A. D. 2000
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So many years must have made a great change in the history of his country and in the manners and condition of the people. Until he should have learned them, he would be practically a stranger in a strange land. He remembered how he had sat, those many nights before entering the pedestal on Mt. Olympus, and wondered upon the future, and what that future would bring forth to him, if he was fortunate enough to survive the ordeal and live again. He remembered with what delight he had anticipated coming again into life among a new people and among scenes of great advancement and of wonderful progress. His hopes had been realized, and he lived again; yes, he who had lain a hundred years in a comatose state, now breathed, walked, and had his being once more. His theory had been most remarkably proved – proved by the man who had first advanced it, and the world should demand no further proof. What would be his reputation in Washington? Would there be any difficulty in proving that he was what he claimed to be – a man who had lived in 1887? No! it could not be; for there were the proofs in the safe, and such proofs as no man could dispute – letters written years ago by men long since dead – aye, dead before a man of his apparent age could have been born. No! He quickly dispelled the idea that it would be difficult for him to prove everything. Recovering from his sombre chain of thought, he turned his attention to the street beneath his window.
He gazed again and again up and down the street and across the way. Was this the Montgomery street he had so often walked upon? It differed so from its former appearance that he felt that he was dreaming. Great, massive buildings, in all the most artistic styles, met his eyes on every side. Beautiful stores, with huge plate-glass windows, extended as far as the eye could reach. The sidewalks, as well as he could tell, were clean and in perfect condition; and where he had in former times noticed the peanut-vender, the fruit-seller, the blind and the lame with their excruciating music-boxes, and the scores of others obstructing the sidewalks, was now clear, clean, and wholly for the use of the pedestrian. He noticed that that which people had to sell was kept within their stores, and not on the sidewalk; that there were no signs hanging over the heads of the passers-by to fall and, perhaps, break their bones; nor were there any posts of all and every description along the streets. There were no telegraph or telephone wires in view, nor were visible many other things which had formerly been eye-sores to people of taste.
The streets were paved with some new kind of material; what it was, he could not tell from where he stood, but it was such as gave very little sound from the passing vehicles. It was smooth and clean, and free from the many holes which had formerly rendered traveling so uncertain, even dangerous.
A hundred years had made very little change in the heterogeneous assortment of vehicles one sees in a great city. There were many fine and elegant equipages, with and without horses, the latter driven, as Cobb presumed, by electric motors. Yet of this class there were not very many, as San Francisco is a city of hills, and not well adapted for anything but horse or attachment propulsion.
The attire of the pedestrians was that which struck him as the most peculiar. All the women wore short dresses, none reaching lower than within eight inches of the ground. Their feet were covered with low-cut shoes, in some instances; in others, with small, neat patent-leather top-boots, the top of the boot just hidden under the dress. He noticed very few silks worn, most of the dresses being of heavy goods.
No bustles were worn, and the dresses were close-fitting with jacket basques in most cases. Hats were the prevailing style.
It seemed to Cobb, as he looked at his own new clothing and that of the gentler sex, that the very acme of simplicity and good, sound common sense was seen in this new order of raiment.
Cobb knew that there were many things for him to learn, now that he was so new to the world, and that there would be so many peculiar and remarkable inventions that he ought not to evince much surprise when he should behold them for the first time. There was much that demanded immediate attention and study, if he wished to be upon an equal footing with the rest of mankind.
At this moment Lyman entered the room, followed by Rawolle.
“We have been a little longer than we anticipated,” exclaimed the latter, throwing off his coat; “but there was really no need of hurrying too much. We have plenty of time to reach Washington by to-morrow morning.”
“To-morrow morning!” cried Cobb, in surprise.
“Certainly, to-morrow morning. I think we will be there at 6 dial,” nonchalantly knocking the ashes from the end of a cigar which he was smoking.
“Mr. Rawolle, I am prepared for many new and, to me, quite startling statements, but this of yours is a little too strong, is it not? We are over three thousand miles from Washington, and I very much doubt your ability to overcome that distance by to-morrow morning, though you may have made great strides toward its achievement.”
“My dear Cobb, it is just as I tell you; at least, as near as I can remember. Let me look at the schedule and I will give it to you, exactly.”
Rawolle took the time-card out of his pocket, and, quickly running over it, said:
“No; I am a little out of the way. If we leave here at 16 dial to-day, we will be in Washington at 8 dial to-morrow.”
“Enough!” pettishly exclaimed Cobb. “I will not question you any more. Go ahead and do it, that is all, and then I will be satisfied.”
It piqued him to think that they were making sport of his ignorance; he lighted a cigar and walked to the other side of the room.
“Now, Cobb,” continued Rawolle, “we have our tickets here, and will leave for Washington on the 16-dial train. I have had a trunk fully furnished with all the necessary articles that you will need for the first few days in Washington, so you will not have to immediately look after such things upon your arrival. It is now 13 dial, and we have three hours until train-time.”
“But tell me, Rawolle, why do you speak of 16 dial and 13 dial? Of course, I know you refer to the time; but what has been the change in the calendar that you should employ such terms?”
Both Rawolle and Lyman smiled.
“True! you cannot know of the changes which have occurred.”
Rawolle drew his chair closer to Cobb, and continued:
“The calendar has been somewhat revised since you were on earth before, or rather, since you so unceremoniously skipped from the society of your friends; and I suppose you have not kept note of the changes in time?” looking at him in a quizzical manner. Cobb laughingly acknowledged the sally, and requested him to continue.
“It was as long ago as 1920,” proceeded Rawolle, “that the new order of time went into effect. In that year, a commission of scientific gentlemen was convened by direction of the national legislature for the purpose of considering the feasibility of making such a change in our calendar as would simplify it and make it more uniform. The result was that the calendar, as we use it to-day, is quite different from that which was in vogue during your time. We now divide the whole day into twenty-four hours, as formerly, but number them from one to twenty-four. Our time-pieces have two hands, but they are not used as were those of old time; one hand marks the minutes, and the other marks the seconds. The hours are marked by numbers showing themselves through a circular slot in the dial, changing every hour. One hour after midnight the dial shows the figure 1; and so on up to 24, which is the close of the day. Thus: 12 o’clock, old style, is 12 dial, new style; and 5 o’clock, old style, is 17 dial, new style. We do not use the word ‘o’clock’ any more, but employ the word ‘dial,’ instead. The word ‘dial,’ however, is usually omitted, the customary expression for time being simply the numerals of the hours and fractions thereof. The commission could not ignore the fact that the excess of 57.2 minutes per day over the 86,400 used in the computation must still be carried forward as an excess to be afterward accounted for; for 86,400 was the nearest number to the whole which was a common multiple for three numbers, representing seconds, minutes, and hours. The excess, being 5 hours 48 minutes and 47.8 seconds per year, is still carried forward to the fourth year, where it is taken up as an extra day, and is called ‘Old-Year-Day.’ The year, as now divided, consists of 13 months of 28 days each, and one day over. The year has 365 days, as of old, but the first day is not counted as a day of any month; it is called ‘New-Year’s-Day,’ the next day being January first. There are 28 days in each month, with a new month, Finis, added. New-Year’s-Day is neither Monday nor Tuesday, nor any other day of the week, but simply New-Year’s-Day; and January first is always Monday. The advantages of this system are, that every month commences on Monday and ends on Sunday, having just four weeks. In leap-year the additional day is called ‘Old-Year-Day,’ and is just before New-Year’s-Day; these days are legal holidays. This, with some other minor alterations, is the way the calendar stands in every civilized nation to-day.”
“But is it not a little confusing to you, this change from the old to the new style?”
“You forget that I never used any other,” laughingly returned Rawolle.
“True; I had forgotten that fact. But does not this extra day interfere in many ways with the dates of bills, notes, and other legal documents?”
“Not at all. The extra day is simply New-Year’s-Day – a day of time to fill in the year, but not for any other purpose. In regard to the dating of official papers, they are dated the next day, and this day is as if it never existed. Do you comprehend?”
“Yes, I comprehend your statements, but not having had any experience in the use of this new order of dates, I cannot say that I am fully aware of how it works.”
“You will find no difficulty in its application, I assure you.”
Without speaking further on the subject, all busied themselves in their preparations for the journey eastward.
CHAPTER IX
At 15:42, as Rawolle named it, but at 42 minutes past 3, as Cobb persisted in calling it, their arrangements had been completed and they were at the front entrance to the Occidental.
At the curb stood an elegant four-seated carriage of very light construction, with a driver upon the seat. There were no horses attached to the vehicle, which was very low in build, and with wheels of fair size. The driver sat in the rear, on a sort of raised single seat, with a small wheel, like a tiller-wheel, in front of him.
It was an electric drag, with the storage batteries underneath the seat. There were many passers-by at the time, but, thanks to Rawolle’s care, none knew who were getting into the carriage, else there would have been a crowd in a few minutes.
Taking their seats, the driver started the current, and the carriage rolled rapidly down toward Market street.
“What do you think of this for a carriage, Mr. Cobb?” asked Rawolle.
“It is a most decided advance upon anything we had in old days,” the other returned, looking admiringly over it. “This is, no doubt, an electric carriage?”
“It is an electric drag, and the style of all the first-class carriages in the city, except those which are used for hill travel. These carriages run up grades of three hundred feet to the mile with ease.”
“Are they expensive? and how long will their batteries last?”
“No; far less expensive than horses. The batteries, or accumulators, are very small, but with great power. The weight carried by such a carriage as this, in accumulators, is about fifteen pounds, and the energy is the equivalent of two horses for six hours, or a greater number of horses for a less time. The accumulators are charged at the rate of about fifty cents per set, which is a six-hour run. The great saving is that when the carriage is not in use, there is no expense.”
The carriage was going at a good round gait, but the motion was easy and steady.
Passing into Market street, Cobb was astonished at the magnificence of the buildings. He could not remember ever having seen a single building then standing as being there during his time. The architecture was grand in the extreme; beauty was not lacking, but was combined with strength.
He saw horses, electric motors, and cable cars, but the latter no longer ran upon tracks on the street; the trucks were all underneath the roadbed, while the cars were held aloft by thin but strong steel supports. The cars, moreover, were lighter built and set closer to the ground.
He saw no horse-cars. The pavement was everywhere of the same material – clean, smooth, and elastic; and he rejoiced to think that at last mankind had awakened to the fact that it was not only cruel, but costly, to cause horses to run upon cobble-stones, and pavements of similar construction. He did not have time to note all the many changes which had taken place and then in view, ere the carriage stopped at the gate of a most imposing edifice.
Alighting from his seat, Rawolle assisted him down, saying:
“Here we are, Mr. Cobb.”
Having gotten out, they all went into the depot, for such Cobb was informed it was. He was surprised at the grandeur of the building. It far exceeded anything he had ever seen for similar purposes. Rawolle took him around and showed him the various waiting, toilet, dining, and other rooms.
The depot was on the site formerly occupied by the old station, at the corner of Third and Townsend streets.
Passing into the main hall, he perceived a stream of people coming from the left. The interior of the depot, after passing through the main hall, was a vast space with a great arched roof. The ground was paved with marble slabs, and divided by iron fencing into five large compartments; the first running from side to side of the building, while the others were set at right angles to it. Each of the four divisions had a great slot or opening through its floor, of about two hundred feet in length by twelve in width. The last opening was filled by a train which had just arrived.
The people were flocking out, and through the gates into the main hall, or, as Cobb called it, the fifth compartment.
His attention was riveted to the train as it stood upon the track. It was so different from anything in the railway line that he had ever seen before, that he was most anxious to learn something about it.
It was a train of five cars, each about forty feet long, and of circular construction. It rested upon innumerable little runners, and was set quite close to the ground. The end of each car was a huge circular disc of a diameter a little greater than that of the car, and having an elliptical opening of some seven feet in the long diameter. Along each side of the cars was another set of runners, while two more sets were upon the tops.
There were no windows to the cars, and they looked plain iron cylinders of vast size, set upon a lot of little iron legs.
Standing there a moment, Cobb watched the last passenger leave the hall, and soon heard the guard cry for the gates to be closed. Almost immediately the gate of that compartment was dropped, and he saw the huge train sink into the opening and disappear from sight.
Turning toward Rawolle, who had been watching him with a curious expression, he exclaimed:
“Rawolle, tell me what kind of transportation is this that I have just seen? It is something that beats my time, and I am at a loss to understand its working.”
“I do not wonder at your expression of astonishment, my dear boy;” then pointing toward the third opening, and looking at his watch, he continued: “You will see a similar train soon come up; watch carefully.”
Cobb did as directed, and in a moment saw a train of cars, in all respects similar to the train which he had seen disappear through the left-hand slot, rise from below. It came up gradually, and at last stood, as its mate had stood, flush with the floor of the room; but, unlike the former, it had no passengers to disembark. There it stood, silent and empty.
As the train reached the level, a placard was dropped from the top of the gate, bearing the words “Omaha, 16 D.,” in large letters.
“That is our train, Cobb,” said Rawolle, following the eyes of the other to the sign. “Let us get our traps together and get aboard.”
Approaching the gate, which had by this time been thrown open, and through which many people were passing, Rawolle showed the tickets, and the three men passed in and proceeded along the train to the second carriage. Curbing his impatience to learn more of his peculiar surroundings, Cobb followed Rawolle and Lyman into the car.
The car resembled the sleepers of former years, except that it was decorated in a grander style and had no windows. It was lighted by electric lamps, which made it as bright as day. The seats were somewhat differently constructed from those of the old kind, but the general appearance of the interior was quite the same.
A porter met them at the door, and after seeing their tickets, showed them to their section.
Throwing down his grip and coat, Rawolle said:
“Come, Cobb, there are a few minutes before the train leaves; let me show you about.”
“All right; I am at your service.”
“Mr. Cobb, I think you will find this train a most decided improvement upon those used in your day,” remarked Lyman. “Of course it is old to us, but I can imagine your surprise at many of the improvements you see about you.”
“Right you are,” returned Cobb; “there are so many new and peculiar contrivances around me that I am like a man who has just awakened in a land of fairies. I am not going to be too curious, but await developments, for I have no doubt that I will be satisfactorily informed concerning them all at the proper time.”
“This is the pneumatic train,” continued Lyman, motioning toward the train on the track.
“Now, hold on,” interrupted Rawolle, quickly; “all in good time. It is better to explain all this to Mr. Cobb in detail. Let him first see what there is to be seen, and then we will explain it to him afterward.”
Passing into the first car of the train, Cobb was shown the smoker; and here he found a hundred little inventions which had been made with a tendency to increase the comfort of the traveler across the continent.
“This is the Central Pneumatic, or Continental Express,” said Rawolle, “excepting the baggage-cars; they are below, receiving the baggage as it arrives.”
At this moment the sound of a deep-toned gong was heard, and Rawolle said they must hurry back, as that was the signal for the gates above to be closed preparatory to starting.
A moment later, they were all standing on the platform between the cars, and an instant afterward the whole train began to sink, and soon had left the opening far above them. The train rested upon a sort of hydraulic lift which came to rest as soon as it had reached a level some twenty-five feet below the floor of the depot. They were in a subterranean chamber, or rather a series of chambers, which were brilliantly lighted by electric lamps.
There were many tracks in every direction, with moving trains upon them.
Leaning out to the side of his car, Cobb saw an engine, or what he took to be such, move up and couple to his train, and soon he felt it being rapidly hauled away.
This subterranean labyrinth of roads was similar to the yard of a great railroad center. Men were in every direction, turning switches, coupling cars, clearing tracks, etc.
Their train was taken about a mile underground, and then run into a great iron tunnel. A peculiar sighing sound, like that of a great storm a long distance off, now fell upon his ears. Turning inquiringly to Rawolle, he asked the meaning of it.
“Air – sucking air,” was the answer.
“Yes; I presumed as much,” Cobb returned, piqued at the brevity of the answer.
“Observe all you can, Mr. Cobb, for you have but a few minutes more. I will explain it after we are in the car,” noticing the impatience of the other.
The tunnel in which they then were was, like the great lower chambers, well lighted up. At one side, and opposite to where they stood, was a recessed chamber containing what appeared to be very powerful machinery. Cobb saw the motor disconnect from the train at this point, but he was not permitted to notice further the working of this most remarkable invention, for the guards ordered them into the car, and the door was closed and bolted.
Going back to the smoker, they lighted their cigars and settled themselves comfortably among the cushions.
“Now,” exclaimed Rawolle, sending up a cloud of smoke, “now I am at your service.”
“Then, tell me all about that which I have seen,” Cobb impatiently asked. “Don’t you see how anxious I am?”
“Very well. Let us commence at the beginning: In the first place, this that you have seen is the pneumatic railway. Its official designation is ‘The Central Pneumatic.’ There are, in the United States, quite a number of these roads. From San Francisco run three, as follows: one to the north, one to the south, and this one to the east. Here is a map showing all these roads in the country;” and he took from his pocket an official railway guide, and handed it to his listener. “As the word implies, air is the motive power – not compressed, but atmospheric pressure against a surface, on the other side of which a partial vacuum has been created by exhaustion. This is the method in the tunnels only. After the trains leave the great tunnels, they are moved about the yards, which you saw were all underground, by electric motors. Hydraulic lifts take them up to the station and lower them again. Everything is underground until the train rises through its opening in the floor of the depot. When the guard ordered us into the car, and bolted the door, we had been pushed into the receiving section of the main tunnel. The main tunnel is a complete iron and stone structure, extending between San Francisco and Salt Lake without break. At Salt Lake are the engines which exhaust the air from this tunnel, the pressure of the external air being the propelling power to move the train forward to its destination. The tunnels are twelve feet in diameter, and the rear car of the train carries a shield, or end-piece, which almost fills the cross-section of the tunnel; in fact, there is but the hundredth part of an inch between the edge of the shield and the interior side of the tunnel. The engines, as I said, are constantly pumping out the air, but this is carried to such a degree that the external pressure on the tubing of the tunnel is always under one pound per square inch. A series of valves at the end of the tunnel farthest away from the engines, permits ingress to the air which acts against the rear end of the train to move it forward. The train is first placed in a movable section of this tunnel, and, everything being ready, this section is moved upon rollers into connection with the main tunnel – a sort of valve action. The instant this is done, the air is permitted to enter in front of the train, and then gradually shut off until, the train having acquired its normal speed, the valves are closed altogether, and the air permitted to enter the tunnel behind the train only. It is very simple, and works to perfection. There are inlets through the rear shield of the train, to which are connected tubes running to each car. These are the air-tubes of the train. As the pressure of the air against the rear shield is one pound per square inch, a like pressure is exerted at the orifice of each tube; but, as there is no resistance to its ingress, it passes through into the cars, causing an internal pressure of the atmosphere of nearly one pound per square inch. Valves opening in front of the rear shield, and at a pressure of a little less than one pound per square inch, permit of the escape of the vitiated air into the tunnel ahead of the rear shield. Thus a steady stream of pure air is maintained throughout the whole train. The trains are received at their destination upon compressed-air receivers, and gradually come to a stand-still. At Salt Lake, forty five minutes are allowed for this train to transfer passengers and for supper, and then the train starts onward for Omaha. At that city the train is again made up and starts upon its new course for Chicago, New York, New Orleans, Minneapolis, or other point, as the case may be. Now, our train was placed, as I said, in an auxiliary tunnel, which was, by simple mechanical means, brought into position as the segment of the main tunnel. You, of course, noticed that each car was fitted at its end with a circular disc, covering the whole end excepting the door which leads into the next car. Well, this circular disc covers the end car completely. When our train was brought into the main tunnel, the pressure upon its end-section would have been, if suddenly exerted, so great that we would have started off with a great shock, but the air is allowed to enter behind the car gradually, as I have explained. When the full momentum is reached the full pressure of the external air is allowed to exert itself against the end of the train.”