"I don't mind saying that accidents of this sort were the most
distressing feature of our civilisation till we took steps to cut
out all accidents. We forbid all street cars, street traffic,
aeroplanes, and so on. The risks of your time," he said, with a
shiver of his asbestos clothes, "must have been awful."

"They were," I answered, with a new kind of pride in my generation
that I had never felt before, "but we thought it part of the duty
of brave people to----"

"Yes, yes," said the Man in Asbestos impatiently, "please don't get
excited. I know what you mean. It was quite irrational."

We sat silent for a long time. I looked about me at the crumbling
buildings, the monotone, unchanging sky, and the dreary, empty street.
Here, then, was the fruit of the Conquest, here was the elimination of
work, the end of hunger and of cold, the cessation of the hard struggle,
the downfall of change and death--nay, the very millennium of
happiness. And yet, somehow, there seemed something wrong with it all.
I pondered, then I put two or three rapid questions, hardly waiting to
reflect upon the answers.

"Is there any war now?"

"Done with centuries ago. They took to settling international disputes
with a slot machine. After that all foreign dealings were given up.
Why have them? Everybody thinks foreigners awful."

"Are there any newspapers now?"