The Sleeper Awakes

IN THE CITY WAYS

And that night, unknown and unsuspected, Graham, dressed in the costume of an inferior wind-vane official keeping holiday, and accompanied by Asano in Labour Department canvas, surveyed the city through which he had wandered when it was veiled in darkness.  But now he saw it lit and waking, a whirlpool of life.  In spite of the surging and swaying of the forces of revolution, in spite of the unusual discontent, the mutterings of the greater struggle of which the first revolt was but the prelude, the myriad streams of commerce still flowed wide and strong.  He knew now something of the dimensions and quality of the new age, but he was not prepared for the infinite surprise of the detailed view, for the torrent of colour and vivid impressions that poured past him.

This was his first real contact with the people of these latter days.  He realised that all that had gone before, saving his glimpses of the public theatres and markets, had had its element of seclusion, had been a movement within the comparatively narrow political quarter, that all his previous experiences had revolved immediately about the question of his own position.  But here was the city at the busiest hours of night, the people to a large extent returned to their own immediate interests, the resumption of the real informal life, the common habits of the new time.

They emerged at first into a street whose opposite ways were crowded with the blue canvas liveries.  This swarm Graham saw was a portion of a procession—­it was odd to see a procession parading the city seated.  They carried banners of coarse black stuff with red letters.  “No disarmament,” said the banners, for the most part in crudely daubed letters and with variant spelling, and “Why should we disarm?” “No disarming.”  “No disarming.”  Banner after banner went by, a stream of banners flowing past, and at last at the end, the song of the revolt and a noisy band of strange instruments.  “They all ought to be at work,” said Asano.  “They have had no food these two days, or they have stolen it.”

Presently Asano made a detour to avoid the congested crowd that gaped upon the occasional passage of dead bodies from hospital to a mortuary, the gleanings after death’s harvest of the first revolt.

That night few people were sleeping, everyone was abroad.  A vast excitement, perpetual crowds perpetually changing, surrounded Graham; his mind was confused and darkened by an incessant tumult, by the cries and enigmatical fragments of the social struggle that was as yet only beginning.  Everywhere festoons and banners of black and strange decorations, intensified the quality of his popularity.  Everywhere he caught snatches of that crude thick dialect that served the illiterate class, the class, that is, beyond the reach of phonograph culture, in their commonplace intercourse.  Everywhere this trouble of disarmament was in the air, with a quality of immediate stress of which he had no inkling during his seclusion in the Wind-Vane quarter.  He perceived that as soon as he returned he must discuss this with Ostrog, this and the greater issues of which it was the expression, in a far more conclusive way than he had so far done.  Perpetually that night, even in the earlier hours of their wanderings about the city, the spirit of unrest and revolt swamped his attention, to the exclusion of countless strange things he might otherwise have observed.

This preoccupation made his impressions fragmentary.  Yet amidst so much that was strange and vivid, no subject, however personal and insistent, could exert undivided sway.  There were spaces when the revolutionary movement passed clean out of his mind, was drawn aside like a curtain from before some startling new aspect of the time.  Helen had swayed his mind to this intense earnestness of enquiry, but there came times when she, even, receded beyond his conscious thoughts.  At one moment, for example, he found they were traversing the religious quarter, for the easy transit about the city afforded by the moving ways rendered sporadic churches and chapels no longer necessary—­and his attention was vividly arrested by the façade of one of the Christian sects.

They were travelling seated on one of the swift upper ways, the place leapt upon them at a bend and advanced rapidly towards them.  It was covered with inscriptions from top to base, in vivid white and blue, save where a vast and glaring kinematograph transparency presented a realistic New Testament scene, and where a vast festoon of black to show that the popular religion followed the popular politics, hung across the lettering.  Graham had already become familiar with the phonotype writing and these inscriptions arrested him, being to his sense for the most part almost incredible blasphemy.  Among the less offensive were “Salvation on the First Floor and turn to the Right.”  “Put your Money on your Maker.”  “The Sharpest Conversion in London, Expert Operators!  Look Slippy!” “What Christ would say to the Sleeper;—­Join the Up-to-date Saints!” “Be a Christian—­without hindrance to your present Occupation.”  “All the Brightest Bishops on the Bench to-night and Prices as Usual.”  “Brisk Blessings for Busy Business Men.”

“But this is appalling!” said Graham, as that deafening scream of mercantile piety towered above them.

“What is appalling?” asked his little officer, apparently seeking vainly for anything unusual in this shrieking enamel.

“This!  Surely the essence of religion is reverence.”

“Oh that!” Asano looked at Graham.  “Does it shock you?” he said in the tone of one who makes a discovery.  “I suppose it would, of course.  I had forgotten.  Nowadays the competition for attention is so keen, and people simply haven’t the leisure to attend to their souls, you know, as they used to do.”  He smiled.  “In the old days you had quiet Sabbaths and the countryside.  Though somewhere I’ve read of Sunday afternoons that—­”

“But that,” said Graham, glancing back at the receding blue and white.  “That is surely not the only—­”

“There are hundreds of different ways.  But, of course, if a sect doesn’t tell it doesn’t pay.  Worship has moved with the times.  There are high class sects with quieter ways—­costly incense and personal attentions and all that.  These people are extremely popular and prosperous.  They pay several dozen lions for those apartments to the Council—­to you, I should say.”

Graham still felt a difficulty with the coinage, and this mention of a dozen lions brought him abruptly to that matter.  In a moment the screaming temples and their swarming touts were forgotten in this new interest.  A turn of a phrase suggested, and an answer confirmed the idea that gold and silver were both demonetised, that stamped gold which had begun its reign amidst the merchants of Phoenicia was at last dethroned.  The change had been graduated but swift, brought about by an extension of the system of cheques that had even in his previous life already practically superseded gold in all the larger business transactions.  The common traffic of the city, the common currency indeed of all the world, was conducted by means of the little brown, green and pink council cheques for small amounts, printed with a blank payee.  Asano had several with him, and at the first opportunity he supplied the gaps in his set.  They were printed not on tearable paper, but on a semi-transparent fabric of silken flexibility, interwoven with silk.  Across them all sprawled a facsimile of Graham’s signature, his first encounter with the curves and turns of that familiar autograph for two hundred and three years.

Some intermediary experiences made no impression sufficiently vivid to prevent the matter of the disarmament claiming his thoughts again; a blurred picture of a Theosophist temple that promised MIRACLES in enormous letters of unsteady fire was least submerged perhaps, but then came the view of the dining hall in Northumberland Avenue.  That interested him very greatly.

By the energy and thought of Asano he was able to view this place from a little screened gallery reserved for the attendants of the tables.  The building was pervaded by a distant muffled hooting, piping and bawling, of which he did not at first understand the import, but which recalled a certain mysterious leathery voice he had heard after the resumption of the lights on the night of his solitary wandering.

He had grown accustomed to vastness and great numbers of people, nevertheless this spectacle held him for a long time.  It was as he watched the table service more immediately beneath, and interspersed with many questions and answers concerning details, that the realisation of the full significance of the feast of several thousand people came to him.

It was his constant surprise to find that points that one might have expected to strike vividly at the very outset never occurred to him until some trivial detail suddenly shaped as a riddle and pointed to the obvious thing he had overlooked.  He discovered only now that this continuity of the city, this exclusion of weather, these vast halls and ways, involved the disappearance of the household; that the typical Victorian “Home,” the little brick cell containing kitchen and scullery, living rooms and bedrooms, had, save for the ruins that diversified the countryside, vanished as surely as the wattle hut.  But now he saw what had indeed been manifest from the first, that London, regarded as a living place, was no longer an aggregation of houses but a prodigious hotel, an hotel with a thousand classes of accommodation, thousands of dining halls, chapels, theatres, markets and places of assembly, a synthesis of enterprises, of which he chiefly was the owner.  People had their sleeping rooms, with, it might be, antechambers, rooms that were always sanitary at least whatever the degree of comfort and privacy, and for the rest they lived much as many people had lived in the new-made giant hotels of the Victorian days, eating, reading, thinking, playing, conversing, all in places of public resort, going to their work in the industrial quarters of the city or doing business in their offices in the trading section.

He perceived at once how necessarily this state of affairs had developed from the Victorian city.  The fundamental reason for the modern city had ever been the economy of co-operation.  The chief thing to prevent the merging of the separate households in his own generation was simply the still imperfect civilisation of the people, the strong barbaric pride, passions, and prejudices, the jealousies, rivalries, and violence of the middle and lower classes, which had necessitated the entire separation of contiguous households.  But the change, the taming of the people, had been in rapid progress even then.  In his brief thirty years of previous life he had seen an enormous extension of the habit of consuming meals from home, the casually patronised horse-box coffee-house had given place to the open and crowded Aerated Bread Shop for instance, women’s clubs had had their beginning, and an immense development of reading rooms, lounges and libraries had witnessed to the growth of social confidence.  These promises had by this time attained to their complete fulfilment.  The locked and barred household had passed away.

These people below him belonged, he learnt, to the lower middle class, the class just above the blue labourers, a class so accustomed in the Victorian period to feed with every precaution of privacy that its members, when occasion confronted them with a public meal, would usually hide their embarrassment under horseplay or a markedly militant demeanour.  But these gaily, if lightly dressed people below, albeit vivacious, hurried and uncommunicative, were dexterously mannered and certainly quite at their ease with regard to one another.

He noted a slight significant thing; the table, as far as he could see, was and remained delightfully neat, there was nothing to parallel the confusion, the broadcast crumbs, the splashes of viand and condiment, the overturned drink and displaced ornaments, which would have marked the stormy progress of the Victorian meal.  The table furniture was very different.  There were no ornaments, no flowers, and the table was without a cloth, being made, he learnt, of a solid substance having the texture and appearance of damask.  He discerned that this damask substance was patterned with gracefully designed trade advertisements.

In a sort of recess before each diner was a complex apparatus of porcelain and metal.  There was one plate of white porcelain, and by means of taps for hot and cold volatile fluids the diner washed this himself between the courses; he also washed his elegant white metal knife and fork and spoon as occasion required.

Soup and the chemical wine that was the common drink were delivered by similar taps, and the remaining covers travelled automatically in tastefully arranged dishes down the table along silver rails.  The diner stopped these and helped himself at his discretion.  They appeared at a little door at one end of the table, and vanished at the other.  That turn of democratic sentiment in decay, that ugly pride of menial souls, which renders equals loth to wait on one another, was very strong he found among these people.  He was so preoccupied with these details that it was only as he was leaving the place that he remarked the huge advertisement dioramas that marched majestically along the upper walls and proclaimed the most remarkable commodities.

Beyond this place they came into a crowded hall, and he discovered the cause of the noise that had perplexed him.  They paused at a turnstile at which a payment was made.

Graham’s attention was immediately arrested by a violent, loud hoot, followed by a vast leathery voice.  “The Master is sleeping peacefully,” it vociferated.  “He is in excellent health.  He is going to devote the rest of his life to aeronautics.  He says women are more beautiful than ever.  Galloop!  Wow!  Our wonderful civilisation astonishes him beyond measure.  Beyond all measure.  Galloop.  He puts great trust in Boss Ostrog, absolute confidence in Boss Ostrog.  Ostrog is to be his chief minister; is authorised to remove or reinstate public officers—­all patronage will be in his hands.  All patronage in the hands of Boss Ostrog!  The Councillors have been sent back to their own prison above the Council House.”

Graham stopped at the first sentence, and, looking up, beheld a foolish trumpet face from which this was brayed.  This was the General Intelligence Machine.  For a space it seemed to be gathering breath, and a regular throbbing from its cylindrical body was audible.  Then it trumpeted “Galloop, Galloop,” and broke out again.

“Paris is now pacified.  All resistance is over.  Galloop!  The black police hold every position of importance in the city.  They fought with great bravery, singing songs written in praise of their ancestors by the poet Kipling.  Once or twice they got out of hand, and tortured and mutilated wounded and captured insurgents, men and women.  Moral—­don’t go rebelling.  Haha!  Galloop, Galloop!  They are lively fellows.  Lively brave fellows.  Let this be a lesson to the disorderly banderlog of this city.  Yah!  Banderlog!  Filth of the earth!  Galloop, Galloop!”

The voice ceased.  There was a confused murmur of disapproval among the crowd.  “Damned niggers.”  A man began to harangue near them.  “Is this the Master’s doing, brothers?  Is this the Master’s doing?”

“Black police!” said Graham.  “What is that?  You don’t mean—­”

Asano touched his arm and gave him a warning look, and forthwith another of these mechanisms screamed deafeningly and gave tongue in a shrill voice.  “Yahaha, Yahah, Yap!  Hear a live paper yelp!  Live paper.  Yaha!  Shocking outrage in Paris.  Yahahah!  The Parisians exasperated by the black police to the pitch of assassination.  Dreadful reprisals.  Savage times come again.  Blood!  Blood!  Yaha!” The nearer Babble Machine hooted stupendously, “Galloop, Galloop,” drowned the end of the sentence, and proceeded in a rather flatter note than before with novel comments on the horrors of disorder.  “Law and order must be maintained,” said the nearer Babble Machine.

“But,” began Graham.

“Don’t ask questions here,” said Asano, “or you will be involved in an argument.”

“Then let us go on,” said Graham, “for I want to know more of this.”

As he and his companion pushed their way through the excited crowd that swarmed beneath these voices, towards the exit, Graham conceived more clearly the proportion and features of this room.  Altogether, great and small, there must have been nearly a thousand of these erections, piping, hooting, bawling and gabbling in that great space, each with its crowd of excited listeners, the majority of them men dressed in blue canvas.  There were all sizes of machines, from the little gossiping mechanisms that chuckled out mechanical sarcasm in odd corners, through a number of grades to such fifty-foot giants as that which had first hooted over Graham.

This place was unusually crowded, because of the intense public interest in the course of affairs in Paris.  Evidently the struggle had been much more savage than Ostrog had represented it.  All the mechanisms were discoursing upon that topic, and the repetition of the people made the huge hive buzz with such phrases as “Lynched policemen,” “Women burnt alive,” “Fuzzy Wuzzy.”  “But does the Master allow such things?” asked a man near him.  “Is this the beginning of the Master’s rule?”

Is this the beginning of the Master’s rule?  For a long time after he had left the place, the hooting, whistling and braying of the machines pursued him; “Galloop, Galloop,” “Yahahah, Yaha, Yap!  Yaha!” Is this the beginning of the Master’s rule?

Directly they were out upon the ways he began to question Asano closely on the nature of the Parisian struggle.  “This disarmament!  What was their trouble?  What does it all mean?” Asano seemed chiefly anxious to reassure him that it was “all right.”

“But these outrages!”

“You cannot have an omelette,” said Asano, “without breaking eggs.  It is only the rough people.  Only in one part of the city.  All the rest is all right.  The Parisian labourers are the wildest in the world, except ours.”

“What! the Londoners?”

“No, the Japanese.  They have to be kept in order.”

“But burning women alive!”

“A Commune!” said Asano.  “They would rob you of your property.  They would do away with property and give the world over to mob rule.  You are Master, the world is yours.  But there will be no Commune here.  There is no need for black police here.

“And every consideration has been shown.  It is their own negroes—­French speaking negroes.  Senegal regiments, and Niger and Timbuctoo.”

“Regiments?” said Graham, “I thought there was only one—­”

“No,” said Asano, and glanced at him.  “There is more than one.”

Graham felt unpleasantly helpless.

“I did not think,” he began and stopped abruptly.  He went off at a tangent to ask for information about these Babble Machines.  For the most part, the crowd present had been shabbily or even raggedly dressed, and Graham learnt that so far as the more prosperous classes were concerned, in all the more comfortable private apartments of the city were fixed Babble Machines that would speak directly a lever was pulled.  The tenant of the apartment could connect this with the cables of any of the great News Syndicates that he preferred.  When he learnt this presently, he demanded the reason of their absence from his own suite of apartments.  Asano was embarrassed.  “I never thought,” he said.  “Ostrog must have had them removed.”

Graham stared.  “How was I to know?” he exclaimed.

“Perhaps he thought they would annoy you,” said Asano.

“They must be replaced directly I return,” said Graham after an interval.

He found a difficulty in understanding that this news room and the dining hall were not great central places, that such establishments were repeated almost beyond counting all over the city.  But ever and again during the night’s expedition his ears would pick out from the tumult of the ways the peculiar hooting of the organ of Boss Ostrog, “Galloop, Galloop!” or the shrill “Yahaha, Yaha Yap!—­Hear a live paper yelp!” of its chief rival.

Repeated, too, everywhere, were such crèches as the one he now entered.  It was reached by a lift, and by a glass bridge that flung across the dining hall and traversed the ways at a slight upward angle.  To enter the first section of the place necessitated the use of his solvent signature under Asano’s direction.  They were immediately attended to by a man in a violet robe and gold clasp, the insignia of practising medical men.  He perceived from this man’s manner that his identity was known, and proceeded to ask questions on the strange arrangements of the place without reserve.

On either side of the passage, which was silent and padded, as if to deaden the footfall, were narrow little doors, their size and arrangement suggestive of the cells of a Victorian prison.  But the upper portion of each door was of the same greenish transparent stuff that had enclosed him at his awakening, and within, dimly seen, lay, in every case, a very young baby in a little nest of wadding.  Elaborate apparatus watched the atmosphere and rang a bell far away in the central office at the slightest departure from the optimum of temperature and moisture.  A system of such crèches had almost entirely replaced the hazardous adventures of the old-world nursing.  The attendant presently called Graham’s attention to the wet nurses, a vista of mechanical figures, with arms, shoulders, and breasts of astonishingly realistic modelling, articulation, and texture, but mere brass tripods below, and having in the place of features a flat disc bearing advertisements likely to be of interest to mothers.

Of all the strange things that Graham came upon that night, none jarred more upon his habits of thought than this place.  The spectacle of the little pink creatures, their feeble limbs swaying uncertainly in vague first movements, left alone, without embrace or endearment, was wholly repugnant to him.  The attendant doctor was of a different opinion.  His statistical evidence showed beyond dispute that in the Victorian times the most dangerous passage of life was the arms of the mother, that there human mortality had ever been most terrible.  On the other hand this crèche company, the International Crèche Syndicate, lost not one-half per cent, of the million babies or so that formed its peculiar care.  But Graham’s prejudice was too strong even for those figures.

Along one of the many passages of the place they presently came upon a young couple in the usual blue canvas peering through the transparency and laughing hysterically at the bald head of their first-born.  Graham’s face must have showed his estimate of them, for their merriment ceased and they looked abashed.  But this little incident accentuated his sudden realisation of the gulf between his habits of thought and the ways of the new age.  He passed on to the crawling rooms and the Kindergarten, perplexed and distressed.  He found the endless long playrooms were empty! the latter-day children at least still spent their nights in sleep.  As they went through these, the little officer pointed out the nature of the toys, developments of those devised by that inspired sentimentalist Froebel.  There were nurses here, but much was done by machines that sang and danced and dandled.

Graham was still not clear upon many points.  “But so many orphans,” he said perplexed, reverting to a first misconception, and learnt again that they were not orphans.

So soon as they had left the crèche he began to speak of the horror the babies in their incubating cases had caused him.  “Is motherhood gone?” he said.  “Was it a cant?  Surely it was an instinct.  This seems so unnatural—­abominable almost.”

“Along here we shall come to the dancing place,” said Asano by way of reply.  “It is sure to be crowded.  In spite of all the political unrest it will be crowded.  The women take no great interest in politics—­except a few here and there.  You will see the mothers—­most young women in London are mothers.  In that class it is considered a creditable thing to have one child—­a proof of animation.  Few middle class people have more than one.  With the Labour Department it is different.  As for motherhood!  They still take an immense pride in the children.  They come here to look at them quite often.”

“Then do you mean that the population of the World—?”

“Is falling?  Yes.  Except among the people under the Labour Department.  In spite of scientific discipline they are reckless—­”

The air was suddenly dancing with music, and down a way they approached obliquely, set with gorgeous pillars as it seemed of clear amethyst, flowed a concourse of gay people and a tumult of merry cries and laughter.  He saw curled heads, wreathed brows, and a happy intricate flutter of gamboge pass triumphant across the picture.

“You will see,” said Asano with a faint smile.  “The world has changed.  In a moment you will see the mothers of the new age.  Come this way.  We shall see those yonder again very soon.”

They ascended a certain height in a swift lift, and changed to a slower one.  As they went on the music grew upon them, until it was near and full and splendid, and, moving with its glorious intricacies they could distinguish the beat of innumerable dancing feet.  They made a payment at a turnstile, and emerged upon the wide gallery that overlooked the dancing place, and upon the full enchantment of sound and sight.

“Here,” said Asano, “are the fathers and mothers of the little ones you saw.”

The hall was not so richly decorated as that of the Atlas, but saving that, it was, for its size, the most splendid Graham had seen.  The beautiful white-limbed figures that supported the galleries reminded him once more of the restored magnificence of sculpture; they seemed to writhe in engaging attitudes, their faces laughed.  The source of the music that filled the place was hidden, and the whole vast shining floor was thick with dancing couples.  “Look at them,” said the little officer, “see how much they show of motherhood.”

The gallery they stood upon ran along the upper edge of a huge screen that cut the dancing hall on one side from a sort of outer hall that showed through broad arches the incessant onward rush of the city ways.  In this outer hall was a great crowd of less brilliantly dressed people, as numerous almost as those who danced within, the great majority wearing the blue uniform of the Labour Department that was now so familiar to Graham.  Too poor to pass the turnstiles to the festival, they were yet unable to keep away from the sound of its seductions.  Some of them even had cleared spaces, and were dancing also, fluttering their rags in the air.  Some shouted as they danced, jests and odd allusions Graham did not understand.  Once someone began whistling the refrain of the revolutionary song, but it seemed as though that beginning was promptly suppressed.  The corner was dark and Graham could not see.  He turned to the hall again.  Above the caryatids were marble busts of men whom that age esteemed great moral emancipators and pioneers; for the most part their names were strange to Graham, though he recognised Grant Allen, Le Gallienne, Nietzsche, Shelley and Goodwin.  Great black festoons and eloquent sentiments reinforced the huge inscription that partially defaced the upper end of the dancing place, and asserted that “The Festival of the Awakening” was in progress.

“Myriads are taking holiday or staying from work because of that, quite apart from the labourers who refuse to go back,” said Asano.  “These people are always ready for holidays.”

Graham walked to the parapet and stood leaning over, looking down at the dancers.  Save for two or three remote whispering couples, who had stolen apart, he and his guide had the gallery to themselves.  A warm breath of scent and vitality came up to him.  Both men and women below were lightly clad, bare-armed, open-necked, as the universal warmth of the city permitted.  The hair of the men was often a mass of effeminate curls, their chins were always shaven, and many of them had flushed or coloured cheeks.  Many of the women were very pretty, and all were dressed with elaborate coquetry.  As they swept by beneath, he saw ecstatic faces with eyes half closed in pleasure.

“What sort of people are these?” he asked abruptly.

“Workers—­prosperous workers.  What you would have called the middle class.  Independent tradesmen with little separate businesses have vanished long ago, but there are store servers, managers, engineers of a hundred sorts.  To-night is a holiday of course, and every dancing place in the city will be crowded, and every place of worship.”

“But—­the women?”

“The same.  There’s a thousand forms of work for women now.  But you had the beginning of the independent working-woman in your days.  Most women are independent now.  Most of these are married more or less—­there are a number of methods of contract—­and that gives them more money, and enables them to enjoy themselves.”

“I see,” said Graham, looking at the flushed faces, the flash and swirl of movement, and still thinking of that nightmare of pink helpless limbs.  “And these are—­mothers.”

“Most of them.”

“The more I see of these things the more complex I find your problems.  This, for instance, is a surprise.  That news from Paris was a surprise.”

In a little while he spoke again: 

“These are mothers.  Presently, I suppose, I shall get into the modern way of seeing things.  I have old habits of mind clinging about me—­habits based, I suppose, on needs that are over and done with.  Of course, in our time, a woman was supposed not only to bear children, but to cherish them, to devote herself to them, to educate them—­all the essentials of moral and mental education a child owed its mother.  Or went without.  Quite a number, I admit, went without.  Nowadays, clearly, there is no more need for such care than if they were butterflies.  I see that!  Only there was an ideal—­that figure of a grave, patient woman, silently and serenely mistress of a home, mother and maker of men—­to love her was a sort of worship—­”

He stopped and repeated, “A sort of worship.”

“Ideals change,” said the little man, “as needs change.”

Graham awoke from an instant reverie and Asano repeated his words.  Graham’s mind returned to the thing at hand.

“Of course I see the perfect reasonableness of this.  Restraint, soberness, the matured thought, the unselfish act, they are necessities of the barbarous state, the life of dangers.  Dourness is man’s tribute to unconquered nature.  But man has conquered nature now for all practical purposes—­his political affairs are managed by Bosses with a black police—­and life is joyous.”

He looked at the dancers again.  “Joyous,” he said.

“There are weary moments,” said the little officer, reflectively.

“They all look young.  Down there I should be visibly the oldest man.  And in my own time I should have passed as middle-aged.”

“They are young.  There are few old people in this class in the work cities.”

“How is that?”

“Old people’s lives are not so pleasant as they used to be, unless they are rich to hire lovers and helpers.  And we have an institution called Euthanasy.”

“Ah! that Euthanasy!” said Graham.  “The easy death?”

“The easy death.  It is the last pleasure.  The Euthanasy Company does it well.  People will pay the sum—­it is a costly thing—­long beforehand, go off to some pleasure city and return impoverished and weary, very weary.”

“There is a lot left for me to understand,” said Graham after a pause.  “Yet I see the logic of it all.  Our array of angry virtues and sour restraints was the consequence of danger and insecurity.  The Stoic, the Puritan, even in my time, were vanishing types.  In the old days man was armed against Pain, now he is eager for Pleasure.  There lies the difference.  Civilisation has driven pain and danger so far off—­for well-to-do people.  And only well-to-do people matter now.  I have been asleep two hundred years.”

For a minute they leant on the balustrading, following the intricate evolution of the dance.  Indeed the scene was very beautiful.

“Before God,” said Graham, suddenly, “I would rather be a wounded sentinel freezing in the snow than one of these painted fools!”

“In the snow,” said Asano, “one might think differently.”

“I am uncivilised,” said Graham, not heeding him.  “That is the trouble.  I am primitive—­Paleolithic. Their fountain of rage and fear and anger is sealed and closed, the habits of a lifetime make them cheerful and easy and delightful.  You must bear with my nineteenth century shocks and disgusts.  These people, you say, are skilled workers and so forth.  And while these dance, men are fighting—­men are dying in Paris to keep the world—­that they may dance.”

Asano smiled faintly.  “For that matter, men are dying in London,” he said.

There was a moment’s silence.

“Where do these sleep?” asked Graham.

“Above and below—­an intricate warren.”

“And where do they work?  This is—­the domestic life.”

“You will see little work to-night.  Half the workers are out or under arms.  Half these people are keeping holiday.  But we will go to the work places if you wish it.”

For a time Graham watched the dancers, then suddenly turned away.  “I want to see the workers.  I have seen enough of these,” he said.

Asano led the way along the gallery across the dancing hall.  Presently they came to a transverse passage that brought a breath of fresher, colder air.

Asano glanced at this passage as they went past, stopped, went back to it, and turned to Graham with a smile.  “Here, Sire,” he said, “is something—­will be familiar to you at least—­and yet—.  But I will not tell you.  Come!”

He led the way along a closed passage that presently became cold.  The reverberation of their feet told that this passage was a bridge.  They came into a circular gallery that was glazed in from the outer weather, and so reached a circular chamber which seemed familiar, though Graham could not recall distinctly when he had entered it before.  In this was a ladder—­the first ladder he had seen since his awakening—­up which they went, and came into a high, dark, cold place in which was another almost vertical ladder.  This they ascended, Graham still perplexed.

But at the top he understood, and recognised the metallic bars to which he clung.  He was in the cage under the ball of St. Paul’s.  The dome rose but a little way above the general contour of the city, into the still twilight, and sloped away, shining greasily under a few distant lights, into a circumambient ditch of darkness.

Out between the bars he looked upon the wind-clear northern sky and saw the starry constellations all unchanged.  Capella hung in the west, Vega was rising, and the seven glittering points of the Great Bear swept overhead in their stately circle about the Pole.

He saw these stars in a clear gap of sky.  To the east and south the great circular shapes of complaining wind-wheels blotted out the heavens, so that the glare about the Council House was hidden.  To the southwest hung Orion, showing like a pallid ghost through a tracery of iron-work and interlacing shapes above a dazzling coruscation of lights.  A bellowing and siren screaming that came from the flying stages warned the world that one of the aeroplanes was ready to start.  He remained for a space gazing towards the glaring stage.  Then his eyes went back to the northward constellations.

For a long time he was silent.  “This,” he said at last, smiling in the shadow, “seems the strangest thing of all.  To stand in the dome of St. Paul’s and look once more upon these familiar, silent stars!”

Thence Graham was taken by Asano along devious ways to the great gambling and business quarters where the bulk of the fortunes in the city were lost and made.  It impressed him as a well-nigh interminable series of very high halls, surrounded by tiers upon tiers of galleries into which opened thousands of offices, and traversed by a complicated multitude of bridges, footways, aerial motor rails, and trapeze and cable leaps.  And here more than anywhere the note of vehement vitality, of uncontrollable, hasty activity, rose high.  Everywhere was violent advertisement, until his brain swam at the tumult of light and colour.  And Babble Machines of a peculiarly rancid tone were abundant and filled the air with strenuous squealing and an idiotic slang.  “Skin your eyes and slide,” “Gewhoop, Bonanza,” “Gollipers come and hark!”

The place seemed to him to be dense with people either profoundly agitated or swelling with obscure cunning, yet he learnt that the place was comparatively empty, that the great political convulsion of the last few days had reduced transactions to an unprecedented minimum.  In one huge place were long avenues of roulette tables, each with an excited, undignified crowd about it; in another a yelping Babel of white-faced women and red-necked leathery-lunged men bought and sold the shares of an absolutely fictitious business undertaking which, every five minutes, paid a dividend of ten per cent, and cancelled a certain proportion of its shares by means of a lottery wheel.

These business activities were prosecuted with an energy that readily passed into violence, and Graham approaching a dense crowd found at its centre a couple of prominent merchants in violent controversy with teeth and nails on some delicate point of business etiquette.  Something still remained in life to be fought for.  Further he had a shock at a vehement announcement in phonetic letters of scarlet flame, each twice the height of a man, that “WE ASSURE THE PROPRAIET’R.  WE ASSURE THE PROPRAIET’R.”

“Who’s the proprietor?” he asked.

“You.”

“But what do they assure me?” he asked.  “What do they assure me?”

“Didn’t you have assurance?”

Graham thought.  “Insurance?”

“Yes—­Insurance.  I remember that was the older word.  They are insuring your life.  Dozands of people are taking out policies, myriads of lions are being put on you.  And further on other people are buying annuities.  They do that on everybody who is at all prominent.  Look there!”

A crowd of people surged and roared, and Graham saw a vast black screen suddenly illuminated in still larger letters of burning purple.  “Anuetes on the Propraiet’r—­x 5 pr.  G.”  The people began to boo and shout at this, a number of hard breathing, wild-eyed men came running past, clawing with hooked fingers at the air.  There was a furious crush about a little doorway.

Asano did a brief, inaccurate calculation.  “Seventeen per cent, per annum is their annuity on you.  They would not pay so much per cent, if they could see you now, Sire.  But they do not know.  Your own annuities used to be a very safe investment, but now you are sheer gambling, of course.  This is probably a desperate bid.  I doubt if people will get their money.”

The crowd of would-be annuitants grew so thick about them that for some time they could move neither forward nor backward.  Graham noticed what appeared to him to be a high proportion of women among the speculators, and was reminded again of the economic independence of their sex.  They seemed remarkably well able to take care of themselves in the crowd, using their elbows with particular skill, as he learnt to his cost.  One curly-headed person caught in the pressure for a space, looked steadfastly at him several times, almost as if she recognised him, and then, edging deliberately towards him, touched his hand with her arm in a scarcely accidental manner, and made it plain by a look as ancient as Chaldea that he had found favour in her eyes.  And then a lank, grey-bearded man, perspiring copiously in a noble passion of self-help, blind to all earthly things save that glaring bait, thrust between them in a cataclysmal rush towards that alluring “X 5 pr.  G.”

“I want to get out of this,” said Graham to Asano.  “This is not what I came to see.  Show me the workers.  I want to see the people in blue.  These parasitic lunatics—­”

He found himself wedged into a straggling mass of people.