Science Fiction - Daily Short Stories
In the Year 2889 - Michel Verne
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- Duration:
- 32m
- Broadcast on:
- 03 Aug 2024
- Audio Format:
- mp3
You slept through your alarm, missed the train, and your breakfast sandwich. Cool. Sounds like you could use some luck. I'm Victoria Cash, and Lucky Land is where people go every day to get lucky. At Lucky Land, you can play over 100 casino-style games for free for your chance to redeem some serious prizes. Go to LuckyLandslots.com and get lucky today. No purchase necessary VGW Group, where prohibited by law, 18-plus terms and conditions apply. Welcome to Solgood Media, where your journey into a world of endless audio possibilities begins. Imagine a place where you can discover thousands of captivating audiobooks. Immerse yourself in tranquil sounds for sleep and meditation, and explore timeless stories and lectures that expand your mind and enrich your soul. At SolgoodMedia.com, we believe in the power of stories to transform lives. Whether you're a lifelong learner, a parent seeking bedtime stories for your children, or someone looking to unwind after a long day, we have something just for you. We invite you to try SolgoodMedia free for one month. Explore our extensive collection and find the perfect audio content that resonates with you. Join our community of passionate listeners and unlock a world of knowledge, relaxation, and inspiration. Visit SolgoodMedia.com today and start your free trial. That's S-O-L-G-O-O-D-M-E-D-I-A. In the year 2889 by Jules Byrne. Little though they seem to think of it, the people of this 29th century live continually in fairyland. Surfetted as they are with marvels, they are indifferent in presence of each new marvel. To them all seems natural. Could they but duly appreciate the refinements of civilization in our day? Could they but compare the present with the past and so much better comprehend the advance we have made? How much fairer they would find are modern towns, with populations amounting sometimes to ten million souls. Their streets three hundred feet wide, their houses one thousand feet in height, with a temperature the same in all seasons, with their lines at aerial locomotion crossing the sky in every direction. If they would but picture to themselves the state of things at once existed, went through muddy streets rumbling boxes on wheels, drawn by horses, yes, by horses, were the only means of conveyance. Think of the railroads of olden time, and you would be able to appreciate the pneumatic tubes through which today one travels at the rate of one thousand miles an hour. Would not our contemporaries prize the telephone and telephone more highly if they had not forgotten the telegraph? Singularly enough, all these transformations rest upon principles which were perfectly familiar to our remote ancestors, but which they disregarded. Heat, for instance, is as ancient as man himself. Electricity was known three thousand years ago, and steam eleven hundred years ago. Nay, so early as ten centuries ago, it was known that the difference between the several chemical and physical forces depend upon the mode of vibration of the etheric particles, which is for each specifically different. When at last the kinship of all these forces was discovered, it is simply astonishing that five hundred years should still have to elapse before man can analyze and describe the several modes of vibration that constitute these differences. Above all, it is singular that the mode of reproducing these forces directly from one another, and of reproducing one without the others, should have remained undiscovered until less than a hundred years ago. Nevertheless, such was the course of events. For it was not till the year 2792 that the famous Oswald Nier made this great discovery. Truly, he was a great benefactor of the human race. His admirable discovery led to many another. Hence, this sprung a pleat of inventors, its brightest star being our great Joseph Jackson. To Jackson, we earned edit for 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, the energy coming from whatever source, as a waterfall, a stream, the winds, etc. Heat to it was that invented the transformer, a more wonderful contrivance still, which takes the living force from the accumulator, and on the simple pressure of a button, gives it back to space in whatever form may be desired, whether as heat, light, electricity, or mechanical force, after having first obtained it from the work required. From the day when these two instruments were contrived is to be dated the era of true progress. They have put into the hands of man a power that is almost infinite. As for their applications, they are numberless. Mitigating the rigors of winter by giving back to the atmosphere of the surplus heat stored up during the summer, they have revolutionized agriculture. By supplying mode of 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 all the needs of industry. Yes, all these wonders have been wrought by the accumulator and the transformer. And can we not to them also trace indirectly this latest wonder of all, the Great Earth Chronicle Building in 253rd Avenue which was dedicated the other day. If George Washington Smith the founder of the Manhattan Chronicle should come back to life today, what would he think were he to be told that this place of marble and gold belongs to his remote descendant, Fritz Napoleon Smith, who, after thirty generations have come and gone, is owner of the same newspaper which is ancestor established. For George Washington Smith's newspaper has lived generation after generation, now passing out of the family, a nun coming back to it. When two hundred 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 rival journals of a more modern type, it was continually in danger of collapse. Twenty years ago its subscription lists contained but a few hundred thousand names, and then Mr. Fritz Napoleon Smith 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, in 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 the mood to listen directly himself. As for purchasers of single copies, they can at a very trifling 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 a number of subscribers grew to be eighty million, and Smith's wealth went on growing, till now it reaches the almost unimaginable figure of ten billion dollars. This lucky hit has enabled him to erect his new building, a vast edifice with four facades, each three thousand two hundred fifty 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 all the Americans too, if Americans could ever accept a king. You do not believe it? Well, then look at the plenty potentiaries of all nations and our own ministers themselves crowding about his door, entreating his councils, begging for his approbation, imploring the aid of his all-powerful organ. Wrecking up the number of scientists and artists that he supports, of inventors that he has under his pay. Yes, a king is he, and in truth his is a royalty full of burdens. His labors are incessant, and there is no doubt at all that in earlier times any man would have succumbed under the overpowering stress of the toil which Mr. Smith has to perform. Very fortunately for him, thanks to the progress of hygiene, which, evading all the old sources of unhealthiness, has lifted the mean of human life from thirty-seven up to fifty-two years. Men have stronger constitutions now than heretofore. The discovery of nutritive air is still in the future, but in the meantime meant today consumed food that is composed and prepared according to scientific principles, and they breathe an atmosphere free from the microorganisms that formerly used to swarm it, hence they live longer than their forefathers and know nothing of the innumerable diseases of olden times. Nevertheless, and not withstanding these considerations, Fritz Napoleon Smith's mode of life may well astonish one. His iron constitution is taxed to the utmost by the heavy strain that is put upon it. Vayne and the attempt to estimate the amount of labor he undergoes, an example alone 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 a little. It is the same every day. Let us then take a random September 25th of this present year, 2889. This morning, Mr. Fritz Napoleon Smith awoke in a very bad humor. His wife, having left for France eight days ago, he was feeling disconsulate. Incredible though it seems, in all the ten years since their marriage, this is the first time that Mrs. Edith Smith, the professional beauty, has been so long absent from her home. Two or three days usually suffice for her frequent trips to Europe. The first thing that Mr. Smith does is to connect his phono telephone, the wires of which communicate with his Paris mansion. The Telefolk. Here is another of the great triumphs of science in our time. 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, and Mr. Smith this morning was not niggered of blessing for the inventor. When by its aid he was able distinctly to see his wife notwithstanding the distance that separated him from her. Mrs. Smith, weary after the ball or the visit to the theater the preceding night, is still a bed, though it is near noon tight at Paris. She is asleep, her head sunk in the lace-covered pillows. What? She stirs. Her lips move. She is dreaming perhaps. Yes, dreaming. She is talking, pronouncing a name. His name. Fritz. The delightful vision gave a happier turn to Mr. Smith's thoughts. And now at the call of imperative duty, lighthearted he springs from his bed and enters his mechanical dresser. Two minutes later the machine deposited him all dressed at the threshold of his office. The round of journalistic work has now begun. First he enters the hall of novel writers, a vast apartment crowned with an enormous transparent cupola. In one corner is a telephone, through which a hundred earth-cronical litter turs in turn recount to the public in daily installments a hundred novels. Addressing one of these authors who was waiting his turn, "Capital! Capital!" my dear fellow, said he. The scene where the village maid discusses interesting philosophical problems with her lover, shows your very acute power of observation. Never have the ways of countryfolk been better portrayed. Keep on, my dear Archibald, keep on. Since yesterday, thanks to you, there is a gain of five thousand subscribers. Mr. John last, he began again, turning to a new arrival. I am not so well 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 onto 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 than all that. In real life, every act is a resultant of a hundred thoughts that come and go. And these, you must study, each by itself, 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. You have simply to make use of hypnotism, electrical or human, which gives one a two-fold being, setting free the witness personality so that 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 whom I was complimenting a moment ago. Let yourself be hypnotized. What's that? You've tried it already? Not sufficiently then, not sufficiently. Mr. Smith continues his round and enters the reporter's hall. Here, fifteen hundred reporters, in their respective places, facing an equal number of telephones, are communicating to the subscribers of 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 communicators, 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 passed, photographs of its main features are transmitted with the narrative. And there is no confusion with all. The reporter's items, just like the different stories and all the other components of the journal, are classified automatically according to an ingenious system, and reach the hearer-induced succession. Furthermore, the hearers are free to listen only to what specially concerns them. They may at pleasure give attention to one editor and refuse it to 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 is the news? We have photo-telegrams 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?" asked Mr. Smith. "Nothing is yet. We cannot quite understand their signals. Perhaps ours did not reach them." "That's bad," exclaimed Mr. Smith, as he hurried away, not in the best of humor, toward the hall of the scientific editors. With their heads bent down over their electric computers, thirty scientific men were absorbed in transcendental calculations. The coming of Mr. Smith was 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 been at work now twenty years on this problem, and yet?" "True enough," replied the man addressed, "our scientific optics is still very defective, and through our mile-and-three-quarter telescopes." "Listen to that, here," broke in Mr. Smith, turning to a second scientist. "Optical science is defective. Optimal science is your specialty." But he continued, again addressing William Cooley, failing with Jupiter. "Are we getting any results from the moon?" "The case is no better there." This time you do not lay blame on the science of optics. The moon is immeasurably less distant than Mars. Yet with Mars, our communication is fully established. I presume you will not say that you lack telescopes. "Telescopes?" "Oh, no. The trouble here is about the inhabitants." "That's it," added Pierre. "So then, the moon is positively uninhabited," asked Mr. Smith. "At least," answered Cooley, "on the face which she presents to us. As for the opposite side, who knows?" "Ah, the opposite side," you think then, remarked Mr. Smith musingly. "That if one could but—could what—why turn the moon about face?" "Ah, there is something in that," cried the two minute once. And indeed, so confident was of their air. They seem to have no doubt as to the possibility of success in such an undertaking. Meanwhile, asked Mr. Smith after a moment's silence, "Have you no news of interest today?" "Indeed we have," answered Cooley. The elements of Olympus are definitely settled. That great planet gravitates beyond Neptune at the mean distance of 11,400,799,642 miles from the sun. And to traverse its vast orbit takes 1,311 years, 294 days, 12 hours, 43 minutes, 9 seconds. "Why didn't you tell me that sooner?" cried Mr. Smith. "Now inform the reporters of this straight away. You know how eager is the curiosity of the public with regard to these astronomical questions. That news must go into today's issue." Then, the two men bowing to him, Mr. Smith passed into the next hall, an enormous gallery upward of 3,200 feet in length devoted to atmospheric advertising. Everyone has noticed these enormous advertisements reflected from the clouds, so large that they may be seen by populations of whole cities or even of 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 upon the clouds these mammoth advertisements. When Mr. Smith today entered the Sky Advertising Department, he found the operators sitting with folded arms on their emotionless projectors, and inquired as to the cause of their inaction. In response, the man addressed simply pointed to the sky, which was of a pure blue. "Yes," muttered Mr. Smith, a cloudless sky. "That's too bad." "But what's to be done?" "Shall we produce rain?" "That might do, but is it of any use?" "What we need is clouds, not rain." "Go," said he, addressing the head engineer. "Go see Mr. Samuel Mark of the Meteorological Division of 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 thus at the mercy of the cloudless skies. Mr. Smith daily tore 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 are awaiting him, desirous of having a word of counsel or advice from the all-powerful editor. A discussion was going on when he entered. "Your excellency will pardon me," the French ambassador was 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 Matins. 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 or capital, or our two greatest perfectories, Rome and Madrid, but also against the kingdom of Jerusalem, the dominion of St. Peter, of which France means to be the trusty defender." "Well," said, exclaimed Mr. Smith, "how is it?" he asked, 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 of the Karakorum, whose shores are washed by the frozen ocean, the Atlantic, the Mediterranean, and the Indian Ocean. Then what is the use of threats? Is war possible in view of modern inventions? Is fixiating shells capable of being projected a distance of 60 miles? An electric spark of 90 miles? That can in one stroke annihilated 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 can we do all that we wish?" As for the Russians, pressed on her eastern front by the Chinese, "we must at any cost put forth our strength for an effort toward the west." "Oh, is that all?" "In that case," said Mr. Smith, "the thing can be arranged. I will speak to the Secretary of State about it. The attention of the Chinese government shall be called to the matter. This is not the first time that the Chinese have bothered us." Under these conditions, of course, and the Russian ambassador declared himself satisfied. "Ah, sir John, what can I do for you?" asked Mr. Smith as he turned to the representative of the people of Great Britain, who till now had remained silent. "A great deal," was 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. Though by a just turnabout of things here below, Great Britain has become a colony of the United States, the English are not reconciled to the situation. 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," exclaimed Mr. Smith. "How can your people suppose that 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," answered Mr. Smith, without manifesting the slightest irritation. "Well, you English will ever be the same." "No, no, sir John. Do not count on me for help." "Give up our Ferris 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," remembered the British agent sadly. "The United Kingdom falls to the share of the Americans. The Indies to that of—" "The Russians," said Mr. Smith, completing the sentence. "Australia has an independent government." "Then nothing at all remains for us," cites Sir John Downcast. "Nothing," asked Mr. Smith, lapping. "Well now, there's Gibraltar." With this sally, the audience ended. The clock was striking twelve, 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 olden time, one room fitted within genius mechanical contrivances is enough. Here he sleeps, takes his meals, and short lives. He seats himself. In the mirror of the photo-telephone is seen the same chamber at Paris which appeared in it this morning. A table furnished forth is likewise in readiness here. For notwithstanding the difference of ours, Mr. Smith and his wife have arranged to take their meals simultaneously. It is delightful thus to take breakfast, take a take, with one who is three thousand miles or so away. Just now, Mrs. Smith's chamber has no occupant. She is late, women's punctuality, progress everywhere except there, muttered Mr. Smith as he turned the tap for the first dish. For like all wealthy folk in our day, Mr. Smith has done away with a domestic kitchen, and is a subscriber to the Grand Elementation Company, which sends through a great 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 cordon blues. Mr. Smith received an eight all alone, the hors d'oeuvres, entrees, roti, and legumes that constituted the repast. He was just finishing the dessert when Mrs. Smith appeared in the mirror of the telephone. "Why, where have you been?" asked Mr. Smith through the telephone. "What, you are already at the dessert? Then I am late," she exclaimed with a winsom naivete. "Where have I been?" you asked. "Why, at my dress-makers. The hats are just lovely this season. I suppose I forgot the note to time, and so I am a little late." "Yes, a little," growled 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 stepped into his air coach, which was waiting for him at the window. "Where do you wish to go, sir?" inquired the coachman. "Let me see. I have three hours," Mr. Smith mused. "Jack, take me to my accumulator works at Niagara." For Mr. Smith has obtained the lease of the Great Falls of Niagara. For ages, the energy developed by the falls went unutilized. Smith, applying Jackson's invention, now collects his energy and lets her cells it. His visit to the works took more time than he had anticipated. It was just four o'clock when he returned home, just in time for the daily audience which he grants to callers. One readily understands how a man situated as Smith is must be beset with request of all kinds. Now it is the inventor needing capital. Again, it is some visionary who comes to advocate a brilliant scheme which must surely yield millions of profit. A choice has to be made between these projects, rejecting the worthless, examining the questionable ones, accepting the meritorious. To this work, Mr. Smith devotes every day two full hours. The callers were fewer today than usual, only 12 of them. Of these, eight had only impracticable schemes to propose. In fact, one of them wanted to revive painting. An art fallen into destitute, owning to the progress made in color photography. Another, a physician, boasted that he had discovered a cure for nasal caterer. These impracticals were dismissed in short order. Of the four projects favorably received, the first was that of a young man whose broad forehead be tokened his intellectual power. "Sir, I am a chemist," he began, "and the such I come to you." "Well, once the elementary bodies," said the young chemist, "were held to be 62 in number. A hundred years ago, they were reduced to 10. Now only three remain irresolvable, as you were 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 so simply have determined the absolute. All I want is money enough to carry my research to a successful issue." "Very well," said 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?" Quarry Mr. Smith, interrupting him. "Do you pretend that you expect to manufacture a human being out and out?" "Why not?" Mr. Smith advanced $100,000 to the young chemist, and engaged in services for the Earth Chronicle Laboratory. The second of the four successful applicants, starting from experiments made so long ago in the 19th century, and again and again repeated, heck and see the idea of removing an entire city all at once from one place to another. His special project had to do with the city of Granton, situated, as everyone knows, some 15 miles inland. He proposes to transport the city on rails and change it into a watering place. The prophet, of course, would be enormous. Mr. Smith, captivated by the scheme, bought a half interest in it. "As you are aware, sir," began applicant number three, "by the aid of our solar and terrestrial accumulators and transformers, we're 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, relieved of their snow cap, will become a vast territory available for man's use. What thank 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 announced the early solution of a weighty scientific problem. Everyone will remember the bold experiment made 100 years ago by Dr. Nathaniel Faithburn, the doctor being a firm believer in human hibernation. In other words, in 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 out his last will and pointed out the proper method of awakening him, having also directed that his sleep was to continue 100 years to the 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 softened and laid in a tomb. Time went on. September 25th, 2889, being the day set for his resurrection. It was proposed to Mr. Smith that he should permit the second part of the experiment to be performed at his residence this evening. Agreed. "Be here at 10 o'clock," answered Mr. Smith, and with that, the day's audience was closed. Left to himself, feeling tired, he laid down on an extension chair. Then, touching a knob, he established communication with the central concert hall. Winds are greatest maestros send out to subscribers their delightful successions of accords, determined by recondite algebraic formulas. Night was approaching. Entranced by the harmony, forgetful of the hour, Smith did not notice that it was growing dark. It was quite dark when he was aroused by the sound of a door opening. "Who is there?" he asked, touching a communicator. Suddenly, in consequence of the vibrations produced, the air became luminous. "Ah, you, doctor!" "Yes," was the reply. "How are you?" "I'm feeling well." "Good, let me see your tongue." "All right." "You're pulse." "regular." "And you're appetite?" "Only passively good." "Yes, the stomach. There's the rub." "You are overworked. If your stomach is out of repair, it must be mended. That requires steady. We must think about it." "In the meantime," said Mr. Smith, "you will dine with me." As in the morning, the table rose out of the floor. Again, as in the morning, the potage, roti, rugouts, and legumes were supplied through the food pipes. Toward the clothes of the meal, phone of telephonic communication was made with Paris. Smith saw 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 said through the telephone. "I was with Dr. Wilkins." "Ah, the good doctor," remarked 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 what hour will you arrive?" "About eleven, I suppose." "Eleven by centropolis time, you mean?" "Yes." "Goodbye, then, for a little while," said Mr. Smith as he severed communication with Paris. "Dinner over, Dr. Wilkins wished it to part." "I shall expect you at ten," said Mr. Smith. "Today, it seems, is the day for their turn of life to 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 come back," entered Dr. Wilkins. Left alone, Mr. Smith busied himself with examining his accounts. A task of vast magnitude. Having to do with transactions which involve daily expenditures of upwards of $800,000. Fortunately, indeed, the stependous progress of mechanic art in modern times makes it comparatively easy. Thanks to the piano electro-recutor, the most complex calculations can be made in a few seconds. In two hours, Mr. Smith completed his task, just in time. Scarcely had he turned over the last page when Dr. Wilkins arrived. After him came the body of Dr. Faithburn, escorted by a numerous company of men of science. They commenced work at once. The casket being laid down in the middle of the room, the telephone was got in readiness. The outer world, already notified, was anxiously expected, for the whole world could be eyewitness of the performance. A reporter, meanwhile, liked a chorus in the ancient drama, explaining it all, vivivoche, through the telephone. "They are opening the casket," he explained. "Now they are taking Faithburn out of it, 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 a 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. The case stood just as the reporter said. "Faithburn was dead. Quite certainly dead." "Here's a method that needs improvement," remarked Mr. Smith to Dr. Watkins, as the scientific committee on hibernation bore the casket out. "So much for that experiment. But if poor Faithburn is dead, at least he's sleeping," he continued. "I wish I could get some sleep. I'm tired out, doctor. Quite tired out. Do you not think that a bath would refresh me?" "Certainly. But you must wrap yourself up well before you go out to the hallway. You must not expose yourself to cold." "Haulway? 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!" And he pressed a button. After a few seconds, a faint rumbling was heard, which grew louder and louder. Suddenly the door opened, and the tub appeared. "Such for this year of grace, 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." "End of, in the year 2889, by Jules Verne." "It's time for today's Lucky Land Horoscope with Victoria Cash." Life's gotten mundane, so shake up the daily routine and be adventurous, with a trip to Lucky Land. You know what they say. Your chance to win starts with a spin, so go to luckylandslots.com to play over 100 social casino-style games for free for your chance to redeem some serious prizes. Get lucky today at luckylandslots.com "No purchase necessary, VGW group void were prohibited by law, 18 plus terms of condition supply." Hey there, it's Solomon from Solgood Media. A lot of our listeners have asked how to get ad-free access to our podcast. 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