In the Year 2889In the Year 2889
by Jules Verne



      Editor's Notes by Blake Linton Wilfong
            In 1885, James Gordon Bennett, Jr., owner of the New York Herald 
      (the same man who sent Stanley to Africa to find Livingstone) asked Jules 
      Verne to write a short story about life in the United States a thousand 
      years hence. Ironically, the resulting tale was not printed until 
      1889--and not in the New York Herald.
            It is an unusual work in every way. Verne wrote few short stories, 
      and no others first published in English. In contrast to his conservative, 
      plodding SF novels, "In the Year 2889" dashes wildly from one fanciful 
      extrapolation to another. Experts believe Jules' son Michel may have 
      authored part of the story.
            Many of the predictions for the year 2889 have already come true. 
      Verne's dystopian concept of one man brought to vast power and wealth 
      through widely distributed intellectual property brings to mind names like 
      Samuel Newhouse and Bill Gates. There are also glimmerings of later 
      science fiction themes, including suspended animation and turning the moon 
      around a la Arthur C. Clarke's Childhood's End (1953).
            Of course Verne also made mistakes, and some of his predictions 
      simply have not come to pass. But give them time: there are nearly nine 
      centuries left before the year 2889. 

Little though they seem to think of it, the people of this 29th century live 
continually in fairyland. Surrounded with marvels, they are indifferent to 
marvels. To them all seems natural. Could they but appreciate the refinements of 
civilization in our day; could they but compare the present with the past, and 
recognize the advances we have made! How much fairer they would find our modern 
towns, with populations exceeding 10,000,000 souls; steets 300 feet wide, houses 
100 feet high; with a constant temperature in all seasons; and lines of aerial 
locomotion crossing the sky in all directions! If they could but imagine the 
state of things that once existed, when through muddy streets rumbling boxes on 
wheels, drawn by horses--yes, horses!--were the only means of conveyance. Think 
of the railroads of old, and you will appreciate the pneumatic tubes through 
which today we travel at 100 miles an hour. Would not our contemporaries prize 
the telephone and telephote more, had they not forgotten the telegraph? 


Surprisingly, all these transformations rest on principles perfectly familiar to 
our remote ancestors, which they disregarded. Heat, for instance, is as ancient 
as man himself; electricity was known 3000 years ago, and steam 1100. Nay, so 
early as 10 centuries ago it was known that the differences between the several 
chemical and physical forces depend on the mode of vibration of etheric 
particles, which is for each specifically different. When at last the kinship of 
all these forces was discovered, it is simply astounding that 500 years still 
elapsed before men could analyze and describe the distinct modes of vibration 
that constitute these differences. Above all, it is amazing that the method of 
reproducing these forces directly from one another, and of reproducing one 
without the others, should have remained undiscovered till less than a century 
ago. Nevertheless, such was the course of events, for it was not till the year 
2792 that the famous Oswald Nier made this discovery. 
Truly was he a great benefactor of the human race. His admirable discovery led 
to many others. Hence is sprung a pleiad of inventors, its brightest star our 
great Joseph Jackson. To Jackson we are indebted those wonderful 
instruments--the new accumulators. Some of these absorb and condense the living 
force contained in the sun's rays; others, the electricity stored in our globe; 
others again, energy from whatever source: waterfalls, streams, wind, etc. He, 
too, invented the transformer, a more wonderful contrivance still, which takes 
the living force from the accumulator, and, at the touch of a button, returns it 
to space in any form desired, whether as heat, light, electricity, or mechanical 
force, after having first obtained from it the work required. From the day these 
two instruments were contrived should be dated the era of true progress. They 
have put into the hands of man almost infinite power. As for their applications, 
they are numberless. Mitigating the rigors of winter, by giving back to the 
atmosphere the surplus heat stored up during the summer, they have 
revolutionized agriculture. Supplying motive power for aerial navigation, they 
have given to commerce a mighty impetus. To them we are indebted for the 
continuous production of electricity without batteries or dynamos, of light 
without combustion or incandescence, and for an unfailing supply of mechanical 
energy for the needs of industry. 
Yes, the accumulator and the transformer have wrought all these wonders. And can 
we not to them also trace, indirectly, this latest wonder of all, the great 
"Earth Chronicle" building on 253rd Avenue, which was dedicated the other day? 
If George Washington Smith, founder of the Manhattan "Chronicle", should come 
back to life today, what would he think when told that this place of marble and 
gold belongs to his remote descendant, Fritz Napoleon Smith, who, after 30 
generations, is owner of the same newpaper that his ancestor established! 
For George Washington Smith's newspaper has lived generation after generation, 
now passing out of the family, anon coming back to it. When, 200 years ago, the 
political center of the United States was transferred from Washington to 
Centropolis, the newspaper followed the government and assumed the name of Earth 
Chronicle. Unfortunately, it was unable to maintain itself at the high level of 
its name. Pressed on all sides by more modern rival journals, it was continually 
in danger of collapse. 20 years ago its subscription list contained but a few 
hundred thousand names, and then Mr. Fritz Napoleon bought it for a mere trifle, 
and originated telephonic journalism. 
Everyone is familiar with Fritz Napoleon Smith's system--a system made possible 
by the enormous development of telephony during the last hundred years. Instead 
of being printed, the Earth Chronicle is every morning spoken to subscribers, 
who, from interesting conversations with reporters, statesmen and scientists, 
learn the news of the day. Furthermore, each subscriber owns a phonograph, and 
to this instrument he leaves the task of gathering the news whenever he happens 
not to be in a mood to listen directly himself. As for purchasers of single 
copies, they can at a nominal cost learn all that is in the paper of the day at 
any of the innumerable phonographs set up nearly everywhere. 
Fritz Napoleon Smith's innovation galvanized the old newspaper. In the course of 
a few years the number of subscribers grew to 85,000,000 and Smith's wealth went 
on growing, till now it reaches the almost unimaginable figure of 
$10,000,000,000. This lucky hit has enabled him to erect his new building, a 
vast edifice with four facades, each 3250 feet in length, over which proudly 
floats the hundred-starred flag of the Union. Thanks to the same lucky hit, he 
is today king of newspaperdom; indeed, he would be king of America, too, if 
Americans could ever accept a king. You do not believe it? Well, then, look at 
the plenipotentiaries of all nations and our own ministers themselves crowding 
about his door, entreating his counsels, begging for his approbation, imploring 
the aid of his all-powerful organ. Add up the number of scientists and artists 
he supports, of inventors under his pay. 
Yes, a king is he. And in truth his is a royalty full of burdens. His labors are 
incessant, and, doubtless, in earlier times any man would have succumbed under 
the overpowering stress Mr. Smith endures. Fortunately for him, thanks to the 
progress of hygiene, which, abating all the old sources of disease, has lifted 
human life expectancy from 37 up to 52 years, men have stronger constitutions 
now than heretofore. The discovery of nutritive air remains in the future, but 
in the meantime men today consume food scientifically compounded and prepared, 
and breathe an atmosphere free of the microoganisms that once swarmed in it; 
hence they live longer than their forefathers and know nothing of the 
innumerable ailments of olden times. 
Nevertheless, Fritz Napoleon Smith's mode of life may well astonish one. His 
iron constitution is taxed to the utmost by the heavy strain upon it. Vain the 
attempt to estimate the amount of labor he undergoes; only an example can give 
an idea of it. Let us go about with him for one day as he attends to his 
multifarious concerns. What day? That matters little; it is the same every day. 
Let us take at random September 25th of this present year 2889. 
This morning Mr. Fritz Napoleon Smith awakes in very bad humor. His wife left 
for France eight days ago; he feels disconsolate. Incredible though it seems, in 
the 10 years since their marriage, this is the first time Mrs. Edith Smith, the 
professional model, has been so long absent from home; two or three days usually 
suffice for her frequent trips to Europe. The first thing Mr. Smith does is 
activate his phonotelephote, the wires of which communicate with his Paris 
mansion. The telephote! Here is another great triumph of modern science. The 
transmission of speech is an old story; the transmission of images by means of 
sensitive mirrors connected by wires is a thing but of yesterday. A valuable 
invention indeed; Mr. Smith this morning is full of blessings for the inventor, 
when by its aid he is able distinctly to see his wife despite her great 
distance. 
Mrs. Smith, weary after the ball or the visit to the theater the preceding 
night, is still abed, though it is near noontime at Paris. She is asleep, her 
head sunk in the lace-covered pillows. What? She stirs? Her lips move. She 
dreams, perhaps? Yes. She is talking, pronouncing a name--his name--Fritz! The 
delightful vision gives a happier turn to Mr. Smith's thoughts. And now, at the 
call of imperative duty, he lightheartedly springs from his bed and enters his 
mechanical dresser. 
Two minutes later the machine deposits him all dressed at the threshold of his 
office. The round of journalistic work begins. First he enters the hall of 
novelists, a vast apartment crowned with an enormous transparent cupola. In one 
corner is a telephone, through which a hundred Earth Chronicle litterateurs in 
turn recount to the public in daily installments a hundred novels. Smith 
addresses one of these authors awaiting his turn: "Capital! Capital, my dear 
fellow, your last story. The scene where the village maid discusses interesting 
philosophical problems with her lover shows your acute power of observation. 
Never have the ways of country folk been better portrayed. Keep on, my dear 
Archibald, keep on! Since yesterday, thanks to you, there is a gain of 5000 
subscribers." 
"Mr. John Last," he begins again, turning to a new arrival, "I am not as pleased 
with your work. Your story is not a picture of life; it lacks the elements of 
truth. And why? Simply because you run straight on to the end; because you do 
not analyze. Your heroes do this thing or that from this or that motive, which 
you assign without ever a thought of dissecting their mental and moral natures. 
Our feelings, you must remember, are far more complex. In real life every act is 
the result of a hundred thoughts that come and go, and these you must study, one 
by one, if you would create a living character. 'But,' you will say, 'in order 
to note these fleeting thoughts one must know them, must be able to follow them 
in their capricious meanderings.' Why, any child can do that, as you know. 
Simply make use of hypnotism, electrical or human, which gives one a twofold 
being, setting free the witness-personality so it may see, understand and 
remember the reasons which determine the personality that acts. Just study 
yourself as you live from day to day, my dear Last. Imitate your associate who I 
complimented a moment ago. Let yourself be hypnotized. What's that? You have 
tried it already? Not sufficiently, then, not sufficiently!" 
Mr. Smith continues his round and enters the reporters' hall. Here 1500 
reporters, in their respective places, facing an equal number of telephones, are 
communicating to the subscribers the news of the world as gathered during the 
night. The organization of this matchless service has often been described. 
Besides his telephone, each reporter, as the reader is aware, has in front of 
him a set of commutators, which enable him to communicate with any desired 
telephotic line. Thus the subscribers not only hear the news but see the 
occurrences. When an incident is described that is already past, photographs of 
its main features are transmitted with the narrative. And there is no confusion 
withal. The reporters' items, just like the different stories and all the other 
component parts of the journal, are classified automatically according to an 
ingenious system, and reach the hearer in due succession. Furthermore, the 
hearers are free to listen only to what interests them. They may at pleasure pay 
attention to one editor and ignore another. 
Mr. Smith next addresses one of the ten reporters in the astronomical 
department--a department still in the embryonic stage, but which will yet play 
an important part in journalism. 
"Well, Cash, what's the news?" 
"We have phototelegrams from Mercury, Venus, and Mars." 
"Are those from Mars of any interest?" 
"Yes, indeed. There is a revolution in the Central Empire." 


"And what of Jupiter?" asks Mr. Smith. 
"Nothing as yet. We cannot quite understand their signals. Perhaps ours do not 
reach them." 
"That's bad," exclaims Mr. Smith, as he hurries away, not in the best of humor, 
toward the hall of scientific editors. Heads bent over their electric computers, 
30 scientific men are absorbed in transcendental calculations. Mr. Smith's 
arrival is like the falling of a bomb among them. 
"Well, gentlemen, what is this I hear? No answer from Jupiter? Is it always to 
be thus? Come, Cooley, you have worked now 10 years on this problem, and yet--" 
"True enough," replies the man addressed. "Our science of optics is still 
defective, and though our mile-and-three-quarter telescopes--" 
"Listen to that, Peer," breaks in Mr. Smith, turning to a second scientist. 
"Optical science defective! Optical science is your specialty. But," he 
continues, again addressing William Cooley, "failing with Jupiter, are we 
getting any results from the moon?" 
"The case is no better there." 
"This time you cannot lay the blame on the science of optics. The moon is 
immeasurably closer than Mars, yet with Mars our communication is fully 
established. I presume you will not say you lack telescopes?" 
"Telescopes? Oh no, the trouble here is about--inhabitants!" 
"That's it," adds Peer. 
"So, then, the moon is positively uninhabited?" asks Mr. Smith. 
"At least," answers Cooley, "on the face which she presents to us. As for the 
opposite side, who knows?" 
"Ah, the opposite side! You think, then," remarks Mr. Smith, musingly, "that if 
one could but--" 
"Could what?" 
"Why, turn the moon about-face." 
"Ah, there's something in that," cry the two men at once. And indeed, so 
confident is their air, they seem certain of the success of such an undertaking. 

"Meanwhile," asks Mr. Smith, after a moment's silence, "have you no news of 
interest today?" 
"Indeed we have," answers Cooley. "The elements of Olympus are definitely 
settled. That great planet gravitates beyond Neptune at a mean distance of 
11,400,799,642 miles from the sun, and to traverse its vast orbit takes 1311 
years, 294 days, 12 hours, 43 minutes, 9 seconds." 
"Why didn't you tell me that sooner?" cries Mr. Smith. "Inform the reporters of 
this straightway. You know how eager public curiosity is about these 
astronomical questions. That news must go into today's issue." 

Then, the two men bowing to him, Mr. Smith passes into the next hall, an 
enormous gallery upward of 3200 feet long, devoted to atmospheric advertising. 
Everyone has noticed those enormous advertisements reflected from the clouds, so 
large they may be seen by the populations of whole cities or even entire 
countries. This, too, is one of Mr. Fritz Napoleon Smith's ideas, and in the 
Earth Chronicle building a thousand projectors are constantly engaged in 
displaying on the clouds these mammoth advertisements. 
When Mr. Smith today enters the sky-advertising department, he finds the 
operators sitting with folded arms at their motionless projectors, and inquires 
as to the cause of their inaction. In response, the man addressed simply points 
to the sky, which is a pure blue. "Yes," mutters Mr. Smith, "a cloudless sky! 
That's too bad, but what's to be done? Shall we produce rain? That we might do, 
but is it of any use? What we need is clouds, not rain. Go," says he, addressing 
the head engineer, "go see Mr. Samuel Mark, of the meteorological division in 
the scientific department, and tell him for me to go to work in earnest on the 
question of artificial clouds. It will never do for us to be always at the mercy 
of cloudless skies!" 
Mr. Smith's daily tour through the several departments of his newspaper is now 
finished. Next, from the advertisement hall he passes to the reception chamber, 
where the ambassadors accredited to the American government await a word of 
counsel or advice from the all-powerful editor. A discussion is going on as he 
enters. "Your Excellency will pardon me," the French Ambassador is saying to the 
Russian, "but I see nothing in the map of Europe that requires change. 'The 
North for the Slavs?' Why, yes, of course; but the South for the Latins. Our 
common frontier, the Rhine, it seems to me, serves very well. Besides, my 
government, as you must know, will firmly oppose every movement, not only 
against Paris, our capital, or our two great prefectures, Rome and Madrid, but 
also against the kingdom of Jerusalem, the dominion of Saint Peter, of which 
France means to be the trusty defender." 
"Well said!" exclaims Mr. Smith. "How is it," he asks, turning to the Russian 
ambassador, "that you Russians are not content with your vast empire, the most 
extensive in the world, stretching from the banks of the Rhine to the Celestial 
Mountains and the Kara-Korum, whose shores are washed by the Frozen Ocean, the 
Atlantic, the Mediterranean, and the Indian Ocean? And what use are threats? Is 
war possible in view of modern inventions--asphyxiating shells capable of being 
projected a distance of 60 miles, an electric spark of 90 miles, that can at one 
stroke annihilate a battalion; to say nothing of the plague, the cholera, the 
yellow fever, that the belligerents might spread among their antagonists 
mutually, and which would in a few days destroy the greatest armies?" 
"True," answered the Russian, "but we Russians, pressed on our eastern frontier 
by the Chinese, must at any cost put forth our strength for an effort toward the 
west." 
"Let's solve your problem at the source," said Mr. Smith. "I will speak to the 
Secretary of State about this. The attention of the Chinese government will be 
brought to the matter, and the situation corrected." 
"Under these conditions, of course--" And the Russian ambassador declares 
himself satisfied. 
"Ah, Sir John, what can I do for you?" asks Mr. Smith as he turns to the 
representative of the people of Great Britain, who till now has remained silent. 

"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. 


"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 
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.