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"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.
"They are opening the casket," he explains. "Now they are taking Faithburn
out--a veritable mummy, yellow, hard and dry. Strike the body and it resounds
like a block of wood. They are now applying heat; now electricity. No result.
These experiments are suspended for a moment while Dr. Wilkins makes an
examination of the body. Dr. Wilkins, rising, declares the man to be dead.
'Dead!' exclaims everyone present. 'Yes,' answers Dr. Wilkins, 'dead!' 'And
how long has he been dead?' Dr. Wilkins makes another examination. 'A hundred
years,' he replies."
So it is. Faithburn is dead, quite certainly dead! "Here is a method that
needs improvement," remarks Mr. Smith to Dr. Wilkins, as the scientific
committee on hibernation carries the casket out. "So much for that experiment.
But if poor
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Faithburn is dead, at least he is sleeping," he continued. "I wish I could get
some sleep. I am tired out, Doctor, quite tired out! Don't you think a bath
would refresh me?"
"Certainly. But you must wrap yourself up well before you go out into the
hallway. You must not expose yourself to cold."
"Hallway? Why, Doctor, as you well know, everything is done by machinery here.
It is not for me to go to the bath; the bath will come to me. Just look!" He
presses a button. After a few seconds a faint rumbling is heard, growing
louder and louder. Suddenly the door opens, and the tub appears.
Such, in the year 2889, is the history of one day in the life of the editor of
the Earth Chronicle. And the history of that one day is the history of 365
days every year, except leap years, and then of 366 days--for as yet no means
has been found of increasing the length of the terrestrial year.
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