buys a half-interest in it. “As you are aware, sir,” begins applicant No. 3, “by the aid of our solar and terrestrial accumulators and transformers, we are able to make all the seasons the same. I propose to do something better still. Transform into heat a portion of the surplus energy at our disposal; send this heat to the poles; then the polar regions, relived of their snowcaps, will become a vast territory available for man’s use. What think you of the scheme?” “Leave your plans with me, and come back in a week. I will have them examined in the meantime.” Finally, the fourth announces the imminent solution of a weighty scientific problem. Everyone remembers the bold experiment made 100 years ago by Dr. Nathaniel Faithburn. The doctor, being a firm believer in human hibernation–in other words, the possibility of our suspending our vital functions and of calling them into action again after a time–resolved to subject the theory to a practical test. To this end, having first made his last will and pointed out the proper method of awakening him; having also directed that his sleep was to continue a hundred years to a day from the date of his apparent death, he unhesitatingly put the theory to the proof in his own person. Reduced to the condition of a mummy, Dr. Faithburn was coffined and laid in a tomb. Time went on. September 25th, 2889 being the day set for his resurrection, it is proposed that Mr. Smith permit the second part of the experiment to be performed at his residence this evening. “Agreed. Be here at 10 o’clock,” answers Mr. Smith; and with that the day’s audience is closed. Left to himself, feeling tired, he lies down on an extension chair. Then, touching a knob, he establishes communication with the Central Concert Hall, whence our greatest maestros send out to subscribers their delightful successions of accords determined by recondite algebraic formulas. Night approaches. Entranced by the harmony, forgetful of the hour, Smith does not notice that it is growing dark. Indeed, it is quite dark when the sound of a door opening arouses him. “Who is there?” he asks, touching a commutator. Suddenly, in consequence of the vibrations produced, the air becomes luminous. The room fills with light, and Smith recognizes his visitor. “Ah! You, Doctor?” “Yes,” is the reply. “How are you?” “I am feeling well.” “Good! Let me see your tongue. All right! Your pulse. Regular! And your appetite?” “Only passably good.” “Yes, the stomach. There’s the rub. You are overworked. If your stomach is out of repair, it must be mended. That requires study. We must think about it.” “In the meantime,” says Mr. Smith, “you will dine with me.” As in the morning, the table rises out of the floor. Again, as in the morning, the food-pipes supply soup, roast, ragouts, and legumes. Toward the close of the meal, phonotelephotic communication is made with Paris. Smith sees his wife, seated alone at the dinner table, looking anything but pleased at her loneliness. “Pardon me, my dear, for having left you alone,” he says through the telephone. “Dr. Wilkins is here.” “Ah, the good doctor!” remarks Mrs. Smith, her countenance lighting up. “Yes. But, pray, when are you coming home?” “This evening.” “Very well. Do you come by tube or by air-train?” “Oh, by tube.” “Yes; and at what hour will you arrive?” “About eleven, I suppose.” “Eleven by Centropolis time, you mean?” “Yes.” “Goodbye, then, for a little while,” says Mr. Smith as he severs communication with Paris. Dinner over, Dr. Wilkins wishes to depart. “I shall expect you at ten,” says Mr. Smith. “Today, it seems, is the day for the return to life of the famous Dr. Faithburn. You did not think of it, I suppose. The awakening is to take place here in my house. You must come and see. I shall depend on your being here.” “I will return,” answers Dr. Wilkins. Left alone, Mr. Smith busies himself with examining his accounts–a task of vast magnitude, the transactions involving a daily expenditure of over $800,000. Fortunately, indeed, the stupendous progress of mechanic art in modern times makes it comparatively easy. Thanks to the Piano Electro-Reckoner, the most complex calculations can be made in a few seconds. In two hours Mr. Smith completes his task–and just in time. Scarcely has he turned the last page when Dr. Wilkins arrives. After him comes Dr. Faithburn’s body, escorted by a numerous company of men of science. They commence work at once. The casket is laid in the middle of the room, the telephote readied. The outer world, already notified, is anxiously expectant, for the whole world will witness the performance. A reporter meanwhile, like the chorus in an ancient drama, explains it all viva voce through the telephone.