Then, not as it were gradually, but quite suddenly, I woke up, sat up, and looked about me.

Where was I?

Well might I ask myself.

I found myself lying, or rather sitting up, on a broad couch.  I was in a great room, dim, gloomy, and dilapidated in its general appearance, and apparently, from its glass cases and the stuffed figures that they contained, some kind of museum.

Beside me sat a man.  His face was hairless, but neither old nor young.  He wore clothes that looked like the grey ashes of paper that had burned and kept its shape.  He was looking at me quietly, but with no particular surprise or interest.

“Quick,” I said, eager to begin; “where am I?  Who are you?  What year is this; is it the year 3000, or what is it?”

He drew in his breath with a look of annoyance on his face.

“What a queer, excited way you have of speaking,” he said.

“Tell me,” I said again, “is this the year 3000?”

“I think I know what you mean,” he said; “but really I haven’t the faintest idea.  I should think it must be at least that, within a hundred years or so; but nobody has kept track of them for so long, it’s hard to say.”

“Don’t you keep track of them any more?” I gasped.

“We used to,” said the man.  “I myself can remember that a century or two ago there were still a number of people who used to try to keep track of the year, but it died out along with so many other faddish things of that kind.  Why,” he continued, showing for the first time a sort of animation in his talk, “what was the use of it?  You see, after we eliminated death——­”

“Eliminated death!” I cried, sitting upright.  “Good God!”

“What was that expression you used?” queried the man.

“Good God!” I repeated.

“Ah,” he said, “never heard it before.  But I was saying that after we had eliminated Death, and Food, and Change, we had practically got rid of Events, and——­”

“Stop!” I said, my brain reeling.  “Tell me one thing at a time.”

“Humph!” he ejaculated.  “I see, you must have been asleep a long time.  Go on then and ask questions.  Only, if you don’t mind, just as few as possible, and please don’t get interested or excited.”

Oddly enough the first question that sprang to my lips was—­

“What are those clothes made of?”

“Asbestos,” answered the man.  “They last hundreds of years.  We have one suit each, and there are billions of them piled up, if anybody wants a new one.”

“Thank you,” I answered.  “Now tell me where I am?”

“You are in a museum.  The figures in the cases are specimens like yourself.  But here,” he said, “if you want really to find out about what is evidently a new epoch to you, get off your platform and come out on Broadway and sit on a bench.”

I got down.

As we passed through the dim and dust-covered buildings I looked curiously at the figures in the cases.